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

“And her knight stands by and lets you do this?”
    “Oh, the knight usually challenges me.” He grinned. “And I always win.”
    “Not today, sir.”
    Greuze widened his eyes and smiled his bony smile. His sword lay in his hand, the sun glinting on its slender, cruel edge. “We shall see. But your lady is clearly more beautiful than mine, so you’ll agree that mine must die.”
    He raised his sword and whirled it around his head. The blade hissed through the air, there was a sudden spout of red, then the lady’s head toppled onto her shoulder and bounced to the ground. Her headless trunk sat for one endless moment on her horse before crumpling in the saddle and following it down.
    “Goddess, Mother!” cried Tristan hoarsely. “I’ll have your life for this!”
    “The Great Ones will punish you, never fear!” Isolde shouted, beside herself. “Women are sacred wherever the Mother-right rules.”
    “Sacred—” Greuze stared at her unmoved. “When you’re mine, I’ll have your tongue cut out.”
    “Yours?” Isolde stared at him, trembling in every limb. “You’re mad.”
    “Do you know who you insult?” cried Tristan. “This is Queen Isolde, and I am her knight—”
    Greuze winked at him. “I know who you are.”
    “Then you know that I never yielded to any man. And I give no quarter to a monster like you. I challenge you to the death, here in this grove. Make ready to die like the lady, without mercy or grace.”
    Greuze opened his slit of a mouth to cackle like death. “You think so, sir?”
    He nodded toward the edge of the wood. Emerging one by one from the undergrowth were a dozen knights, then fifteen, twenty, and more. Behind them came a rank of archers, bows drawn and arrows set to fly. Silently they surrounded the travelers, and every glinting point was aimed at Tristan’s heart.
    Greuze watched them take their places, murmuring with delight. Then he turned to Tristan with a ravening smile. “So, sir, your Queen is mine, I think.”

CHAPTER 9

    Think again, devil!”
    Bursting like a boar from a brake, Tristan hurled himself violently from his saddle and seized Greuze by the neck. Locked together, the two men fell heavily to the ground as their panicking horses shied and scrambled away, scattering the men at arms as they went.
    “Brangwain!” Isolde cried, reaching for her sword. Her mother’s great battle companion came singing from its scabbard, the cabochons on the hilt firm and fast in her hand. But the maid had already drawn her own weapon and advanced on Greuze’s men.
    “Get back, all of you!” Brangwain shouted.
    “Halt!” With an answering shout of defiance, Isolde took up a position across the clearing, defending the space where Tristan and Greuze were struggling on the grass.
    Her mother’s battle-cry joyfully filled her throat as she pointed her sword at the figures fighting on the ground. “One step farther and your lord dies!”
    “She’s a banshee!”
    “No, they’re witches both!” Baffled and cursing, the knights fell back.
    Tristan leapt to his feet and tore his blade from its sheath. Greuze was only a moment behind, snatching up his own sword from the ground.
    “So, sir, we fight,” Tristan panted. “To the death, I think?”
    “Your death, slave!” Greuze forced out through gritted teeth. “And I’ll make it a slow one, when I have you down.”
    The leader of the knights leaned forward urgently. “What’s your will, my lord?”
    Greuze gave a scornful laugh. “Watch and learn!” he shouted back. “I’ll deal with this knight, then you can do with these women whatever you like.”
    “Set on, then!” Tristan cried. He advanced on Greuze, his great sword Glaeve flickering like a dragon’s tongue. But Greuze leapt on to the attack with a stroke so violent that it almost knocked Tristan down. Isolde’s stomach clenched. Greuze’s claim to be a deadly warrior was no idle boast.
    She could see from the set of Tristan’s shoulders that he