Summary

Isolde's festive performance resurrects a traumatic secret and vengeful shadows from her past, driving a wedge of mistrust between her and a mystified Tristan.

Chapter 16 Shadows Where Light Once Was

Isolde's glance flicked to the viper only once during her performance, but it landed many times on the nearest escape route from the lesser hall – the royal exit obscured by banners. Worried eyes concealed by mask floated to Tristan as she curtsied before the king and queen. Twirling to her audience – a smile hard to sustain, she thanked them with a smooth dip – one more courtesy before stepping closer toward the passage promising liberation. Yet barely waiting for her accolades, wings might have sprouted from her heels so swiftly she fled through the arched doorway. Allowing her to pass in the fading applause, Tristan followed her into a torch-lit chamber, servants adding and removing food from tables bustling about the space.

Hurry! Get out! her heart's frantic refrain as she stripped off her mask, striding desperately toward the humble wooden door across the room, dodging the help.

"That was magical," Tristan sweetly said trailing her, unaware of the dread gripping her. She bit her lower lip – sentiments not her need right now.

Bursting into the exterior passage, Isolde charged blindly ahead under flickering sconces, mind still reeling. The urge to flee Camelot hard-pressed her forward just as in Cornwall. Ghosts haunted her footsteps there – now they followed her here.

"Wouldn't you like to stay for your admirers?" Tristan reached and pulled her to him, delaying her retreat, embracing her gently. Adoring blues glistened in the torchlight as he gazed at her. Smiling warmly, he swayed their bodies. "Perhaps, a dance or two?"

Staring back, their five years as soul mates rushed into her mind and heart. Such steadfast love had kept her grounded and fulfilled. His daring nature held such tenderness singularly for her. She loved him. Yet the past ever threatened and safety must be swiftly found.

"I should not have come," Isolde said, dousing the warmth and pulling away from him – ignoring his shocked and disappointed face. "This was a mistake."

Not Gwen's fault for requesting her to perform – hers for accepting. She was grateful for all the king and queen had done for them, but now, obliging had cost her anonymity.

"Where's the damn door?" she cursed, searching as she continued striding. The use of the servant's exit – one of many such portals scattered throughout the castle complex to enable inconspicuous movements – was a blessing and right now, she needed such a gift. The archway to her desired exit was somewhere nearby.

"Isolde – stop!" Tristan shouted.

She halted, her chest heaving. Her behavior odd to him she knew, yet she could not control her need to flee.

"What is it?" he asked, tension in his voice.

"Old friends," she whispered to herself – by no means meant with kindness. She pivoted to face him – his hands on hips, sword partially hidden by his long coat.

"You're upset. Tell me what's going on."

After so long – almost nearly forgotten until dredged up unwittingly by a celebratory feast – she'd buried some secrets so deep that she'd never considered sharing them with Tristan. Was it wrong of her to shut him out for fear of losing him?

Tristan's brow knitted. He closed the distance. Caressing her arms, he gently rubbed them up and down. "You've known me long enough to know that I won't let anything hurt you."

Isolde breathed a shuddering breath, his valiant, sweet words no match against the dark forces in her shadow. She moistened her lips. "My love, we must leave Camelot – now."

"Wha—?" he asked with a bewildered laugh, still planted where he stood. "Damn it, Isolde. I don't understand what has you unnerved so. I've never witnessed such a state and it concerns me. Must I beg for clarity?"

He deserved the truth – at least from her own lips – she owed him that and more. She tried to utter it – yet she could not speak it. There had been no secrets between them save her obscured past. Its delicate matter could not be told in a wisp of time. "I'll explain away from here…."

Would he think her a coward? Or a cunning fiend?

Her lips trembled uncontrollably. "For now, just trust Camelot turns perilous for me."

He hitched a breath, clearly shaken. Returning the mask, Isolde concealed her features once more, his confusion plain. But dread pressed her onward. "We must go..." She grasped his hand. "I promise—"

"It is you," a voice said behind them, syllables clipped with the fading vestiges of an ancient dialect. Isolde turned to behold Lady Donnchadhs watching her.

"Lady Judith!" Isolde's breath shuddered as she managed a curtsey on trembling knees, wondered how the viper knew she'd emerge from a passage not far from the lower hall's entrance. Feeling all a child again being reprimanded by a stern adult, she removed the mask with shaking hands.

Boney fingers clawed an ornate cane supporting Lady Donnchadhs' thin frame. Though her lineage had long since plunged roots into Cornish soil, the matriarch's crisp vowels still curled with traces of the maternal tongue.

Draped in a green silk dress, an aged yet piercing gaze appraised Isolde. Though few wrinkles lined the matron's features, her crisp eyes held neither warmth nor mercy. Grey hair artfully curled beneath glittering gemmed lobes, nobility and conquest etched in timeless regal posture.

"Even now," Lady Donnchadhs said, her tone steady, dispassionate, "your voice wrenches the breath from my lungs with its painful beauty, just as it did when I first heard you sing as a child. Such pure tones transcended into my very soul. Your lilting words could rouse tears or still them by turns…. To hear once again the voice that has haunted me many years has awaken a singular passion that now grips my heart. Do you understand, Isolde?"

As those chilling words fell, Isolde gripped Tristan's arm, steadying herself as cold dread flooded her veins. She wholly understood the veiled warning, yet she raised her chin, rallying wavering courage.

Tristan stirred, protectively shifting nearer, but Lady Donnchadhs' detached gaze only intensified, raking over them both.

"I'm Tristan de Bois, knight and exchequer of Camelot." He bowed slightly at the waist. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Donnchadhs."

Her gaze was piercing as she scrutinized Tristan. Her thin lips pressed into an even tighter line, eyes narrowing with unveiled contempt and thinly veiled disgust. When she finally spoke, her voice was crisp and cutting.

"You are familiar with her, Sir Tristan." The words oozed condescension and bitter disapproval. Her glacial eyes flicked dismissively to Isolde before fixing back on him. "Are you married in the eyes of God?"

Tristan stiffened, glanced between them. "We are," he replied, his expression questioning.

"How many summers?"

"Um…" In his confusion, Tristan looked helplessly to Isolde, but she turned away, lips thinning as resentment and shame roiled within. "Almost five," he finally replied.

"Barely a season after your… departure." Her gaze slid to Isolde. "Then does he know, songbird?"

Isolde glared back in silence. The woman's biting words had struck true – implying cold calculation in the short time that had passed.

"I don't understand," said Tristan, his eyes flicking anxiously between Isolde and Lady Donnchadhs. "What is there to know?"

"Lady Judith, please—" Isolde implored tightly, jaw clenched as her eyes filled with pleading. "I will tell him."

Tristan tensed, his breath catching; confusion and unease crossed his face. Isolde held her breath, paralyzed – she had seen that wounded look before.

"Our beloved songbird took a life, Sir Tristan."

"No," Isolde moaned. Dropped so coldly, a fist went to her chest, Lady Donnchadhs' words a sword, penetrating and biting. Tristan took an unsteady step back, disbelief, shock on face.

"She cut short my grandson's life – and then fled to evade justice."

Shaking her head helplessly, Isolde felt her fire dim, shoulders curving inward as long-buried memories broke through her guarded walls. A forbidden kiss - a violent struggle - blood staining her hands.

"It wasn't... he tried to..." Isolde faltered. "Lady Judith… you knew what he was like… He—"

"You…" Tristan managed unevenly, drawing her from her defense attempt, "you said you sought a better life – left hardship behind..."

Mind reeling, Isolde nodded. "I did." That much was truth – yet how could she explain the rest? She touched her cheek as her eyes seared to release tears. "And no…."

Lady Donnchadhs gazed back, cold and unflinching. "You were misled, Sir Tristan. She beguiled you for protection – self-preservation… a means to her ends." Her words drove the knife in deeper, gutting her once-perfect life. She glared unflinchingly at Isolde. "Nothing more."

"That cannot be so." Tristan's tone turned doubtful – then hurtful; she heard it clearly.

"It isn't," Isolde said, her heart bleeding, eyes burning, tears brimmed.

"Then truly, tell me. Why did you leave Cornwall?" He stepped closer, his hard stare freezing her in place – strangling any words that tried to emerge.

"Tell me!" he shouted, searching her eyes with jaw rigid.

Startled, the truth still stuck in Isolde's throat, tears fell instead. Holding herself from the chill, she could only stare at him – ashamed, adrift, fearful even.

"It is so," Lady Donnchadhs affirmed with cold calm. "She is a murderer."

"No!" Isolde shouted, chest heaving now with indignation. "I only defended myself!"

"So you claim." Lady Donnchadhs turned slowly to leave, taking measured steps in her departure. "I shall inform the king and queen and expose you, Isolde. Do not try to flee, songbird. We're watching now. We will find you and bring you to justice in Cornwall." She stopped, turned her head sideways. "And provide a closure for me."

She was gone. The silence deafened. Tristan shuffled his feet, scrubbed his chin, hands going to hips as he glared at her.

Isolde felt the world crashing down watching hurt and betrayal war across his face. She struggled to explain. What could she say? Lady Donnchadhs had neatly trapped her with her version of the truth – one that painted her actions in the worst possible light.

"It wasn't murder," she began slowly. "Her grandson – Deorwine – was a suitor who turned violent when I refused him."

Tristan stiffened, contempt on his face – for her? – for Deorwine? She could not discern.

"He held me by knife, threatened me. I killed him in self-defense. Yes – I fled. His family is very powerful and because I knew they would not care."

Her voice broke. She searched Tristan's face for hope in compassion and understanding. His anger had softened, but only slightly.

"So… you're noble," he said.

She nodded. "I should've told you. But meeting you was my first real freedom. Losing you would be worse than any punishment." She reached for him. "Tristan, I beg your forgiveness."

He didn't take her hand. Disbelief and anger still crossed his features.

"I've killed men too – faced justice for what was due." His blue eyes stormed with disappointment and anger. Her heart faltered.

"I don't begrudge you for defending yourself, Isolde. I don't even care that you fled. What breaks my heart is not telling me who you really are – this other life you had before me. Now I question everything you've said... including your declaration of love."

"Tristan…."

"I need time, Isolde." He waved her away dismissively. "I just… need time." Then he was gone.

Silence engulfed her. Fear overcame her. Utterly alone, Isolde wept her bitter tears, cursing herself for all she'd done.