pause.
“And—” Dominian burst out, then broke off.
“Yes?” probed the Legate softly.
“Sometimes she has a . . . a certain look in her eye.” Dominian was squirming. “Then she drops her gaze again, like the perfect Christian virgin she is.”
A perfect Christian virgin.
Yes, indeed.
The Legate smiled as a hot-eyed minx rose and danced before his eyes. He nodded. “And her father the King is nearby, you say? Where does he live?”
chapter 11
G reetings, Your Majesty.”
“And indeed to you.”
“Good day, my lady.”
“And to you. And to you.”
Her heart in her eyes, Isolde watched her lords filing stiffly into the chamber and taking their seats round the Council board. How had they all so suddenly grown old?
True, Sir Gilhan had served her mother, and Sir Vaindor, sitting at his side, had once, long ago, been the Queen’s chosen one. Sir Doneal had been the leader of the late Queen’s knights, a position Isolde had confirmed as soon as she came to the throne. They were all her loyal supporters, trusty to the core. But looking down the table at the line of grizzled heads, Isolde knew she would need more than these old courtiers to defeat Darath the Pict.
Oh yes, my enemy, I already know your name.
She brooded, tight-lipped.
As you must know mine. But that is all you will ever know of me.
She paused to hold down her rage. That ever the Picts had made landing on her shores!
She could still feel in her throat the sickness of disgust when Sir Gilhan had met her on the quay and broken the news. She could hardly take it in.
“The Picts?” she echoed stupidly. “Here? Now?”
“A great force of them, madam, made landing and have held their ground. Those are the first reports.”
A night’s sleep, torn and fitful, had done little to diminish the shock. With Brangwain’s help, she had dressed carefully to meet her councillors.
“I know you, lady,” Brangwain said, her olive-skinned face tight and drawn. “You’ll want to be at your best, every inch a Queen.”
Brangwain, too, had been at her best, as Isolde had hoped. The maid had prepared her mistress with more than her usual care. Now Isolde knew that a pale, queenly visage, enlivened with touches of pink, looked out at the world above one of the finest gowns that the royal wardrobe could afford. Her mother’s crown sat with a comforting weight on her head, and she drew a melancholy joy from wearing the emeralds and green silk of Ireland once again.
But even in daylight, she was still racked by last night’s dreams. Fearful images had haunted her all night long of wild invaders with blood on their swords, turning hideous blue faces toward her, jeering as they killed.
Goddess, Mother, spare my beloved land . . .
Weeping, she mourned the homecoming she might have had, the peaceful return she had hoped would heal Tristan’s loss. Never before had it failed her, this dearly loved home of her heart. Once again her mother’s voice came drifting down the winds of memory from her earliest days:
D’you hear me, little one?
I hear you, Mawther.
Long, long ago, when the world was young, the Shining Ones made our island out of sunshine and rain. Then the Great One Herself came here to live, and called it Erin the Fair, because there was no finer land in all the world.
Erin, Mawther?
She gave it her own name. Then other lands cried for her, and she had to leave. When she left, the Shining Ones left us, too, to live forever on the astral plane. Now they shine down on us from the world between the worlds, and we mortals struggle below as best we can. But they left us the sunshine and rain, and when these two kiss, the rainbow they bear is the Mother’s word to us all.
Word of what, Mawther?
Religion should be kindness. Faith is love.
Erin,
Isolde wept now.
Erin, Ireland, home . . .
And then the dark secret of the founding of Dubh Lein, an ancient settlement built for safety over a Dark Pool, where the Little Water flowed into the
“And—” Dominian burst out, then broke off.
“Yes?” probed the Legate softly.
“Sometimes she has a . . . a certain look in her eye.” Dominian was squirming. “Then she drops her gaze again, like the perfect Christian virgin she is.”
A perfect Christian virgin.
Yes, indeed.
The Legate smiled as a hot-eyed minx rose and danced before his eyes. He nodded. “And her father the King is nearby, you say? Where does he live?”
chapter 11
G reetings, Your Majesty.”
“And indeed to you.”
“Good day, my lady.”
“And to you. And to you.”
Her heart in her eyes, Isolde watched her lords filing stiffly into the chamber and taking their seats round the Council board. How had they all so suddenly grown old?
True, Sir Gilhan had served her mother, and Sir Vaindor, sitting at his side, had once, long ago, been the Queen’s chosen one. Sir Doneal had been the leader of the late Queen’s knights, a position Isolde had confirmed as soon as she came to the throne. They were all her loyal supporters, trusty to the core. But looking down the table at the line of grizzled heads, Isolde knew she would need more than these old courtiers to defeat Darath the Pict.
Oh yes, my enemy, I already know your name.
She brooded, tight-lipped.
As you must know mine. But that is all you will ever know of me.
She paused to hold down her rage. That ever the Picts had made landing on her shores!
She could still feel in her throat the sickness of disgust when Sir Gilhan had met her on the quay and broken the news. She could hardly take it in.
“The Picts?” she echoed stupidly. “Here? Now?”
“A great force of them, madam, made landing and have held their ground. Those are the first reports.”
A night’s sleep, torn and fitful, had done little to diminish the shock. With Brangwain’s help, she had dressed carefully to meet her councillors.
“I know you, lady,” Brangwain said, her olive-skinned face tight and drawn. “You’ll want to be at your best, every inch a Queen.”
Brangwain, too, had been at her best, as Isolde had hoped. The maid had prepared her mistress with more than her usual care. Now Isolde knew that a pale, queenly visage, enlivened with touches of pink, looked out at the world above one of the finest gowns that the royal wardrobe could afford. Her mother’s crown sat with a comforting weight on her head, and she drew a melancholy joy from wearing the emeralds and green silk of Ireland once again.
But even in daylight, she was still racked by last night’s dreams. Fearful images had haunted her all night long of wild invaders with blood on their swords, turning hideous blue faces toward her, jeering as they killed.
Goddess, Mother, spare my beloved land . . .
Weeping, she mourned the homecoming she might have had, the peaceful return she had hoped would heal Tristan’s loss. Never before had it failed her, this dearly loved home of her heart. Once again her mother’s voice came drifting down the winds of memory from her earliest days:
D’you hear me, little one?
I hear you, Mawther.
Long, long ago, when the world was young, the Shining Ones made our island out of sunshine and rain. Then the Great One Herself came here to live, and called it Erin the Fair, because there was no finer land in all the world.
Erin, Mawther?
She gave it her own name. Then other lands cried for her, and she had to leave. When she left, the Shining Ones left us, too, to live forever on the astral plane. Now they shine down on us from the world between the worlds, and we mortals struggle below as best we can. But they left us the sunshine and rain, and when these two kiss, the rainbow they bear is the Mother’s word to us all.
Word of what, Mawther?
Religion should be kindness. Faith is love.
Erin,
Isolde wept now.
Erin, Ireland, home . . .
And then the dark secret of the founding of Dubh Lein, an ancient settlement built for safety over a Dark Pool, where the Little Water flowed into the
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