The Lady of the Sea (7 page)

Findra looked doubtful. “Still, all the Celtic queens know how to fight. Why, the Romans themselves lived in fear of their swords.”

Darath laughed openly. “And how long since an iron sandal trod these shores?”

Cunnoch looked at him with an older man’s gathering rage. “Laugh all you like, those women have often sent us running to our ships. The last Queen was called Battle Raven, and she’d roam the battlefield in a chariot of knives, swooping down on her foes like the Morrighan herself.”

“Whisht!” Agnomon’s strange eyes changed color, and he crossed his fingers in dread. “Don’t name the Dark Mother,” he muttered, “or She’ll come for us tonight.”

Darath leaned forward urgently. “But her daughter, Isolde, never learned to fight. The old Queen saw that war was changing and held her back. So Queen Isolde has never led men in battle with her champion and her knights fighting at her side.”

Cunnoch gave him a hard stare. “How d’you know all this?”

“About Isolde?”

Darath sat without moving and felt an echo from his boyhood long ago.

What was he, fourteen or fifteen, when he first saw her at that tournament? His first outing, his first chance to show his skill, and all he knew then was the rare delight of sailing to Ireland with Cunnoch and the rest. But when they rode into the field before the combat began, there, in the high viewing gallery, had been a young lady bedecked in emerald and gold. He could still remember the look in her sea-green eyes and the fiery tangle of her red-gold hair. That was all. But the memory had been sweet, so sweet, all these years. And too precious to share with these men, who would kill a woman as soon as look at her.

“I saw her at a tournament long ago,” he said casually. “You remember, Cunnoch, you were there, too.” And you saved my life, hung unspoken in the air. Even now Darath sometimes sweated to recall the rogue knight who had tried to kill him from behind, and how Cunnoch threw his own body forward to take the blow.

Cunnoch glinted at him. “I remember.”

“Yes, what a fight!” Findra’s eyes lit up, and he turned toward Darath with the first warmth he had shown. “You were only a boy, but by the Gods, you fought like a prince. And I remember the old Queen then and Isolde, too. Ah, those women. What warriors! What Queens! Didn’t they say that one of their foremothers, the mighty battle-queen Maeve, showed thigh-friendship to thirty men in one night?”

Agnomon quivered. “Beware the warrior queens of the Western Isle! Battle ravens fly in flocks that darken the sky. Beware their college of war, where Queen Aife taught a thousand queens to fight.”

“Men, too,” agreed Darath curtly. “The knight they call Lancelot learned all his chivalry from her. But not Isolde. Her mother sent her to Avalon to study love, not war.” Smiling to himself, he flexed his body and stroked his lean, hard thigh. “And I shall love her as a queen deserves.”

Cunnoch pondered. “She has no champion, you say? She can’t depend on her knight?” He cracked his thin lips in a reluctant smile. “She’s waiting for you, boy. Go, then, and take the Western Isle.”

“I shall.” Darath rose to his feet and drained off his mead. “Sharpen your swords, all of you, and summon the men. The boats are ready. We shall sail at dawn!”

chapter 7

W
as this Tintagel? Stiff and cold, Isolde struggled up out of a waking dream, perplexed to think of what lay ahead. Day was ending on a world that was sad and gray, a world without Tristan, without laughter, without hope. Rain hung over the headland like the smoke of distant fires, and already he was fading from her mind. His powerful body and strong-featured face would be with her till she died. But his everyday touch, the necessary feel and scent of him, these were slipping through her fingers in the vast emptiness of loss.

And what had brought her here to see Queen Igraine? Fretting, she drew a breath of the raw salt mist off the sea. What comfort could she hope to take away? She had turned to Igraine before and found strength and wise counsel in the old Queen’s words. But now she would have to confess she was leaving Mark. How would Igraine treat her when she revealed that she had lost her sense of duty and announced she meant to bring the marriage to a close?

Another cold evening; another sleepless night. Isolde gritted her teeth and leaned forward to encourage her horse: Onward, my dear, there’s no turning back now. Behind her the small troop of horses and men at arms plodded gamely into the wind. At her side, the loyal Brangwain threw her a loving glance: Courage, lady! You are not alone. Heartened, she returned the maid’s warm smile, and together they crested the great bluff above the bay.

Below them now the land ran down to the cliff edge, and she saw the mighty outlying walls of the castle within. Who could have built this place, Isolde marveled, with its massive outer ramparts of rugged black stone? Who had raised its tall, frowning towers and laid out the series of courtyards, each leading into another, one by one? Surely some greater-than-human hand had set that great rock in the bay, crowned it with a fine castle, and fashioned the narrow bridge that was the only way across? Shivering, she waited as her captain obtained admittance, then followed the young knight leading her to the Queen.

But he did not take her as she expected across the stone bridge to the castle where the Queen lived alone. Instead, he led her through a low arch off the courtyard and down a steep flight of steps. Within a few feet, the stairway narrowed and turned, and the rocky roof became lower overhead. Step by step she found herself descending into the dark.

Now the sound of the surf became stronger, and she began to feel the nearness of the sea. As she made her way down, groping for every step, the sides of the passage were wet and gritty with salt, rough barnacles and slimy seaweed sprouting from the walls. Faraway, she could hear the plaintive cry of the gulls. But here in this dark, clammy tunnel all she knew shrank to onward and downward . . . downward . . . ever down.

Now the sea was coming to meet them; she could hear its sigh. At last her feet met sand at the bottom of the steps. The darkness lifted, and she stood in a vast cavern giving out on the open sea. The waves rolled in through a rocky arch ahead, running up the sand almost to her feet. Spindrift as fine as blossom lay on the swirling waters, and the air was full of silvery, breaking spray. Above her, great clusters of crystals hung from the roof in sparkling purple and white and rose up in glittering columns from the floor. Between them she could see the iron-bound chests and the broken masts and timbers of sunken ships, all the flotsam and jetsam of the ever-hungry sea.

She turned to her guide, bewildered. “Where are we?”

The young knight smiled. “They call it Merlin’s cave.”

“But I came to see Queen Igraine.”

The ghost of a gentle laugh rang round the cave. “And the Queen is here.”

Isolde turned. The walls of the cavern dissolved, and she thought she saw a vast shape rising like a cloud from the bed of the sea. Robed in sea-green and blue, veiled in folds of white foam, and crowned with shining stars, the great figure brooded over the waters, holding out her arms to embrace the world. Then the sight faded, and Isolde came to herself again. Before her stood Queen Igraine, clad in all the power and stillness of nature herself, but plainly an aged woman of flesh and blood.

The old Queen held up her hand. Behind her a cascade of crystal and rock formed a massive throne. “Approach, Isolde,” she said in rich, level tones. “You are welcome here.”

“Your Majesty.”

Isolde dropped a deep curtsy, halfway between joy and fear. She felt a soaring relief to see Igraine again and drew comfort at once from her calm, lovely face. But the old Queen’s erect bearing and penetrating gaze showed she lost none of her old authority. Isolde hesitated. Could she still meet that brilliant, piercing eye?

The Queen smiled. “They call this Merlin’s cave, and his name serves to keep unbelievers out. But in truth I use it as my private retreat.” She paused, and Isolde felt her probing, almost pitiless stare. “How can I help you? What brings you here today?”

“Three sorrows, Your Majesty—” Isolde took a breath. “My country, my love, and my life.”

“Tell me the first.”

“The Picts are threatening to invade my land.”

“Then you must get back to Ireland as fast as you can. But do not despair. Ireland was not made to lie under a conqueror’s heel. Your foremothers turned every invader back from Erin’s shores.” Igraine paused. “That may prove to be the least of your troubles, I think. You spoke of your life and your love.”

Isolde nodded, nerving herself to speak. “When I go to Ireland, I shall not come back.”

“You will say farewell to Cornwall?”

“I must!” Isolde cried. “I have labored for years to do the best I could. But my husband neglects the land for his own concerns. He cares for nothing but his wine, his hunting, and his—”

She felt a dull flush discolor her neck, and broke off.

“His mistress, you would say?” Igraine picked up, unperturbed. “Yes, that is known to me, too. But your doubts about Mark run deeper, I suspect.”

“They do,” said Isolde fervently. “Long ago all the mighty kingdom of Uther Pendragon lay neglected till your son, King Arthur, won back his ancestral land. So will it be with Cornwall very soon.”

A shadow passed over Igraine’s face. “Tell me all you know.”

With a careful attention to detail, Isolde complied. “And Mark will not resolve the succession,” she finished heavily, “though his barons have been pressing him to do so for years. But Sir Andred is ready now and poised to strike. And if he seizes the throne against the will of all . . .”

She broke off. The old Queen knew well enough what would happen then.

Igraine looked at her in silence. “Thank you for your concern for my poor land,” she said at last. “I am glad you have brought this to me. Mark must learn to care for his country, not for himself. I have told him so many times.”

Isolde nodded unhappily. She had stood herself beside Mark in Tintagel’s Great Hall and heard the old Queen issue a solemn warning: King Mark, you are my chosen vassal and will remain so, as long as my faith and trust in you endure.

And that could not be much longer. “Mark has squandered the trust that has been placed in him,” she said with deep feeling.

Igraine looked at her intently. “Yours above all?”

Isolde threw back her head. “I can no longer remain with him as his wife. I have left Mark and Castle Dore, never to return.”

The old Queen glimmered at her. “Never is too long a word to say.”

Isolde felt a sudden onrush of tears. “When I have no respect for him and no hope of change, I cannot be his Queen.”

“Then you must put the marriage aside and go your own way. That is the fate of all couples as ill-matched as you. Not all are destined to be mated, body and soul. Those who are so blessed will know what it is to walk the world between the worlds. The rest must remain bound to the face of the earth.”

“Yes.” Tears of anguish stood in Isolde’s eyes.

I walked there with Tristan once . . .

Oh, Tristan—my lost sweetheart—my only love . . .

“Isolde?”

She felt the full force of the old Queen’s subtle gaze. “This grief is not for Mark. You have another greater sorrow, I think?”

“The greatest in the world—” She was gasping with pain. “I have lost my knight.”

“How so?”

“I asked him to come to Ireland. He has chosen to stay in Cornwall and follow Mark.”

Igraine paused gravely. “Mark is his only kinsman and his King.”

“But he owes his love to me! And now he’s betrayed me, and betrayed our love—”

“Ah, Isolde . . .” Igraine took a pace away, sighing like the wind off the sea. “Beware of turning against Tristan in your heart. Do not think that he has broken faith with you.”

“But madam, he—”

The old Queen held up her hand. “Could you trust a man who broke a prior oath? Who tried to please you by dishonoring a promise he had made before? The man who would do such a thing would betray you, too. Tristan has chosen the harder road and that deserves your love. He swore to serve Mark and his first duty lies there. But it will not be forever. Afterward he will know where his honor and duty lie.”

Isolde felt the first faint spring of hope. “Afterward . . . ?”

“There is always an afterward,” Igraine echoed, her large liquid eyes alight. “Take courage, my dear. All things must pass when the Mother turns the wheel. Your knight will ride through this dark night alone. Leave him to his journey and keep faith.”

“But will he keep faith with me?”

“He will never be false to you.”

Goddess, Mother . . .

Isolde felt her heart dancing in her breast.
So he will return. And I shall bear his child!
Then a glance at the Queen’s expression cut her off sharply. “What is it?” she breathed.

“Alas, Isolde, the trials you fear today are nothing to what lies ahead. The Christians, our dearest enemies, are out in force. They hate the Mother and all that we hold dear. And now they are prowling our land as the sea howls round the shore.”

“They’re building their churches everywhere,” Isolde agreed harshly, “and advancing their power in every village and town.”

“And King Mark has been helping them.”

Isolde could not hold back her bitterness. “Because they attack the Mother-right and seek to impose the rule of men.”

“They have a doughty champion in Cornwall here,” Igraine resumed. “An old enemy of yours.”

“Father Dominian?”

“Beware of him, Isolde. He has sworn to bring you down.”

Isolde nodded bleakly. “I know.”

The old Queen folded her hands and brought them to her lips. “But that is not the worst. Their heaviest onslaught is on Avalon. Under them, the Sacred Island will be no more.”

Avalon . . .

Sacred Island . . .

Home . . .

Through a mist of tears, Isolde saw again the great green island rising from the sacred lake, alive with apple blossom and the song of birds. After Dubh Lein, it had been her girlhood home, when her mother sent her to study with the Lady of the Lake. There she had learned the wisdom of the Goddess and the cornerstone of her belief.
Faith should be kindness. Religion should be love.

“And Avalon will be no more?”

She could feel the fatal tears rising again.
I will not surrender now.
“Tell me, madam,” she said thickly. “What must we do?”

“We must each become the Mother in our own lives,” Igraine said intently. “Every woman her own Goddess, her own Lady whether of lake, land, or sea. But you, Isolde, are Queen of your own isle. The Mother-right is with you, and your first duty is to the spirit of the land. You will be torn many ways, but you must not lose faith. And in time, who knows? Your future may call you beyond the Western Isle.”

Beyond the Western Isle? No, that was too far to look. Enough to know that the future was with her now.

“Oh, my lady . . .”

Newborn dreams trembled before Isolde’s eyes. Filled with fresh hope, she began to stammer out her gratitude.

The old Queen smiled her wise and ancient smile. “No more words. A ship lies waiting for you at the foot of the rock. Go to Ireland with my blessing and do what must be done. A hard road lies ahead, and the days will be long before you come safely home. But you may not leave the path you are fated to tread.”

So be it.

Isolde squared her shoulders and raised her eyes. Through the rocky arch gleamed the far horizon, veiled by the breaking waves. Then the mists parted, and she caught a tender, fleeting flash of golden light.

She bowed to Queen Igraine. “To Ireland, then.”

Wait for me, I am coming.

Her heart took wing, flying with the seagulls toward the faraway emerald shore.

Ireland.

Erin.

Home.