Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (11 page)

"Not quite, my lord."

The Earl paused. He did not like the amusement in Guenevere's tone. "Madam, I—"

"Your grandson, sir, is more than all of this," Guenevere said joyfully, putting her arm round young Sweyn.

The child gazed up at her with a sturdy self-regard, and the Earl showed his teeth in a smile. "True, madam, he is the hope of our house. As you say, we have been blessed in him."

The boy put a trusting hand in Guenevere's and leaned into her to speak. "You are the Queen, they say."

Guenevere beamed at him. "They say true. And what do they say of you?"

The boy regarded her with a child's age-old eyes. "I am called like my grandsire, Sweyn. He is a great lord, you know."

A great lord…

The Earl glanced from the boy to Arthur, and a glow warmed his shrunken soul. The same fair hair with its promise of red-gold, the same wide, blue-gray eyes, sturdy body and lofty frame, all marked the child as Arthur's from head to toe. Lovingly he traced the resemblance and his thin lips twitched. Young Sweyn was a true heir of Pendragon and would follow the same destiny. With the help of his grandsire… The Earl's inner vision bloomed.

Farther down the table, Gawain looked at the Earl and dug his elbow into Kay's ribs, "If the King thinks he'll get men or money here, he's come to the wrong place!"

For once Gawain's right, thought Kay with unease. Sourly he took in the worm-eaten table and the meager feast. Below the salt, the viands had run out, and the lowest diners were feeding on bread and herbs. Kay's lip curled and he nodded to Gawain. "Who would have thought a wretch like that could be grandsire to such a fine boy?"

Gawain peered up the table with feigned interest, and laughed approvingly. In truth he had had eyes only for Lienore, and could not shake the conviction that she was watching him.

"Truly he looks more like our kin than like the Sweyns," he said to Kay. Then his eyes returned to the mother, a woman with the face of a cherub but, he would swear, the instincts of a polecat below. Gawain's broad face creased in a sensual grin and he flexed his massive shoulders contentedly. He could always tell a woman who relished the game. And this one reminded him of something—he'd remember it soon. They were here for only one night, but a man never knew… Gawain felt his flesh thicken and laughed to himself.

Kay read Gawain's expression and gave him an angry nudge. "We're guests here, man," he hissed in Gawain's ear. "Can't you behave yourself?"

Gawain gave a guilty grin. "Listen, Kay," he began. "I've seen the Earl's daughter before somewhere—no, don't laugh—"

Laugh all you like,
thought the Earl viciously, watching the two knights. With a secret like this, the King was in his power. First he'd take Lienore and the boy to court and let Arthur get to know his son. Then he'd surreptitiously track down others who had been at the tournament and establish proofs of paternity that the King could not shrug off. If the price was right, someone would surely recall the great King Arthur rutting like a hog in a tent—

Earl Sweyn sighed with content, and reviewed his plan. As time went by, he'd find or make other allies, too. Arthur's barons must want an heir, so he'd surely have their support. The main thing was to play his cards close to his chest. Not a word of this must come out till the time was ripe.

Suddenly he felt a buzzing in his head and knew there was danger, though he could not say where. Arthur was playing tenderly with young Sweyn, and Lienore was staring at him with an unfathomable look in her wide, pale eyes.

Arthur smiled at Lienore and ruffled young Sweyn's hair. "You are blessed in your son, my lady. Any man would be proud to call this boy his own."

Lienore paused, her fair head to one side. Suddenly Earl Sweyn knew where her silence was leading and opened his mouth to cry out. But he knew in the same moment that he was too late.

Lienore gave a sublime, malicious grin. "Well, sir, you can."

"Can what?" Now it was Arthur's turn to hesitate.

"What I say, sir," Lienore said blithely, fluttering her shoulders in a glorious shrug. "You fathered this child. You can call him your son."

By the light of the candles, the figure on the table looked like a slumbering giant from a former age, a monster, not a man. But the blood, the quivering flesh and the stink of decay, these were all too human and meant only one thing. Isolde straightened her aching back and worked on. Whatever could be done to save Sir Marhaus, she would do.

Behind her the Queen prowled the chamber like a wild beast, whimpering in her throat.
Goddess, Mother, how will she live if he dies
? Firmly Isolde put the bleak thought away. Time enough to deal with her mother when this was done.

On the high wooden bench before her, Marhaus lay deeply unconscious, his handsome face in repose, his muscular frame relaxed. When his weeping knights had carried him from the ship, he had been alert enough to mock them as a gaggle of silly girls, and to check the Queen sharply when she wept too. Then he had pressed her hand to his lips and closed his eyes. Sir Houzen, the leader of his knights, fell to his knees and offered the fallen champion's sword to the Queen.

She snatched up the weapon. "Marhaus, what have you done?" she howled. Then she whirled it round her head and, keening like a banshee, sent it spinning into the sea. "Save him, Isolde!" she cried.

Isolde's heart was burning with words she could not say:
Mother, his soul is leaving us on this tide. Let us not clog its flight to the astral plane
. She took Marhaus's hand and its clamminess made her fear he had already begun his journey between the worlds. But when she felt his pulse, something whispered back. She gave a decisive nod to Marhaus's knights.

"The infirmary, sirs—and hurry! This way, if you please."

She strode ahead to the castle, making for the low, whitewashed hospice where all came to her with their ailments and woes. Fumbling into a clean apron with Brangwain's help, she ran a practiced eye over the shelves of lotions and compounds in the spare, well-scrubbed healing place. As a girl she had seen such chambers hung with foul-smelling roots, and pieces of hare's foot, newt, and dried frog. Her own place, she promised herself, would have no noxious tubs of tallow fat and dung, jars of bats' eyes, or the shrunken remains of infants who died in the womb. All her herbs and salves stood in well-ordered rows, clear aromatic liquids and fiery lotions the color of amber and gold.

Brangwain followed her gaze. "Woundwort, feverfew, all-heal, my lady," she said quietly. "They're all there."

"Yes." Isolde nodded. "Everything we'll need for his injuries." The Queen strode in and began feverishly pacing the floor.
And heartsease for my mother
, she thought sorrowfully,
at the end of this
.

Swiftly she laid out her instruments, blessing the old Druid who had taught her all he knew. Before he died, Gwydion of the Welshlands had traveled as far as the land where bodies were kept sweet for their spirit's return with rich spices and unguents and yards of linen wraps. He had taught her the way to relieve pressure on a damaged skull, how to set bones, to cure an ague, to deliver a child. But here in Ireland, in a land at peace, she had never learned how to treat the wounds of war.

"In here, my lady?"

The knights bearing Marhaus were at the door. As they brought him in, a mighty storm darkened the sky. Soon the casements were washed with rivulets of rain, and bright streaks of lightning split the summer clouds.

"More light!" Isolde ordered as Marhaus was placed on the table under Brangwain's care.

Goddess, Mother, help me…

Isolde tensed as Brangwain slit open Marhaus's tunic to reveal the bloodied mess beneath. The raw gashes on Marhaus's chest were too numerous to count, some weeping pus, some gaping like open mouths. But as she took up her instruments, feeling the cold clean metal in her hand, her calm returned.
Wherever your spirit walks, Lord Gwydion, be with me now
.

In the silence that followed, the old man's voice dropped quietly through the air.
First deal with the lesser wounds to the chest and neck, then move to the cleft in the head
…

Steadily she set to work with Brangwain at her side, probing and salving the cuts great and small. As she worked, she felt herself rising above her work and drifting away. Suddenly she was walking the astral plane and old Gwydion was coming toward her, wreathed in stars. His eyes had the kindly gleam she remembered so well, and the light from a thousand moons shone around his head.
You have done well, brave heart
, he said fondly to her without words,
and there is more to come. But do not judge yourself by the fate of this man
.

She worked on. Marhaus's knights huddled silently by the door, and she shut her ears to the pacing of the Queen. Then she heard a noise that could not be ignored. At the back of the room, two old women of the household were struggling in with a smoldering fire in a thick clay pot. A third carried a bundle in her arms, which she handed to the Queen.

Isolde had seen them before, but never like this. In place of the plain gowns and head coverings they wore in the Queen's household, they were garbed in dark draperies, with their hair unbound. Three grizzled manes floated wildly down their backs, and three pairs of glittering eyes peered out through the tangled locks. The Queen rushed forward with shrill cries and welcomed them in. Isolde drew a breath and tried to hold her temper down.
Have pity, try not to blame her, think what she must feel
…

The crones set the firepot down on the floor and strewed herbs and crystals over the glowing coals. A rich, thick odor began to seep through the room as the Queen opened the bundle and shook the contents out. With a lurch, Isolde saw a pair of round, dead, painted eyes and the stunted body of a man-doll crudely carved out of wood. Its oversized member jutted like a thumb, and its stare would have mocked the undead. But the Queen clasped it raptly to her breast and rocked it to and fro.

"Hush, hush, my love, don't grieve," she crooned, her eyes very bright. "Isolde will save you, we shall love again."

Behind her the three old women began to chant, spinning harsh melodies as they fed the flames again. The billowing fumes blew green and blue and white, and the scent in the chamber made Isolde's pulses race.

"Now!" hissed the elder wildly, rolling her eyes. The Queen crushed the Marhaus doll fiercely to her breast, then gave it to the crone. Swooping like a bird, she passed it through the smoke, once, twice, and then again, before handing it back to the Queen.

With a cry of triumph the Queen cradled it furiously in her arms, dropping a flurry of kisses on its hard, cold head.

"You will live, my love!" she rejoiced with a high, mad laugh. "You won't go before me to the Otherworld."

The chanting rose to a shriek. "Live, Marhaus, live!"

"Madam…" Isolde laid down her probe and turned to the Queen. "Sir Marhaus must have quiet if he is to get well! All this may make him worse."

The Queen rounded on her like a beaten mare. "You're lying!" she cried. "The old ways can save him just as well as yours!"

The leader of the women raised her gray head. "Hail to the Queen," she howled, "the Mother of the Land! And blessed be the Gods of blood and bone!"

Isolde's stomach heaved. Fuming, she returned to the figure on the bench. Marhaus lay like a statue, his flesh white and cold. But his breath was regular, and her hopes revived. All the lesser wounds had been cleaned and dressed. It was time to face the great cleft in his skull.

Brangwain stood ready with a bowl of fresh rosemary water and a handful of clean cloths. With infinite care Isolde swabbed out the terrible wound. As she went to dress it, a sudden sharp glint caught her eye. Something was buried in the depths of the quivering cleft. Steadying herself, she reached for her pincers and took a fine grip. A bright sliver of metal shone in the candlelight as she drew it out and dropped it into the bowl. "Aaiihhh!"

The Queen threw down the doll and pounced on the metal shard, and her hollow scream rang through Dubh Lein and beyond. Washed clean of Marhaus's blood, the silver splinter glinted with malign power. The Queen gazed at it in horror, then clutched it to her breast. "This is his death warrant! He cannot live."

"Madam," Isolde began, "he may—"

Through the window she could see the sea and the clouds above forming a great womanly shape, its head bent in welcome, its loving arms spread wide. Between the sobbing of the wind and the cry of the ebbing tide, she heard the withdrawing murmur of life itself.
Come to me, come. All men enter the circle of the Goddess when they leave this world. Come in peace, Marhaus, to the plains of joy
.

She took Marhaus's hand.
The Mother greets you, Marhaus, go to Her
. The sick man's breathing eased, and a great quietness settled on his face. A moment later his spirit slipped its mortal shell, his features relaxed, and the embattled warrior was a handsome youth again.

"The Dark Lord!"

The three crones set up a high, toneless wail. "The Dark Lord, Penn Annwyn, has come from the Otherworld to take him home!"

The Queen was stroking Marhaus's face like a crazed child. "Has the Dark Lord taken you, my love?" She picked up his cold hand, and raised the metal sliver to her lips. "Never fear. We'll have revenge for your precious soul!"

"Revenge!" intoned the chorus of crones in the rear.

The Queen closed her eyes and stretched out her arms. "May the man who killed you die a fearful death!" she howled. "May all those he loves and all who love him suffer till the sea kisses the sky, and the trees bow down their heads at his cursed feet!" She paused, panting, then gathered her forces to go on. "May the woman who loves him never know peace or joy! May she sorrow for him till her heart turns black, as mine must do now for the loss of my lord!"

"Mother!" cried Isolde in terror, watching the Queen growing taller with every word she spoke. A wind from the Otherworld roared through the chamber, and she shook with dread.