Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (24 page)

"You'd fight us at our weakest," scoffed Lucan, "and call it knighthood?"

"Prowess, sir," came the gentle correction. "Every knight must build his reputation by the sport of arms."

Kay could take no more. "Hold your tongue, sir," he snapped, "if I must fight you, tomorrow you shall have your sport. But we've heard enough from you for one day!"

"Now, Kay," Gawain chided thickly, "don't be unchivalrous." The great fair head wagged drunkenly from side to side. "Our host makes the challenge, so he has the right to set the terms."

Three pairs of eyes turned on Gawain in rage. "Gawain—" threatened Lucan.

"No, no, it's what d'you call it? Prowess?" Gawain protested loudly. He reached for his goblet, took a deep swig of his wine, then stumbled to his feet. His left hand fumbled around his body, reaching into his breeches to scratch himself as unselfconsciously as a child. "A toast!" he brayed. "A toast!"

"Gawain, sit down!" Kay yelped in a blind rage. He could see the knights around the wall nudging each other and sniggering, and he smarted with shame.

"Iss all right, Kay," Gawain mumbled, closing his eyes. "Our host's a man of honor an' a true knight." He waved his goblet at Sir Turquin and swayed dangerously. "Sir, lemme shake your hand."

Sir Turquin gave a scornful laugh and held up his hand in reproof. "Sir Gawain, you're in no fit state—"

"No, no, man of honor." Gawain set down his goblet, lunged forward, and grabbed Turquin's hand. "Shake," he mouthed.

"What—?" The next moment Turquin found himself jerked forward violently as Gawain pinned his arm to the table, and with his free hand sank the point of a dagger behind Turquin's ear.

"Where's your prowess now?" the big knight exulted in a voice suddenly not drunken at all. "It's all over, Turquin—-give up your challenge, or die!"

Turning, Kay saw Turquin's knights spring into horrified action, swords in hand. "Drop your weapons, all of you," he shouted, "or your lord dies!"

The leading knight hesitated. "My lord?" he appealed at last.

Turquin swiveled his ill-matched eyes, dumb with shock.

"He dies!" Gawain sang out joyfully. The battle cry of the Orkneys rang in his ears. He pushed Turquin's head down on the table and twisted the knife.

"Drop your swords!" came a shriek from the prostrate form.

One by one the knights' weapons fell to the ground. Lucan and Bedivere leapt to their feet and gathered them up. Exuberantly Gawain jabbed the dagger into Turquin's neck and grinned to see the bright spout of blood.

"Make your choice, villain!" he cried. "What is it—yield, or die?"

There was an endless pause. Then it came, like a dying gasp. "I yield."

Almost regretfully, Gawain lowered his dagger. Lucan and Bedivere seized Turquin by the arms and heaved him to his feet. Turquin's face was twisted with rage, and his unmatched eyes were spinning like wheels of fire.

"Well, sirs," he gasped. "You have beaten me." Breathing deeply, he struggled to find a normal voice. "The terms of my challenge are fulfilled. You are free to go."

There was a pause. "Alas, sir, no," came Bedivere's quiet voice. "You are no longer lord of Castle Malheur. It is Gawain's now, by the fortunes of war."

"And I yield it to the King," Gawain cried.

Kay nodded, a flush of wonder filling his sallow face. Gods above, Gawain had done well! He turned to face Turquin's knights. "From now on, you are knights of King Arthur and owe your duty to him."

"At the Round Table?" breathed the leader openmouthed, a world of new visions dancing before his eyes.

"Perhaps, in time." Kay waved him away. "Lead your men to Camelot to swear allegiance to the King and Queen."

"Yes, sir!" He knelt to kiss Kay's hand, then, with a word of command, led the knights from the hall.

Kay turned back to Sir Turquin. "You'll spend the night with us, under armed guard. Tomorrow you will go to King Arthur, too, and submit yourself to judgment at the King's hands." He looked at the tortured face, and felt his pity stir. "He and Queen Guenevere have sworn to rid the land of rogue knights. But if you truly wish to learn chivalry, you may find it there."

Lucan turned to Gawain. "And in the meantime, my friend," he said admiringly, clapping the big knight on the back, "you can tell us how you did it. I thought you were drunk!"

Gawain laughed. "No more than usual," he said magnanimously. "And never too drunk to take an insult to the Round Table lying down."

"But the dagger," Bedivere puzzled. "They unarmed us when we came in. Where did that come from?"

Kay looked fondly at Gawain. "You had it up your sleeve."

"Ah, Kay," roared Gawain gleefully. "Never ask an Orkneyman where he keeps his secret weapon—in the name of chivalry!"

"Lady, lady—"

Farewell,
she had said.

Again and again he heard her voice ringing over the headland, and knew that she had put her heart into that parting cry.

Farewell.

There was no way back for him to the Western Isle.

All he could do was hope to forget—not Isolde herself, but the worst of the pain. On the voyage back, he kept to his cabin while his wounds healed, and the captain, a decent man, left him alone. The cliffs of Cornwall greeted him through veils of mist and rain, and there was a melancholy comfort in coming home. But there was no home for him till he could lay his head on Isolde's breast.

Lying in his chamber in Castle Dore, Tristan gazed out on a November landscape as drear as his hopes. Like the gray, sunless dawn, everything was dead to him now. Even Cornwall, once loved as much as his own land of Lyonesse, was drab and meaningless, a foreign place. He thought of the Western Isle and his sorrow welled up afresh.
To be in Ireland now with the woman of the dream…

But she does not dream of you,
came his inner voice.

She could!
he protested vainly, soul in hand.

Once, perhaps. Not now.

Goddess, Mother, just to hold her, to rest in her arms!
Grief as sharp as elf arrows struck him to the heart.
Farewell,
she had said, and
You are nothing to me now.
He would never touch her, kiss her, see her bright eyes again. He leapt to his feet, every breath a torment to his aching soul. The spacious chamber Mark had furnished for him felt like a cell. The warm loam-colored walls, the beeswax-scented boards, the fire laid ready on the hearth all mocked him with a comfort he could not feel.
Out,
he thought numbly,
I must get out.
He would walk or ride, he would go with the King to the hunt. He would take a turn in the tiltyard to build up his strength.

He would… he would… Tears filled his eyes.

Would he always be a poor thing now that she had gone? He stumbled toward the door, feeling his big body a burden, his whole being a barrier to his dreams. Outside the window lay a dank and wintry day. But even a wet and windy ride was better than this.

Oh, my lady—my love—

Visions of her came back to him like knives, the sun on her shiny hair, her smiling eyes, her green gown. One by one the losses crowded in.
I left Glaeve behind, and my silver harp,
he mourned. But what were they against losing her? Dully he tried to choke the remembrance back. He was gagging with misery, hardly able to breathe.

Out—he must get out—

Standing by the door were his riding boots, whip, and cloak. He had not eaten for days, and knew he should break his fast. But whatever he ate felt like dust and ashes in his mouth. Surging blindly out of his chamber, he took the nearest way to the stable yard, desperate to miss King Mark and all the court. As he rushed round a corner he saw too late the very thing that he wanted to avoid. Outside the Council Chamber he blundered into the King and his knights and lords, some also headed for the stable yard, to judge by their dress.

"Nephew!" caroled Mark, throwing wide his arms.

Tristan pulled up, a flush of embarrassment staining his face. "My lord!" he cried awkwardly, fumbling a bow.

He was suddenly aware of Sir Nabon, Sir Wisbeck, and others clustering round Mark, their expressions dark. With them stood Sir Andred, his face studiously blank.

"I was just about to send for you to the hunt!" Mark stepped forward and hugged Tristan to his chest. His moist eyes filled with tears. "By sweet Jesus, nephew, you are welcome to me."

Sir Nabon frowned and exchanged a glance with Quirian, signaling his impatience to be gone. Tristan sensed a tense and hostile atmosphere, and knew that for the barons at least, the council had not gone well. He forced a smile.

"You honor me, sire." With a sinking heart he saw Andred's dark stare turning his way.
Let me go!
he cried inside,
I am not wanted here.

Mark peered at Tristan, dimly noting his gray face and desolate air. "Fully recovered, no? They tell me you do well in the tiltyard these days." He laughed jovially to cover his perplexity, and waved at his lords. "I'll have to send all my knights to take lessons from you!"

Now Andred's gaze was matched by twenty and more cold stares. Tristan could not meet the wall of eyes. "As you say, sire," he muttered.

Out—must get out—
pounded inside his head. He knew he should have eaten. Too late now. He closed his eyes and felt the world rushing away.
Out—out of this forever—never to return—

"Nephew, are you well?"

He felt a hand gripping his forearm and opened his eyes on his uncle's fearful face. He shook his head, unable to reply.

Mark cast a glance around at his knights and lords and waved them away. "Leave me, all of you!" he cried. "Wait for me in the stable yard, those of you who will hunt."

Murmuring, the pack moved off. Mark drew Tristan back into the Council Chamber and closed the door. The remains of a dying fire smoked on the hearth and the room was still thick with the angry arguments of those who had gone. Tristan's empty stomach betrayed him, and his gorge rose.

Mark leaned forward anxiously. "What's the matter, nephew? You look sick again!"

Tristan tried to collect himself. "I'm not sick, sire," he began huskily.

"But not well either!" Mark moved around the chamber with a jerky, resentful stride. "God's blood, I'd give my kingdom to see you right again!"

Tristan flinched.
I shall never be right again now that she has gone.

"I thought your wounds were healed in Ireland," Mark rambled on. "Was it a bad place for you, after all?"

Bad?
Tristan heard himself laugh.

"It is the fairest place on all the earth," he said, struggling to rouse himself from his misery. "They have green meadows fed by sunshine and watered by soft rain, and upland pastures breathing clover and shamrock to the air. The coastline there is even lovelier than ours, sheltered harbors, bold headlands, and a silver sea—"

His soul filled till he knew it would overflow. "Believe me, sire," he said choking, "all the world is there!"

"But you went there to get well," Mark said peevishly. "And you're not." He wagged his head fretfully, wishing he was out in the saddle, not having to deal with this. "When we sent you to that healer—what's her name?"

"Isolde," said Tristan numbly.

"Yes, that's it." Mark laughed dismissively. "They said she was the best in all the isles. And now look at you."

How dare he?
Tristan felt an ugly flush on the back of his neck. Anger flooded him, and he found his voice. "She's truly a wonder, sire. The people call her La Belle Isolde for her goodness to them. And she healed me."

"What ails you, then?" Mark cried.

Tristan tried to still the roaring in his ears. "I have a—a trouble, sire," he said with difficulty.

"Why, so have I!" said Mark. His mind roamed back to the stormy meeting with his councillors, and his owlish eyes opened wide. "What's yours, nephew?"

Goddess, Mother, where can I begin?
"Forgive me, sire," he mumbled, "it's a deep thing—"

"Mine, too!" Mark burst out.

"Then Your Majesty should speak first."

"Yes, yes, I will."

A glorious scheme was hatching in Mark's cloudy brain. Now he would show them all what a king could do! He would settle Tristan's troubles and his own, and still be out on horseback before the hour was through.

"Come, nephew," he said impulsively. "I'm King here after all! If you help me, I swear I'll see you get your heart's desire."

My…

Can it be?

Tristan's soul staggered with the shock of sudden hope. Isolde, Isolde, flooded his veins. He could hardly speak. "What is your trouble, sire— and what is your will?"

Mark threw himself into a chair like a spoiled child. "Nabon and the others give me no peace! They want me to marry, and I've got to do something, I know. I thought when you came back they'd let it go, but they're as bad as before." He attempted a careless laugh. "They say I must give the kingdom a son of my own. Always jabbering like jackdaws, there's no end to it."

"Sire—" Tristan shook his head. He did not know what to say.

"And I should marry, I suppose," moaned Mark. "But where? Who?" He rolled his eyes. "Help me with that, nephew," he added sarcastically, "and I dare swear I can solve any trouble of yours."

Can it be?
Tristan felt his hopes swelling into life. He took his soul into his hands. "In Ireland, sire," he forced out. "There's a lady—the one who healed me, the Princess Isolde—"

"In Ireland?" Mark stared at him. "The Princess? Aha!" He gave a peculiar laugh. "She's a healer, you say, but is she healthy herself?"

"Sire?" Tristan's brain reeled. "What do you mean?"

A sly look crept over Mark's dull face. "I mean young, well-fleshed, a good breeder—long, strong limbs like mine, all her own teeth—"

What's he thinking of? Tristan thought numbly. "Yes, indeed, sir," he mumbled, at a loss.

"And what about the mother?"

Gods above, what now? Tristan tried to gather his wits. "The Queen, sire?" The old wound on his thigh was beginning to ache. "A great beauty, and a famous warrior."