The Lady of the Sea (4 page)

He stared at her. “But lady, he’s my kinsman—my only kin. And I swore a lifelong allegiance to him.”

She held his gaze and willed him to be strong. “Set Mark aside, if you can. There’s something else that dearly concerns us both.”

He was quite lost; she could see it.

“What else?” he said in misery, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

Goddess, help me . . .
She drew a long, slow breath. “If I’m ever to have a child, it must be soon.”

“Have a child?” he gasped. “But we’ve always kept our love concealed.”

“So I took the way of the Mother to close up my womb.” She nodded grimly. “But in my own kingdom, I can do as I like. And when I’m free to follow the Mother-right, that means I can change my consort and bear his child.” She paused and clenched her fists. “Your child, Tristan, if it’s not too late.”

“My child?” He could not take it in. But he could see the tempest raging in her soul. Queen or woman, what am I to be? Wife, lover, and mother, or never in this life?

“Come with me, sir,” she said suddenly.

He stood like a bear at the stake. “You know I have sworn fealty to the King,” he said hoarsely.

“I need you. He does not.”

She could see the sweat breaking out on his brow.

“But what of King Arthur—the Round Table—the Quest?”

Isolde’s eyes flared. “What of them?”

“I am one of that sworn fellowship,” he said tensely. “King Arthur may send for me to join the Quest. And I’m still Cornwall’s champion. King Mark may need me to defend the land.”

She stared at him, unmoving. “What about our child?”

Trembling, he caught her eye and looked away. A child? They’d never spoken of it. He had never thought of it before.

And now, go to Ireland and bring a child into the world? Reveal the secret of their love to all? He’d be forced to leave the King’s service in disgrace, betraying all he had known since his life of chivalry began. And what of this new life she talked about, the little soul who would call him father and command his heart’s blood for the rest of his days? Could he do it? Or was he bound to fail?

Fail the child, for sure.

Fail Isolde and fail Mark.

Fail, fail, fail . . .

Yearning in anguish, Isolde watched him pace to and fro, feeling the clash of loyalties in his soul.
Choose!
cried her silent heart.
Choose me!
But already she knew the choice that he had made.

“What will you do?” she said huskily.

“What should I do?” he cried from the depths of his pain. “I owe allegiance to Mark and King Arthur and the Round Table, too. But you are my lady and my undying love. Who should I follow now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said hotly. “What should I do? As Mark’s wife, I should return to Castle Dore. But I choose love over duty. What will you do?”

He looked into the distance, but all he could see was the void within himself. “You are the Queen,” he said awkwardly. “The sovereignty and spirit of the land.”

“And you are the King of Lyonesse,” she said tremulously. “But in my arms, you are a man.”

What did she mean? Tristan struggled to read the mystery in her eyes.

She threw him a glance of despair.
Hold me. Love me. Do not let me go.

He covered his face with his hand to hide his grief. “Lady, I beg you, forgive me if you can,” he said huskily. “But I cannot go back on the first vow I made. I swore myself to the King before we met and pledged undying fealty on my soul. I lose my honor if I break that oath, and without my honor, I’m nothing but a recreant knight. And I could not be your knight if I broke my faith. I could not offer you a life of shame.”

She was as pale as death. “So be it.”

Tristan straightened up. “To Ireland with you, lady,” he said bleakly, “while I return to Castle Dore to keep pledge with Mark.”

“Will you come to me afterward? When can I hope to see you again?”

“Somewhere it must be written. But the stars are dark. For myself, I cannot say.”

A cry of pain escaped her. “Must it be?”

“Gods above, lady,” he said, his voice breaking, “I’d give my life to change it if I could. But there is no other way.”

She stepped forward and lifted her hand to his cheek. “Love me one last time?”

T
HE NEXT DAY AT DAWN
they stood in the dark wood. Ahead of them lay the fork where the two roads diverged. The whole troop stood ready to depart, and there could be no last kiss or caress under the eyes of the men. But she could hear his thoughts.

Every evening of every day, I shall pray to you, Isolde my lady, Isolde my only love.

And every twilight when the love star glows, I shall light a candle to burn for you, sweetheart.

Wait for me till I come to you again.

Through the three worlds and beyond.

Fail not.

I shall not fail.

Nor I, till the seas kiss the sky.

Farewell.

They stood for a moment, lost in their private world till the soft jingle of a horse’s harness brought them to themselves again.

He fixed her with his level gray regard. “Farewell, my lady” came to her through the cold silver-gray of the dawn.

She could hardly speak for pain. “Fare you well.”

Blue, green, and purple played around his head as he stood like a shadow of himself against the fading dark. He had the look of a faun in a midnight forest, wild and strange. Another moment and he would be gone.

Oh, Tristan . . . Tristan . . .

When shall I see you again?

Already she knew it was tempting the Old Ones to ask. But never did she dream what the answer would be.

chapter 4

I
solde, Isolde . . .

Had all the evil in the land sprung from this pagan whore? Or was his own sin to blame?

“Lord, Lord, let me see Thy face!”

Groaning, the priest Dominian covered his head with his cowl and drove his misshapen body into the wind. He knew the way through the wood so well that he hardly felt the tears blinding his eyes. Was it not enough that God had sent him into the world hunchbacked and lame, so malformed that his own mother had cast him away to die? Did the Almighty have to cast him out, too?

Yet this was the way it had been all winter long. All that time, God had hidden His face. Of course the Almighty rejected those full of rage, Dominian knew that. Yet what else can I be, Lord, when You work against me? he railed inwardly, stamping along with his novice, Simeon, behind. Tell me why You have spared Isolde all these years?

Frenziedly, he beat the dripping branches away from his face.

“Isolde the pagan,” he muttered, “Isolde the rampant whore, who calls herself Queen when Holy Scripture forbids women to rule. And above her is Mark’s overlord, old Queen Igraine. These women are the enemies of our work. They share the friendship of their thighs with any man of their choice. Why do they flourish, Lord? We shall never win control in a land where thigh-freedom rules. We must have subject females, mute and chaste. The rule of Our Father in these islands means rooting out the Mother-right.”

Dominian clutched his head. Surely God in His wisdom knew all this! Every time Isolde put to sea, He could have made the waves into her death waters, drowned the witch in a pool of her own tears. Once He had even held her life in His hand, when she had been accused of treachery and forced to undertake the ordeal by water to clear her name. He could so easily have done away with her then. Yet each time He had spared her to triumph over His own people. Why had God betrayed him to this dark night of the soul? Neither in church nor in his private prayers had Dominian seen God’s face as he used to do.

Usedtodo, usedtodo, mocked the wind in the trees. The forest path narrowed and the going was harder now. The new springtime growth of leaves on the trees impeded their way and every green shoot seemed to catch at their monkish gowns. Glaring about him, Dominian loathed all he saw. What fools people were to rejoice at the coming of spring! All it meant was melting snow and clinging mud, trees dripping down every man’s neck and the lowliest brambles tearing with renewed force—

Lord, Lord, why do you hide Your face?

Walking at his elbow, the novice Simeon stole a quick look at Dominian’s misery and averted his gaze. Surely his master knew the weather would be foul today? With the onset of the spring thaw, all the rest of the brethren had opted for indoor tasks, the pious in the chapel chanting Offices for the Dead and the practical scouring the dormitories for cockroaches and rats.

And with his poor hunched spine and twisted leg, Dominian might have been forgiven an effort like this. But sleet or sludge, they all knew that their leader would seek out Jerome. Even in the worst of the snow, when the drifts were over his head, Dominian had got through to his old master’s cell, week after week. Sometimes he asked the brawniest of the brothers to clear the way. More often than not he struggled through alone, working his malformed body through the snow, hands and arms held high above his head, his short, stubby thighs pumping forward zealously with every step.

For Jerome was his God on earth, his all-in-all. Some of the brothers had sneered at Dominian’s devotion and made it a subject for complaint. Others muttered about Dominian’s failure to defeat Isolde, and the spirit of disrespect had infected them all. Overhearing their whispers, Simeon had given one a bloody nose and broken another’s teeth, and had been thrashed himself for bringing violence into God’s house. But how else was he to defend his master against himself?

Not far now . . .

Oblivious to his novice’s troubled thoughts, Dominian trudged on through the heart of the wood. Ahead now lay the ancient sacred well, its moldering roof covered in damp lichen and moss. Behind it loomed the low stone hermitage, likewise dank and dripping in the bone-crunching cold.

Dominian looked at Simeon. “Wait here,” he ordered.

It would do the boy good, he decided, to stand shivering in his thin habit, enduring the cold on his sandaled feet. That was nothing to his own ordeal, having to live every day without God’s love. Dominian felt the jagged tears starting again. Simeon’s trial would be over soon. His sufferings would last till the day he died.

My God, my God . . .

Jerome’s narrow cell was colder inside than out. A film of ice covered the earthen floor, and the old man’s drinking water was frozen in his cup. A trickle of melting snow dripped from the roof, and even the lowly bed was glistening with damp. Jerome sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his white head nodding on its fragile neck, his frail body in its thick woolen habit no more than skin and bone. Dominian touched the cross above the threshold, stepped inside, and fell to his knees.

“Bless me, Father,” he groaned, “for I have sinned.”

“Sinned, my son?” Jerome swiveled his blind gaze toward the door. “How?”

“I dreamed of ousting the Great Goddess from these islands, just as God taught us in the Bible, in the holy Book of Kings. I wanted to be like King Asa when he threw down his mother’s idol in the groves of Hebron, where Queen Maacha worshipped the Great Whore of all Asia and danced before her shrine.”

“The Great Mother a whore?” the old man pondered. “Remember Our Lord had a mother whom He loved.”

Dominian recoiled. “But Mary was chaste!” he spat out. “Not like the loose-loined women of these islands, who claim the right to share their beds with any man.” He shuddered with disgust. “There was none of that for the Mother of God!”

“Son—”

But Dominian was not listening. “Was I too ambitious, Father? I only wanted to make Mark a Christian king.”

Jerome’s voice was as paper-thin as his frame. “Was that all?”

Dominian’s cry shattered the crystal silence of the cell. “Was I wrong, Father? I meant to make all these islands a place of God.”

“These islands alone?” An edge of interrogation had entered Jerome’s tone. “Or did your hopes lead you farther afield?”

Dominian did not hesitate. “I wanted to lead our mission all the way to Rome. The Holy Father rewards those who serve the Mother Church well.”

Rome . . .

Dominian’s sight dimmed. The Eternal City on her Eternal Hill, the rock of Saint Peter, the foundation of God’s church. Already he could feel the hot sun on his back, see the thousands of holy men gowned in black, white, brown, and red, keeping the flame of faith triumphantly alight among the city’s merchants and tradesmen, mountebanks, thieves, and whores.

Yet he, who had dreamed of kneeling before the Pope, must now languish forever in the deserts of disgrace. And he would pay for his failure at the Last Judgment, too. There were some sins that God could not forgive.

He howled like a dog. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

“Take comfort, my son. Rome is not all the world.” Jerome held up his hand. “Our Father alone sees what we do. And you are a faithful servant, He knows that.”

The old man’s fingers were as fine as twigs, his flesh translucent in the wintry light. Dominian felt a sudden lurch of fear. How many more winters could Jerome survive? And what would become of him when Jerome had gone?

From the time Jerome had found him, left to die in the wood, the old man had been the only father he had ever known. Cast out by his mother, a Goddess-worshipper, both for being a hunchback and for being a boy, he had had Jerome’s love and guidance all his life. And if Jerome left him . . . Dominian wanted to weep, to scream, to tear his flesh. Suddenly he understood how the great saints could scourge themselves hour after hour till they passed out from loss of blood. Anything was better than the pain of losing God, and Jerome was all he knew of God on earth.

“Oh, my son . . .” The old man felt his despair and tried again. “Remember, Dominian, we must keep the faith.”

The faith—

Dominian thought of the ardent, intimate love Jerome shared with God. He had often overheard the old man chattering away as if to a lover, and he had no doubt that God was answering him. He searched his master’s face, racked with the excruciating envy he always felt for children who enjoyed such love from their mothers in his wretched youth. Bitterness overwhelmed him. “Compared with you, Father, I have no faith!”

The old man leaned forward. “Do not deny your God.”

“But He denies me.”

“Never!” Jerome declared. “God loves us all, as I have loved you. And that love will never leave you. Even in death, I shall walk by your side.”

“But God knows I have failed!”

“With Queen Isolde, perhaps. But you have not lost King Mark. He will never return to the Mother-faith as long as he is Queen Igraine’s vassal and resents her power.”

Dominian pondered. That at least was true. He felt his spirits stir.

“Take heart, son,” Jerome said feelingly. “God sees your suffering and has given us the words of prayer for times like these. Come, sing with me.” He struck off in a high, gnat-like tone.
“De profundis, Domine—”

Dominian felt the tears rising again, but this time with a sweet healing flow. Stumbling, he began his part of the psalm. “Out of the depths, O Lord, have I called upon Thee: Lord, Lord, I beseech you, hear my voice—”

The old man reached out and felt for Dominian’s hand. “Remember when you were a child and I told you of the Father who loved little ones like you?”

His heart bursting, Dominian clung to Jerome. “You said that our Lord had marked me out as one of God’s chosen,” he said hoarsely, “destined for a special place in Heaven.”

“All true.” Jerome nodded. “And truer than ever now. Hear me, Dominian.” The reedy voice rose to a sonorous chant. “God is love. He loves you, as I love you, world without end.”

Dominian’s head was boiling. “Father—”

Jerome stared at him with his milky, blue-white eyes. “Remember, Dominian, you were not named in vain. Dominion will be yours. God will give you mastery. You and others like you will root out the Great Mother in these islands and destroy all her works. In years to come, no one will know her name.”

“But how can this be?” wept Dominian. “King Mark was mine when I won him to the Christian faith. I was his confessor, his guide, his all-in-all. Yet for twenty years I have been working in vain while the pagan Isolde holds sway as Cornwall’s queen.”

There was a pensive pause. Then the gentle papery voice rustled again. “The King is still married. Could there yet be a child born to him?”

A child?

Born to Mark and the Queen?

Dominian burst out into a savage laugh. “Never!” he said scornfully. “I bore down on him for years to do his duty and the work of God. But the whore closed her thighs to him on their wedding day. For almost twenty years now she has shunned his bed.”

“But could you not bring him to renew his vows?”

“I have tried.”

“Then try again, my son. A child is all we seek.”

A child of Mark and Isolde?

Dominian closed his eyes as the force of the idea took root. A child, yes! For years he had been too weak with Mark, infected by the King’s own weakness and lack of faith. But this could be the new opening he sought. And if it was God’s will, both King and Queen must submit.

Yes, yes . . .

Dominian’s heart swelled. Step-by-step he traced his way through the task ahead. First he would have to bring Mark to the sticking point, either to master his wife or to cast her aside. And then, alas, Isolde would have to learn that sex and childbirth tamed any woman, even her. What was marriage ordained for, after all, but as an instrument of God to keep women in their place?

And once Isolde was broken, the Mother-right would soon be gone . . .

A pageant of glory passed before Dominian’s eyes. He saw sturdy churches rising in every town and mighty cathedrals proclaiming the faith of Rome. Crosses would crown every building in the land and mark the humblest grave. Christianity would be taught in every school and enforced on every child. Women would be stripped of thigh-freedom, and men would be given God’s power and the use of the whip. Avalon would be no more, and neither man nor woman would know the Great Goddess or even remember her name.

Now God be praised! Dominian sighed with delight as fierce visions of conquest and power inflamed his mind. Then we shall once again be pleasing to Rome. The Holy Father himself will call me to his side. Our faith will take over the world when the these pagans are gone. I see it all, once Cornwall is in my grasp. And Cornwall will be mine when Isolde is no more.

“Magnus Dominus,
great and mighty is Our God—”

Jerome launched again on his thin, high cricket’s chant, his ancient countenance transfigured with bliss. Dominian gazed at him with adoration, feeling a new sense of purpose flooding his veins. He clutched the old man’s hand, weeping with joy, murmuring the prayer of thanksgiving Jerome had taught him long ago. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.