Greater, and both rolled on down to the sea . . .
Dubh Lein . . .
Isolde’s sight shivered. And would the Pictish invaders soon be lording it here in Dubh Lein, their bare, hairy feet under her table, their tattooed bodies stretched out in her bed?
Not while I live.
So then, what is to be done?
She stared out through the window at one of those delusive days of summer, when the sun shines down from a sky as white as bone. All the world seemed fair on brilliant days like these. But those tempted out to enjoy it would meet a cutting wind and shadows as cold as the grave. And even so was life itself, every day.
Beware, Isolde, beware.
She returned her gaze to the meeting. “So, my lords, it’s clear that your fears of a Pictish invasion were not misplaced. You say our enemies are hard upon us now?”
“Camped on the northern shore, by the crannog of Black Duig,” Gilhan confirmed.
“Did they make land without bloodshed?”
“Alas, no.” Sir Vaindor tossed his gray head and sleeked back the remains of his handsome curls. “There were none but bog-dwellers to resist them. Peat-cutters, charcoal-makers, they slaughtered them all.” He gave a boastful smile. “Now if any of your knights had been there to swing a sword . . .”
Ah, Vaindor . . . Isolde looked at him and fought down a bitter retort. Twenty years ago, you might have boasted of your strength. But what can you do now?
Goddess, Mother, send me some younger men. Oh, Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?
“And what news since then?” she demanded.
Sir Doneal gave an angry warrior’s laugh. “A challenge has come from the Pictish King.”
“From Darath,” Isolde spat out, perversely savoring the name.
Oh, I shall know you, sir, when we meet.
“What does he want?”
Gilhan met her eye without flinching. “Nothing but full surrender of our land,” he said somberly. “You are to attend him, lady, at his settlement, with all your lords and knights, and there you will accept him as our King. Then you will bring him back to Dubh Lein to install him here.”
Install him?
Isolde bared her teeth in a furious grin. “As my ruler, my master, I suppose, whatever he wants. Well, those who surrender can’t hope to dictate the terms.” She thrust out her chin. “And has he the force to back up these demands?”
Sir Vaindor played unhappily with his hair. “The sea groaned under the weight of their ships, the locals say. Now row upon row of them darken the northern shore.”
“Fierce devils, the Picts, lady, and they love to fight,” put in Sir Doneal with a reminiscent gleam. “Three of our men could not stop one of them when his Gods had put him into a fighting fit.”
“Sir—” Isolde held up her hands. “There must be no more bloodshed.”
Sir Gilhan’s rheumy old eyes fastened on her in total trust. “Command us, lady, we are yours,” he murmured, smiling. “Tell us what is to be done.”
A pain as sharp as a fever ran through Isolde’s veins.
Time was, old friend, when you would have instructed me. Must I be the master now?
She put the thought aside.
“My lady—” Sir Doneal leaned forward briskly. “We shall make a good showing, believe me, when we go north. Already your knights are clamoring to attend—”
“Go north?” Isolde interrupted furiously. “We do not go north. We send back soft words and promises and we stay here. This sea rat, this pirate, this king rat, must attend on me!”
There was a nervous silence among the men. Vaindor’s mouth fell open. “But Majesty—”
“Why should a painted savage dictate to us?”
Vaindor bridled. “Because he has the men and the power to impose his will.”
“And if we resist?” Isolde challenged.
Gilhan shook his head. “I fear that would only make matters worse. If we provoke him, he could carry war into the rest of our land.”
“Or lay waste the north shore and kill more men,” Vaindor nervously agreed. “I say we should make peace.”
Isolde
Dubh Lein . . .
Isolde’s sight shivered. And would the Pictish invaders soon be lording it here in Dubh Lein, their bare, hairy feet under her table, their tattooed bodies stretched out in her bed?
Not while I live.
So then, what is to be done?
She stared out through the window at one of those delusive days of summer, when the sun shines down from a sky as white as bone. All the world seemed fair on brilliant days like these. But those tempted out to enjoy it would meet a cutting wind and shadows as cold as the grave. And even so was life itself, every day.
Beware, Isolde, beware.
She returned her gaze to the meeting. “So, my lords, it’s clear that your fears of a Pictish invasion were not misplaced. You say our enemies are hard upon us now?”
“Camped on the northern shore, by the crannog of Black Duig,” Gilhan confirmed.
“Did they make land without bloodshed?”
“Alas, no.” Sir Vaindor tossed his gray head and sleeked back the remains of his handsome curls. “There were none but bog-dwellers to resist them. Peat-cutters, charcoal-makers, they slaughtered them all.” He gave a boastful smile. “Now if any of your knights had been there to swing a sword . . .”
Ah, Vaindor . . . Isolde looked at him and fought down a bitter retort. Twenty years ago, you might have boasted of your strength. But what can you do now?
Goddess, Mother, send me some younger men. Oh, Tristan, Tristan, where are you, my love?
“And what news since then?” she demanded.
Sir Doneal gave an angry warrior’s laugh. “A challenge has come from the Pictish King.”
“From Darath,” Isolde spat out, perversely savoring the name.
Oh, I shall know you, sir, when we meet.
“What does he want?”
Gilhan met her eye without flinching. “Nothing but full surrender of our land,” he said somberly. “You are to attend him, lady, at his settlement, with all your lords and knights, and there you will accept him as our King. Then you will bring him back to Dubh Lein to install him here.”
Install him?
Isolde bared her teeth in a furious grin. “As my ruler, my master, I suppose, whatever he wants. Well, those who surrender can’t hope to dictate the terms.” She thrust out her chin. “And has he the force to back up these demands?”
Sir Vaindor played unhappily with his hair. “The sea groaned under the weight of their ships, the locals say. Now row upon row of them darken the northern shore.”
“Fierce devils, the Picts, lady, and they love to fight,” put in Sir Doneal with a reminiscent gleam. “Three of our men could not stop one of them when his Gods had put him into a fighting fit.”
“Sir—” Isolde held up her hands. “There must be no more bloodshed.”
Sir Gilhan’s rheumy old eyes fastened on her in total trust. “Command us, lady, we are yours,” he murmured, smiling. “Tell us what is to be done.”
A pain as sharp as a fever ran through Isolde’s veins.
Time was, old friend, when you would have instructed me. Must I be the master now?
She put the thought aside.
“My lady—” Sir Doneal leaned forward briskly. “We shall make a good showing, believe me, when we go north. Already your knights are clamoring to attend—”
“Go north?” Isolde interrupted furiously. “We do not go north. We send back soft words and promises and we stay here. This sea rat, this pirate, this king rat, must attend on me!”
There was a nervous silence among the men. Vaindor’s mouth fell open. “But Majesty—”
“Why should a painted savage dictate to us?”
Vaindor bridled. “Because he has the men and the power to impose his will.”
“And if we resist?” Isolde challenged.
Gilhan shook his head. “I fear that would only make matters worse. If we provoke him, he could carry war into the rest of our land.”
“Or lay waste the north shore and kill more men,” Vaindor nervously agreed. “I say we should make peace.”
Isolde
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