Read Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels for Free Online Page B

a vassal of the old Queen Igraine, and not a man of power in his own right? When these Queens like Igraine and Isolde traced their rights from the Great Mother, then the sooner the Old Faith was destroyed, the better it would be. Why, even King Arthur, High King of all the land, still deferred to his mother as Cornwall’s overlord. So Queen Igraine’s hold over Mark was absolute. Darkness and devils, he prayed to his Gods of blood and bone, bring the Christians to power as soon as may be!
    The Christians—they knew that God had granted women to be subject to men. The King’s confessor, Father Dominian, had been cursed by his Maker with a poor, twisted frame, but his sharp mind held that idea above all. Moreover, he was determined that this truth would be known throughout the islands, come what may. Looking at the black-clad priest, Andred’s spirits rose. Between them, they would surely win the day.
    “Yes, the Queen’s back, nephew, what do you think of that?” cried Mark in boisterous tones.
    Smiling, Andred eased himself into the task of dispelling his uncle’s good humor with seeds of doubt.
    “Then let me assist you to make ready for Ireland without delay,” he said encouragingly.
    Mark stared. “What?”
    “And Sir Tristan will remain behind, of course.”
    Mark shook his head. What in the name of God was Andred trying to say? “What d’you mean, nephew?”
    “Sire . . .” Andred treated him to another smile. “Surely Sir Tristan should stay here in your place. Your Majesty will want to accompany the Queen yourself.”
    “To Ireland?” Mark started. “Why, in heaven’s name?”
    To assert your sovereignty, fool! Andred wanted to shrill in the King’s ear. To be there as Isolde’s King when she claims the throne, and so advance your own right to rule! Carefully, he veiled his gaze and pressed on.
    “Her Majesty is recently bereaved,” he said unctuously. “She must welcome your support.”
    Mark threw an uneasy glance his way. “Surely Isolde can handle this alone?”
    He is afraid, thought Andred pitilessly. He fears to lift a sword in his wife’s behalf. Gods above, a king and afraid? The old cry of anguish ran through his veins again: if I were King . . .
    Dominian thrust forward his head on its twisted neck. “But the Queen is not alone. You are her husband, sire, and she must welcome your support. Indeed, perhaps if you and the Queen were together in Ireland as man and wife—”
    “No!” Mark leapt up, twitching in every limb. After ten years, he knew that the secret of Isolde’s childlessness was known to every soul in Castle Dore, but he was damned if he’d have it noised about like this! And he was double-damned if he’d let some eunuch of a priest lecture him on the duties of the marriage-bed.
    He folded his arms and struck a commanding pose. “I shall not go to Ireland. I am needed here. I’ll send a troop of men along with the Queen, an army if she wants. But she must be in command.”
    Andred nodded toward the door. His ears had picked up sounds that others had missed, the jingle of approaching spurs and the swish of a gown. “Then you may tell her so yourself, Uncle, for here she is.”
    The King’s Chamber was sour with the smell of dogs and the stale overlay of last night’s drink. A tangle of wolfhounds sprawled on the floor and an overturned goblet lay at the side of Mark’s throne, unheeded by all. Isolde caught her breath.
Goddess, Mother, the foul smell in here!
Well, Mark always passed his time like this when she was away. So be it.
    She moved forward, feeling for whatever comfort she could find. “Your Majesty.” She curtsied to Mark and bowed greetings to Andred and the priest.
    “No, no, I must say Your Majesty to you!” Mark caroled fatuously, with an ungainly bow. “We meet as monarch to monarch now, not husband and wife.”
    Isolde held back a sigh. “I have to go to Ireland, sir,” she said.
    “But of course. Your kingdom awaits you, and you