The Lady of the Sea Read Free Page B

ruler must do what lies nearest to hand.”
    Must, must . . .
    There they were again.
    Mark shifted on his throne, angrily crossing and uncrossing his long legs. “But the east coast is guarded by Arthur and Guenevere, and the Painted Ones will never come this far south. If they attack, they’ll make for Ireland, for sure. And God be praised, that’s in Isolde’s hands. That’s why she’s gone to Camelot on our behalf.” He straightened his narrow shoulders importantly. “Now, about the Quest—”
    Nabon felt increasingly near despair. “But, sire, remember the dangers that lie nearer home.”
    “We need to get our young knights out guarding the roads,” Sir Wisbeck agreed gravely. “Not lounging around here at the court, refusing to go to the tiltyard and drinking every night in the Knights’ Hall.”
    “Drinking every night?” Mark’s little eyes narrowed. He kneaded his belly fondly, and gave a belch. “What’s wrong with that?”
    “Nothing, sire,” replied Nabon loyally. “But the kingdom must come first. There’s no profit for Cornwall in joining the Quest for the Grail.”
    There was a heavy pause. Then Sir Wisbeck’s frail, elderly voice dropped in once more. “And the Grail itself, sire, these objects the Christians seek—”
    Mark turned on Sir Wisbeck. “The cup and plate from Our Lord’s Last Supper, yes,” he glowered, “and the sword and spear of His passion. What of them?”
    Wisbeck’s milky eyes looked deep into the past. “Many of us knew these objects by another name, long before the Christians set foot in this land. To us, they’re the Hallows of the Goddess, sacred to Her for a thousand years.” He held up four fingers and carefully ticked them off. “Her loving cup of forgiveness, with which She reconciles us all. Her great dish of plenty, to feed all who come. Her sword of power, and Her spear of defense.”
    Farther down the table, another head nodded fervently. Sir Thalassan had sailed far and wide in his youth, and the faraway gaze of the seafarer was with him still. He stared at Mark unsmiling, as powerful memories played behind his eyes.
    “At sea, we had another prayer, too,” he said slowly. “For us, the wide ocean was the holy grail, the mighty vessel in which the Mother holds the waters of life. And her platter of plenty is the never-failing earth.”
    “Yes, well,” Mark huffed. “That was before the light of Christ was revealed. Father Dominian says that God has now given His true wisdom to the world, and all this Goddess-worship is a thing of the past.”
    A new spark of awareness burned in Nabon’s eye. “And the Mother-right?” he said levelly.
    Mark waved a lordly hand. “That, too, must pass.”
    There was a thunderous silence. Only Sir Wisbeck dared put the thought they all shared into words.
    “Then what of Queen Isolde, your consort and wife? Are you saying her rule in Ireland will be no more? And what of our own sovereign lady here in Cornwall, your overlord Queen Igraine? For a thousand years, both our countries have obeyed the rule of Queens.”
    Nabon leaned forward urgently. “It may be true, sire,” he forced out, “that the rule of women is over and done. But whatever happens, you must name your heir. As long as you remain childless, the succession lies between your nephews Andred and Tristan.”
    The succession, the succession . . .
    God Almighty, there they were again!
    Mark flung himself out of his chair and strode about the chamber, his long limbs jerking with rage. “You’re a pack of chattering jackdaws, all of you. I’m sick of hearing you repeat the same nonsense day after day. Hear me, Nabon—”
    But Sir Nabon was not to be silenced now. “By your leave, sire,” he said trenchantly. “Sir Tristan is the choice of every man here.”
    Mark turned on him. “And Sir Andred?”
    . . . is powerful, ruthless, and determined to succeed, ran through Nabon’s mind.
    “None of us will serve or follow him,” he rapped