Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels (14 page)

CHAPTER 22

You will learn, sir, that I mean what I say. You are mine now, and you are here till you give me your love. And only you can decide how long that will take.

TRISTAN CAME TO HIMSELF in a bleak winter dawn with the voice of Duessa hissing in his ears. What, he groaned to himself, still here? All night long he had fought to keep fearful thoughts at bay, in between snatches of fitful sleep and broken dreams. Yet he was lying in a fine chamber, warm and safe in bed. What could the lady do to him, after all?

He yawned and stretched, taking stock of the thin gray fingers of dawn curling around the edges of the shutters like dead men’s bones. Time to be on his way. He threw back the bedcovers and swung his long legs to the floor. Soon he’d be miles away from this cursed place, and all that happened last night would be just a bad dream.

He dressed and pulled on his boots, then made his morning toilet as best he could. Strapping on his sword, he crossed the room with rapid strides and was not surprised to find the door still locked. So! He grinned, the lady had her pride, and now, it seemed, he must beg for his release. Well and good. Let the penitence begin. He reached for the bell by the door and rang it long and hard.

Before long he heard the light tread of female feet. The door opened, and Falsamilla stood on the threshold, her face wreathed in a smile, holding a shining silver bowl breathing out a sweet mist of rosemary and rue.

“Your toilet water, sir,” the lady in waiting chirped cheerily. “May I come in?”

“Lady Falsamilla,” returned Tristan, charmed by her approach, “by all means.”

Falsamilla moved forward and set down the bowl.

“Madam, I must leave you with all speed,” he said courteously. “Will you send to the stables to have my horse prepared?”

Falsamilla laughed. “Oh, sir, you must know that there’s no leaving now.”

Tristan’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”

“Last night you refused to take my lady to your bed. That means you’re her prisoner till you change your mind. Surely you can’t have forgotten that?”

Tristan reached for a nonchalant air. “Indeed,” he said, giving a manly laugh, “your mistress joked about that with me. But great ladies often amuse themselves with such things. Today I shall beg her forgiveness and kiss both her hands, then be on my way.”

Falsamilla laughed with him, shaking her head. “She won’t receive you again till you give her your love.”

Tristan’s temper flared. “Never!”

“Then you’ll have to stay.”

Tristan threw back his head. “Lady, I know this is all some elaborate game—”

“No, sir.” The maid fixed him with an unfathomable gaze. “Castle Plaisir de Fay is another world. My mistress is a great queen of necromancy, and those who love her pass a night beyond compare. Her skills outclass any woman in the world. By morning all her lovers are her slaves for life.”

Tristan caught his breath. Unbidden, Duessa’s naked body flashed before his mind, the red fox fur cradling the ivory flesh, the throbbing nipples hungering for his touch . . .

The blood thundered through his head.
Out, man! Get out!

“Forgive me, lady!” burst from his throat. His hand on his sword, he leapt wildly for the door. Tearing it open, he surged through.
Free! Free!

The corridor outside was lined with knights, a wall of swords, shields, and helmets as far as he could see. A drawn sword pricked his throat, and he felt real fear. Goddess, Mother, there are men here, whatever the women said. He heard Falsamilla’s voice cold in his ear. “I told you, sir. Now d’you understand?”

Wildly, he surveyed the the knight who held him at bay. There was no glimmer of humanity in the eyes behind the iron grille. To the knight’s left and right were thirty or forty of the same, all with swords drawn, all ready for combat, and hungry, he could smell it, for blood.

His blood.

He spread his hands. “Sir—” he began hoarsely.

The knight in front of him flexed his grip on his sword. With a thrill of horror Tristan caught sight of his opponent’s hand. Small, pale, and hairless, quite unscarred, with round pink nails.
Almighty Gods, it’s a
woman! They’re women and killers, every living one!

Fear deep as vomit rushed into his throat. Hopeless, he knew that he could never smash his fist into a female face or strike out at soft breasts and bodies made for love. Head bowed, he felt Falsamilla seize his wrists and bind his hands.

One thought obsessed his brain.

I have betrayed my lady and my love. I came into this castle like a fool, then like a traitor, I let another woman come into my mind. And see now . . .

Isolde . . .

“Still harping on Isolde?”

The savage cry cut through the air like a knife and the ranks of the women knights parted like the sea as Duessa approached. From her tall headdress to the hem of her hissing silks, she was clad all in black, and her eyes burned with a graveyard fire. She wore a man’s silver breastplate like the rest of her armed band, but the hard silvery shell only emphasized her high breasts and narrow waist. Gods above, man, Tristan groaned to himself in abject disgust. What, thinking about her body even now?

Duessa laughed exultantly, and he knew she had heard his thought. “Do you know, sir, what you despised and cast away?”

He stared at her, numb with shame. “Lady, no more—”

“Yes!” She gave a horrible laugh and threw out both her arms. “Yours, Tristan—all yours!” came her plangent cry. “But you scorned me, and threw all this away.”

Without warning Tristan saw the face of a child, quivering with age-old hurts too deep for tears. What had happened to wound her soul like this? And who had done this wrong? “Not I, lady,” he said wearily, “not I.”

“Yes, you!” she shrilled in a passion. “You and your kind! Merlin, Arthur, Tristan, you’re all the same. And you’ll live to regret you were born of the race of men. Our dungeons are deep here at Plaisir de Fay. And down there you’ll waste your wretched life and die!”

CHAPTER 23

No tears, no fears, Mother.

So you still hear me, little one?

I hear you. And I shall listen for the rest of my life.

THE LONG CAVALCADE straggled forward over the plain. Isolde eased her stiff body in the saddle and stared out at the line of chariots, horses, and men journeying into the eye of the rising moon. Once before, the Queen had brought her here as a child. Now she was bringing her mother to her last home.

The Hill of Queens had stood on its sacred plateau guarded by a ring of high mountains since the Great One Herself had raised it from the ground. Seen from below as they rode in from Dubh Lein, its vast contours swelled up with deceptive gentleness, like the Goddess asleep. As she watched the great green flanks rising from the turf, Isolde thought there was no sweeter place to lie.

Especially in a tender, hopeful spring, when the earth was pulsing with the promise of new life. Soft winds sighed through the air overhead, and every returning swallow sang of love. Never had the grass looked greener, blessed and renewed by the gentle rain. Mile upon mile of green lawn ran before them bright with white and gold, as the daisies and celandines put forth their starry heads.

Ahead of them lay the entrance to the Hill of Queens, a dark opening in the gathering dusk. Beside it rested a great black disk of stone, ready to seal up the door when the last rites were done. The long chamber running into the hillside was lined with white quartz and aligned to catch the rays of the morning sun. When the Mother smiled on this great work She had made, the rising dawn spangled the space with fire.

Not a soul knew how many Queens lay here, or how many chambers the vast mound contained. This secret was held by the Keeper of the Hill, a woman Druid as old as the hill itself. Like her mother and all her foremothers, she was born into the sacred role of the Guardian of the Queens. She was waiting to greet them now, with her women on either hand. Robed in dark blue with the Druid mark between her brows, her tall, craggy form seemed part of the mountains themselves and her great face had seen ages come and go.

The procession wound forward to greet them at the foot of the hill. At the head was the Queen’s chariot bearing the Queen herself, resting on a bed of green trefoil as if she were asleep. Pale as marble, her hair newly burnished with henna to copper and red, she was as lovely as she had ever been in life. Her long body was fragrant with all the herbs and oils her Druids had used to preserve it from decay. She lay now clad in rich silks of crimson and black, with her beloved ropes of jet at her neck and waist. A gold helmet with silver wings covered her head, and her breastplate bore a pair of fighting swans carved in silver and gold. Her head was pillowed on the bronze dome of her shield, and her faithful sword and war-axe lay by her hand.

Goddess, Mother, thanks
—wherever Cormac was now, at least the Queen’s Druid had been spared for the last essential office of her life, anointing her body to preserve it from decay. Among the sweet herbs and oils from the East, Isolde caught the scent of patchouli, and had to turn away. Then her mother’s voice dropped through the evening air:
No tears,
no fears. I am with you still.
She breathed deeply and took strength from the familiar scent. The Queen’s undying favorite would be her fragrance now.
Yes, I hear you, Mother. This is the way of Queens.

Around the Queen’s chariot rode a handful of old men, the remains of her onetime band of lovers and knights. The oldest of them all drove the chariot, a knight shriveled like a cricket, no more than skin and bone. Isolde watched these faithful ancients with wondering eyes.
May I be
served no worse when my time comes.

And that may be now.
For Breccan’s knights were around her on every side, wave upon wave of bronze and shining steel. Breccan already held the island in his hand. And before dawn tomorrow he would make himself King.

Goddess, Mother, help me!

The familiar flare of panic caught her by the throat. Yet who could say what would happen in the hours ahead? At least she would become Ireland’s Queen. Darkening every inch of the turf around the Hill of Queens were those who would bring it about, tribespeople in their hundreds and thousands gathering here for days. Squat, earthbound creatures with small, sturdy women and hobgoblin children flashing sweet, broken smiles, they were the kin born of the land itself. And scattered among them she saw with wonder those who surely traced their descent from another race, men and women who could have been kin to the Fair Ones, tall, dark, and unsmiling in the secret night.

There . . . and there . . .

Catching more than one fleeting gaze of burning brown eyes, Isolde held her breath and allowed herself to hope. Could some of these lean, mysterious strangers even be the Fair Ones themselves, coming from their green hills and hollows to grace her great day? The next thought was not far behind.
Or to fight for the Mother-right? Is the knight the Lady
promised me already here?

But the valley belonged to the land kin, she could see that. Camped on the slopes of the mountain they reveled and sang, their fires making the night as bright as day. Every year at Beltain, the God Bel came back from the house of darkness to warm the earth, and the Mother received Her lover with open arms. Then all the folk of the island came from crannog, bog, and fen, to celebrate the joy the Goddess gives.

The feast of Beltain, a queen-making, and a full moon—no wonder that so many had swarmed to join in the ceremonies on the Hill of Queens. But the full moon was the sign that Breccan wanted too, the time to claim the bargain he had made with her flesh.

Breathing hard, she slipped her hand into her bodice and felt for her mother’s dagger where it lay between her breasts, silently murmuring the runic words on its blade.

morrighan they call me, and my name is death. whoever wrongs my mistress, I drink his blood.

Be ready then, friend,
she sent back, comforted, smoothing down her robe. She had dressed today for the moment of acclaim when she mounted the Queen stone in the face of all the tribes. What could she wear to be seen from every mountainside in the light of the rising moon?

They found it at last in her mother’s secret store, a part of the Queen’s house to which only she had the key. Through a small unused door behind a worn and dusty tapestry, they came upon jewels and gowns never seen before.

“Madam, look, look! And here!” Brangwain’s dark eyes were out on stalks. From ceiling to floor, the chamber was hung with cloaks made of the feathers of peacock, raven, and swan, glittering gowns encrusted with jewels or gold disks like the face of the moon, and gossamer silks tumbling in rainbow cascades. Every garment, every mantle, every thread breathed out her mother’s presence, heavy with its haunting scent of musk.

Brangwain was in her element. “Well, lady, this? Or this?”

In the end they chose a kirtle of dancing silks, its glassy green surface the color of Ireland itself. With it she wore a bodice of emeralds and gold, set with a silver breastplate of a swan in majesty. Over it came a gold overgown with a high standing collar, a queenly train, and great white sleeves like wings. On her head she wore Ireland’s mighty diadem of queens, a deep circle of emeralds rumored to be the crown of the Goddess Herself. Beneath it she let her rich, red-gold hair run free. What better crowning glory for a woman of the Western Isle?

“Oh, my lady—” Looking at her mistress, Brangwain was ready to weep with joy.

“Thank you—thank you, Brangwain!”

Isolde had looked in the mirror with a pang of dread: who was this gorgeous stranger in the misty glass? Behind the sad, white, face she caught an echo of a pair of dancing eyes and a merry smile. Her heart seized.
I will never be that laughing girl again.
Then the beauty of the green and gold dazzled her eyes and she felt the first shoots of spring. A new strength came into her like the voice of the winter-bound earth.
Your
springs will flow, Isolde. You will flower again.

Flower as Queen, and be with Tristan again . . . Dreaming, she rode on.

Behind her, Breccan saw the still form and scowled. Gods above, what had got into Isolde, sitting her horse like a statue, half asleep? They were nearly there. But he should do nothing. She’d made it plain enough that his place lay behind. Time enough to change all that when he was King.

Breccan chuckled softly. So you thought I’d never be King, brother? he sneered. Well, you’re justly rewarded. See me now, and despair!

Rage filled his brain, coloring his thoughts with blood, and he sent Tolen packing with a final sneer. Tonight I take your place as the Queen’s chosen one. I’ll have Isolde, whether she wants me or not. I’ll break her down, turn her inside out.

And . . . if she resists . . . ?

Tell me, brother, can’t women die as easily as men?