Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle by Rosalind Miles Page B

sudden dread.
    Tristan smiled grimly. "Never fear, sire, I have met many such."
    "God Almighty Himself has brought you back to me!" Mark blurted out. "And I'll treasure you as the son I never had. You'll save me, Tristan—I know you won't fail!"
    A strange sensation knocked at Tristan's heart. "Uncle," he forced out. "Every man fails—"
    "Sire! Sire!"
    A trembling servant flew through the door. "The Irish knights are here, in a great band. They say the champion awaits you on the meadow beside his ship, if no man answers his challenge, then your throne is forfeit and our kingdom falls into his hands!"
    Mark raised his head. "We are ready." He stepped forward with awkward dignity and took Tristan by the arm. "Nephew, come. Your enemy is here."

Chapter 12

    The meadow was sweet with tender buds of May, daisies and buttercups blinking in the sun. Beyond the level green they could see the river winding inland from the sea, and the ship from the Western Isle moored at the dock. In happier times, Tristan knew, this field must be home to the town market and its busy, crowded stalls, peddlers of all kinds, and Gypsy travelers who beguiled the townsfolk with their dark faces and exotic ways, then disappeared as mysteriously as they had come.
    Already the townsfolk were streaming out of Castle Dore, as word of the challenge ran through the narrow streets. A troop of Irish knights were waiting at the far side of the grassy space, all armed for war. With the flag of the Western Isle flying overhead and every man glittering in silver from head to foot, they were a fearful sight, and the champion in their midst looked the fiercest of all.
    So! Tristan paused for a moment to return the knights' war-like stares, then with King Mark at his side and a bevy of pages and squires in attendance behind, took up his stand at the side of the field. Already, he noted grimly, his opponent had staked out the place of advantage with his back to the sun. He felt the blood coursing through his veins. So be it, then! It was time to take arms.
    The leading squire helped Tristan into a gleaming ox-hide tunic, its blood-dark surface inlaid with gold wire. Next to it a squire held up a great shield of golden-brown bronze, while a page brought forward a helmet shaped like a hawk about to strike.
    Mark reached out to touch the bronze feathers of the bird, shuddering at its fierce emerald eyes. "Your father equipped you well," he said admiringly.
    Tristan smiled. "These are my own arms, sire," he said. "Won by knighthood and the rules of war."
    Mark's eyes widened. Only a great warrior would have arms as fine as these. To win such treasures, Tristan must have beaten the very best. So young, and already a fighter of such grace…
    A primal jealousy stirred in Mark's deepest heart, and he could have cried out with pain. The next moment he forced himself to stumble out a blessing as Tristan picked up his weapons for the fray. "God speed you, nephew! May a thousand angels ride on the point of your sword."
    "Sire."
    Bowing, Tristan turned to face his enemy advancing down the field. Marhaus's shield bore the Queen of Ireland's crest, a pair of fighting swans with a trefoil above. The champion's silver helmet was adorned with great swan's wings, and his body was protected by plated armor of silver and gold. In his right hand he carried a massive broadsword, and two short stabbing daggers swung from his belt. From his silver-tagged boots to the thick gold torque round his neck, it was clear that the Queen of the Western Isle had equipped her knight like a king.
    Marhaus swaggered to a halt.
    "King Mark!" he cried, his eyes bright with scorn. "Is this your champion, the lad that rode in with the harp on his back?" He swiveled his gaze toward Tristan, and grinned through his open visor like a shark. "What are you doing here, boy?" He gave a jeering laugh. "Get back to your country, while you still can."
    "Sir Marhaus!" Tristan grinned back, and felt an almost sexual