The Lady of the Sea (32 page)

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lazaran growled, his eyes darting to and fro. “He said I could do what I liked.”

“And you believed him?”

“He’s the King!” the leper blustered. “He gave me his word.”

“Just as he gave his word to this very Queen,” Madrona returned, “when he stood beside her in church and promised to care for her all her life. And look at her now. If he’ll destroy the ruling Queen, my friend, what will he do to you?”

“Why should he do anything to me?” But the swollen face was dark with suspicion now.

“He could change his mind tomorrow and want her back. And in the meantime, you’ll have raped her and beaten her, too, because you’ll have to do that to force her to submit. If you’ve despoiled his darling, he’ll flay you alive, no matter what he says.”

The leper’s tongue flickered out round his lipless mouth, and he seemed to shrink inside his rags before their eyes.

“Curse you, you’re right,” he snuffled with a savage oath. “Kings, like the Gods, love to play with us. He probably wanted to torment me with her. Or else he wants her here in torment, waiting for the blow to fall.”

Madrona nodded gravely. “That’s very likely.”

Lazaran’s bloodshot eyes flared. “Well, he won’t make a fool out of me. I can bide my time. He’s given orders that she’s to be kept short of food, so the sickness will seize her all the quicker as she grows weak. When it does, he won’t want her anymore. Then she’ll be mine, and I can do what I want.”

He turned on Isolde with the swiftness of a snake. “And it won’t be long, my darling. Give us a kiss till then?”

chapter 44

T
he big knight rode out of the forest in the hour before dawn, when the last of the night stars still trembled in the sky. As he crested the hill and began the long, slow descent to Castle Dore, some of the townsfolk saw his great frame, dark in the mist against the rising sun, and were stung into a moment of wild hope.

“It’s Sir Tristan!” shouted one of the watchers at the ford, leaping and splashing about in the shallows for glee. But he was a poor natural, simple since the day he was born, and in times gone by he had seen Queen Guenevere attended by a fairy host, a watery giant who lived under the ford, and the massed armies of Uther Pendragon at their last stand. So no one was inclined to believe what the shouting lad said. And the wiser sort knew the leap that Tristan had made. No man on earth could have survived that fall.

“It’s not Sir Tristan, no,” one of the women said gruffly. “He’s gone from us now, my lad. He’ll come no more.”

The staring boy cocked his head to one side and grinned. “Who is it, then?”

This was the question in all the townspeople’s minds as the stranger rode down the valley and up through the town. Men noted his fine weapons and splendid armor and put him down as a prince from Outre Mer. Women saw his worn face and haggard air and knew that even if he had come from that unknown kingdom beyond the sea, he had suffered cruelly, and very likely for love.

Who was he? followed him like a whisper wherever he went. And the same question was put again by the chamberlain when the stranger rode up to the great gate of Castle Dore and asked for King Mark.

“Who are you, sir? And what is your business here?”

The stranger shook his head. “My name is nothing, and my business will be brief. But tell your King that he may admit me without disgrace. I am a knight of the Round Table, and King Arthur is my lord.”

“A knight of King Arthur, eh?” Mark demanded when the word was brought. “Gods above, fool, show him in at once! You can’t keep a man like that dancing attendance in the gatehouse without food or drink.”

Which is exactly what the King would have done in another mood, the chamberlain reflected rancorously as he bowed himself out. But between Mark’s royal rages and his frightening black sulks, there was no serving him at all these days. Still, the stranger must be treated with chivalry.

“This way, sir,” he offered politely, leading the newcomer up through the courtyards and cloisters to the King’s privy chamber. He knocked and threw open the door.

“Sire, the stranger knight is here to pay his respects.”

“Come in, come in,” Mark cried.

At his invitation, a lofty, broad-shouldered figure moved into the room, carrying his helmet in the crook of his arm. The newcomer was clean-shaven and well-groomed, with long fair hair neatly trimmed and curled; but his broad face was never meant to be so thin, and his features bore signs of sickness and suffering. His large frame, too, was painfully lean for his height, and he walked like a man far older than his years.

Mark leaned forward on his throne, a sharp impulse of alarm springing inside his skull. Who was the gaunt stranger, and what did he want? Forcing a smile, he waved a welcoming hand.

“Greetings to you, sir,” he caroled cheerfully. “What brings you to our court?”

The stranger bowed. “I am seeking Sir Tristan.”

Mark tensed imperceptibly. “Are you, now? Why so?”

“I’ve come to thank him for his goodness to me.” The knight laid his great hand on his sword. “I want to pledge him my oath of undying brotherhood.”

“Gods above, man,” Mark cried in a nasty tone, “what did he do?”

The knight looked away with an awkward shrug.

“I can hardly answer that,” he said uncomfortably, “except to my shame. But I am more than the battered knight errant you see now. I was once a man of honor, a knight of King Arthur and one of his Fellowship.”

“A knight of the Round Table?” Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, then?”

“They call me Gawain. I was Arthur’s first companion, and I’ve sworn to be his last.”

Mark’s ungainly body twitched with shock. Was this worn, haunted creature the great hero Gawain, famous alike for his roistering ways with women and his tireless strength? The eldest of the four great brothers from the Orkney Isles? In truth, Gawain was King Arthur’s cousin and closest kin, and they shared the same fair coloring and outstanding build. But just look at him now, Mark snarled inwardly. Darkness and devils, was everything these days turning out for the worse?

“Sir Gawain!” he said furiously. “I would not have recognized you.”

A shaft of black humor crossed the wasted face. “After the time I spent in the forest, my own brothers would not have recognized me.”

Mark stared at him. “What happened there? You’ve been sick? Imprisoned?”

“Both, to my great misfortune. I dallied with a lady in the forest, and she mistook my aim in courting her. She thought I was wooing her to be my wife, when all I wanted was the comfort of her bed.”

Mark nodded viciously. “Well, what else are women for? That’s all the comfort they can give a man.” He felt his uncertain temper pricking him again. “And some of them won’t even do that.”

Gawain gave a painful grin. “Well, if I offended, I had my punishment.”

Mark gave a venomous chuckle. “She locked you up, eh? Threw you into her dungeons and refused to let you go?”

“Worse. She trapped me in the prison of my own mind. She fed me poison till I lost my wits. Then she set me free to run mad in the forest, challenging all comers to fight me to the death.”

“God Almighty, it’s a wonder you survived,” Mark marveled.

Gawain nodded. “Some knight on the road could easily have finished me off, or else I’d have died of starvation in the wood, living on acorns and roots like the wild swine.” His burst of dark laughter sounded more like the Gawain of old. “It’s a high price to pay for a few nights in bed.”

“Women are strange beasts,” Mark said feelingly. “They’re monsters, in fact. A man can never trust them. They’re not like us.”

Gawain frowned. If women were monsters, he pondered, why did men desire them so much? And why did the King seem to hate the entire sex? But at least he could second Mark’s conclusion with all his heart.

“That’s the truth, sire,” he agreed solemnly. “Women are not like us.”

Mark leaned forward and jabbed him in the chest. “You agree with me, then? A man has to keep them down. The Romans knew that, they had the right idea. And now the Christians are saying the same thing. Women should be subject to men. It’s the will of God.”

The will of God that men should keep women down? Gawain thought how much he loved a wild and willing girl and felt his doubts about King Mark rising again. What man could want a woman who didn’t desire him, too? Who didn’t lust after him as much as he lusted for her, hungering for him till her back teeth ached? Why should men want to keep women down, when it was often hard enough to arouse them at all?

Gawain stroked his chin and made a diplomatic bow.

“As you say, sire, women are a trial to men. And I would still be subject to the lady of the castle if Sir Tristan had not saved my wretched life. He came across me when I was running mad in the wood and refused to fight me, though I challenged him to the death. Then he took me to a hermitage to be healed. He did not recognize me because I’d changed so much, and I didn’t know him because I was out of my mind. But the hermit and his fellows helped me to recover my wits, and my first task now is to thank him on my knees.”

Mark quivered and drew back. “Who, Tristan?”

“Yes indeed,” Gawain said wonderingly. “Will you send for him, sire?”

Mark crossed his legs and shifted uneasily on his throne. “Didn’t the chamberlain tell you when you arrived?”

“Tell me what?”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Alas, I have a great sadness to report. My beloved nephew is dead.”

Gawain turned pale. “Dead? How?”

“He ran mad and threw himself off the cliff.”

Gawain clutched his head. “In the name of the great Gods, why?”

Mark heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s been a time of loss. Tristan’s wits turned when the Queen caught leprosy, lost her beauty, and retired to a leper house to die.”

Gawain shook his head, stunned. He could hardly believe it. “A double blow for you, sire,” he forced out at last.

Mark brought a bunched fist to his eye and knuckled out a tear. “A tragedy beyond all. But fear not, Sir Gawain, we shan’t neglect a guest. We’ll feast you tonight, and you shall eat like a king. After your ordeal in the forest, you deserve no less.” He gave a sudden chuckle, startling Gawain. “I have a pair of sisters here at court, one so fat that she’s falling out of her gown, and the other so slender she hardly fills her shift. You can take your pick.”

Gawain bowed his head. Was the King serious? All this when Tristan was dead?

“Sire, I thank you for your courtesy, but I fear I must decline,” he returned in a low voice. “After what you’ve just told me, I’d be poor company at a feast. If you’ll forgive me, I will take my leave.”

Gawain was going? Good, very good. Mark congratulated himself on his luck. The sooner the big knight was gone, the better it would be. Gawain must not know what really happened here. And as soon as Gawain was gone, he’d have a chance to work out the story he was going to tell the world, including the treason of the two lovers and Andred’s death. God only knew how he was going to explain the loss of both his nephews to his overlord, Queen Igraine. But he would worry about that when the time came. Uneasily, he put the thought aside.

“Come, then, Sir Gawain,” he said in ringing tones, “let me speed you on your way. And when you next pass a church or a holy place, say a prayer for me in my terrible loss.”

chapter 45

W
as she still in the leper house in the wood?

And was it still summer or the deep, dead heart of the year?

Isolde lay huddled on her pile of rags on the floor and found no answer to hard questions like these. But always she dreamed of better times to come. Alone in her cell, except when Madrona was near, she had all the time in the world to think and dream.

Yet even in this strange misty time and place, some things were real. The noise and the sickness were real, as were the cries and groans and the lepers’ eternal stench, and her own body’s weakness, increasing every day. She was ill, she knew, and there was no escaping that.

How was she ill? She had no idea. Sometimes she thought it was hunger that had brought her so low. Mark had kept her half starved in the cell at Castle Dore, and now that she lived with the lepers, she ate even less. At dawn every day, all those who could walk or crawl set off to the town to beg for food. They haunted the back kitchens of great houses to pick up the waste, then scavenged the refuse dumps of Castle Dore till they had filled their greasy satchels with all they could find. As dark descended, they would carry the booty home, back to the hut in the forest where the rest lay in hope.

When the food-bearers arrived, the excitement was intense. The housebound lepers all came crowding around as the satchels were turned out, jostling and cursing and fighting among themselves. But Isolde had no stomach for these foul and broken scraps. She could not even stand the smell of the sweet and savory leavings all jumbled together. The whole mess was hardly fit for pigs. Madrona tried many times to coax her to eat, then turned to stronger tactics when gentleness failed.

“Come, lady,” she said forcefully, kneeling beside Isolde with a bowl of slops. “I’ve begged off your body from Lazaran’s lust because you’re the Queen. It’ll be a poor recompense for me if you let yourself die.”

“Yes, indeed,” Isolde said, or tried to say.

In truth, she did not know if the hoarse whisper echoing around her mind ever reached her lips. But the older woman had cared for her from the moment she arrived, and Isolde wanted so much to do what she said. Madrona had even taken her into her own cell, the only private corner apart from Lazaran’s in the whole house.

But when Madrona urged her, “Eat, lady! Eat!” she found herself dreaming of the midwinter feasts of the past. The foul hovel around her melted into the mist, along with the endless low moans of the lepers and the stink of their fleshly decay. Then the reedy lament of the flutes came into her head, and she saw figures dancing in an ivy-clad hall. Great bundles of pearly mistletoe gleamed on high amid spiky branches of holly bright with berries as red as blood.

And then Tristan was in her mind, too, his harp sweeter and his leap higher than that of any of the revelers in the hall. His eyes were brighter than any berries, and when he smiled, his lips and teeth put the red of the holly and the pearls of the mistletoe to shame. When she saw him like this, dancing and singing with his harp, it came to her that he was surely dead.

“Oh, oh,” she wept. “Oh, oh . . .”

I did not believe you, Mark, when you told me so. You hated me and Tristan, so I thought it was a trick. You wanted to break my spirit, and I could not let that be. But now it must be true.

Tristan could not have come to her to dance and sing if his spirit was still chained to this mortal earth. It meant he was already walking in the Beyond, and not a soul could call him back again.

Oh, oh, my love.

My only love lost and gone.

“Wait for me, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I will soon be there.”

Now she blessed her sickness, for it would bring her to Tristan sooner than she might think. And now she knew that whatever afflicted her, it was not hunger as she once had thought. Every day she forced herself to eat something to please Madrona, but her pains did not ease.

Soon she could no longer hold down any food. At night she shivered, and all day long she burned. When she felt the fever running through nerve and vein, she called to Tristan in her heart:
Soon I’ll be with you, love. Wait. I’ll be there.

“Do I have the disease, Madrona?” she asked hopefully, through pale, dry lips. “Am I a leper now?”

The older woman looked at her with a heavy heart.

“Not as I know it,” she said carefully. “But you have a sore fever, and that’s bad enough. And if you don’t take some liquid, you’ll burn up.” She reached for the beaker of springwater on the floor. “Let me moisten your mouth a little. Just a little . . . Good, that’s the way.”

But no one could live on water and hope to survive.

“She must have milk,” Madrona told Lazaran.

“And where will that come from?” the leader of the lepers sneered.

“From a cow,” she retorted, “as it always did. Will you beg some for her in the town?”

The leper shook his muffled head. Sourly, he gestured to the band of tense and hungry beggars, all clustered behind him ready to depart. “With these wretches to manage? Not I.”

“But the Queen—”

“I’m off.” He cut across her with a heartless wave. “If you want milk for our fine lady, beg yourself.”

Which is how Madrona came to leave Isolde alone, having first tenderly covered up the feverish figure on the floor.

“I don’t like leaving you, but won’t be long,” she assured Isolde, tucking her up firmly inside the pile of rags but leaving her arms free to throw off the covers if she got too warm. She set the wooden beaker near Isolde’s hand. “Try to drink some water while I’m gone.”

What was Madrona saying? Whatever it was, it could only be kindly meant. Isolde nodded dreamily.

“Thank you,” she tried to say.

Through drowsy lids, she watched the older woman move toward the door, pausing to blow out the candle on the way. Now it was almost dark in the windowless cell.

“I hate to leave you without any light,” Madrona murmured. “But if one of the others blundered in . . .”

Isolde nodded again. If the candle went over, the rags on the floor would catch fire. Then, within minutes, the whole flimsy dwelling would burn down. Death by fire would be a cruel way to the Beyond. But it would open the gates to the Otherworld and bring her to her love.

She raised her hand and struggled to sit up. “Farewell.”

But as soon as Madrona had gone, she slid down again, curled up the way a child would against a beating that must come. Meanwhile, Madrona set off down the track that led to the town, and Lazaran followed after her with his motley crew. So none of them saw the dark figure in the wood, watching and waiting till the last of them had gone. And still he waited, as motionless as a stone and as patient as a fox at a rabbit’s den.

Time wore on. At last the stranger was satisfied no one would return. Moving as lightly as a shadow, he left the shelter of the trees and crossed the clearing to the leper house. He paused on the threshold for a swift look back, then shouldered through the door to the place within.

Once inside the house, he froze against the wall, blending into the dark roughcast and loam. Before him lay all the lepers too crippled to go to town or too sick to stir, some moaning softly and twitching in their sleep, others snoring like cows bellowing to be milked.

Not there . . . nor there . . .

Over there, then?

No.

The newcomer surveyed the sad heaps of lost humanity one by one, but he did not find the face that he sought.

Huddled by the walls and clustered round the fire, the inmates slept on unaware. The few who stirred and opened one eye saw nothing but a heavily muffled creature like themselves, his hands and feet bound up in pus-stained rags. Like them, he had bandaged his head to hide his face, and a ragged cloak concealed his stooping form. But he limped along nimbly on his makeshift crutch as he passed down the hall to the curtained cells at the end, snatching a candle from the wall as he went.

In there?

No.

A swift glance round Lazaran’s private place showed an empty bed and not a soul within. He turned to the next sheet of sacking and swept it back with one stiffly bandaged arm.

In here, then?

And there she was. All alone, curled up on the floor.

No one else by.

His alone.

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