Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle Read Online Free PDF Page B

years."
    Merlin preened himself. "Tristan lost?" he cooed, relishing every word. "Not to me."
    He was gratified to see Andred give a violent start. "Tristan lives?"
    "And thrives," Merlin added with delight, "as a
great
warrior, and a man of might. Young as he is, he's famous for his skill."
    "Tristan lives?" echoed Mark, stupefied.
    Merlin's eyes glowed. "He handles a horse as if he were born in the saddle, and on foot he's at one with the woodland, where he hunts at will. And though he's as gentle as a child, he's a big man, and bold enough in combat to match Marhaus."
    Mark leaned forward urgently. "Where is he, Merlin? Can you get him here?"
    Merlin gave a lingering, yellow smile. "I can."
    Andred stepped forward, a look of noble regret on his face. "God knows I wanted to take on this battle myself. But I am ready to yield the combat to him." With tears in his eyes, he knelt before Mark and reached for his uncle's hand. "All that matters is the life of my kinsman and King."
    In tears himself, Mark leapt from the throne and crushed Andred to his chest.
    "Why, there's a lad!" he wept. Over Andred's shoulder he threw Merlin a watery grin. "God has smiled on me, Merlin, no? With a nephew like this and young Tristan to come, Sir Marhaus will rue the day he ever came here."
    Marhaus would rue the day… ?
    Merlin stood in silence, gazing down the corridor of time. So might we all.
    Mark's voice came caroling into his ear. "Get him here, Merlin, will you, no matter what?"

Chapter 5
     
     

Ireland must not attack Cornwall.
    Goddess, Mother, make me strong now
—
    Isolde took a last breath of the crisp spring air and stepped out of the courtyard into the Queen's House. Ahead of her beckoned a bright space warmed by the evening sun, the oak floor gleaming with beeswax and a cheerful fruitwood fire burning on the hearth.
    Brangwain came forward, shooing the maids away. "This way, my lady. I'll tell the Queen you are here."
    Isolde nodded. "Thank you, Brangwain."
    She moved into the chamber, scarcely noticing the lofty ceiling with its massive beams, the warm loam-washed walls, and the clusters of little swan lamps, sheltering their flames between upreared wings. But as Brangwain put her finger to her lips, ushered her into the inner room, and closed the door, she saw that all the windows were covered with heavy drapes, and her heart plunged. She knew what it meant when the Queen shut out the sun.
    Oh, Mother, Mother, why do you suffer so?
    When was it she first knew that the warrior queen, racing joyfully in her chariot round the field, or pitting her horse against the fleetest of her knights, was only one of the many souls that lived in her mother's fine frame? That the Queen's spirit could change as swiftly as a bird in flight, leaving those around her trailing in her wake?
    And the lovers—how often had Isolde seen her radiant with love, rejuvenated with desirs, hanging on the neck of a new companion of the throne? Then there would be music and dancing, with the haunting pipes wailing of grief and joy and the candles burning down to their sockets as long as the wine went around. Isolde sighed. How she had wished for that love herself when her time came!
    Yet always there was the loss and the terror of loss, when the chosen one failed. Sir Nevin had betrayed the Queen with one of her own maids, brutally philandering under her very nose; Sir Fortis had rashly challenged the best of Arthur's knights and broken his neck in a joust, trailing the Queen's bright favor in the dust; Sir Turath had married another and fled the land; Sir Eilan…
    From childhood she had wept with her mother, shared her fears, and shrunk from her public shame. And always she had known that this way of living and loving was not for her. The Queen had been eager to welcome her to the ranks of womanhood, pressing her to take a lover as soon as she could, but always Isolde resisted, though she hardly knew why. Now she thought of the procession of men