Isolde by Rosalind Miles

Author:Rosalind Miles
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

The horizon was lost in a line of blinding spray. The ship bucked and reared in the storm like a runaway horse, as wall after wall of water broke over her prow. The wind howled through the rigging and all around him the sailors were scrambling up and down, some white-faced and silent, some volubly cursing their gods. Turning, Tristan left the deck and went down to his cabin, praying for death.

But the little ship would survive the storm, he knew. The tough Cornish craft had seen worse seas than this. It was late in the season to sail, and the voyage was hard. But no one doubted they would reach Dubh Lein alive.

He was chilled to the bone. His lips were cracked, and he could taste the salt spray on his face like tears. Shivering, he pulled off his wet clothes and threw himself down on his bed. The coarse blanket hardly warmed him, but he did not care, for these things were mere pinpricks now. Every day without joy, or hope of joy, was his fate.

And all done by his own hand!

He tossed on his hard narrow bunk like a man with the plague. His last meeting with Mark came back to him in waves of shame and rage. Thoughts of death descended on him again. How could any man be so foolish and hope to live?

Wild laughter rose in his throat and he choked it back. He had seen the odd looks the sailors were giving him now, and knew they had heard him raging and talking to himself. Any more of this madness, and they'd take him for a jinx on board. And that would mean mariners' harsh justice, rough hands in the night, a startled scream, and a swift passage to the sea's dark embrace, even if he was Prince Tristan of Lyonesse and the nephew of the King. No, no more strange noises now.

But Goddess, Mother, how to contain the grief? He thrust a fist in his mouth and gnawed on the side of his hand. How to forget the moment when Mark spoke out?

I know you will bring back Isolde as my bride.

Without warning he was back in Cornwall, hearing his love, his life, all blasted by the words from his uncle's mouth. The chamber where he stood gaping at Mark, the dying fire, the King's ashen face and staring eyes, had all dissolved in that moment of blind doom.

"No, no," he had gasped, and "Surely, sire, you don't mean—" But he had known the truth at once. He had sworn on Isolde's life, on his mother's grave, to woo and win his dear love for another man.

His stomach heaved. He had traded his life and Isolde's for Mark's offer of help, and would never make a more infamous bargain in his life. Mark would never help him in any way. The King had no interest in anyone but himself.

And seeing Tristan falter had sent his uncle into a frenzy of rage.

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