Read Online Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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sigh of relief. It was worth any trial to be away from court.
This forest could be the worst place in the world, but we are together, I am with
my love.
Joyfully, she drew the living air of the forest into her lungs, the moist, clean smell of the leaf-mold, the pure breath of the trees. There was no evil in nature, she was sure of that. If any darkness lay hidden in this forest, it came from the heart of man.
Man . . .
She felt the faintest prompting of unease. “Sir . . .” She called up to Tristan riding ahead. “Who owns this land?”
“The forest, my lady?” Tristan frowned and reined back. “No knight that I know of.”
He paused as half-remembered rumors nagged at his mind. What was it he’d heard, a rogue knight who lived here unseen, lord of a disappearing castle that no man could find again? He suppressed a snort of disgust. Nonsense, every word, like the tales of the Fair Ones coming out of their green hills and hollows to steal mortals away. They were all armed, including the women, Isolde riding with her mother’s broadsword at her side and Brangwain ringed with steel. And escorted by Castle Dore’s best troops, they had nothing to fear. No, there was no need to trouble the Queen with this.
But Isolde knew him too well. “What is it? We don’t have to go this way, after all. We could miss out the forest and go by the high road.”
“Madam, we must get to Ireland by the shortest route,” Tristan said brusquely.
Isolde sighed. “I know. I fear we have wasted too much time as it is. Merlin never in his life sent a warning in vain.”
Tristan nodded. “Onward, lady!” he said crisply, and on they went.
Slow as a slug, the winter sun crawled up the sky. But little of its warmth reached the earth below. Underneath the trees lay a dimly lit, cold, green world, and the deeper they went into the forest, the darker it became.
Now the undergrowth itself looked pale and sick, as if tainted by some evil in the heart of the wood. But Isolde saw glossy ivy and sturdy honeysuckle on every tree, and had to smile. Years ago she and Tristan had vowed to be just as faithfully entwined, two living creatures growing together as one. She greeted them now like old friends:
how are you,
my dears? I am glad to see you here.
At the head of the troop she saw Tristan lift his head sharply and read his face at once. He could hear the glowworm polishing his lamp in the grass or the smallest ladybird calling her children home. “What’s amiss?” she called.
He shook his head. “Nothing I can see.”
Brangwain stirred uneasily. “My lady—”
She could see the warning in the maid’s clever dark eyes. Like all those from the Welshlands, Brangwain was Merlin’s kin and saw more than mortal sight. She turned to Tristan again. “Should we turn back?”
He shook his head. “Anyone in the forest knows that we’re here. If they want to take us, they could ambush us any time. But they’ll probably leave us alone. No ruffians will attack a mounted troop, and outlaws have every reason to lie low.”
“So we press on?”
With an effort, she resisted the urge to smile into his eyes. Even here among a handful of trusted men, she had to be careful not to betray their love.
But in Ireland, in my own land, surely we’ll be free?
Her heart lurched.
No, not even there, as long as there are prying eyes and tattling mouths, burning to carry bad words back to Mark.
Suppressing the ache in her heart, she drove her horse on.
The short day was ending and it was darker now. The path had dwindled to a winding trail, and the raw cold and damp were settling into their bones. Yet Isolde’s spirits were growing lighter with every step. Surely Tristan was right. If any villains were sheltering in the wood, they must have decided by now to leave them alone.
Ahead of them the path widened into a clearing closely walled by trees. Here, great clusters of ivy rioted with the faithful honeysuckle, hand in hand amid banks of bracken
This forest could be the worst place in the world, but we are together, I am with
my love.
Joyfully, she drew the living air of the forest into her lungs, the moist, clean smell of the leaf-mold, the pure breath of the trees. There was no evil in nature, she was sure of that. If any darkness lay hidden in this forest, it came from the heart of man.
Man . . .
She felt the faintest prompting of unease. “Sir . . .” She called up to Tristan riding ahead. “Who owns this land?”
“The forest, my lady?” Tristan frowned and reined back. “No knight that I know of.”
He paused as half-remembered rumors nagged at his mind. What was it he’d heard, a rogue knight who lived here unseen, lord of a disappearing castle that no man could find again? He suppressed a snort of disgust. Nonsense, every word, like the tales of the Fair Ones coming out of their green hills and hollows to steal mortals away. They were all armed, including the women, Isolde riding with her mother’s broadsword at her side and Brangwain ringed with steel. And escorted by Castle Dore’s best troops, they had nothing to fear. No, there was no need to trouble the Queen with this.
But Isolde knew him too well. “What is it? We don’t have to go this way, after all. We could miss out the forest and go by the high road.”
“Madam, we must get to Ireland by the shortest route,” Tristan said brusquely.
Isolde sighed. “I know. I fear we have wasted too much time as it is. Merlin never in his life sent a warning in vain.”
Tristan nodded. “Onward, lady!” he said crisply, and on they went.
Slow as a slug, the winter sun crawled up the sky. But little of its warmth reached the earth below. Underneath the trees lay a dimly lit, cold, green world, and the deeper they went into the forest, the darker it became.
Now the undergrowth itself looked pale and sick, as if tainted by some evil in the heart of the wood. But Isolde saw glossy ivy and sturdy honeysuckle on every tree, and had to smile. Years ago she and Tristan had vowed to be just as faithfully entwined, two living creatures growing together as one. She greeted them now like old friends:
how are you,
my dears? I am glad to see you here.
At the head of the troop she saw Tristan lift his head sharply and read his face at once. He could hear the glowworm polishing his lamp in the grass or the smallest ladybird calling her children home. “What’s amiss?” she called.
He shook his head. “Nothing I can see.”
Brangwain stirred uneasily. “My lady—”
She could see the warning in the maid’s clever dark eyes. Like all those from the Welshlands, Brangwain was Merlin’s kin and saw more than mortal sight. She turned to Tristan again. “Should we turn back?”
He shook his head. “Anyone in the forest knows that we’re here. If they want to take us, they could ambush us any time. But they’ll probably leave us alone. No ruffians will attack a mounted troop, and outlaws have every reason to lie low.”
“So we press on?”
With an effort, she resisted the urge to smile into his eyes. Even here among a handful of trusted men, she had to be careful not to betray their love.
But in Ireland, in my own land, surely we’ll be free?
Her heart lurched.
No, not even there, as long as there are prying eyes and tattling mouths, burning to carry bad words back to Mark.
Suppressing the ache in her heart, she drove her horse on.
The short day was ending and it was darker now. The path had dwindled to a winding trail, and the raw cold and damp were settling into their bones. Yet Isolde’s spirits were growing lighter with every step. Surely Tristan was right. If any villains were sheltering in the wood, they must have decided by now to leave them alone.
Ahead of them the path widened into a clearing closely walled by trees. Here, great clusters of ivy rioted with the faithful honeysuckle, hand in hand amid banks of bracken
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