Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (31 page)

But
all these others
—
who are they?
She huddled under her veil and dared not look around.

She thought she would know the King's nephew Andred again. She could still hear Tristan's hollow voice at her shoulder, "This is my cousin, madam," but the man himself was a blur. She saw the swing of a royal blue cloak and a flash of black hair as he pulled off his cap and bowed. But she could remember no more of him than that.

All she had seen was King Mark, her husband-to-be, a man like an overgrown schoolboy with an ungainly body and odd, middle-aged ways. The Gods had given him muddy skin and dull sandy hair, and his rapid blinking did nothing to enhance his looks. But if he had been the King of the Fair Ones himself, she would not have looked at him. Because he was not Tristan—and could never be.

"Beloved in Christ, we are gathered here…"

The cold of the flagstones was weeping up through her shoes. Mark stood beside her at the frozen altar, his head held high. His lanky body was lavishly decked out in a blood-red gown, trimmed with red fox fur. A long ceremonial sword tapped at his heels, and an ornate silver dagger swung from his belt. On his left hand he wore his coronation ring, a deep blue band of lapis lazuli and gold, and a heavy show of jewels encrusted his right. Proudly he sported Cornwall's ancient crown of gold, and a massive gold chain shone on his chest. Yes—

I came here to make this marriage, and make it I m
ust
. Isolde's will revived. Standing to attention in front of the priest, Mark looked decent enough, a marriageable man. Alone last night in the darkness of the Queen's House in Castle Dore, tenderly taking stock of her body now it was no longer her own, she had nursed her future in her arms and made a solemn vow. What had happened with Tristan must lie in the past. The sacred moment on the ship was outside the world she would inhabit now. She must marry King Mark and live with him as his wife.

Already Mark had shown a respect that had given her hope. After meeting her on the quay with a fanfare of trumpets and drums, he had brought her at once to the castle, where the Queen's House, finely furnished, waited for her. Striding awkwardly around, throwing his arms about, he had shown no signs of forcing himself on her, indeed no eagerness to be alone with her. Crying, "Tomorrow, lady, I shall bring you to the church!" he had vanished, commanding his lords to follow him to the hunt. And that was all she had seen of her husband till now.

My husband.

Yes.

I am marrying this man.

Outside the unglazed window, she could see a winter sun as pale as sea-washed bone. A biting wind blew in through the slit in the wall, bringing with it a random flurry of snow. In a dream she watched the white flakes drifting to the ground.
If I'd married in my own country, the maidens would have rained rose petals on my head and laid garlands heneath my feet. But I am fated to be a winter queen, cold hands, cold heart
—

"Kneel—all kneel to hear the word of the Lord!" intoned the priest.

Goddess, Mother, help me
—

Sinking to her knees beside Mark, she tried to pray. The web of sound wove on.

"
Clamavi in toto corde meo ad te, Domine
—I have called upon you with all my heart, Lord God—" sang Dominian in his strong, clear tones.

"We call upon you, God our Lord, we bear witness to your truth—"

A pace behind him, Simeon struck up the antiphony in a clear tenor, the young voice almost unbroken from his boyhood days.

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"

"I do."

Stiffly Tristan stepped up to Isolde's veiled form, took her hand, and passed it to the King.

"Do you, Mark, take this woman?" Dominian asked.

The red-clad figure at the altar bellowed, "I do!"

Simeon came forward with a cushion bearing a ring. She was suddenly conscious of her father's ring on her right hand—should she have given Mark that? No—
impossible
. She watched as Mark took the wedding ring from Simeon and clumsily tried to force it onto her hand. But it stuck at the knuckle, and would not fit. She told herself not to care.
What did he expect? He never knew the size
.

"Well!" Mark huffed with annoyance in her ear. She clenched her fist to keep the ring in place as Dominian loudly pronounced them man and wife.

"Man and wife! Jesu Maria, we are one!" Chortling, Mark led her on his arm from the chapel, to the cheers of the crowd outside.

"Man and wife!" he chuckled all the way back to the castle, alternately pounding her hand and nudging her in the ribs.

Where am I?
She was adrift on a sea of grief.
And where is Tristan?
she mourned.
Why did he give me away?
She had to ask him that.

But it was not until they reached Castle Dore for the wedding feast that she saw him again, standing with the other young bloods at the knights' table in the center of the hall. As she looked, she thought he threw her a glance of inexpressible pain. But he was so far away that she could not tell.

And where's Brangwain?
Seated somewhere among the ladies, the maid was nowhere in sight. One hostile presence, however, was all too near. Sitting next to a finely dressed lord, surely her husband, to judge from his fat and complacent air, sat the Lady Elva, in a headdress taller than any other in the hall. Her gown was of a luxurious mottled silk, flashing green and yellow in the candlelight and clinging closer to her body than a snake's skin.

From her place at the High Table, enthroned at Mark's side, Isolde distantly noted the array of agates and emeralds, jasper, beryl, and gold adorning Elva's hands, neck, and bosom, and dripping from her ears and waist.
They must all be from the King
, she thought vaguely.
Will he still go on bedding her and rewarding her now that he's married to me? And if he does, will I car
e?

Seeing Elva decked out like a queen was a sharp reminder of how little she had cared to dress like one herself. For the wedding, her mother had given her a magnificent gown of gold encrusted with emeralds shaped like Ireland's trefoils, with a cloak of gold and a veil of gold to match. But she had had no stomach for such array.

Disregarding Brangwain, who produced a dozen gowns almost as fine, she had chosen a simple shift of ivory as pale as a lily, lightly seeded with pearls. Over it she wore a simple cream cloak of wool, and a gossamer veil. She did not know that the plainness of her dress enhanced her alabaster skin and the amber and copper lights shining in her hair.

She did not see, in her misery, that unadorned as she was, she was still the most beautiful woman in the room.

What she caught was a glance of pure poison from Elva's quivering eyes.

She hates me! She will kill me!
flashed into her mind.

The next second, Elva was smiling brightly all around. Isolde held her breath as the rest of the guests swirled into the hall. A sprightly figure paused to greet Elva as he made his way across the hall, and she recognized the King's nephew, Andred, by his flourishing bow. Suddenly the two dark heads were together and whispering, and now it seemed to her that two pairs of hate-filled eyes were staring her way.

They are planning my death
dropped into her mind with the force of a stone down a well. Her head reeled.
I am not myself
.

A servant appeared at her elbow. "Wine, Your Majesty?"

"Fill the Queen's glass!" ordered Mark at her side. He leaned over importantly. "Drink up, sweetheart," he chirped, "you need some color in your cheeks! And be cheerful, you're Queen of Cornwall now!"

Relaxing, he wagged a jovial finger at Sir Nabon sitting opposite, and took a deep swig of his own goblet of wine. "See, Nabon, you all thought I'd go a bachelor to my grave. But this beauty brought me to the altar in the end!"

He means well
, Isolde told herself, and she forced her face to smile.

"As you say, sire," murmured Nabon imperturbably. He raised his goblet. "We drink to you and your bride."

Farther down the table, the venerable Sir Wisbeck, Sir Quirian, and others joined in the toast. Mark drank again, spilling his wine down his chin. He gave a raucous laugh, nudged her, and winked round the table, leering at his knights. "And I'll call her to account before the night is out!" _

Before the night is out
— Resolutely Isolde seized her goblet and drained it down.

The feast wore on. Then suddenly Mark was on his feet, red-faced and swaying, pounding the table with his fist.

"Bring the bride to bed!" he shouted thickly. "Time to make a new heir for Cornwall—Cornwall's next king!"

"At once, Your Majesty."

There was a flurry in the body of the hall. To Isolde's horror, the Lady Elva rose to her feet, and all the court ladies gathered in her wake. Isolde drew a furious breath of disbelief. Already she could see Elva and her cronies swarming into her bedchamber, stripping her of her clothes, scattering flowers and fooling with spells and charms, then rushing out squealing, as Mark and his knights strode in. She had heard of these rituals at other courts, where all the married women joined together to have fun at the expense of the bride.
She is the leading lady of the court
, Tristan had said. Isolde's face set like stone.
Not any more!

She reached for a smile of command, and stood up.

"I thank you, sir," she cried in a ringing tone, "and the court ladies, too. But we keep a different custom in the Western Isle. My maid alone will make me ready tonight."

With a brief curtsy, she strode seething away. From the corner of her eye she saw Brangwain rise hurriedly to her feet in the body of the hall and make for her side.

Mark's loud, boastful cry followed her down the hall.

"Prepare yourself, sweetheart—I shall soon be there!"

Prepare yourself, sweetheart
—
I shall soon be there
!

How dare he make a filthy joke of this?

Trembling, Isolde strode down the hall with Mark's sally ringing in her ears. In its wake came a burst of coarse laughter, and she knew that the traditional wedding jests were flying to and fro. As the wine went round the tables and the candles burned down, the most sacred moment between two souls struggling to become one would become the subject of vile laughter and drunken mirth. Rage flooded her.
Why did I not see how this would be?

"My lady—"

Brangwain caught up with her before she left the hall. As the guards bowed and flung wide the great carved doors, the two women plunged out into the darkness of the night. An icy wind whined and whipped round the courtyard and they gained the shelter of the Queen's House with relief.
But there's no sanctuary here for me
, was Isolde's next thought.
My husband is coming to claim his rights
.

Her stomach turned.
Goddess, Mother, what to do?

The door swung open on a bevy of smiling faces and curtsying girls. Fluttering around like moths, the maids could not contain their excitement as she came in.

"Oh, my lady!"

"Ssshhhh—she's the Queen now, it's 'Your Majesty'!"

"Let the Queen pass," commanded Brangwain as they hurried through, "and keep watch for the King!"

In the great bedchamber, a bright fire burned halfway up the wall, commanded by Brangwain before the feast began. Isolde stood before it in silence as Brangwain unrobed her to her shift, then helped her into a loose chamber gown. Above the sea-green brocade, her eyes were as wild as the ocean, and against the white sable collar, her skin was deathly pale.

Never had Brangwain seen her looking like this. Oh my lady, she grieved—my poor girl—

"Here, madam."

She drew up a chair and settled Isolde by the fire. Then she found a stool, and sat down at her mistress's feet. "Before the King comes, lady—"

"Yes!" Isolde roused herself from her daze. "I won't have his knights in here when they come to bring the bride to bed, d'you hear?"

"I know, lady, I know—leave it to me. But there's something else you must know." She looked at Isolde and hesitated. Was this a good time to speak? No—but Isolde had to hear what she had to say. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "When we left Ireland, your mother gave me a flask—you saw it, lady, in the cabin on the ship."

Isolde sighed. "The small one—made of gold?"

Brangwain nodded unhappily. "The Queen got it from the Nain. She wanted me to give it to you on your wedding night—to share with the King before you lay down with him."

"So?" Isolde tensed. "Why?"

"To settle you to your marriage and King Mark. And your husband would love you all the days of your life."

Isolde's sight faded. A chasm opened at her feet and she saw the cavern, her mother, the elixir, the Nain herself. The hundred-year-old voice, rustling like dried leaves, dropped through the silence of the night.

Whoever drinks this drink will share a lifelong faith and truth. Hatred will never part them, and their love will never die.

She heard the Old One's whisper rise to a scream as the chanting of the attendants sounded behind.
Either shall love the other all the days of their lives!

Brangwain's voice came from very far away. "I brought it onto the ship so you could decide for yourself what to do."

Isolde closed her eyes.
But Tristan found it before I knew, and we drank it together
—

And that is our fate.

We are bound together for life.

Our love will never die.

"Holla within there!"

There was a fearful pounding at the door below. Brangwain listened aghast to the drunken roaring of the knights and the breathless giggles of the maids as they let them in.

Mark's loud cry rang out above the fray. "Give entrance to your King! Bring me to my bride!"

Brangwain's black eyes snapped. "Leave this to me, lady!" she cried as she sped from the room.