Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle by Rosalind Miles

sovereign and Queen."
    Mark bit his knuckles as he remembered it, stifling a low moan. The champion had challenged in a loud, manly voice, and he could answer only in the accents of a fool.
    "We have a sovereign lady," he had blustered in a voice not his own, "our Queen Igraine. She holds the land for her son, King Arthur himself. And he'll be on his way here now, I promise you that!"
    "The High King himself!" cried Marhaus mockingly, rolling his eyes. "Then pray to your Gods, sir, that he gets here in time. I shall renew this challenge for three days. If no man answers me, your land is mine by the rules of war."
    Three days—and this was the third. What hope was there now? Already his barons had left him in disgust and taken to their estates, vowing to defend their own lands if the King could do no better than this. Their leader, Sir Nabon, had talked angrily of Mark's father, openly wishing the old king were still alive. With a groan, Mark recollected himself and struggled to cut a more regal figure on the throne.
    "So, lords," he ventured as boldly as he could.
    Outside the window the harsh clatter of a raven sounded through the air. A raw panic leaped up and gripped Mark by the throat. "What time is it? The champion must be here!"
    Andred started. "Not yet, uncle, I swear!"
    But he will come.
    Standing with Simeon beside the throne, Dominian folded his hands inside the sleeves of his gown and began a silent prayer.
Saepe expugnaverunt, Domine
… Many a time, O Lord, have they fought against us, all Your enemies—
    He bowed his head. Dear God, Lord of Hosts, he went on humbly, You did not choose to make me a fighting man. But spare us from this swordsman of the pagan Queen. Send us a miracle, Lord, large or small.
    "Sire!" There was a flurry at the door.
    "Marhaus!" howled Mark, covering his eyes with his hand.
    "No, sire," came the voice of the chamberlain. "But a stranger knight begs to see you—shall we let him in?"
    The heavy oak doors rolled back on their iron tracks. Tristan looked in, his hope rising with every beat of his heart. Within the chamber the sun was pouring through the windows, bathing the occupants in rays of light. Slowly he made out a king, a knight, and a priest on the dais at the far end, and the gilded shapes dazzled his eyes. Blood of my blood, throbbed joyfully through his veins, my mother's brother the King and my cousin the knight, both my own kin. And a man of God, to share faith with us all.
    Now he saw the rosy fire on the hearth, the rich furnishings, the side tables laden with welcoming food and wine, and his heart soared. Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks for this.
    How had he come here? He hardly knew. He had scrambled back up the cliff and mounted his horse, his body moving without volition while his mind raced with all that he had seen. At Castle Dore he hardly saw the fine white walls and thriving little town, so busy was his soul on the astral plane. Only when he entered the King's chamber and saw its three occupants waiting for him did his roaming mind and body come together as one.
    He fixed his eyes on the King and stepped forward with a bow. "I hear you face a mortal challenge, sire," he said boldly. "Grant me to answer it, and I shall redeem your land!"
    "Sir?" Gaping, Mark looked the newcomer up and down. With a wild surge of relief he took in the towering height and exceptional physique, and knew that this knight could hold his own with any man. A moment later he saw that the knight's broad shoulders and strong frame made him look older than he was. The young man carried himself like a seasoned warrior, but a powerful innocence lit his bright brown eyes and the same sweetness shaped his full, wide mouth.
    The eyes—the mouth—
    "Who are you?" he gasped, though he already knew.
    "I am the son of your sister, who died in the forest giving birth to me."
    "Young Tristan?"
    Weeping, Mark heaved himself out of his throne and folded Tristan to his chest. "God in Heaven, Nephew,