Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (3 page)

"Marhaus, no," she moaned.

He seized her face in one cruel hand. "Then you choose to keep me here as your lapdog? You allow all men to say, 'There goes the Queen's bed-slave'?"

"No!" She struggled to be free. "You are my champion and my chosen one. Is it not enough that I took you to my bed? All the world knows you are the companion of the throne."

"But not King." Swiftly he tightened his grip.

She gasped with pain. "Oh, I know you, Marhaus! Your heart believes that you should be King!"

"Only if you are my Queen. And only if you give me leave to carry your name and glory through all the world." His fingers found the silken hollow of her throat and moved down to brush her breast. "I shall blazon your beauty in countries yet unknown, and force their occupants to eat my sword." He buried his hand in her hair and drew her head back for a lingering kiss. She quickened like lightning at his touch, and his flesh stirred.

"Come, lady," he said thickly, turning toward the bed. The storm had passed and great shafts of evening light were bathing the crimson hangings in pools of gold. She would stretch out in the sun as sensual as a cat, he knew, awaiting her pleasure and taking it fully too.

He stroked her face, then opened the front of her gown, taking her heavy, full breasts in both his hands. "First let me love you as a queen deserves. Then afterward—" He paused. "I shall sail for Cornwall and bring a new world under your command!"

"Here, Princess—up here!"

Moving with care across the rain-washed roof, the old courtier leaned over the battlements and waved down to the courtyard below. Among the busy throng going to and fro, there was no mistaking the slim figure darting across the cobbles who responded at once with a merry wave.

"Mind your footing," he called, "after all this rain."

The tiny form acknowledged his concern and hastened on. Watching the young woman skim past the keep and dart into the tower, the old man saw again the child she used to be, a young sprite as playful as a fountain, with a laugh of endless joy. Goddess, Mother, he prayed, praise and thanks for this girl! If there is any hope for Ireland, it lies with her.

And there she was, surging through the turret door onto the battlements, her face glowing, her smiling eyes alight. Up here she looked small no longer but lissom and well-formed, her body as slim and supple as a reed, her whole being reaching out for what was to come. Her tumbling hair shone like the sunset against her woollen wrap, and the gleam of her skin was the glow of the white trefoil. She wore a cloak of green and a gown of gold and within it she bloomed like the first flower of spring.

Gods above!

The old man shook his head, with a rueful smile. She always had the power to stop his heart. Would he ever harden himself against that trusting tilt of the head, that ardent air?

"Princess Isolde!" he cried with a flourishing bow.

"Good day to you, Sir Gilhan," she replied with a merry laugh, turning her face up to the watery sun. "And a grand day it is now the rain has stopped."

Sir Gilhan smiled. "Lady, I'm at your command. What can I do for you?"

The bright face became serious. "Sir, I need your help. You're the leader of my mother's council and before that you were her champion for many years. May the Mother grant me such knights when my time comes! But I have no one to advise me now." She shivered. "And if anything happened, I'm so ignorant!"

"Not quite, Princess," he said gently. "You learned a great deal on Avalon when your mother sent you to study with the Lady of the Lake. The Lady found you could already read the writing in the wind, and see the Great One's purpose in the stars."

Isolde's fair skin colored like a rose. "I was not the only one. Guenevere was there too. She was more gifted, she has the Sight."

Sir Gilhan studied her. Did the dear girl not know she had her mother's Otherworldly air? That she had the same spirit of enchantment and a brightness like the sea?

"Queen Guenevere is older than you are," he said. "You may well have the Sight, too, when your time comes. And don't forget the healing gift you have. Women in childbirth, sick babies, and knights half dead from the joust, you help them all." He chuckled. "I tell you, Princess, there's many a lord of the Queen's council who would gladly suffer some ailment for the pleasure of your cure."

Goddess, Mother, the loyalty of these men!

Isolde felt a sudden spring of love, and blessed him in her heart. "But until the Old Ones gift me with the Sight," she said impishly, "and the Little People whisper in my ear—will you tell me what I need to know?"

He could not hold back a laugh. "Gladly!"

"Then teach me, sir, what we have to fear. I've watched Guenevere and Arthur struggling to bring peace and justice to their land, and I want to do the same. We've had peace in Ireland all my life, but we must have enemies. Where are they now?"

"Beaten back to their own lands, lady." Sir Gilhan felt a grim satisfaction warm his bones. "We fought many hard battles when your mother was young, and she fought hardest of all, leading us to victory time and time again. And Cullain, your father…" He pointed to the thick band of gold glinting on the middle finger of her right hand. It was all she had left of the man who had given her life, he knew.
"Gods above, what a man! He was her first champion and chosen one, and he swore she'd never regret making him her choice. He fought beside her in every battle but the last when she sent him on alone, and together they were unbeatable. Once, when the Picts invaded, we drove them back to sea before they could leave their ships!" He chuckled. "Wait till you see them! They're battle mad, and a hideous sight with their wild tattoos. But your mother, the Queen, why, she…"

Isolde listened entranced, seeing again her mother as she first remembered her. She'd seemed like a spirit from the Otherworld then, the tall, powerful figure at the helm of her battle chariot, racing round the training field in merciless mock-combat with her knights, her handsome face flaming, her silver sword flashing around her head. Isolde remembered her childhood delight and felt again the chill of betrayal as it slowly gave way to the endless sense of regret.

She heaved an involuntary sigh.
Why, Mother, did you never play war games with me, never train me for battle, never let me join in your councils debating peace or war
? Was it the urge to protect her, as the Queen said, that had made her mother always hold her back? Or was it an aging woman's jealous fear of being supplanted by someone younger, by a girl already loved by the people and called La Belle Isolde?

She dared not let her thoughts go that way.

"—keep the peace here, as long as we command the head of the bay."

Sir Gilhan was ending his tale. From the battlements they could see Dubh Lein's wide harbor and its strong defenses commanding the sea routes to the Western Isle. The castle itself was protected by deep ditches and stout walls, with towers and lookouts at each corner, and room for an army of men.

Isolde nodded, satisfied. "If our enemies come again, then Dubh Lein is well defended from the sea."

Sir Gilhan waved a hand toward the rear, where a massive gatehouse glowered out at the world beyond. "An attack by land would find us equally well prepared."

Isolde paused. "But out in the country, where the people dwell in crannogs… ?"

Sir Gilhan nodded. "It's true, the lake villagers have no defense."

"And all over the island there are places where an enemy could land?"

"There are indeed."

She turned to face him. "Who would invade us?" Her question drew a wry smile from Sir Gilhan. "The same as always—our age-old enemies, the Picts." His smile faded. "Their lands are barren, ours are plenteous, and our nearness has often tempted them in the past. Their King is old, and the fire has left his sword, but his young son's already a fierce fighter, and they say he'll make his mark."

"But not in Ireland," said Isolde crisply, "if we watch them as we should."

The courtier gave her an approving grin. "Oh, we do, lady, we do. But there is more than one kind of enemy."

Isolde felt again the shadow of her concern. "Say on."

"Sometimes," the old knight said carefully, watching her face, "those who love a country can betray it for another, greater love."

She stared at him. "What could be greater than loving our country? The land is our Mother, it's the Great One herself—it gives us birth, and at death it calls us home."

Sir Gilhan looked away. His gaze was as gray and somber as the sea. "Sometimes a lesser passion may seem greater to one in love."

She knew he meant her mother. "What are you saying?" she cried, flushing with shame.

She felt him watching her again as he chose his words. "A knight may not speak against his lady, nor a lord against his queen."

He is treating me like a child
. Anger flooded her, and she looked him in the eye. "He may when a greater evil threatens us all," she said levelly. "Sir Gilhan, if you honor me, speak out."

He bowed his head. "My fear is for the Queen. You know your mother has the spirit of incantation, and her passions are her gods."

She braced herself. "Go on."

"There are rumors that she means to advance Sir Marhaus—"

"Sir Marhaus?"—
Goddess, Mother, I knew it
!—"How?"

"He has been boasting that he will conquer new lands for the Queen—that she has given him her blessing to carry war over the sea."

"You mean invade another country? Where?"

Sir Gilhan shrugged. "Who knows? But any attack will invite attack in return. We destroy our own peace when we go to war."

And all for nothing.

For my mother's love, and Sir Marhaus's pride.

Suddenly she felt a thousand years old, no longer the girl who had stepped out so blithely onto the battlements before. She turned back to Sir Gilhan. "Well, sir, you have not trusted me in vain. I shall speak to the Queen and learn the truth from her."

He nodded toward the door. "We may know it sooner than we think."

Isolde turned. The dark shape of a woman appeared at the top of the steps. The neatly clad figure had a thoughtful, dignified air, and her calm movements showed an assurance far above her rank. Her face had lost the bloom of youth, but her dark-toned skin, bright eyes, and black hair coiled up in glossy braids still caught the eye.

"It's Brangwain!" cried Isolde, mystified.

Sir Gilhan craned his head. "The lady from the Welshlands who waits upon the Queen?"

"Yes, and my nurse, too, when I was younger—though she was only a girl herself when she came to us."

Brangwain approached with a curtsey. "Madam, a word?"

Isolde spread her hands. "Always, Brangwain." She gestured to the knight. "You may trust Sir Gilhan. He knows my mind."

Brangwain frowned. "Lady, forgive me if I speak out of turn. But the Queen said something strange about Sir Marhaus that I thought you ought to know—"

"Sir Marhaus?"

Isolde felt Sir Gilhan's troubled gaze. "Speak, Brangwain," she said steadily. "Tell us what you heard."

Panting, the white mule climbed to the top of the cliff. Merlin slid down from the saddle and stared out at the setting sun. Below him the sea prowled around the rocky shore, and a flock of seagulls squabbled overhead. The old man threw wide his arms and eased his aching back. Cornwall at last! Ye Gods, it was good to be here.

From the headland he could see the length of Cornwall and the country beyond, as far as the glittering point where the land disappeared into the sea. A grimace of satisfaction crossed Merlin's face. At least he did not have to fear for Lyonesse. Unlike the wretched Mark of Cornwall, the King of Lyonesse was both loyal and brave.

Lyonesse, land of silver sun and golden rain, land of dreams—

The scent of rosemary came drifting down the wind. Merlin closed his eyes. How long ago was it that he had hurried down there to free the young King out of prison at the prayers of his frantic Queen?

Long, long ago.

"But not fast enough, old fool!" he chided himself, feeling again the young Queen's despair and death. Not fast enough to save her, nor the child of sorrow she had called Tristan. Sadness enwrapped him like the rising mist. Such a fragile thing she had been, the little Queen, bird-boned, white-skinned, yet as dark-haired as one of the Old Ones, with the air of a frightened fawn. Even without the great child in her belly, a baby far too big for a wraith like her, her delicate frame would not have been long for this world. But to die in such sorrow, and leave such sorrow behind—

"Grief upon me!" Merlin mourned. "Grief upon all of us!"

Ahead of him the clifftop stretched away, a patchwork of tumbling thrift, blushing pinks, and daisies silver-white in the fading light. Around them, clusters of yellow cowslips nodded down the slope, and great drifts of moonflowers flirted round Merlin's feet.

Far out at sea, a lone ship was sailing down the pathway of the sun. Merlin's sight faded, and he saw the harbor of the Western Isle, with the evening tide tugging at its shores. He watched with bated breath as a champion knight and his entourage boarded a handsome bark, its pennants, spars, and masts bathed in the last rays of the sun. The boat sailed into the sunset till every rope in its rigging was alight with golden fire. But as the boat neared the dying ball of flame, the white sails darkened to pink and turned to red and the ship was drowned in blood.

"Gods and Great Ones!" Merlin cried, fighting to be free. Shuddering, he came to himself again, drained and spent. Only wisps of memory lingered in his mind. But he knew that he had seen a ship of death. Arthur was due to follow him to Cornwall soon. Could it be Arthur's death that he foresaw?

Or worse…

Merlin screamed and tore his hair. Twice already he had failed the house of Lyonesse, when the King lay in prison and when the Queen died in the dark forest in terror and alone. Yet her child had lived. Could the boy born of sorrow be in danger now?

"On, on!" he shouted to the mule, trembling in his frantic efforts to mount. "Onward to Castle Dore!"