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

knew it too. Rallying, he set about Greuze with a flurry of long, sweeping strokes, varied with unexpected, jabbing moves. Before long Greuze’s blood-colored armor had a sickly sheen as a show of red seeped from a shoulder-joint.
    The dying sun slipped slowly down the sky. High overhead the roosting birds rose chattering from the trees, disturbed by the clash of swords. Isolde gauged the progress of the fight from the combatants’ labored breath, and reckoned every blow from the groans of pain. She saw Tristan’s head running with blood, and recoiled.
Goddess, Mother, spare
him—spare my love.
    The clearing was turning to mud as the fight went on. Minute by minute and hour after terrible hour, the two knights attacked and fell back, feinted and came again. Isolde heard and counted every stroke and knew that Tristan could not escape unscathed. Soon Tristan’s breastplate was covered in blood and one arm swung numbly at his side.
    But Greuze himself was in even poorer shape. The big knight was floundering like a bull at bay, swinging his heavy head to and fro. Tristan had gored him with many deep wounds, and he was swaying from loss of blood. As Isolde watched, Greuze’s lifeblood ran down, puddling with the mud around his feet, and he fell to his knees.
    Strike—now . . . Kill, kill!
    “Have at you!” Tristan screamed.
    He had one last moment, he knew, before his strength failed. He threw down his sword and staggered forward fumbling madly for his dagger, and took his enemy’s head in the crook of his arm. The only sound was a soft departing breath as Tristan found the gap at the base of the helmet and drove home the blade. A spout of blood issued from Greuze’s neck, and his body slumped to the ground.
    “My lord—”
    The leader of Greuze’s knights fell to his knees. One by one the rest of the men followed him. Tristan stumbled toward Isolde, covered in blood.
    “Your Majesty,” he gasped, “your enemy is dead! I lay this triumph at your royal feet.”
    “And we accept it,” Isolde proclaimed. Turning to the knights, she gestured to the figure on the ground. “Your lord is gone. I am your lady now. By the fortunes of war, I claim this castle for Sir Tristan, King of Lyonesse.”
    The leader of the knights nodded his close-cropped head. Slowly he stood up, a short, stocky figure with a battle-hardened air, bowing first to Isolde then kneeling to Tristan. Reversing his sword, he offered up the hilt. “You have won this combat in all chivalry. We accept defeat at your hands.”
    Tristan laid one hand on the weapon, swaying on his feet. He did not feel his blood running down to the ground. “So, sir, your name?” he rasped.
    “They call me Yder, sir.”
    “From the Welshlands, lady,” Brangwain muttered. Her own accent was very marked.
    Yder overheard her. “From Caer Narvon itself,” he proclaimed with open pride.
    Brangwain treated him to a flinty smile, then turned back to Isolde. “A land of true men, lady: tight, but true,” she said quietly. “If he’ll serve our lord, you may trust him with your life.”
    Isolde saw the knight’s face flicker into a smile. “You heard that, sir? Then what’s your reply?”
    Sir Yder fell to his knees and offered up his sword. “Receive my allegiance, lady, you and your lord. And I swear I speak for the rest of the men. We took service with Sir Greuze in the Holy Land, before he began on these evil tricks.” He pointed to the body of La Pauvre, lying in the grass, and looked away.
    Isolde felt angry tears rising at the back of her throat. “Alas, poor lady—we must bury her with the honor that is her due.”
    “Take heart, madam,” Tristan said hoarsely. “She has what she must have been praying for all along, the freedom to escape her tormentor and be with her love . . .”
    His voice trailed off. Isolde looked at him. His eyes were dilated and his skin very pale. “Sir Tristan . . .”
    Sir Yder saw it too. “My lord—” he began in deep