Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles Page B
Authors: Rosalind Miles
Ads: Link
a ruby liquor as meaty as bull’s blood. And whatever the King desired, the King must have.
“Enjoy the feast!” he drunkenly harangued his knights. “We shan’t revel like this when the Queen returns!” He turned to Elva with a roguish wink. “Eh?”
“Too true, my lord,” Elva smiled, lowering her eyes.
Elva, too, Andred reflected with the old catch of pain, even his own lover was for Mark’s love and use. Well, Elva knew what to do. He had to rely on her to carry it out.
Elva caught his swift glance and sent back a silent reply: I will, my love, never fear. Turning, she leaned in toward Mark, rejoicing in the cool kiss of the earrings brushing her neck. So Isolde lorded it at the High Table in emeralds for Ireland and pearls for the Mother’s tears? Elva laughed. Tonight she had the place of honor beside the King, resplendent in jasper and agate and jade from across the sea. Her gown was the black-green of winter holly gleaming against the fiery whiteness of her skin, and she knew she was the finest in the hall. Reaching for her wine, she assessed Mark covertly over the rim of her glass. Time to get to work.
“Here’s a health to the King!”
Two or three knights were raising their glasses and staggering to their feet, carrying their drunken revels into the body of the hall. Mark rubbed his distended stomach and looked around with delight. See how the men were enjoying themselves!
“On you go, lads!” he bellowed, raising a slopping goblet in the air. A blood-red splash landed in Elva’s lap and lost itself in the scaly black markings of her mottled silk gown. Mark gave a drunken laugh.
The knights in the hall were wrestling each other to the ground. “A show! A show!” Mark crowed. He turned to Andred. “Is there a show for us?”
Andred leaned forward. “Tumblers, mummers, dancers, and pageant-men, whatever Your Majesty desires.”
“Remember, sire, we must have all seemly here!” The dark figure of Dominian leaned forward across the table, a warning finger upraised. “This is the birth of Christ. Our Lady lay in a stable at this very hour, travailing to bring Him forth.”
“Yes, yes, Father,” Mark snapped, his good humor gone. Gods above, would these Christians never cease? “But men also need beef and ale in their bellies at this time of the year. How else will they keep up their strength for the hunt?”
“You are right, my lord,” Elva soothed. “And you show your joy in Christ by feasting his birth.”
“Yes, I do, don’t I?” Mark brightened at once.
“Indeed, sire.” Elva took a breath. “And let us pray that the Queen is also keeping Christ’s Holy Day.
“Yes, indeed,” Mark agreed. “Wherever she is.”
“Surely, my lord, she has sent you word?” wondered Elva, wide-eyed.
“Not one,” Mark confirmed with a baleful glare.
Elva put a puzzled finger to her cheek. “Then where can she be?” She paused. “Your Majesty equipped her so well. Surely she could find one messenger from a whole troop?”
“You’re right!” Mark’s small eyes narrowed. “You’re saying she’s insulted me, that’s it?”
“Never, sire,” Elva returned in solemn tones. “You know I admire the Queen, as everyone does. Why, the people adore her, they flock to her healing hands—”
“That’s another thing!” Mark broke in resentfully. “She gets all their love by involving herself with them. She takes away what should rightfully be mine.”
“Your generosity means nothing to her,” agreed Elva sorrowfully. “It is the way of Queens.”
Mark stared at her, baffled. “What?”
“Her Majesty your Queen was born to rule. It’s the same with your overlord, Queen Igraine. They both claim the power of the Mother to queen it over one and all.” She paused again. “Perhaps it’s time for Your Majesty to show yourself a king.”
Gods, it was hot. Mark tugged at the neck of his gown. “What can I do?” he railed.
Elva dropped her eyes in delicious deference.
“Enjoy the feast!” he drunkenly harangued his knights. “We shan’t revel like this when the Queen returns!” He turned to Elva with a roguish wink. “Eh?”
“Too true, my lord,” Elva smiled, lowering her eyes.
Elva, too, Andred reflected with the old catch of pain, even his own lover was for Mark’s love and use. Well, Elva knew what to do. He had to rely on her to carry it out.
Elva caught his swift glance and sent back a silent reply: I will, my love, never fear. Turning, she leaned in toward Mark, rejoicing in the cool kiss of the earrings brushing her neck. So Isolde lorded it at the High Table in emeralds for Ireland and pearls for the Mother’s tears? Elva laughed. Tonight she had the place of honor beside the King, resplendent in jasper and agate and jade from across the sea. Her gown was the black-green of winter holly gleaming against the fiery whiteness of her skin, and she knew she was the finest in the hall. Reaching for her wine, she assessed Mark covertly over the rim of her glass. Time to get to work.
“Here’s a health to the King!”
Two or three knights were raising their glasses and staggering to their feet, carrying their drunken revels into the body of the hall. Mark rubbed his distended stomach and looked around with delight. See how the men were enjoying themselves!
“On you go, lads!” he bellowed, raising a slopping goblet in the air. A blood-red splash landed in Elva’s lap and lost itself in the scaly black markings of her mottled silk gown. Mark gave a drunken laugh.
The knights in the hall were wrestling each other to the ground. “A show! A show!” Mark crowed. He turned to Andred. “Is there a show for us?”
Andred leaned forward. “Tumblers, mummers, dancers, and pageant-men, whatever Your Majesty desires.”
“Remember, sire, we must have all seemly here!” The dark figure of Dominian leaned forward across the table, a warning finger upraised. “This is the birth of Christ. Our Lady lay in a stable at this very hour, travailing to bring Him forth.”
“Yes, yes, Father,” Mark snapped, his good humor gone. Gods above, would these Christians never cease? “But men also need beef and ale in their bellies at this time of the year. How else will they keep up their strength for the hunt?”
“You are right, my lord,” Elva soothed. “And you show your joy in Christ by feasting his birth.”
“Yes, I do, don’t I?” Mark brightened at once.
“Indeed, sire.” Elva took a breath. “And let us pray that the Queen is also keeping Christ’s Holy Day.
“Yes, indeed,” Mark agreed. “Wherever she is.”
“Surely, my lord, she has sent you word?” wondered Elva, wide-eyed.
“Not one,” Mark confirmed with a baleful glare.
Elva put a puzzled finger to her cheek. “Then where can she be?” She paused. “Your Majesty equipped her so well. Surely she could find one messenger from a whole troop?”
“You’re right!” Mark’s small eyes narrowed. “You’re saying she’s insulted me, that’s it?”
“Never, sire,” Elva returned in solemn tones. “You know I admire the Queen, as everyone does. Why, the people adore her, they flock to her healing hands—”
“That’s another thing!” Mark broke in resentfully. “She gets all their love by involving herself with them. She takes away what should rightfully be mine.”
“Your generosity means nothing to her,” agreed Elva sorrowfully. “It is the way of Queens.”
Mark stared at her, baffled. “What?”
“Her Majesty your Queen was born to rule. It’s the same with your overlord, Queen Igraine. They both claim the power of the Mother to queen it over one and all.” She paused again. “Perhaps it’s time for Your Majesty to show yourself a king.”
Gods, it was hot. Mark tugged at the neck of his gown. “What can I do?” he railed.
Elva dropped her eyes in delicious deference.
Similar Books
