The Lady of the Sea (14 page)

chapter 19

E
vening reigned over the land, warm and still. In the bay below the Queen’s House at Dubh Lein, the sea lay like a mill pond, hardly astir. On the headland above, the air was full of the drowsy, midsummer hum of insects and the call of roosting birds. The sinking sun rippled with silver and gold, touching the sleepy white clouds with tongues of fire. Brangwain sat by the open window, her neat hands flickering over a piece of stitching, her taut frame intent, as Isolde prowled the chamber, unable to rest.

Her mind picked away at the same question, like a painful scab. How had Darath imposed his will on her? Why had she allowed him to command her to his bed?

The thought of it stung like a swarm of bees. How had he turned the tables, when she’d had the upper hand? She had already succeeded in drawing him down to Dubh Lein and had met him in all her majesty on the cliff, to show him once and for all that she ruled here as Queen. And just as he should have been submitting to her, he had treated her as if he were the ruling King.

And he’d made no secret of his urge to take her to bed.
To his bed.
Her skin prickled, and an unfamiliar sensation ran through her veins. How long was it since a man had desired her like that, with hungry eyes and a rough grasp of her hand? Darath’s long, painted body rose up before her eyes, and she shuddered with remorse. Why was this man invading her mind and heart, stirring up feelings she did not care to name?

Oh Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?
Darath’s approach had soiled her; she felt grubby and low. His words would be with her, she knew, for a long while to come, along with his hot, familiar stare deep into her eyes.
Lady, I come to claim you, king to queen. And you will come to me, woman to man. You and I will make powerful earth magic together, and your body knows that, too.

How dare he? she raged. But deep in her heart she knew he had seen something in her that answered his animal call.

You are mine, lady, whether you know it or not. Now, allow me to attend you back to Dubh Lein.

She could still smell, almost taste, the coarse, wild, heathery scent of him, and feel his thumb grinding into her palm. She sweated with shame.

Yet why? When Darath spoke, she had simply ignored his advance. She had withdrawn her hand from his too-eager grasp and coolly moved on.

Coolly, but not coldly: it was vital to keep on good terms with him. So she had spoken of conditions and treaties in her smoothest tones, graciously indicating her desire for an agreement and promising to feast him like a king. By his bright-eyed glance and feral grin, he had gone back to his ship more taken with her than ever, excited by the thought of the conquest to come.

Conquest to come, Isolde?
came a sharp inner voice.

Yes, indeed,
she retorted just as sharply.
I shall do what has to be done. And no more. Be very sure of that. No more!

She gave a mirthless laugh.
All very fine, and no more than a ruler should do. Then why does the thought of this Pict heat your blood? Stir up your secret parts and bring the blood to your face?

“Lady—?”

She turned abruptly. Seated in the window, Brangwain held up her hand. “There it goes.”

Isolde strained to hear. From the woodland above the castle came the strange churring call of the nightjar. Brangwain nodded to herself.

“Nightfall,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for us now.”

Her dark-toned face alight with purpose, the maid rose and veiled herself from head to foot. Then she threw a gossamer wrap the color of twilight around Isolde, too.

“This way, lady,” she said.

Lightly, she led the way down through the palace to the caves beneath. Below them lay the Dark Pool from which Dubh Lein took its name, the secret spring of sweet water at the castle’s heart, the gift of the Old Ones to ensure it never ran dry.

Down they went, and down, threading their way through vast echoing caverns and rocky passages undisturbed since the primeval sleep of the earth. How did Brangwain know all these hidden places, these dark, secret ways? Isolde smiled. All the world knew that Brangwain was Merlin’s kin.

Doggedly, they pressed on. As they went down, the light from Brangwain’s lantern was swallowed up in a measureless cavern almost too dark to be borne. Black-winged forebodings swooped around Isolde like bats, choking her with fear. The next moment they found themselves slithering like snakes through narrow cracks scarcely wide enough to pass. In these narrow crevices in the heart of the living rock, the lantern flared over fearsome things never meant to see the light.

At last they passed into the cavern where the Dark Pool lay, and the mist off the sweet water enveloped them like dew. It came as a blessing from the Mother, and Isolde drew it deep into her lungs. Now she caught gentle rustlings and soft sighs and sometimes a brief glimpse of bright eyes in the gloom. These caves were home to many shy creatures, she knew, and she felt better for their kindly glances as she passed.

“A little farther, lady,” Brangwain said again and again.

Lost in the primal night of the depths of the cave, Isolde never knew when the sweet dew of Dubh Lein’s dark waters gave way to salt. But when she tasted a briny tang in the air, she knew they had found their way toward the sea. The thick velvet darkness lifted as the air lightened and stirred, and now they could almost see their way ahead. The rocky floor of the cavern gave way to sand underfoot, and the tide wept softly close at hand.

“Here, lady.”

Brangwain raised the lantern, muttering to herself. They were in a wide cavern, opening onto the sea. Small, lazy waves came purling in through a rocky arch ahead and spent themselves on the sand at their feet. On the far horizon hung a pale crescent moon, tipping the black sea beneath with flecks of gold.

Isolde felt a thrill of hope and fear.
Where are we?
She looked round the cave. Inside the arch, sea terns nested in hollows in the rock while their homing males hovered protectively overhead. Farther off, a magnificent swan reposed on the top of a crag, her black eyes like jewels in her dainty head. Serene in her majesty, she ignored their approach, but Isolde gave her a courteous bow all the same: “Blessings on you, little Mother. And bless my search, I pray.”

Brangwain swung the light to and fro. “Where are they?” Isolde heard the maid saying to herself. “They should be here.”

There was an echoing pause. Then came a soft chuckling like the waves lapping on the shore. “We are here. See, we are all around.”

Isolde gasped. “Where?”

“Here, here.”

The light off the sea lit a dozen or more shapely gray forms half submerged in the water or reclining on the rocks. At first sight, Isolde took them for sea creatures with their keen bright eyes and silvery, shining flanks. She had swum with seals and dolphins as a child, and knew them as well as her human friends of those days. But these were lovely young women, at home in the sea and on land. Each shimmered in a different watery-colored silk, blue-green, shining gray, mauve, and purple-black, with ropes of shell gleaming at their waists and necks. Their long hair floated round them like seaweed, and their soft laughter ebbed and flowed with the waves. Isolde held her breath. They were the Maidens of the Lady, here to bring her on her way.

“Come.”

One taller than the rest gave a commanding wave, and those in the water swam forward, drawing a boat. Isolde hesitated.
What if—?

“Come!” The sea Maiden’s command rang out again.

“This way, lady.” Practical as ever, Brangwain helped her over the rocks and saw her embarked. “I’ll be here when you return.”

Isolde gripped the sides of the boat. With a sudden tug, the Maidens pulled the prow around and headed out of the cave. Once clear of the rocks, they took it in turns to draw the boat along, some holding the ropes while others sported among the waves. Now she saw that these easy, laughing girls were fearless swimmers and sea guardians, on the watch against those who would kill the fish. The Maiden at the prow heard her thought.

“Yes,” she said in a rushing watery voice. “We protect all our kin that swim in the deep, both the little fish and the great silver shoals. But the kings and queens of the ocean”—she laughed merrily as a whale leaped far away—“they look after themselves.”

Isolde looked around her in awe as the Maidens pulled steadily out into the bay. The new moon hung over the water like a prayer, casting a shining path to the world beyond. Halfway down the silver pathway to the moon stood a rocky crag, alone in the midst of the sea. Chirruping among themselves like sea otters, the Maidens surged toward it with unfailing strokes.

Now the rock loomed larger, a fortress of the sea. Beneath its ragged crest were countless caves hollowed out by the tide and great piles of broken rock around the base. The sighing sea sucked and plucked at the tumbled rocks, bedecking them with glistening beads of foam. As they drew nearer, the moon sailed behind a cloud and the world grew dark. Isolde’s heart raced, and she fastened her gaze ahead.

Goddess, Mother—

Rising from the rock was a tall shape pulsing with power. Clustered on the rocks around her feet were a group of Maidens, all gleaming like their leader in the pale moon’s watery light. Her full womanly curves were veiled in diaphanous gauze, but there was no escaping the figure’s mystical force. She held a scepter of red coral across her breast, and the ring of the Goddess shone on her left hand. Pearls of all colors adorned the misty form, and a diadem of moon-white pearls crowned her head.

Joy flooded Isolde, and she wanted to weep. “Lady,” she breathed, trembling with relief. “Oh, Lady—” She could not go on.

The Maidens drew up the boat at the foot of the rock. The Lady raised her arms, and her foaming robes ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of the sea. Her voice when she spoke came from the world before place or time. “Greetings, Isolde. I am glad to see you here. You have come for my help?”

Isolde thought of Tristan and her grief sprang anew. “I am suffering, Lady,” she said huskily. “My true love is gone.”

“The story of life is the ebb and flow of the tide. So it is with love. What do you seek?”

Isolde moistened her dry lips, holding back her tears. “When I first knew Tristan, I feared death and shame if our love became known. So I took the way of the Mother to close up my womb. But if I’m ever going to bear a child, it must be soon. Can you help me to reverse my childless state?”

“You want a child, you say? By Tristan?”

Isolde’s color rose. “Who else?”

There was a thoughtful silence. “Tristan has been absent a long time. Are you sure you still think of him? Or do you dream of having a child by Darath the Pict?”

“By Darath?” she gasped.

“Why not?” Isolde caught the echo of a low, musical laugh. “He is bold and handsome and a king among men. And he is here, as Tristan is not. Tristan or Darath—which of them is it to be?”

Isolde bit her lip.
Does it matter as long as I have the child my body craves?

But the Lady heard her thought. “Oh, it matters, Isolde,” she replied in tones of clear reproof. “It matters to the child. To bring a new life into the world is not a decision a woman should take alone. A child deserves two parents and Tristan is worthy of any woman’s choice.”

“But Tristan is not here!” she cried in anguish.

“Do you doubt him? Always before he has returned to your side.”

“But shall we ever be together?” Isolde’s whole body was racked with shuddering sobs. “Sometimes I think I’ll die before that comes.”

“Take heart, Isolde.” The Lady’s voice was infinitely tender and warm. “You were not fated to live the life that others lead. But the fire of life burns green and strong in your veins.”

“And in Tristan’s?”

“In his, too.” The great shape nodded, bathed in opalescent light. “He was born in the heart of the wood, so he will always be a creature of the land. But his heart flows with goodness as the sea teems with fish. And he will come at last to the land of his heart’s desire.”

“Can I trust him?”

“You must ask that question of yourself, not of him.”

Isolde felt a sudden angry unease. “I don’t understand.”

“Examine yourself,” the lady repeated in the same ringing tones. “Search your own soul. What is Darath to you?”

Isolde threw back her head defiantly. “Nothing but a threat to my kingdom. And I shall deal with that and not with him.”

There was a luminous pause. “Then go your way, Isolde, as woman and queen. Reach out for the three joys of the Goddess, the three gifts She offers to every woman as maiden, mother, and crone: joy in love, the joy of a babe at your breast, and the joy of a life well lived. You have known the bliss of your body’s awakening, and already you have the satisfaction of a life well lived. And now you seek motherhood, too. Will you fill the cup of life to the very brim?”

Isolde’s heart burst in her breast. “Yes, I will!” she cried. “For Tristan and myself. And for the new life we shall bring into the world.”