Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (7 page)

But until then… He turned back to Lienore and composed his features into a contemptuous sneer. "You call him a fine lad, when the shame he's brought on us keeps us at home? When the King has to track us down here, because we can't go and pay our respects at court?"

She played with her veil, teasing out a small curl at her temple and smoothing it down beside her full, pink cheek. "You're not shamed, Father," she said with an easy shrug. "I know you. You're just too mean to take us all to court." She pointed a sly white finger over his shoulder to the yard behind. "Which is why they have come to you."

"What—?"

The Earl whirled round. At the foot of the courtyard, a great gatehouse gave onto the forest beyond. Coming through the trees was a troop of knights on horseback, escorting a finely dressed couple in royal red, white, and gold. Behind them came another body of knights and a war band of fighting men.

"Find the chamberlain!" he shouted at the dumbstruck nursemaid. "Tell him to scare up all the servants and get ready for the King!"

The procession was emerging from the forest and making its way up the castle mount with the King in the lead. The Earl stared like a man at the stake. Arthur's tall, broad-shouldered physique was finely displayed in a scarlet tunic and a gold cloak. His Queen was a perfect foil to the great bear-like shape, a womanly figure radiant in white and gold.

Now the glittering entourage swept into the courtyard, with Guenevere riding beside Arthur, a warm smile on her lips.

"My lord Sweyn," called Arthur, "forgive our unheralded descent. A war alarm calls us to Cornwall to relieve King Mark, and we would not pass by your lands without greeting you."

"You are most welcome, sire," the Earl cried with desperate gaiety. "You and your knights."

He nodded to the King's four companions and a new danger seized his unquiet mind. The sallow, sardonic Kay and the mild Bedivere did not trouble him, but the smiling Lucan was too handsome by far, and that brute Gawain was already eyeing Lienore with open interest on his beefy face. So! Earl Sweyn's gut tightened. Not only the boy but his loose-loined mother, too, would have to be put under lock and key till the visitors had gone—

"Father—"

He felt an urgent tugging at his sleeve. "Your Majesties," he pressed on, ignoring her, "will you feast with us tonight?"

"You and your daughter, I hope," returned Arthur courteously, bowing to Lienore.

Guenevere gave a kindly smile. "And is this your grandson?"

She signaled to the maid to bring the boy forward, and both the King and Queen leaned down from their saddles to make much of him.

"Father—" came Lienore's voice again, with a raw edge of excitement this time.

"Peace, will you?" Earl Sweyn hissed. "Sire," he called, "my poor house is yours."

Arthur bowed. "For this night only, my lord, then we must be on our way." He glanced round the castle, following Guenevere's gaze. "I look forward to hearing about your estate."

The courtyard was slowly filling with excited servants, the chamberlain at their head. The Earl watched Arthur and his knights and felt the first dawnings of pride. The King and Queen here, under his roof—it was the greatest honor to the house. The cost would be terrible, of course, but was not their family motto
Noblesse oblige
?

"Father—" came Lienore's tense whisper again.

Death and damnation, would the girl never cease? He turned, twitching with the urge to knock her down. But a cunning joy was written in her eyes and wide, knowing mouth. She pointed to Arthur as he lifted Guenevere down from her horse, and her head was nodding like a flower loose on its stem.

"It's him, Father," she said.

"What?" The Earl caught his breath. "Who?"

Lienore stared at him, excitement leaking from her like sweat. "The man at the tournament. The one who fathered my child."

Tristan stood in the mouth of the tunnel, hardly daring to breathe. Stretching before him was a great hall of gleaming rock with many chambers, each bigger than the last. A swift rush of water ran through the center of the cavern, finding an unseen passage to the sea. Torches of sea fire flickered round the walls in tongues of green and blue, and pillars of crystal rock held up the roof. Wreaths of white spindrift blossomed round the pillars, and an Otherworldly light shone everywhere.

He looked around in awe. As his eyes softened to the mystic light, he saw alcoves in the rock piled high with all the riches of the sea. Seaweed-hung chests spilled over with silver and gold, and gold chains and jewels lay in tumbling piles. His gaze roved over emeralds and sapphires alight with hidden fire, and rubies glowing with their own heart's blood. Scattered among them were branches of white and red coral, hoards of dusky jet, and pearls like angels' eyes.

Amazed, he ran his fingers over some of the stones. Here, a rainbow of glittering quartzes in yellow, mauve, and green; there, heaps of ambergris, filling the chamber with its distinctive scent. Who lives here? he marveled. Then he heard a sudden cascade of sound, a tinkling fall of notes above the torrent rushing through the hall, and there she was.

At the far end of the chamber, where the stream emerged from the cave wall, was a figure muffled in sea-like draperies from head to foot. Outlined against the black and gleaming rock, she seemed to float above the water around her feet. Her gauzy veil rippled with the rushing torrent, and her foaming robes ebbed and flowed with the roar of the sea. A moon-shaped diadem crowned her head, set with great pearls shading from midnight to dawn, and the mother of all pearls adorned the Goddess ring on her hand. She bore a wand of coral as red as a sunset at sea, an he knew then he was seeing the Lady herself.

The lofty shape raised her arms. "Sir Tristan, approach!"

As she spoke, it came to him that he had heard the low music of her voice long ago, at the dawn of time. As his sight cleared, he could see that the tall, still form was not floating on the water, but enthroned on a foam-flecked rocky platform in the midst of the stream. The air was full of the zestful tang of breaking water, and a slender shape rose like a fountain from its midst. The spray bejeweled her cloudy robes, and tiny drops of sea dew hung on her like diamonds on a queen.

Tristan found his voice. "Are you the Lady? She who sent for me?"

A tender chuckle took him by surprise. The mellow voice had seen all the seasons of life, and was rich with love. "Ah, Tristan, your fate brought you here. And that was written when the stars were young."

"But are you the Lady?" Tristan persisted, unafraid.

The veiled form inclined her head. "I answer to that name, but not alone. The Lady of the Lake holds Avalon, and the Lady of Broceliande keeps the lake in Little Britain, where Sir Lancelot was reared." He could hear the deep voice softening as she spoke. "They are my younger sisters on this plane of earth. The sea was here before the lakes were born."

It was more than Tristan could grasp. He looked around. "Where are we?" he demanded.

The gauzy figure held out her long, sinuous arms, embracing the teeming waters and the rocky cave. "In the womb of life—in the place where our race began. All our people once came out of the sea, and beneath its surging main lie the lands of youth."

"You are the Mother." A strange delight pierced him, bringing a warmth and sweetness he had never known.

"I serve the Mother," the Lady corrected gently. "But the Great One Herself is above us all. It was She who girded our world with the sea, and the great ocean is the circle of life itself. You entered the circle when She brought you here. She wishes you to go to Castle Dore."

Tristan tensed. "The castle of my uncle King Mark?"

The Lady nodded. "And your cousin Andred, your mother's brother's son. You have not seen King Mark for many years, but he has never forgotten his sister's son. If you choose, you may do him a dear service now.

He is under a challenge he cannot win, while your deeds of arms are known far and wide."

"So I may take this battle on—defeat his opponent and restore peace to the King?" Tristan's eyes glowed like moons, and he felt an animal power surging through his veins. "Lady, thank you," he said abruptly. "When I went away from Lyonesse, I never meant to lose my only kin. I must go to King Mark now!"

"Then go with this."

The Lady gestured toward the stream flowing around her feet. Tristan saw a long shining shape borne along on the torrent, a great sword in a scabbard of gold, richly engraved and emblazoned with the signs of power.

The deep autumnal tones rang around the cave. "Take it, Tristan. It was sent for you."

He plunged into the stream. He did not feel the shock of the ice-cold water, only the strange warmth as the scabbard came to his grasp. Seizing it with both hands, he hauled himself back onto the rocks and, trembling with joy, drew the sword from its sheath.

In his hand lay a weapon such as warriors only dream of. It was a massive broadsword, worked to perfection by Otherworldly hands, with a deadly sheen and an edge keening for blood. The hilt was set with all the stones of the sea, cabochons as pale as pearls and jasper and agate gleaming like salmons' eyes. A skein of crooked marks ran down the blade.
My name is Glaeve
, he saw written in runic script.
She who was and will be sent me to you
.

"Glaeve!" he murmured, entranced. Reverently he passed it through the air, and could hear the sword humming in a high, etherial tone. He brought the blade to his lips in a cold kiss. "Welcome, brother. You are mine till death."

The Lady's voice now was like the roaring of the sea. "The Goddess has sent you a sign. Take it, and do good."

"Lady, I shall!" Tristan cried. "Give me your blessing and I'll be gone!"

His pulse was racing, and he was on fire to leave. But a deep sigh drew him back.

"Hear me, Tristan. Ahead for you now lie the two great trials of a man, the fear of loss in battle, and the death of the heart. You must fight a great champion, and only one of you will see the sun rise again. You will find a great love that leaves you dead to all else, and will have to face every day love's killing hurts."

She paused, and he felt her spirit grow till all the cavern resounded with her words. "To face a man in combat is challenge enough. To find the Goddess in a woman is the life work of a man. Hard though the first may be, the second is the harder, longer road. But every man seeks the woman of the dream, and only the best of men finds what he seeks."

Tristan drew a deep breath. "I shall not fail," he said.

There was a sigh like the moaning of the sea. "Ah, Tristan, only the Mother never fails. All of us leave this world on the evening tide. Then we come again when the tide is full and free."

Tristan's heart quailed. "Lady," he cried in anguish, "how shall I be worthy of the task?"

"Do not fear." Her voice was blending now with the surge of the sea, and the lights in the cavern were dimming with every word. "You will come to the place of terror and find miracles."

"Lady!" He tried to speak and could not. The thought of leaving filled him with nameless pain. Would he ever return to this sacred place again?

"Take heart, Tristan."

The cavern was darkening, and the great figure was fading before his eyes. "Remember the Mother is with you wherever you go."

Her spirit surrounded him as the stream boiled and bubbled around her, and he felt the cold kiss of the spray. "Go then in grace and strength. But hurry—hurry! For the last wave is coming that will bear us all away!"

Almighty God, bless the work I do this day…

Father Dominian stepped out of his narrow cell and crossed the walled enclosure at a rapid pace. Dawn already, and a tender summer sun, as pink and perfect as the inside of a rabbit's ear—where had the night gone? He rubbed his aching eyes and quested on. After thirty years, he no longer saw the other small stone cells clustered around, the long refectory that served the brothers' needs, and the proud new church at the center of it all. This was his world. The community was all.

Across the grassy enclosure a fine stone gateway led to the world outside. His pupil was waiting for him by the gate, a young monk who bowed when he saw Dominian, then fell in beside him without a word. Dominian nodded, pleased. Simeon's gentle manner hid a fiery soul, burning with devotion to the Lord. When his time came, he would spread the word of God like a row of flaming crosses on every hill.

Together they passed through the gates and plunged into the woodland, thickets of ancient oak, holly, and dark yew so dense that they often had to force their way through. At last Dominian saw ahead of them the low stone housing of a sacred well. Behind it was a moldering clump of stones, a lonely hermitage, encrusted like the well with bright green moss.

"Wait here," Dominian said and ducked into the cell.

The small domed chamber was too low to stand. Dominian eased his misshapen frame down onto his haunches and squatted with his back against the wall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. One slit window admitted a little light, and a rambling sunbeam picked out a low pallet in the corner of the hard-packed earthen floor. Beside it stood a beaker of water, and a wooden cross hung over the door.

Dominian breathed deeply and allowed the damp peace of the place to seep into his soul.
Quam delecta, Domine, domus tuas
… How amiable are Thy dwellings, Lord God of Hosts—

Ahead of him, a frail ancient sat cross-legged on the ground, his sightless gaze turned toward the door.

"God bless you, Father," Dominian said fervently.

"And you, my son."

The old man's voice had the dry rustle of a cricket's song, and the hands he clasped in prayer were skin and bone. His monkish robe was worn and green with age, and his face was washed with cold. But a radiant joy shone from his milky eyes, and he smiled like one who has seen the kingdom of God.

The very sight of him soothed Dominian's soul. "I am going to King Mark," he ventured after a while.