The Lady of the Sea (6 page)

Well, she was on her way now. She’d be back here today and in his bed before the night was out. Suddenly, he found he was looking forward to it. She was certainly worth bedding; she’d grown better, not worse, with every year that passed. Mark gave a slow, anticipatory smirk. It would be no hardship to possess her, he was sure of that.

A child by Isolde?

Andred stood like a wolf in the forest, desperate for a scent. What in the name of the Gods did Mark mean? Did he truly intend to make Isolde bear his child? Could he force her like that? Yes, he could, if he felt himself driven to it, as he did now.

Andred raised his hand and compulsively stroked down his mustache. Only Elva knew that the well-groomed, thick black growth concealed a harelip, where Andred had been elf-shotten in the womb. No one ever saw the fine, silvery scar. But at times like this, it began to throb.

What to do? screamed his inner voice. Then he remembered the weapon he had to his hand.

“But sire—” Andred stepped forward and sadly rolled his eyes. “How, if the Queen won’t be here . . . ?”

Now it was Mark’s turn to goggle. “Why won’t she?”

“Alas, she’s gone back to Ireland.”

“To Ireland?” Mark leaped as if he had been stung. “But she was due to come back.”

Andred bowed apologetically and put on a sorrowful face. “She must have changed her mind.”

“Changed her mind?” Mark bellowed.

“Such disrespect to you, sire,” Elva put in stridently. “How can she place her wishes above yours?”

Mark’s eyes bulged with rage. “She . . . she . . . ?” He could not speak. “Why?”

“She says Ireland expects an invasion of the Picts,” Andred said.

Mark fought for speech. “And she thinks the Picts threaten her?” He gave a harsh bray of contempt. “There’s no danger from that pack of painted savages.”

Andred gave a rueful smile. “You’re right, sir, of course. But the Queen says she must stay in Ireland until she’s sure it’s safe. She’ll be there, she says, for at least the rest of the year. She has no plans to return.”

Away in Ireland for the rest of the year?

And no plans to return?

And he’d boasted of a baby within months?

Waves of humiliation crashed down on Mark’s head. So he’d thought he could turn the tables on his tormentors and show them who was King? All he’d succeeded in doing was proving himself a fool.

Mark’s brain reeled. It wouldn’t take long for this to get about, and then every man at Castle Dore would be grinning behind his back. This was all thanks to Isolde, and Tristan, too. Between them they’d make him the laughingstock of the court.

“She . . . she . . .”

Gasping, Mark felt the purest hate of his life. Dominian saw his chance.

“A man should have authority over his wife,” he said hotly, “and even more a king. You must order her back to court, and Sir Tristan, too.”

“Oh, Sir Tristan is on his way back, did I not say?” said Andred.

What?

Why?

Another wave of burning suspicion flooded Mark’s brain. Tristan had devotedly followed Isolde for years. What was he up to, returning alone like this? Was he after the throne, like Andred?

Gods above, were they all out to get him?

Isolde and Tristan, Andred, Dominian, and the barons, too?

With a howl of fury, Mark flung himself out of the room. Andred stroked his harelip and smiled to himself. Well, let the poison work. He caught Elva’s eye. We have begun, my queen. Let us not rest till all of them are brought down.

chapter 6

G
ods, it was cold! When the wind blew in from the sea as it did now, this surely was the coldest place on earth. Still, it would soon be warm enough for the King. The young man showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. When they lit the boat, his father would have the best blaze of his life.

The funeral ship perched above him on the shoreline, its graceful swan-like shape and curling prow looming darkly through the dusk. Within it lay the body of the King. The young man shook his head. After a lifetime as Prince Darath, how long would it take him to believe that his father was truly dead and that he was now King?

He turned his painted face up to the moon. Its swirls and whorls in purple, blue, and gray made him seem at one with the creatures of the night, and there was an animal grace about him as he moved toward the boat. But his curly black hair was held back by a circle of gold, and the rough plaid he wore belied his air of command. He mounted the gangplank and climbed onto the deck, grunting a greeting to the shadowy men on guard. The old King’s knights were keeping their final watch, ringing the funeral vessel with plaid and steel. Even a starving tribe knew what had to be done. A king must make his last voyage in a royal craft, surrounded by all the treasures of his rank.

The ship was fine, they knew; it was the best they had. On the upper level, the King’s knights had set a dozen bronze flagons, brimming with mead and enameled in green and gold. Beside them lay a set of drinking horns tipped with silver and great jeweled goblets of gold. Nearby stood jars of precious honey and boxes of salt that the tribe would hunger for in the months to come. But no one begrudged the King his final feast. With his own hands, Darath had laid out the broad platters of ash and yew, the copper knives and iron pots, and the great silver cauldron that would take a whole sheep. Now his father could feast all comers on the Blessed Isle and hold court like a king.

As he was now, arrayed in his royal glory for the final time. The women had made a deep bed of wildflowers and woodland branches, the first fragile buds of spring spread on pine and oak. The old King lay among them on a chariot of bronze, his head on a pillow of dried petals fragrant with the memory of summers gone. His body was garbed for war in a leather breastplate and kilt, with stout oxhide guards on his forearms and shins. His great gold boar collar gleamed around his neck, and a gold-plated belt encircled his waist.

Beside him rested his finest weapons of war, his sword heavy with the crust of purple quartz on its hilt and his massive bronze shield with its red-eyed, snarling boar. His battle-axe and spear lay ready at his right hand, and the deeply hacked shield protected his left arm and breast. Darath reached out and fingered the cuts and sword-slashes, remembering his father in his fighting prime. Your strength saved your life many times, old man, came the sorrowful thought. But your last enemy came upon you unseen.

He brought the double-headed battle-axe nearer to the dead man’s hand and gave a last loving tug to the flowing, gray, richly forked beard.

“May your Gods go with you, old man,” he muttered. “Whoever they are.” He suppressed a laugh. “Perhaps you are meeting them now for the first time.”

He stepped out of the boat and saw the incoming sea, a dark line of foam advancing up the shore. The straw, kindling, and pine logs all lay ready inside the hull, and when the tide turned, the funeral would begin.

The knight on guard by the gangplank turned to speak. “All has been done as you commanded. It is well.”

Darath glanced back at the bier. The old King’s favorite slave had been chosen to die with him, and she had reveled herself into her final sleep with hemlock and mead, enjoying thigh-freedom to the last with the knights of her choice. She lay now beside the old King, as she had done every night since he took her from her own people on some long-ago war raid, still a fine-looking woman for her years. Darath nodded to himself. His father would need her on his voyage through the Beyond. Yes, it was well done.

The voice of the knight came again. “What more is there?”

In the background, another battle-slave began to keen on a single loud, piercing note. Darath turned his head.

“Throttle that one, too,” he said casually, “and lay her in the boat. She can sing for my father in the Otherworld.”

He moved off down the shore, deep in thought. He did not need to look around him to remember that winter had been cruelly long and hard that year, for the stark mountains of his barren country, its stunted trees and screes of broken rock, were written on his heart. And suffering all this, Darath cursed silently, what a torment it was to live across the sea from the Western Isle, seeing her sweet, green, fertile flanks while they fought against salt winds and crumbling soil to wring a raw, rusty outcrop from the sandy hills . . .

No, it was not to be borne.

Turning his face to the sea, he swore an oath. Never again would he endure a winter like the last, trapped in the wretched homestead, waiting for his father to die. And while he paced the scrubby heath day by day, crops failed and cattle starved and cast their young. Then a wind-borne sickness blew in off the sea, and the milk failed in the women’s breasts and desperate men would have eaten their plaids for food.

Never again.

He felt the approach of footsteps and turned around. Before him stood the knight who had guarded the gangplank, the leader of his father’s band of knights. Once the King’s closest companion, fierce and shrewd, Cunnoch had festered in inaction while the old King failed. Already Darath knew that the first great battle of his reign would be to win back the loyalty his father’s weakness had lost. And whatever he did, it could not come too soon.

Cunnoch gestured dourly toward the fast-approaching tide. “It is time.”

Darath nodded. Snapping his fingers, he strode swiftly across to the boat. In the distance, he could see the gathered tribe, a restless, murmuring crowd, anxious for a good farewell to the King, but held back by ancient custom: the ceremony was for the King’s sword companions alone. Behind them stood the dark bulk of the mead hall, where he knew a great fire was already leaping up to the roof and the benches and tables were standing ready for the night’s carouse. Drifting down the wind came the rich smell and crackle of roasting boar, and the twisting of his gut reminded him that he had not eaten for days. He stepped forward. Time to make an end.

The sea was lapping around the boat, sucking at the hull. He waited till the waves began to lift the heavy vessel from its sandy bed and draw it down the shore. Then, raising his arms, he threw his voice far out across the glassy sea to the rising moon.

“God of a thousand battles, take this king!” he cried. “Grant him safe passage through the wilderness of the Beyond. Preserve him from the Gods of blood and bone, and bring him to the Lands of the Blessed, where the harvest never fails. Give him rest there from a life of sword and spear, and let him feast with his brothers forever and a day.”

There was a roar of assent from the knights around. One of them placed a torch in Darath’s hand, and he hurled it deep into the boat as it slid away. The straw flared, the kindling caught light, and within seconds the whole deck was aflame. Darath stood for a moment, then turned sharply on his heel and strode away. No need to watch it sail into the night. The funeral pyre would burn for hours to come.

A
T THE WAKE AFTERWARD,
seated in their high wooden hall, the old King’s sword companions spoke in low voices while a bard wailed in the background, singing of the King’s undying honor, his prowess in battle, and his matchless life. Around them the rest of the knights reveled without restraint, men with wind-burned skins and brilliant, staring eyes, all painted like their new King in purple and blue. Laughing, they bantered to and fro in their own tongue, a high guttural sound like the call of a clan of otters, or foxes coughing in a distant den. Like their new King, they wore only a length of woven and checked plaid, kilted round the waist, with the end thrown over their shoulder or wrapped round their bodies like a poor man’s cloak. Yet each tattooed face had the same high spirit and strength, and each would raise a laugh in the face of death.

But for those mourning the sword-friend of their youth, the wind blew coldly through the feasting hall. The flickering firelight streaked the older knights’ faces like blood, and their stomachs shrank from the reek of tallow and the smell of roasting flesh. Cunnoch nursed his drinking horn in his hand, then took a deep gulp of the strong, honeyed mead.

“We were cursed with a failing king and an untried prince,” he muttered. “Caught between an old man and a boy.”

He spat on the floor. His blood brother Findra laughed and nodded toward the head of the rough wooden table, where the new King sat drinking on his father’s throne. “Darath would carve you like a capon if he heard that.”

Next to Findra sat his sister’s son Agnomon, already a fearless fighter, but cursed with the sight. From childhood he had seen what others did not, white-faced and shaking till his visions passed, and his way of looking and speaking was not like other men.

“Our swords sicken for blood,” he said now, staring out through the wooden walls. “Our children hunger while our women starve. The Dark One is coming. I can hear Her tread.”

Even Cunnoch had learned to listen when Agnomon spoke. The older knight’s brooding gaze turned back to Darath again. “And what will our new King do?”

There was no answer, only a bitter sigh as the three faces round the table turned toward him without hope.

“He was a stag horned with seven points,

He was a flood in winter,

A river with seven lakes.

He was a hawk gliding above the cliff,

He was the battle glint on the enemy’s shield.

He was a shining wonder among men

and his passing is the grave of all our hopes . . .”

Gods of Darkness, would no man strangle the bard? Darath sank his teeth into a roasted thigh, tore off a sinewy mouthful of boar’s flesh, and vowed to find a new praise-singer before he died. No matter if it cost two fine horses, ten gold rings, twenty white mules, or fifty purple cloaks. The bard at his wake would do better than this maudlin lament, or he’d leave orders to slit the wailer’s windpipe and end his song.

He raised his goblet to his lips, but he’d lost his taste for the thick, sweet mead and its heathery tang. Across the hall, three pairs of eyes were upon him, and he could read their hostile questions without speech. Gripping his goblet, he swung down from the throne and crossed over toward Cunnoch and his friends with a few rangy strides.

“A toast to the King!” he cried.

His father or himself? Either way, he knew they could hardly refuse. Laughing inwardly, Darath settled himself next to Findra, facing down Cunnoch’s dark and impassive stare. Next to him the gaunt youth Agnomon stared and twitched as if he had seen a ghost. No time to waste, it seemed.

Far out at sea, the funeral ship sailed away in a ball of fire down the silver pathway of the moon. Darath gestured toward the sword at Cunnoch’s side.

“You knew many great days with my father,” he said. “Days of fire and blood. They will come again.”

Was that a sneer of disbelief on Cunnoch’s face? Darath pressed on. “Ireland is ours, if we want it. The Western Isle is ripe for our attack.”

He was rewarded by Cunnoch’s open surprise. “Ireland?”

“Their Queen’s a beauty and cursed with a foolish husband, too. By force or courtship, I shall make her mine and bring all Ireland groaning beneath our heel.”

Cunnoch gasped. “And how will you do that?” he demanded. “Why should the Queen yield to you?”

Darath flashed his teeth with a raw animal pride. “She’s in want of a man,” he said simply. “Her land is ruled by Druids and old men, and her knights have not fought a battle for years.”

“But she must have a champion. As a queen, she must have her knight.”

“Sir Tristan of Lyonesse,” Darath confirmed. “But he was Cornwall’s champion before she arrived. He’s lost to her if the King needs him first.”