Free The Lady of the Sea by Rosalind Miles Page B

self, my all.
    The woodland then seemed all dreary and dark, and the way ahead full of loneliness and despair. Riding back to Mark, he had chosen the route through the Forest Hazardous, in a fever to return to Mark as fast as he could. If he took the broad high road, white and dusty with the comings and goings of everyday souls, he would only fall into conversation about the court and the King and the Queen, and his fragile resolution to return to Mark would be undone. Then his sacrifice would be in vain, and all his honor would go for naught.
    The forest it had to be, then. But its looming dark outline struck him with a strange sense of dread. Roughly, he tried to shake his courage awake. It’s a sunshiny morning in the fullness of spring. What is there to fear?
    Set back from the path where the forest began stood a low hovel surrounded by an outlying patch of land with a few spring plantings and a byre for a pig or a cow. Built of stones and mud, thatched with branches and dried leaves, it was a poor dwelling with a hole for the window and another sealed by a rough oaken door. There were many such on the fringes of great woodlands, home to any lowly forester content to live off the soil and the bounty of the woods. The owner had carefully marked out his small terrain, and Tristan could see him now, laboring on his plot.
    The smallholder straightened up as Tristan approached, leaning on his hoe. His honest face was weathered like the oaks around, and a warm, loamy smell came from him as he moved. “Greetings, lord,” he called in the accent of the land.
    “Good day to you, sir,” Tristan courteously returned.
    The old man pointed forward down the track. In the forest ahead, the branches formed a dense roof against the sky and the sun dimmed down to a dull greenish light. “There’s a madman in the wood,” he said simply. “Beware.”
    “Alas, poor soul,” Tristan cried. He could not imagine what it must be like to lose his mind. “Who is he, does any man know?”
    “He’s a knight and a fine one, too, but no one knows his name. And no more does he remember who he is. He thinks every man wants to kill him, so he attacks all that come. You’d best avoid him, lord.”
    “Indeed I shall,” Tristan said sorrowfully. “There’s nothing but grief and dishonor in such a fight. Can you tell me where he is?”
    The old man stepped up to the edge of his domain. “See there,” he offered, “where the path divides? He’s made himself a rough camp in a clearing down the right-hand track and hung his spear and shield on the nearest tree. That’s the place to avoid.”
    “Thank you, good sir.”
    Deeply saddened, Tristan set off down the left-hand track. What had happened to overthrow the stranger knight’s mind? A cruel sadness, for sure. The loss of his lady, it could only be that. There was nothing worse.
    Isolde my lady . . .
    My lady lost and gone.
    Bitterly, he noted the savage repetition of his own grief. Would he lose his reason, too?
    The horse pressed on step-by-step through the wood. Now the way was narrow and the trees overgrown. A thick canopy of leaves covered the path, and the undergrowth pressed in from both sides. In the warm green half-light under the shadow of the ancient oaks, gilded insects hovered with a drowsy hum. Lulled by the regular movement of the plodding gray, Tristan fell into a dreaming wakefulness. With a fleeting return of good cheer, he thought of his days on the road as a young knight, riding merrily from tournament to tournament. In those days, his loyal gray charger had known the high roads of France, Spain, and Gaul better than he had himself.
    And they hadn’t a care in the world. Yes, those were the days—
    “Hold!” screamed a voice in his ear. The same instant, the blade of a sword flashed before his eyes.
    “Have at you!” Tristan screamed back in horror, fumbling frantically for his sword. A gauntleted hand was groping for his reins as a knight in full armor lunged