Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels Read Free Page A

would be here, and the chamber would be filled with courtiers gathering to welcome the King back from the hunt. Andred glanced around, intent as always on his uncle’s good cheer. At either end of the long, low, whitewashed hall, great fires leaped up the chimneys, scenting the air with apple, holly, and oak. The floors were bright with beeswax, and the blue and white banners of Cornwall hung from the walls. A flicker of comfort warmed Andred’s cold heart. One day all this would be his.
    And hers.
    He turned his eyes to the door. She was coming, he could feel it, she was here. Attuned as they were to each other after so many years, he was not surprised to see the heavy black oak swing back as a woman surged into the room like a forest fire. Clad from head to foot in hissing silks, she burned with a hot, green flame, and his soul leaped to greet her across the echoing void: Elva, Elva, here I am, come to me . . .
    Yet he could not look at her without pain. He knew she was his, this tall, glorious, mad-eyed woman, all sinew, skin, and bone. Forget her fool of a husband, as they had for years. From her lofty headdress with its billowing veils to her long white feet, she had thrown in her lot with his and given him her life and soul to command. He laughed inwardly. Let all the jealous ladies of the court condemn her for her never-varying green gowns. He loved to see her dressed in this scaly viridian, her long, lean body shimmering like a snake.
    And with all this in his grasp, he had thrown it away? He bit back a furious groan. Whatever had possessed him, a few years back, to persuade Elva to make love to the King? He had seen himself leading her as she led the King by the nose, and the pair of them ruling Cornwall through Mark. It had never occurred to him that his uncle might turn to Elva and return her show of affection with all the ferocity of a stunted heart. Still less had he dreamed that she might love Mark, too.
    And Mark above all men—that idle, selfish apology for a king . . .
    Gods above, what a fool I was—what a fool . . .
    He felt her long white arms winding around his neck, and turned to her blindly, hungry for her touch. They came together without words, as they always did, and he slaked his thirst on her mulberry mouth.
    She pushed him away and tried to read his face. “What is it?”
    He gripped her wrist. “Where’s the King?”
    “Back from the hunt. I heard the horns, and saw them all ride in.” She stared at him. “What’s happened?”
    “Isolde is to be Queen of the Western Isle.”
    She caught her breath. “The old Queen’s gone?”
    “Dying, or dead. Isolde will succeed. Then she’ll have all the power she wants.”
    He could see Elva’s mind casting to and fro. “And the freedom to travel as she pleases—to stay in Ireland and forget Cornwall and Mark—”
    “With her knight, of course,” he said venomously. “Sir Tristan must go with her wherever she goes.”
    “Darkness and devils!” she swore. “We’ll never catch them now.”
    “Never is too long a word to say.”
    Elva gave a bark of impatience. “We’ve been after them for years,” she said furiously. “And all this time, they’ve been too much for us.”
    He shook his head. “Sooner or later they must betray themselves. With every day that passes, their luck runs out.”
    She looked at him askance. “Some would say the same of us.”
    He took her in his arms and stroked her cheek. “You are not the unfaithful wife of a king. And you’ve never been expected to provide an heir.”
    “Whoever thinks Isolde will do that?” She laughed sarcastically. “All the world knows it’s a marriage only in name. No one believes that Mark will bed her now.”
    “No,” Andred said slowly, his dark eyes aglow. “But Mark might be made to believe it—and if he did . . .”
    She gave him the cunning look he could not resist. “You mean . . . ?”
    “Work on Mark,” he said softly, “feed his vanity. Wake up his