course, but was not their family motto
Noblesse oblige
?
"Father—" came Lienore's tense whisper again.
Death and damnation, would the girl never cease? He turned, twitching with the urge to knock her down. But a cunning joy was written in her eyes and wide, knowing mouth. She pointed to Arthur as he lifted Guenevere down from her horse, and her head was nodding like a flower loose on its stem.
"It's him, Father," she said.
"What?" The Earl caught his breath. "Who?"
Lienore stared at him, excitement leaking from her like sweat. "The man at the tournament. The one who fathered my child."
Chapter 8
Tristan stood in the mouth of the tunnel, hardly daring to breathe. Stretching before him was a great hall of gleaming rock with many chambers, each bigger than the last. A swift rush of water ran through the center of the cavern, finding an unseen passage to the sea. Torches of sea fire flickered round the walls in tongues of green and blue, and pillars of crystal rock held up the roof. Wreaths of white spindrift blossomed round the pillars, and an Otherworldly light shone everywhere.
He looked around in awe. As his eyes softened to the mystic light, he saw alcoves in the rock piled high with all the riches of the sea. Seaweed-hung chests spilled over with silver and gold, and gold chains and jewels lay in tumbling piles. His gaze roved over emeralds and sapphires alight with hidden fire, and rubies glowing with their own heart's blood. Scattered among them were branches of white and red coral, hoards of dusky jet, and pearls like angels' eyes.
Amazed, he ran his fingers over some of the stones. Here, a rainbow of glittering quartzes in yellow, mauve, and green; there, heaps of ambergris, filling the chamber with its distinctive scent. Who lives here? he marveled. Then he heard a sudden cascade of sound, a tinkling fall of notes above the torrent rushing through the hall, and there she was.
At the far end of the chamber, where the stream emerged from the cave wall, was a figure muffled in sea-like draperies from head to foot. Outlined against the black and gleaming rock, she seemed to float above the water around her feet. Her gauzy veil rippled with the rushing torrent, and her foaming robes ebbed and flowed with the roar of the sea. A moon-shaped diadem crowned her head, set with great pearls shading from midnight to dawn, and the mother of all pearls adorned the Goddess ring on her hand. She bore a wand of coral as red as a sunset at sea, an he knew then he was seeing the Lady herself.
The lofty shape raised her arms. "Sir Tristan, approach!"
As she spoke, it came to him that he had heard the low music of her voice long ago, at the dawn of time. As his sight cleared, he could see that the tall, still form was not floating on the water, but enthroned on a foam-flecked rocky platform in the midst of the stream. The air was full of the zestful tang of breaking water, and a slender shape rose like a fountain from its midst. The spray bejeweled her cloudy robes, and tiny drops of sea dew hung on her like diamonds on a queen.
Tristan found his voice. "Are you the Lady? She who sent for me?"
A tender chuckle took him by surprise. The mellow voice had seen all the seasons of life, and was rich with love. "Ah, Tristan, your fate brought you here. And that was written when the stars were young."
"But are you the Lady?" Tristan persisted, unafraid.
The veiled form inclined her head. "I answer to that name, but not alone. The Lady of the Lake holds Avalon, and the Lady of Broceliande keeps the lake in Little Britain, where Sir Lancelot was reared." He could hear the deep voice softening as she spoke. "They are my younger sisters on this plane of earth. The sea was here before the lakes were born."
It was more than Tristan could grasp. He looked around. "Where are we?" he demanded.
The gauzy figure held out her long, sinuous arms, embracing the teeming waters and the rocky cave. "In the womb of life—in the place where our
Noblesse oblige
?
"Father—" came Lienore's tense whisper again.
Death and damnation, would the girl never cease? He turned, twitching with the urge to knock her down. But a cunning joy was written in her eyes and wide, knowing mouth. She pointed to Arthur as he lifted Guenevere down from her horse, and her head was nodding like a flower loose on its stem.
"It's him, Father," she said.
"What?" The Earl caught his breath. "Who?"
Lienore stared at him, excitement leaking from her like sweat. "The man at the tournament. The one who fathered my child."
Chapter 8
Tristan stood in the mouth of the tunnel, hardly daring to breathe. Stretching before him was a great hall of gleaming rock with many chambers, each bigger than the last. A swift rush of water ran through the center of the cavern, finding an unseen passage to the sea. Torches of sea fire flickered round the walls in tongues of green and blue, and pillars of crystal rock held up the roof. Wreaths of white spindrift blossomed round the pillars, and an Otherworldly light shone everywhere.
He looked around in awe. As his eyes softened to the mystic light, he saw alcoves in the rock piled high with all the riches of the sea. Seaweed-hung chests spilled over with silver and gold, and gold chains and jewels lay in tumbling piles. His gaze roved over emeralds and sapphires alight with hidden fire, and rubies glowing with their own heart's blood. Scattered among them were branches of white and red coral, hoards of dusky jet, and pearls like angels' eyes.
Amazed, he ran his fingers over some of the stones. Here, a rainbow of glittering quartzes in yellow, mauve, and green; there, heaps of ambergris, filling the chamber with its distinctive scent. Who lives here? he marveled. Then he heard a sudden cascade of sound, a tinkling fall of notes above the torrent rushing through the hall, and there she was.
At the far end of the chamber, where the stream emerged from the cave wall, was a figure muffled in sea-like draperies from head to foot. Outlined against the black and gleaming rock, she seemed to float above the water around her feet. Her gauzy veil rippled with the rushing torrent, and her foaming robes ebbed and flowed with the roar of the sea. A moon-shaped diadem crowned her head, set with great pearls shading from midnight to dawn, and the mother of all pearls adorned the Goddess ring on her hand. She bore a wand of coral as red as a sunset at sea, an he knew then he was seeing the Lady herself.
The lofty shape raised her arms. "Sir Tristan, approach!"
As she spoke, it came to him that he had heard the low music of her voice long ago, at the dawn of time. As his sight cleared, he could see that the tall, still form was not floating on the water, but enthroned on a foam-flecked rocky platform in the midst of the stream. The air was full of the zestful tang of breaking water, and a slender shape rose like a fountain from its midst. The spray bejeweled her cloudy robes, and tiny drops of sea dew hung on her like diamonds on a queen.
Tristan found his voice. "Are you the Lady? She who sent for me?"
A tender chuckle took him by surprise. The mellow voice had seen all the seasons of life, and was rich with love. "Ah, Tristan, your fate brought you here. And that was written when the stars were young."
"But are you the Lady?" Tristan persisted, unafraid.
The veiled form inclined her head. "I answer to that name, but not alone. The Lady of the Lake holds Avalon, and the Lady of Broceliande keeps the lake in Little Britain, where Sir Lancelot was reared." He could hear the deep voice softening as she spoke. "They are my younger sisters on this plane of earth. The sea was here before the lakes were born."
It was more than Tristan could grasp. He looked around. "Where are we?" he demanded.
The gauzy figure held out her long, sinuous arms, embracing the teeming waters and the rocky cave. "In the womb of life—in the place where our
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