Free Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles

and furze. The peace of a thousand years hung over the dim green space, and pale fingers of light brushed the forest floor. Isolde’s heart lifted. They could camp here—even make a fire.
    Not for the first time, Tristan read her thought. “So, lady, what’s your will? Rest here, or go farther before the light fails?”
    Isolde laughed. “Rest a moment, at least. How much longer will the daylight last?”
    She did not hear the rustle in the undergrowth, as soft and stealthy as a snake in the grass.
    “Lady—” Tristan froze, pointing like a dog.
    Stepping through the trees at the head of the clearing came a blood-red figure on horseback, with a lady at his side. Behind them were a pair of mounted men. The knight’s fearsome armor covered a fighter’s hard, well-knit body, with powerful shoulders and strong quarters below. He wore his visor up, revealing his face. There was something unspeakably dreadful about the jutting forehead, the hollow cheeks, and square, lip-less mouth, grinning like the last smile on a skull. But all that was nothing to the lady at his side. She was sitting on her horse with a noose around her neck.
    “Madam, look!” cried Brangwain, her hand flying to her mouth.
    Isolde stared in horror. But for the rope, the lady was finely dressed in a rich cloak of fur trimmed with ermine and a riding habit of gleaming chestnut kidskin beaded with gold. Her headdress and veil were of tawny satin and lace, and her leather gauntlets were studded with jewels and pearls. But the hands that held the reins were roped like her neck, and her eyes were set in a wide, glassy stare. Her still, white face looked only half alive, dusted with the livid sheen of death.
    The strange couple drew up facing them. Isolde could not take her eyes off the hideous rope. She glared at the knight. “Explain yourself, sir!”
    The knight gave a smile as white as polished bone. “This is the Lady La Pauvre, widow of a noble knight. She is my captive by the rules of war.”
    His voice, both rasping and sharp, pierced Isolde’s ear. “A poor lady indeed to find herself in your hands! And who are you?”
    “The people around here call me Sir Greuze.”
    Isolde’s eyes widened. “I know your name! You were refused admittance to the Round Table for the cruel habits you learned in the East.”
    “And banished by the King, I believe,” Tristan cut in, “after your wife died by violence at your hands.” He stared at the knight in scorn. “Let us give you your full title, sir. You are known as Sir Greuze Sans Pitie—the knight without pity for a single soul.”
    “True, every word.” A slow chuckle escaped the knight’s bloodless lips. “Pity, you say? When I was banished, no man pitied me. I suffered for ten years and more before I could slip back into this forest and start life again.”
    “But the lady—look at her, man!” Isolde spat. “She is ill! She needs comfort and care, not treatment like this.”
    Sir Greuze tugged on the rope and drew the lady to his side, poking and prodding her like a side of meat. “This one has disappointed me, I must confess. She was a beauty when I took her from her lord. But she lost her mind when I cut off his head.”
    Tristan’s hand was already on the hilt of his sword. “You killed her lord?”
    “I did indeed, though he fought like a Trojan to save her life. After that, she ran mad. Since then, she has never said a word. That was her revenge, the only way to thwart me of my prize.” He gave a hideous laugh. “I bedded her anyway, she was mine to use. But no amount of bedding or beating has brought her to herself.”
    “Goddess, Mother!” Isolde could not contain herself. “How did she or her lord deserve this at your hands?”
    Greuze leaned forward. “My fortress, Castle Pleure, lies a step from here. When a knight and his lady enter my domain, if the new lady is more beautiful than mine, I kill the one I have and take her instead.”
    Tristan laughed in scorn.