The Lady of the Sea (35 page)

chapter 50

G
awain indeed!” the big knight chuckled in delight.

“Oh, my friend—” Tristan gasped. He reached for Gawain’s wrists and slashed madly at his bonds.

“Thank you, sir.”

The big knight lay on the flagstones rubbing his wrists and gently feeling the broken skin behind his ear. Tears sprang to Isolde’s eyes.

“And we attacked you—we feared you came from Mark. Oh, can you ever forgive us?”

Gawain heaved his great body off the floor and turned to face them with a somber air.

“Dearest lady, believe me, I would have done the same. King Mark is your enemy, there’s no doubt about that.”

Briefly, he recounted what had passed between him and Mark. Tristan listened impassively, but his eyes were alive with pain.

Oh, my love . . .

Isolde felt his sorrow resounding in her own heart.
Alas, it still hurts you to know how Mark has changed. It is true he loved you once as his dearest kin, his knight, his champion, and his chosen heir. But he has long since nourished a deadly jealousy of you.

She turned to the newcomer. “You are welcome, Sir Gawain. I promise you we shall make up for this discourtesy.”

Tristan shook his head. “Gods above, old friend, how did you get here?”

“It’s a long story.” Gawain grinned. “Do you remember the madman in the wood?”

“The knight who had lost his mind?” Tristan gasped. A burst of understanding lit his face. “Was that you? And I didn’t recognize you then, either. Gods, what a blindworm I’ve been!”

“But you saved my life. And when I recovered, I went to Castle Dore to thank you in person for everything you’d done.”

Isolde heaved an angry sigh. “And doubtless Mark told you a string of terrible lies.”

“Of course,” Tristan said bitterly. “So how did you find out the truth?”

Gawain shook his head in puzzlement. “I hardly know. Mark told me you’d run mad and thrown yourself off a cliff because the Queen had caught leprosy and gone to a leper house to die. I believed him at first. After all, why should the King of Cornwall make up a story like that?”

Tristan nodded grimly. Gawain was known to be a better fighter than a thinker, rarely one to question what he was told. Mark must have hoped that Gawain would carry this lying tale back to King Arthur and that the whole of Camelot and his fellow knights of the Round Table would swallow it, too.

He could tell that Isolde was thinking the same thing.

“What made you change your mind?” she asked Gawain.

“When I rode away, I had time to puzzle it out,” Gawain explained. “You were the King’s oldest nephew, his knight, his heir, and his closest kin. Andred had had a full ceremonial burial, yet he was holding no funeral for you at all. So you were obviously in some kind of disgrace.”

Tristan threw a glance at Isolde. “That’s right.”

Isolde caught her breath. “The King had discovered our love,” she said with difficulty.

“Ah,” said Gawain gently and without surprise. “Indeed, something of the sort occurred to me. So I left Castle Dore by the high road, as if I was heading off to join my brothers on the Quest. Then I slipped back under cover of darkness and made a few inquiries around the town. It didn’t take long to find out that Sir Tristan had been taken to the chapel under heavy guard and had never come out.” He bowed to Isolde. “And that Your Majesty had been first imprisoned and then carried off to the leper house under duress.”

Isolde closed her eyes. “What did you do then?”

“I went to the leper house to find you, madam. I thought that you’d tell me the truth about Tristan, whatever it was. And when I found you gone, I followed your tracks back here.”

“Well done, good sir,” Isolde said fervently.

Gawain leaned forward, beaming with pride. “And now I can thank you, Tristan, for saving my life. Gods above, what a friend you were to me that day! Count on my sword for the rest of our days.”

But Tristan was not listening. “You said you tracked us here?”

Gawain grinned. “Yes, in the end. It took me a good while. You’re a fine woodsman, Tristan, you know that.”

Tristan turned pale. “How did you track us?” he forced out. “I went backward and forward to confuse the trail. We rode through rivers and over stony paths to throw off pursuit—”

“Oh, you didn’t make it easy, I’ll grant you that.” Gawain chuckled with glee. “But as I soon as I saw one print of your old gray’s great hoof, I knew you must have come to rescue the Queen. And now we can all—”

“Devils and darkness, man!” Tristan cried. His eyes were staring, and he grabbed madly for his sword.

“What?” In an instant, Gawain was on his feet, looking wildly about him, too, and picking up his sword. “What is it?” he cried.

Isolde groaned. “Don’t you understand? Gods above, Sir Gawain, if you found us, then others can, too! All they have to do is to follow your tracks.”

Gawain’s great face fell. “But you don’t know that anyone is after you.”

Oh, we do.

In truth, her heart had been dropping with every word Gawain said. One thought possessed her like a darkening cloud.
Mark is on his way. Any moment he’ll be here.

Tristan read her mind. “Any moment,” he agreed, his voice thick with dread. “We must leave at once.” He gave a terrible laugh. “If we still can.”

In one swift movement he blew out the candle and made his way to the window, peering out into the night. Beyond the curtain of ivy, there was nothing to be seen. A pale crescent moon rode wanly through the sky, and the stars twinkled thinly through a veil of mist. Nothing moved in the indigo depths beneath the trees, not even the night-prowling creatures of the wood. But Tristan’s every hunting sense was fully alive. Except that he was no longer the hunter, he knew. All three of them now had become the prey.

Isolde could hear the thunder of her heart. At last Tristan spoke.

“They’re out there, I know it.”

The low rustle that followed could have been anything. The same was true of the cracking of a twig. But as the clouds parted, there was no mistaking the brief glint of the moonlight on drawn swords under the trees. Tristan turned back into the chamber, a smile of desperate gaiety on his face.

“Mark has surrounded the place with his band of knights. There’s no escape for my lady and me. But if you go now, Gawain, perhaps you can save your life.”

Gawain gave a cheerful guffaw. “D’you think Mark would let me go? When I’d only make straight for Camelot to tell Arthur what a villain he is? No, no, I’d rather die here with you.”

Hefting his sword, he reached for the dagger at his belt. Tristan had to smile. Fighting two-handed like this, Gawain was a foe to be feared and a dear friend to have on their side at such a time.

Tristan raised his sword in the air and listened to Glaeve’s joyful call.

“Let them come, then,” he said fervently. “We’ll sell our lives dearly, the three of us.”

“And we’ll take Mark with us, or die in the attempt,” Gawain vowed. He gave a rumbling laugh. “I shall look forward to that.”

Tristan moved toward Isolde. “Oh my lady . . . my love.”

No tears, no fears . . .

She gave him a flashing smile. “Wait for me, love, on the other side. And before that, sirs, let’s give our enemies a battle that will live in memory till the end of the earth. Now, where’s my sword?”

chapter 51

N
o man is to move from here. Not a single step.”

With a sweep of his sword, Mark pointed to the narrow cleft in the hillside ahead. Sweating despite the cold, he cast a baleful eye through the trees toward the hidden grange.

“Guard this entrance with your lives, every one of you. When I go in, I want them caught like rats in a trap. Don’t let them get past you alive.”

“Sire—”

If Mark had cared to notice, he would have seen Sir Nabon’s loyal old face glistening with pain.

“Sire, do not act in haste,” the councillor begged. “There may be many reasons why the Queen has taken refuge there.”

“And all of them traitorous,” Mark hit back.

“And we don’t know she’s with Sir Tristan.”

“Well, Nabon, we soon shall.”

Gods above, Nabon thought in dread, where did the King get that venomous smile, that mad, hectic glare? Aloud he returned as boldly as he dared, “We can’t be sure, my lord. And even if it’s true, every one of your subjects has the right to speak before the law takes its course.”

“Nabon, beware who you defend.” Mark’s tone was dangerous now. He paused for emphasis. “Have a care for your own neck, my friend.”

Nabon stared. Goddess, Mother, he cried inwardly, has it come to this? Threatened with death for trying to do right, when I’ve served the King so loyally all these years? And Mark would do it. He had no doubt of that.

Alas, Isolde . . .

His heart gave way, and he bowed his head. “As you say, sire.”

Mark gestured to the knights and men standing round. “You’re a good strong fighting force. Now be sure to guard this entrance,” he ordered, “on pain of death. You understand, Nabon? No man is to leave this place. I’ll take my own knights and flush the traitors out.”

Knights, you call them? Nabon looked at the motley crew around Mark and hid his contempt. Among the lower ranks were weasels like Fer de Gambon, men without honor, guaranteed to turn a blind eye to whatever the King did. In the front were a dozen or so fearless and ferocious fighting men like the brutish Taboral. Their task would be to bring Tristan down. Nabon wanted to weep. May your Gods be with you, Isolde. And with you, wherever you are, Tristan, my friend, he prayed.

Mark turned his face up to the glimmering moon. His skin was filmed with an unpleasant sheen and a light of wolfish cruelty gleamed in his eye. He waved his sword round his head.

“Forward,” he cried.

N
O TEARS, NO FEARS.

How often had her dead mother said that?

Goddess, Mother . . .

Isolde’s sight thickened and her mother stormed across her mind, raging in full combat as the Battle Raven, riding her chariot in the thick of the fray. Isolde gripped the sword Tristan had given her and wished she had her mother’s great weapon of war for the battle that lay ahead. But that was back in Ireland with all the other treasures of Dubh Lein. This would have to do.

Ireland . . .

Erin . . .

Home . . .

She looked at Tristan and Gawain sharing a wild grin of defiance and smiled in her turn. They would all die tonight, she felt sure of that. Tonight her soul would wander Ireland’s shores again as she made her voyage to the Great Beyond. Once again she would see the beloved green hills and taste the sweet, silvery rain, and then make the salmon’s leap to a better place.

Or perhaps she would visit again the land of her heart, the country of her girlhood, where she had come of age. Now a green hillside swept serenely into her view, its rounded flanks reflected in a lake of sweet shining water as calm as beaten glass, its top crowned with orchards of apple blossom where white doves fluttered and sang in every tree. Isolde’s heart swelled with joy.

Avalon.

Sacred Island.

Home.

“My lady?”

Tristan’s urgent demand brought her to herself. “Yes?”

The battle glory was upon him now, and he had never looked so fine. He reached out and took her hand, then laid his arm along Gawain’s broad back.

“We’re all agreed we’ll sell our lives as dearly as we can.”

Isolde nodded, holding his gaze.
Wait for me, love, in the world between the worlds.

In a trembling silence, he returned the pledge. My soul is yours, my lady. You have my undying love.

Gawain turned to Tristan and hugged him to his chest. Then he knelt to kiss Isolde’s hand.

“I am honored to die in company such as this. And the bards will tell stories of this battle as long as stories last.”

He reached for his helmet and chuckled ruefully. “The crows that pick over my bones will have to make my farewell to my dear brothers for me. My only regret is not having one more turn with them in the tiltyard at Camelot. I still need to teach Agravain a thing or two.”

They armed themselves in silence, hefting their weapons and sharing the armor they had. Together they turned as one to face the door.

“Ready?” Tristan breathed.

Moving as one, they strode out into the night, the two men in the front and Isolde close behind.
I am ready to meet my fate, whatever it is. I have had a good life. Now it only remains for me to make a good death. And to die with Tristan will be the best that can happen if we cannot be together and free to live as we will.

Goddess, Mother, take us to your peace.

“So, traitors!”

A high-pitched cry rang out from the dark. As they stood in the grassy clearing before the door, Mark stepped forward into the light. Behind him came a band of heavily armed men, emerging from the shadow of the trees.

Mark raised a quivering sword and pointed at the three.

“See these traitors, these liars, these adulterous rogues?” he shrilled. “They’re your enemies and mine. I want to see them dead!”

“Liars and rogues? Never!” Tristan stepped forward, leveling his gaze at Mark. “I challenge you to single combat here. Make good your accusations with your sword.”

“My sword against yours? Great God, you must be mad!” Mark released a snickering bellow of contempt. “D’you think I’d risk my life in combat with you when I can have the pleasure of watching you killed?”

Gawain’s great face flushed. “For shame, my lord!” he said. “This is plain murder and treachery, not worthy of a king. How will you look when the tale gets out? All the world will take you for a bloodthirsty killer and a coward, too.”

Mark laughed with open glee. “But the world will never find out, because none of you will live to tell the tale. Alas, I regret, Sir Gawain, that you must die, too, but I can’t let you carry this story back to Camelot.”

“Shame on you then, foul shame,” Gawain said quietly.

Mark’s eyes bulged. He leaped forward and struck Gawain in the face with his mailed fist. “Shame, yes!” he shouted. “Oh, you and your kind always loved to put me to shame. Well, I’m turning the tables now. None of you will laugh at me anymore!”

Gawain stood openmouthed and speechless, his hand to his bleeding cheek.

Tristan let out a roar and leveled his sword. “Gods and Great Ones—”

“Hold there, Sir Tristan, if you please.”

All eyes turned to Sir Nabon as he shouldered up to Mark and swept a deep bow. “And sire, let me say the same to you: hold there. Let me appeal to your knighthood. Do not do this thing. For thirty years I’ve been the leader of your knights, and I must uphold the code by which we live.”

Mark’s eyes were very black. “What’s this, Nabon? Are you a traitor, too?”

“Never! No man is more loyal to your house than I, except Sir Tristan here.” The old knight threw open his arms. “Sire, let me mend this broken love between you all. Sir Tristan is the last kin you have left. He swore his oath of knighthood to you and has risked his life for Cornwall and for your sake. You cared for him dearly once, as the only child of your beloved sister, long since dead. I beg you, take him to your heart again. He will repay you to the last drop of his blood.”

Mark laughed hysterically and jabbed his thumb toward Isolde with a disbelieving snarl. “And I suppose I should also forgive this whore, my Queen?”

Nabon winced. “I would not let another man use that word,” he said quietly. “You married Queen Isolde in good faith, as she married you. But the love between you did not follow. All you can do now, sire, is to let her go.”

“Let her go?” yelped Mark.

“Let her go,” repeated Sir Nabon, holding Mark’s gaze.

Oh, the good old man! Tears stood in Isolde’s eyes. This was the true voice of authority. Mark had to respond.

But Mark was trembling uncontrollably now. He gestured madly toward Tristan and the dark bulk of the hidden grange. “What, turn a blind eye to all this?”

“Yes, indeed, sire,” replied Nabon in his strongest tones. “Many people would understand that you had to challenge Sir Tristan when you thought he loved your Queen, and that you had to follow the Queen when she left the leper house. But that is as far as it goes. No one would accept that you were entitled to insult them both in the foulest terms, as you’ve done here. You’ve also struck Sir Gawain in the face, which the laws of chivalry say that he may not forgive. And refusing Sir Tristan’s challenge will be proof to all the world that you are a recreant knight and an unworthy king.”

“Nabon, no more!” threatened Mark. “They are both dead men. Hold your tongue, old fool, unless you want to die, too.”

“Sire, I cannot,” replied Nabon urgently. “I must speak out. This is the most shameful thing you ever did. You may not disarm and kill two men like this, still less a woman and a ruling queen.”

Mark was shaking his head with the same strange smile. “It must be, Nabon.”

“Never while I live,” cried the old man. “Cold-blooded murder is more than the Gods can bear. The Great Ones themselves will strike you down!”

“Tristan’s a traitor!”

Nabon’s sorely tried patience snapped. “He’s a better man than you will ever be!”

There was a sudden snicker from behind. They’re laughing at me! flashed across Mark’s mind. His sweating hands hefted his sword.

Kill! Kill!

The cry for revenge ran singing through his blood. Blind with fury, Mark turned on the old man and struck him down.

Nabon fell to the ground like a stone. Panting, he raised both hands to the wound on his head and feebly tried to stem the flow of blood. Then his eyelids fluttered and closed and he lay still. For a moment, not a soul stirred. Then a cry of pure anguish ripped through the midnight air.

Tristan leaped across the clearing toward Mark. His sword whirled once against the moon like the flight of a bat and its silver point sank deep into Mark’s chest.

Mark’s mouth gaped, and his face seemed to fall apart. Rocking back on his heels, he stared at Tristan in wild disbelief. “What—?”

Tristan groaned in horror and threw his sword to the ground.

Mark gave a wheezy laugh through a mouthful of blood. “You swore you were my knight till death.”

“And so I was,” Tristan said hoarsely.

“I sought your life. Now God has taken mine.” Mark’s eyes rolled in terror, gripped by a sudden thought. “So I’m bound for the fires of hell. Jesus and Mary, how many thousands of years will it take to pay for my sins? Oh, pray for me, Tristan, intercede for my soul!”

Isolde came forward softly. “Oh Mark, the Old Ones do not punish us for our faults. As we fall asleep, the Mother takes us all into Her arms, then we sleep in peace until we come again.”

“You think so, madam? I wish I did, too.”

Mark’s mouth worked itself into one last spasm, then went slack. He lay on the ground, his mouth still open in his death shout, his eyes bulging as they had done in his life.

“Gods above!” Tristan shouted, hoarse with dread. “What have I done?”

Weeping, he fell to his knees beside Mark’s corpse. Nearby lay Sir Nabon, covered in blood from the hideous wound on his head. Hearing his cry, the old man opened his eyes.

“The Gods will forgive you, Tristan, never fear,” he said hoarsely. He forced a crooked smile. “You have done the right thing. Come here, sir.”

He summoned the leader of Mark’s knights with a wave of one hand. The man hurried forward and fell to one knee at his side.