Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (4 page)

He caught at the pommel and heaved himself into the saddle as the well-trained beast moved off. "Gods, speed my path," he cried to the empty air. "Let me not come too late!"

But it was another day before he made Castle Dore, and later still before he could see King Mark. His Majesty was closeted with his advisers, Merlin was told, and all the attendants knew better than to disturb the King.

The sun was high in the sky when the call came. While he waited, Merlin patrolled every inch of Castle Dore, and was forced to concede that Mark had done well. The new palace he had built on the foundations of his forefathers' ancient fort was bright with fresh limewash and gleaming stone. Below the castle, a snug town with fair houses and clean streets clung to the skirts of the castle and served its needs. From its hill-top site, Castle Dore commanded the land all around, and its wide halls and chambers were fit for a king.

Even this King. Merlin groaned aloud. Mark's father had been one of the best, no man more serviceable in peace or war. All his life the old King had tried to make his unpromising son first into a man, then into a king like him.

But both roles had been too hard for Mark to play. His father's rough training had left the son all too short of manhood, a feeble fighter and a blustering knight. Nor had his father's kingliness descended on Mark when Merlin last passed this way.

The piping voice of a page broke into his thoughts. "Lord Merlin? King Mark will see you now."

"Thank you."

Merlin followed the boy with a sulfurous glare. The Gods only knew what it was for a High Druid and a Lord of Light to be kept waiting to see a vassal king like this!

But at least he knew what was expected of an audience with a king. His long velvet robe of woodland green was heavy with fur and its long, full sleeves whispered to the ground as he walked. His fingers groaned with rings like serpents' eyes, and the same topaz and amber stared out from the chains round his neck. A deep band of gold encircled his long curled locks, and a wand of golden yew gleamed in his hand.

"Lead on, fool," he growled at the page. "I am ready to meet your King."

And now here were a pair of imposing double doors, and behind the doors, what? Merlin stepped forward, stiffening his bony spine.

Ahead of him stretched a large audience chamber, its roof and walls bright with shields and banners from forgotten wars. The court was full, and the throng of courtiers met his appearance with buzzing whispers and a forest of curious eyes. The lofty windows made the most of the noonday sun, and a royal dais graced the end of the room. Fresh green rushes mingled with wild thyme and lavender on the floor, and an apple-wood fire roared on the wide hearth. Sweet savors all, Merlin noted as he strode down the room. Why then did the place stink of horses and dogs?

The dogs answered for themselves, a rough pack of hairy wolfhounds scratching and growling from their places round the throne. And horses, too, were clearly close friends of the figure seated on the dais, whose garments still bore the slubbered traces of his morning ride. Ye Gods!

Merlin fought down a surge of anger and contempt. Mark's four-footed attendants must be the only creatures in Cornwall who did not look down on their King.

For could that long, slack thing on the throne be a leader of men, a man of kingly height but without royal grace? True, the King's scarlet tunic and dark breeches were woven of fine wool, and the ancient crown of his fathers encircled his head. The sword at his side and the crossed lances above the throne were likewise both good and rare, their gleaming gold and bronze shaped with Otherworldly skill. But the lank forelock of pale sandy hair, the short-sighted gaze, and the oddly forlorn air betrayed the lost boy inside the would-be king. Gods above, Merlin thought with disbelief, how old is he? Thirty-five, forty at least. His heart sank. Too old to grow up now.

"Lord Merlin, welcome, after all these years!"

The ungainly figure rose to its feet, beckoning Merlin to approach the throne. To Mark's right stood a knight, to his left a short, misshapen older man in the garb of a monk. As Merlin drew near, the knight claimed his attention with a graceful bow. From his sleek black curls to the cut of his leather boots, the young man was formed to make women love him, while his strong fighting frame would endear him to men. But Merlin read the hidden pride in the poise of the handsome head and saw that it had only increased in the time he had been away. He saw something else, too, so slight it was visible only to a Druid's eye. Handsome as he was, from the faint, unmistakable marking on his upper lip, Merlin knew the young man had been elf-shotten in the womb.

But any hint of the harelip vanished with the young knight's flashing smile. "Lord Merlin, I am Sir Andred, at your service, as you may recall."

Merlin glimmered at him. "Sir, who could forget the King's nephew and chosen heir?"

The crowd round the dais was pressing forward to hear. Prominent in their midst were three or four watchful figures, the King's barons, Merlin guessed, who had served Mark's father and now tried with far less success to keep the son on course. In the front Merlin saw a well-dressed couple, the man elderly, plump, and complacent in rich velvets and furs, the woman dark and lean, with an angry, burning gaze. Her long face with its thin, sensual mouth was too strong to be beautiful, but her studied poise would draw any eyes her way. Her long white neck was offset by her livid green gown, and her glittering cloak coiled round her feet like a snake.

"And the Lady Elva," cried Mark eagerly, beckoning the woman forward while her husband grinned in the rear.

"Lord Merlin."

The woman dropped a curtsy, and Merlin glimmered again as he greeted her in return. All Cornwall had been amazed when the slow Mark had taken himself a mistress, and even more taken aback that Elva was the woman of choice. With eyes as hard and black as chips of jet, she flashed with Otherworldly fire, and the gossips joked that she had seduced the young Mark, not the other way round. The boy in him could not think what else to do, and the man in him could not make a better choice. But years later, here she was, still close to the throne, with her dull husband, who was too vain to wonder why King Mark showered him with gifts. Well, it was the way of the world. Merlin grinned to himself.

"Father Dominian is new to you, I think," came Mark's voice. "But we have many holy men in Cornwall now." There was an undisguised self-satisfaction in his tone. "The father has been revealing God's word to me."

Merlin turned toward the monk at Mark's left hand, standing with a young novice at his side. With growing revulsion he took in the harsh black woollen habit with its girdle of rope, the raw, sandaled feet, the savagely tonsured head. Merlin's gaze flickered on over the pitiful body with its twisted spine, the priest's hunched back emphasized by his monkish hood. Dominian's skin was unnaturally dark, and he met Merlin's eyes with a sloe-black stare. The old enchanter's hand flew to his own careful locks, each curled and perfumed, and he shuddered inwardly. When the Gods had made a man so ugly by nature, why did he have to make himself look worse?

"Greetings, Brother Dominian," he ventured haughtily.

The holy man stared, his glittering eyes intent. "Lord Merlin, you are a man of high concerns. What brings you here to us?"

"I was just about to ask him that myself!" cried Mark importantly. "What is it, Merlin? Speak."

Merlin drew a breath. "We have had word that an attack threatens Cornwall from the Island of the West."

Mark's jaw dropped. "It can't be true!"

Andred tensed. "Uncle, it can." He nodded at Merlin, tight-lipped. "Tell us what you know."

"I can tell you what I guess. The Queen of the Western Isle will not make open war. She will send her champion here to challenge you."

"Sir Marhaus?" Mark gagged. "God in heaven, he's the most ferocious fighter in the West!"

"And I have seen his ship," Merlin pressed on. "He is already on the way. He will say Cornwall should be the vassal of Ireland, not of Queen Igraine. He will call you to single combat, and by the laws of chivalry you may not refuse."

Mark gathered his scattered wits. "Queen Igraine!" he exclaimed. "We must march on Tintagel, to defend the Queen!"

Merlin frowned. "That is Arthur's concern. He is hastening here now with Queen Guenevere and a force of men. But Igraine is not in danger!" He struck the floor with his wand. "No knight will challenge an aged queen, and besides, Igraine is well accustomed to defending herself. No, your enemy will come here to Castle Dore. He plans to kill you, and take your throne!"

Mark tried to speak but could not. With a glance at his uncle, Andred leaned forward to take charge. Merlin could hear the young knight's mind darting like a fish. "Is there no way out?"

Dominian pursed his lips and filled the silence that ensued. "You may offer the invaders blood gelt for the life of the King. In the past, Cornwall has paid tribute to the Irish to keep them at bay."

"Yes, yes!" cried Mark. "Tribute—we can pay it! Cornwall is fertile and our lands are rich—"

"Sire-" Andred shook his head impatiently—"they would be back for more with every spring tide. That would only enslave us for years to come."

Mark's voice rattled in his throat. "Then in God's name, what can we do?"

Merlin waved a hand. "You may offer a proxy—a knight who will take on the battle in your stead."

"My knights, yes!" cried Mark. "Andred, who is there?"

There was a deep pause as the same thought went through every mind: no knight of ours could go against Marhaus.

Dominian raised a hand. "But ours are not the only knights in the land. Sire, you hold Cornwall from King Arthur himself. Send to him for help."

"Thank you, Father!" Mark straightened up in the grip of this happy thought. "Well, there's Sir Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere—who shall it be?"

Andred turned on him, scarcely masking his irritation. "Uncle, with Sir Marhaus on the way, we have no time!"

Merlin turned on Andred with a killing smile. "Well then," he said silkily, "it must be you."

Andred's eyes bulged. "I—"

"Never, Merlin!" cried Mark. "For God's sake, man, Andred's my nephew, my heir. Whoever has to die, it must not be him."

Never fear, Merlin chuckled to himself, your loving nephew has no wish to die. He drew a breath. "Sire, you say blood is blood. Sir Andred is your nephew on your brother's side. But had you not a sister who married the King of Lyonesse?"

Mark's soft eyes filled with tears. "My poor Elizabeth, yes. But you know she lost her life in childbirth long ago."

"Bringing forth a son?" prompted Merlin. "A son she called Tristan for the sorrow in which she died?"

Mark covered his eyes with his hand. "Gods above, Merlin, d'you think I could forget? But there was trouble at court and the boy went away. Tristan has been lost to me for years."

Merlin preened himself. "Tristan lost?" he cooed, relishing every word. "Not to me."

He was gratified to see Andred give a violent start. "Tristan lives?"

"And thrives," Merlin added with delight, "as a
great
warrior, and a man of might. Young as he is, he's famous for his skill."

"Tristan lives?" echoed Mark, stupefied.

Merlin's eyes glowed. "He handles a horse as if he were born in the saddle, and on foot he's at one with the woodland, where he hunts at will. And though he's as gentle as a child, he's a big man, and bold enough in combat to match Marhaus."

Mark leaned forward urgently. "Where is he, Merlin? Can you get him here?"

Merlin gave a lingering, yellow smile. "I can."

Andred stepped forward, a look of noble regret on his face. "God knows I wanted to take on this battle myself. But I am ready to yield the combat to him." With tears in his eyes, he knelt before Mark and reached for his uncle's hand. "All that matters is the life of my kinsman and King."

In tears himself, Mark leapt from the throne and crushed Andred to his chest.

"Why, there's a lad!" he wept. Over Andred's shoulder he threw Merlin a watery grin. "God has smiled on me, Merlin, no? With a nephew like this and young Tristan to come, Sir Marhaus will rue the day he ever came here."

Marhaus would rue the day… ?

Merlin stood in silence, gazing down the corridor of time. So might we all.

Mark's voice came caroling into his ear. "Get him here, Merlin, will you, no matter what?"

Ireland must not attack Cornwall.

Goddess, Mother, make me strong now
—

Isolde took a last breath of the crisp spring air and stepped out of the courtyard into the Queen's House. Ahead of her beckoned a bright space warmed by the evening sun, the oak floor gleaming with beeswax and a cheerful fruitwood fire burning on the hearth.

Brangwain came forward, shooing the maids away. "This way, my lady. I'll tell the Queen you are here."

Isolde nodded. "Thank you, Brangwain."

She moved into the chamber, scarcely noticing the lofty ceiling with its massive beams, the warm loam-washed walls, and the clusters of little swan lamps, sheltering their flames between upreared wings. But as Brangwain put her finger to her lips, ushered her into the inner room, and closed the door, she saw that all the windows were covered with heavy drapes, and her heart plunged. She knew what it meant when the Queen shut out the sun.

Oh, Mother, Mother, why do you suffer so?

When was it she first knew that the warrior queen, racing joyfully in her chariot round the field, or pitting her horse against the fleetest of her knights, was only one of the many souls that lived in her mother's fine frame? That the Queen's spirit could change as swiftly as a bird in flight, leaving those around her trailing in her wake?

And the lovers—how often had Isolde seen her radiant with love, rejuvenated with desirs, hanging on the neck of a new companion of the throne? Then there would be music and dancing, with the haunting pipes wailing of grief and joy and the candles burning down to their sockets as long as the wine went around. Isolde sighed. How she had wished for that love herself when her time came!