Tristan and Iseult (10 page)

Well said, I think. The new order. As the youngest nephew, I am chosen as the king’s first. It unsettles me. I do not like change.

We turn and walk back to where Eurig and the men stand waiting. They are restless. The Irish ship has landed on the far side of the other hill, and the lord of the Bloodshields will make his way toward the strip adjoining our two small warbands.

‘Do we go to meet them, Lord King?’ Eurig asks. He is not nervous. Eurig is conscious of danger, he is aware of repercussion, but he is never nervous. He wants an end to this matter between us and our enemy. A swift end.

Mark answers: ‘In a moment. First, I need you and the men —’ he nods to those whose attention is rapt as they listen, ‘— to witness my wishes. You all know my son Rufus is dead. It is to be known that I name Tristan, my nephew and a leader of men, as heir to Kernow’s throne when I enter heaven or set sail with the ferryman.’

The men nod, as if they had known it. Perhaps they had. Thinking now, it was always Oswyn or me. If Rufus had survived, the security of the throne could never be assured whilst our cousin lived. Oswyn will certainly attempt to take it, even now.

I look into the men’s faces. I want to know if this news is welcome to them. I have no wish to rule over men who would prefer another lord. They nod solemnly, giving me no further clue as to their desires. Even Eurig fails to show the kindly look of a friend and mentor that would ease me.

We walk down steep slopes toward the thin stretch of land between the south and north hills. I see flecks of movement. Mark is beside me. He is dressed in armour dull and worn. As though he feels we are defeated before the first clash of iron has even rung in the gusty air. The weight of my own sword is heavy on my hip. With every step it feels heavier. There is not the same battle-frenzied rage when you fight a man alone, just the sickening feeling that you must kill before you are killed. That you must do it in order to live.

Mark pauses at the neck of the strip of dirt. As do the Irish.

The sea wind howls the excitement of the gods.

‘Let us be done with this,’ Mark says to me, or to himself. I cannot tell.

He heads toward our enemy. A confident stride. The rest of us follow.

I try to look like the warrior I am. The man who has brought down hundreds of the blonde Saxon scum with the very blade that rubs against my thigh now. With each step, I grow smaller. The Irish are a dozen men, as are we. Two women huddle in fear behind them. A tribute to us? I doubt it. An offering or a temptation, even a distraction, perhaps.

‘They bring women,’ I say.

‘They can bring whomever they wish, so long as it is no more than the warriors agreed. It makes no difference to us,’ Mark replies.

We stride our half of the gap. A warrior’s step. Eyes locked on the enemy we would rip through with a blade. These are the moments in which to instil fear, and I wonder which side looks most fearsome. Which side the gods favour.

Iseult

My face flushes with heat. Worsened because I can feel it, the rapid rise of blood in my neck and cheeks and the inevitable glow my white skin takes, even in the cold. The Britons glance at me and Acha with disapproval. Perhaps they know I am here to witness the victory Morholt is convinced he will have, or because they think I am an offering, but not attractive enough to tempt them. I wish they would look away.

I am unsure at first which warrior amongst these Kernish men is king. They are all dressed simply; barely any warrior rings and shining plunder strapped to them. Their armour looks sturdy and their shields are neatly wrapped in leather and painted with a red-beaked chough; a much less intimidating covering than that of my own people. Even though I do not know these men, they appear not to be as fierce and wild as our warlords of Ireland. Their posture is defiant, but not aggressive. They are a calm people who stand against their enemies, but will not win. I pity them for their misguided defiance and almost wish I had a chance to plead with them to pay the tribute and return to their wives and children before it is too late. Morholt’s victory on these shores will be an easy one. Of that I am certain.

‘You choose to bring tribute, King Mark? Or do you choose to forfeit Kernow’s greatest warrior?’ Morholt asks the question with a pleasure that reminds me of the way he spoke of my father. If they did not enjoy watching this entertainment, the gods would surely smite him. I secretly wonder at the emotion I might experience were he wrong, and the Britons proved victorious.

One of the Kernish men — a man who is as plainly dressed as the others with nothing to indicate his authority except an obedient silence from his companions — glances to the ground for a few moments, then raises his head and says: ‘Passage across the waters to join those gone before us will be two gold coins. That is the same for you as it is for me. Every tribe, be it Briton, Saxon, Irish, needs land for its people to work and live on. Anything more is greed.’

The leader of the Kernish men reminds me of my father, the way he speaks plainly and concisely, as if every word spoken ought to be obvious and accepted by all, and yet I know Morholt is thinking he is little more than a fool who pays too much heed to ideals.

Around me, I feel the prickle of excitement as our warriors realise the Britons will not give up their gold as easily as Morholt believed and that without the riches, swords will be drawn. I wish the Britons would yield, so that I might return home before blood is spilled.

‘A king? You are a king of Briton?’ Morholt laughs. I feel embarrassment on behalf of those standing before us, for my lord’s cheap humour. ‘Your kingdoms fall to invaders because you lack ambition,
King
Mark. No enemy fears a leader who cannot lead.’

The men either side of the King of Kernow — this man they call Mark, who appears no more a king than I a queen — look as if they move closer in their anger at Morholt’s words, but they have not stepped a single pace. One of the men, a man much younger than the king, who holds all the impatience of youth in his determined face, rubs the hilt of his sword with his thumb as if tempted to draw it and finish in that moment what has already begun.

Finish this, I think. Let the uncertainty of these two groups of warriors facing one another be over. Or let one side yield to the other.

‘I lead my people to a life without threat. You are a thief, a common raider,’ the Kernish king replies. ‘That is why we find ourselves on this island. You thought I would give you gold so that you can return and demand yet more, season after season? You have no honour and I believe no tribute could ever be agreed and kept between my people and yours.’

Morholt does not rise to this king’s tone. Instead he takes a further step toward the Britons and they bristle, their hands twitching to sword hilts and their faces alert, eyes suspicious. I admire them both, I realise. My Lord Morholt comes to a foreign land and has no trace of apprehension at demanding his desires, and these Kernish men show not one measure of nervousness in standing against him.

‘You make the wrong decision,’ Morholt says.

‘One fight, sword upon sword, to the death, and the future price of peace between our kingdoms is decided. That is what was agreed.’

The king of the Britons does not even offer our passage back to Ireland, never to return, and I know he has resigned himself to seeing through the bargain that was made. And for the first time I am afraid of what will happen to Acha and I if these Britons prove to be more capable with a sword than I first thought …

I look at the line of men before us and wonder which lean warrior will face my lord thinking he can win. The man little older than myself who rubs the hilt of his sword catches my eye and something of resignation passes over his face. His eyes are pale and hard, but they appear to be apologising for what will come, for this whole meeting and the death which will follow, and it is clear this is the man who will step forth to fight for his king on this sliver of land.

His gaze moves from me to my fellow Irish, weighing each of us in turn, and I wish he would look back at me so I can see reassurance in them that all will be well no matter the outcome. The Kernish king is waiting for my lord to respond, but Morholt is a man who likes to make others wait, teetering on the edge with anticipation.

‘I never pass on an invitation to draw blood,’ Morholt says. ‘And the blood of Britons curdles like the cowardly. Better for my men to paint their shields.’

‘Your acceptance is welcomed.’ The young Briton speaks for the first time and his words send warmth through me to contrast the cold wind. His voice is clipped and short and has no fear to it. I am surprised that his king shows no indication of annoyance that one of his warriors has interrupted the exchange, and I think perhaps they are father and son.

The young warrior flashes me a hard stare. I am frozen, then realise that a smile plays on my lips at his words and my lord’s supposition. Stood behind Morholt, I cannot see his face, but I expect he thinks I grin at what he believes to be stubborn, inexperienced foolishness from this Briton. Yet the young warrior’s arms are laced with the signs of battles old and recent, and his words I believe were spoken with satisfaction and not hot-headed anger. He is a man not only of words.

And for the first time this day I feel a curiosity, and something of excitement.

Tristan

The girl is smiling at me, at us. Arrogant and amused, thinking her lord a better man than any of ours. It is the way of the Irish, to assume their superiority above all others. To think they can come to our shores and threaten. And now they bring women to taunt us as we fight for what is ours. Taking advantage of our weakened position as we face other enemies that have crossed other seas. Watching as the blood of men is spilled because of their greed, seeing men’s bowels loosen on the earth as they die. Will they enjoy it as much when it is their own lord’s piss soaking our land?

Their leader grins. A wicked grin. A man who will draw his sword with enjoyment and not one fragment of restraint. I despise him even more for the fear that begins to seep into my veins. Making my heart pump harder.

‘You like a challenge, boy?’ he says.

Boy
. Morholt might match Mark’s age, but he knows I am no boy. He will have noticed my shield, the beatings taken by Saxon axe these past months. He will know I am younger than he is, but I have seen my share of battlefields. How much apprehension is there in a man who looks as confident as he?

‘I would like the chance to drive my sword under your ribcage,’ I reply. ‘And watch your innards slither down my blade.’

‘I will cook your flesh over a fire on your own shore,’ he says. ‘I hear Britons taste of pig.’

‘And I have heard the Irish taste of shit.’

Mark takes the smallest step forward. I say nothing more, knowing Mark is not angry with me, but also that he does not care for the hot words that pass between warriors when they are readying for a fight. 

‘Now we have exchanged the customary insults, are you prepared to draw your sword for the tribute you want?’ Mark asks Morholt.

‘I am ever ready.’ The sound of Morholt’s sword sliding from its scabbard causes all the men in our group to reach for their blades. My own sword breathes a hiss of excitement.

Mark alone does not draw his weapon.

‘Lower your sword, Tristan.’

Confused, I let the heavy iron tip drop to the ground.

Mark unclips his cloak and hands it to Eurig.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Settling this matter of a tribute and earning the respect of all the Irish kings. This has gone on long enough.’

As tall and lean as Mark is, this is not a fight he can win.

‘You said I would fight him?’

Mark’s expression is blank. ‘No, I did not say that. I told you he would fight our greatest warrior. What greater man can an Irish lord fight than a king of Briton?’

I think back on our exchange. Know that my name was never uttered when he spoke of the fight. And curse myself for my own idiocy.

Embarrassed, I turn my back on the Irish and mutter, ‘And what if he kills you? What then, Mark? Your son is
dead
. Your life holds no less value because of that. Is that why you wanted to name me as your successor? Because you think you will die on this island on the edge of that Irish bastard’s sword?’

‘It was a decision made before I knew of Rufus,’ Mark says, his voice beginning to rise. ‘Question the decision of a king when it is your own and not before.’

The words hit my face like the punches Oswyn threw when we were children. All hatred and shame as I lay on the floor, boyhood pride willing me to struggle to my feet. I hated him for it.

‘Do as you wish,’ I say, though my voice is low and I half hope he does not hear me. He seems not to, for he says nothing and continues unbuckling his sword.

She is watching me. The girl with the pale hair and pale face that is almost lost in this bleak weather. She makes me uncomfortable. I am a man, a warrior, yet her stare, even in its innocence, makes me check myself. Perhaps she is a witch.

‘Let me fight him.’