Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (45 page)

And on, and on.

Isolde threw it down and paced about the room. Guenevere a mother? At the tournament, she'd shown no sign of a child on the way.
Gods above, I have lost count of time. My life is drifting past me in a dream
.

Or was it the tournament itself that had brought this about? With a wistful pang she remembered Arthur's high spirits on the day they left and Guenevere's drowsy bedtime eyes at noon. The relief they shared that Arthur had not fathered Lienore's child may well have brought little Amir into the world.

Goddess, Mother, why can't I be glad for Guenevere? Is it because she has her own kingdom, her true love, and now her precious child while I have none of these?

Yet she did not feel jealous. In truth she felt nothing, all winter long.

With each day, life settled into a rhythm akin to sleep. Mark treated her with courtesy and a new respect. Dominian, too, had learned of her strength, and kept away from court. When he appeared, like Mark he looked at her with fresh eyes and a new humility. His failure with her, she could not help thinking, had been good for the little priest's soul.

Then one day came a soft wind from the west. The earth murmured and stirred, waking from its winter sleep. Isolde breathed the new sweetness in the air and saw the streams thawing and the rivers beginning to flow. Green shoots cracked the dryness of her heart and fleeting thoughts and impulses visited her in dreams. At last she awoke in a pool of warm, clear light, and knew what she had to do.

She found Mark in the King's House, calling for his knights.

"You're going to Tintagel?" He stared at her. "Then on to Ireland to visit the Queen?"

"I should call upon Queen Igraine to pay my respects. And from there I can take ship for the Western Isle. My mother must see me, she says. She has been writing to me all winter long."

"Yes, well—"

Isolde away? And for a long time, too? Mark looked ahead down a long sunlit avenue of bachelor days. His favorite hound thrust a wet nose into his palm and he saw untrammeled hours of hunting with his knights and roughing it in the forest, no more dining at the High Table next to the Queen.

Gods above! Mark's unsteady mind reeled at the visions of joy ahead. He could make Elva mistress of some quiet hunting lodge in the wood, and visit her anytime. He could have Dominian back as his confessor, now that he'd learned his lesson and was so much easier now. On feast days he could be drunk at breakfast, insensible by noon.

He could—

He could—

Standing quietly at Mark's side, Andred read his uncle's thoughts and enjoyed his own. Tristan was already done for and out of the way. With Isolde gone, too, there would be no threat from her. Mark would be his from morning to night—when not otherwise occupied in Elva's good hands--

Thoughtfully Andred stroked his upper lip. The elf mark glowed under his fingers as his mind played on. Already he could guess which of the lonely hunting lodges would be Mark's love nest, and looked ahead to safe secret hours with Elva when Mark had gone. He hid a discreet smile behind his hand. This was good. It could be very good.

Mark thought so, too. "Go with God, lady!" he cried, kissing Isolde's hand. "And don't hurry your business, return whenever you will!"

Within days she was on the road, leaving Castle Dore to the loud blessings of the townsfolk and cheery exhortations to speed her return. Sighing, she settled herself to the journey ahead. It was still early in the year for traveling, and the going was hard. The tracks were clogged with mud and the horses were slow, struggling uphill all the way. But every painful step, they heard the calling of the sea. Now as twilight came down, the great bluff of Tintagel reared up to meet them, massive and wild. Once they crested the ridge, the ancient fortification lay before them in the dusk.

Overhead, gulls fled crying to their nests, and the sky was melting down in bronze and gold. As they rested their horses at the top, the bruised scent of wild thyme rose from beneath their feet, and the red earth bloomed like passion as rich as blood. On the edge of the cliff ahead stood a castle, defended by a ring of stout walls. Beyond it, out in the bay, lay an inner castle, built on a massive rock rising above the waves, connected to the land by a fragile outcrop of stone. Washed roundabout by the sea and reached only by a flight of stone across the void, this truly was the loneliest place on earth. And this was the home of Arthur's mother, old Queen Igraine.

Slowly they wound down the hill to the outer gate.

"Here, ma'am?" cried the captain of the guard.

"Yes, soldier," Brangwain called back. "Say that Queen Isolde of Cornwall and Ireland craves an audience with their Queen."

Within minutes, the gates swung open and a mounted knight appeared in the courtyard beyond. "This way, Your Majesty. Queen Igraine will see you tonight."

The outer castle was bigger than it seemed. The knight led them through courtyard after courtyard till they reached the edge of the cliff. Ahead lay the rocky islet crowned by the Queen's castle, and the flight of stone steps leading across the gulf. In the cliff face below, the sea thundered in and out of a mighty cave. The knight followed her eyes and laughed.

"That's Merlin's cave, madam. Not that we see Lord Merlin when he comes. Queen Igraine is the only one who knows his whereabouts." He gestured ahead. "Follow me."

Night had fallen, and it was very dark. The breeze off the sea was rising to a gale. The knight's words were whipped away by the wind. "This way, lady—this way!"

She never knew how she crossed the thin ribbon of stone across the black chasm over the waves below. As she ventured out, she thought that dark things tugged at her, swooping around her head, and she heard elfin voices calling,
Come! Come!
The knight gave her his hand, but when the wind roared round, beating them to their knees, she gave her soul into the hands of the Great One and prepared to die.

Goddess, Mother, bring me to my love
—

Did she imagine what she felt then, the warm whisperings in the heart of the storm and strong unseen hands bearing her up? But suddenly the rocky bridge felt safer beneath her feet and as she struggled on, a light glowed in the castle ahead.

At last they gained the safety of the other side. At the top of the steps was a tiny postern gate. As the knight set his hand to the latch, a wisp of memory fluttered into her mind.
When Uther Pendragon fell in love with Queen Igraine, he made a bargain with Merlin to possess the Queen. The old enchanter demanded the child of the encounter as his reward, and the newborn Arthur was given to him out at a postern gate to nourish as his own
.

Here then was the start of Arthur's story, the beginning of the journey that had led to Guenevere and Camelot.

Ghosts
—
ghosts
—

The knight pushed open the gate and she drew a ragged breath.
There are many ghosts in this place. Perhaps Igraine herself will prove to be a phantom, a spirit fetch. Or else my own hopes are deceiving me
.

They stepped into a deserted courtyard beyond and passed through the echoing halls of a darkened house. Where she would have expected servants, torches, bright fires, there was no one to be seen. The voice of the knight sounded again and again. "This way, my lady—this way."

One hall led into another, all dark, linked by long corridors and flights of stairs. She could not count how many steps they climbed. Here and there she caught the swift scurry of feet or turned to see the benign amber gaze of a pair of small eyes shining in the gloom. Everywhere came the dull, rhythmic pounding of the surge. But nothing else stirred in the vast sea-girt house.

Up they went, and up. Now the ceilings were getting lower and the passageways were narrowing down. The last one ended at a fine arched door, set low in the wall. The knight came to a halt.

"I shall be here for your return, my lady," he said. Then he threw open the door without knocking, and bowed her through. "Thank you, sir."

At first she thought she had stepped out into the heavens, in a place beyond the stars. Ahead of her stretched a great airy chamber at the top of the castle, its vast windows giving out onto endless night. In the center of the room stood a tall, aged woman, crowned with white hair like snow. She wore a strangely wrought diadem of moonstones and pearls and held an antique staff of gold in her hand. A flowing gown of blue-green silk fell in rich folds to her feet, and her silver cloak and veil frothed to the floor like foam.

Isolde made her deepest curtsey. "Queen Igraine!" A sweet tang hung in the air like the breeze off the sea. The Queen fixed Isolde with great liquid eyes, and the stars in the sky made a ring around her head. "Welcome, Isolde. What brings you here?"

The mellow voice seemed to echo from Avalon and beyond. The golden wand sang softly in the old Queen's hand and Isolde reached for her strength.
Goddess, Mother, help me
—

"I have come to ask for your help," she said at last. "King Mark has sworn a blood feud against Sir Tristan, my knight. Tristan has been driven out of Cornwall, never to return."

"So I hear." Igraine inclined her head. "Go on."

Now Isolde could see the trials of the older woman's life engraved on her deeply lined face, and she shuddered at the world of experience that had shaped the strong cheekbones and chin. Suddenly she knew that Igraine had borne suffering beyond measure, almost beyond speech. Yet there was no doubting the warmth of her concern nor the undefeated radiance of her inner joy. "Elf-shining," they called this look in the ancient days.
Goddess, Mother, will I have it when I'm old?

Isolde held out her hands. "You are Mark's overlord, and whatever you decree, he must obey. I don't believe he truly wants Tristan dead. Tristan is his only sister's son, and Tristan has no other kin but him. I beg you to reconcile them and end this feud. I'm sure Mark would make peace if he could."

"Peace, Isolde? Is that what Mark really wants?" Igraine paused somberly for thought. "Some men are ever hungry, like the sea. Others are filled with the spirit of giving, as the sea teems with fish. I suspect that is true of Mark and Tristan."

Oh, my love, my love
—

Isolde steadied her voice. "Can you save him, madam?"

She held her breath as doubt and hope played over Igraine's lovely face.

"For thousands of years," the Queen said, "men have gone to war. All that time, women have prayed for peace. I dream of these islands becoming one, all our people living in harmony, not dying in hate." She gave a luminous smile. "Men like Tristan are the lifeblood of my hopes. So I shall save him, Isolde, never fear."

Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks to you!

Igraine saw the tears in Isolde's eyes and smiled again. "Mark cannot sustain a blood feud when no blood has been shed. And with Norse invaders to fight, we cannot afford blood feuds here at home. I shall write to him and call on him to make peace. If he still lusts for blood, I'll order him to go with Arthur to the Saxon shore." A wry smile lit the shrewd, ageless face. "I think Mark will choose to obey rather than face the horned men from the North!"

Isolde hesitated. "But won't he still want his revenge?"

The Queen shook her head. "Mark's memory is as shallow as his soul and his weak nature cannot nurse an injury for long. He will forgive Tristan, as he forgave you."

Isolde nodded. She knew she should feel relief. But what now?

Emptiness overwhelmed her. Suddenly she was a girl again on Avalon, adrift and afraid. "Lady, what shall I do?"

Igraine came forward and warmly clasped her hands. "Go forward without fear," she said. "You are out of danger now. By completing the ordeal you have shown yourself free from guilt, and no man can accuse you of treason or falseness of heart."
Forward without fear? Without sadness, too
?

No,
not even the Lady herself can promise me that
.

The Queen pressed her hand. "Go to Ireland, Isolde. Your fate lies there. And I have something to help you on your way."

From a table at her side she took up a glinting object, an odd, round, heavy locket on a long gold chain.

"Wear this," she ordered, placing it around Isolde's neck. "You will need it in Ireland, perhaps sooner than you think." She clutched at it in fear. "Why, madam?"

The old Queen smiled. All the wisdom of her years stood in her eyes. "When the moment comes, you will know. Now my knight will guide you back the way you came. A ship lies provisioned for you at the foot of the bay. Go to your mother, and guide her wandering steps."
Wandering steps?
A wave of unpleasant memory washed over her.
Mother, yes
—
but must I deal with Sir Tolen, too?

Igraine smiled. "Remember, Isolde, a queen must have her knights. You will know this when you follow your mother as Queen of the Western Isle. Embrace your destiny and it will embrace you."

Isolde moved sadly to the door. Hovering on the threshold, she turned to say farewell. The lights in the chamber had dimmed and the tall, stately figure was already fading from view.

The musical voice reached her through the mist. "Farewell, Isolde. Return when you will; you will always find shelter here."

The green hills rose out of the still water, calling her home. The sea was as smooth as a lake, its little curling waves lapping the shore. Like a hunter home from the hill, the ship nosed up to the quay and came to rest. Standing in the prow, Isolde filled her lungs with the sweet clean air and felt the glory of the place enter her soul.

Erin
—

Ireland
—

Home,

A soft rain was falling like the kiss of the Gods. She cocked an eye at the sun through its veil of mist. Noon already, and they'd been making land since dawn. The boat would have been sighted, the welcome prepared. The Queen would be waiting in the palace for her embrace.

Duhh Lein
—

Mother
—