Tristan and Iseult (11 page)

‘I will not speak of this further.’

‘Then tell me why?’

Mark drops his sword-belt to the ground.

‘Because a dead man cannot blame himself.’

Iseult

Question the decision of a king when it is your own and not before? So this young warrior I see is the son of King Mark, and will one day become a king himself. No wonder he can speak to his lord in such a way and not find himself under the heavy earth upon which we stand.

I do not hear what more is said as their voices dip and the wind rages. Yet it is the older man who passes his cloak to another, unbuckles his sword belt and unfastens the iron plate protecting his chest, and steps forward to face my lord. And there is something of resignation in his eyes that compels pity. This, I know, is a man placing faith in whatever gods he looks to.

Morholt hoots with laughter.

‘You fight me yourself, Mark? Will you hold a shield, or do you need a free hand to grip a stick to keep you upright as you wave your sword at me?’

I study King Mark, but nothing of him says he needs any assistance. He will not win, of that I am sure — his blood will soak this ground as the waves lapping the shore soak the sand — but his tall, lean frame, unencumbered by armour, and his assured step tells me he will not make this an easy fight for my lord.

‘If you die on the edge of my blade,’ King Mark says, ‘your men and your women are free to leave this island and return home.’

I question whether to believe his words, but I know they are true. Everything of this man tells me so: his desire to protect his kingdom and his words of greed and honour. And I am drawn to the man who would think them.

‘I pity the fools under your rule, Mark. For their king is a weakling. A bow-legged creature of a defeated island that cannot see its own cock for a fat belly hanging in the way.’

King Mark inclines his head, unwilling to argue the point or trade insults as we stand in the wind. I do not mind the cold, but I feel Acha shiver beside me.

‘If you die,’ Morholt continues, ‘I will have your queen as part of the tribute you owe me. I will bend her over the milk-stool you call a throne.’

‘Do not listen to his poisonous tongue,’ the young warrior says.

His advice is not necessary, as the Kernish king does not flinch at my lord’s words. Perhaps he does not care for his queen; I know Morholt does not care for more than my womb and my blood. Or perhaps King Mark is sure his queen is safe in a guarded castle on the mainland, away from this place of blood and misery and threat that I have been brought to.

The King of Kernow slides his sword from its unbuckled scabbard and seems to feel the balance. I have felt the weight of swords before, and the ability of those who wield them during battle or a fight surprises me.

The warriors of Briton take a pace backward, and Acha and I do the same. Our warriors hold their position and it is Morholt who walks forward to meet King Mark and his own blade is drawn and ready to take the tribute he so desires.

‘I will see you next in the feasting hall,’ King Mark says.

‘Meet me in a Christian hell, for I am already at one with Lucifer.’

Morholt has his back to me, but I can see the Kernish king’s face. It is aging and tired and it is calm. I notice the calm most as he raises his shield and takes my lord’s first strike upon it: a loud thump that sends me another step backward so that I almost trip over Acha’s feet. She huddles me to her and I watch as Morholt throws another strike at the Kernish king. And I feel myself willing King Mark on.
Fight him
, I think. Fight back. Do not just take every blow for eventually one will be the last.

The two men watch each other. Waiting to see who will strike next.

Kill him
.

Kill him and save me from his bed and my duty as a daughter of the blood.

Kill him so that I might return to my beloved Ireland a free woman.

Kill him
.

‘Kill him.’

Acha’s tightened grip tells me I have said the words aloud. Iron scrapes against iron. The heavy thump of King Mark’s blade on my lord’s blood encrusted shield rings out. Sweat or fine drizzle runs down both men’s faces and they grunt with effort and there is silence from the rest of us. King Mark’s son, the young warrior, looks past the pair of fighters to me. All I can see in his face is loathing and I do not understand why.

Rain begins to patter on the ground.

The drips bounce as they hit the wet earth and I look away from the fight and to the unhappy sky. Water splashes on my face and I welcome its chill on my skin. I do not want to see what is happening. I cannot watch. Let it be over and my fate be known.

Tristan

What goes through Mark’s mind? Fighting because a dead man cannot blame himself? Perhaps, but I can blame him for his kingdom being without a king, for leaving me to take charge just moments after he has proclaimed me his heir. Does he want to die? Has Rufus’ death addled his mind? Has he lost all reason? Surely he knows he is not the fittest man amongst us, or the quickest. And he has given his promise to let these people return to Ireland should he kill their lord. I am unsure how wise those words are. Just as I know I will not hand over any tribute to this man with his painted shield even if Mark should fall.  

Mark weighs his sword in his hand. A short sword. And I know he trusts it.

He moves as I would move. We were trained by the same sword-master. We trained together. He has taken Morholt’s first strikes on his shield and now they circle one other. Mark’s step is steady. His expression has changed from boredom at the insults exchanged. Now his brow is creased in concentration. Mouth tight with determination.

Morholt’s sword crashes into Mark’s shield again. Mark backs from him, taking the brunt of each blow with his arm and shoulder, sparing his sword. His right knee begins to buckle under the impact. And I look on. At any moment he will break the tirade of this Irish lord’s bludgeoning metal and will meet him with his own blade.

My breath catches in my throat.

I drag damp air into my lungs as I will Mark on. Knowing a few more heartbeats and it will be over. Wanting to make each strike myself. Itching to hold that sword for him. Willing Morholt to falter. For conclusion to be swift.

‘Mark must win.’

I reply without looking at Eurig. ‘He had better, or we will all be wading through shit back home.’

I hear a shout.
Kill him
. Beyond Mark and the Irish bastard I see the girl with the pale hair and paler skin. The look of desire and enthusiasm for Mark’s defeat is repulsive. She screams for the death of a man she knows nothing of. If I were fighting her lord she would be shouting those same words. Does she crave the death of all Britons in this way?

My focus returns to Mark. I worry the words have penetrated his concentration, but he shows no sign. His short sword plays fast. But the length of Morholt’s blade means he cannot come close to puncturing the bastard’s flesh. Mark is calm in his defence; Morholt grins, foreseeing the death of a king. Thinking that we will perish should Mark fall. That we Britons will die on this forsaken island. Our island. Killed on our own ground. At the hands of men who want to plunder a few gold coins. With their women watching and cheering at the sight of their lord hacking and cursing at a king. Bringing death upon us.

And I watch. I want to drive my sword through their ribcages, swearing to whichever higher being rules over kings that I will renege on Mark’s word and kill every last one of them should he fall.

Rain pummels the ground, gods spitting on the mud, at a fight that can bring them no more entertainment than me pleasure. Mark brings his shield up horizontally and Morholt’s blade slides across the surface, gouging a deep track in the painted chough and then Mark’s face. Blood sheets his cheek, mingled with the spittle of the gods.

Mark loses footing, slides on the mud and stones. He groans in pain and surprise. My stomach lurches as Morholt pulls back his blade to bring it down.

Mark rams the edge of his shield into Morholt’s chest. Winded, an involuntary moan leaves him. And I see the dull sheen of my king’s sword whip round and crash into the side of his head. Morholt’s eyes roll in confusion, anger, and the disbelief of a warrior too confident of his own skill. He falls backward with a satisfying squelch in our mud, moaning and writhing on the slippery ground.

Mark slumps beside him. I unsheathe my blade and wait to see what course the Irish warriors will take now their lord has fallen. One starts toward us. Teeth bared. Eyes wild and remorseless like those of the Saxon. But the rest do not follow.

‘I will gouge your eyeballs from your skulls,’ he shouts. ‘I will cut out your tongues so that you can never utter the name of my lord. I would skewer your balls on my knife if they were large enough …’

As he talks, I walk toward Morholt and kick his sword from his hand. Whichever god he might worship, he can do it as a mortal and not a warrior as we are. Then I spit on him. Mark would not approve. He thinks that even the enemy should be treated with a respect I cannot give. Then I drive my blade into his throat, breaking his neck as I do so.

The warrior charges towards me in a frenzy. I lift my sword from Morholt’s throat and arc it round, bringing it low, cutting into his legs and he falls.

The other ten warriors turn and run.

Back to their boats.

Back to Ireland.

Iseult

A strike from a king and a second from his son, and my Lord Morholt lies on the ground with blood pooling around him.

‘Dear gods,’ Acha says.

She clutches me, as if providing comfort, whereas I think she yearns for comfort herself as our warriors desert us on these foreign shores. I am aware that we are two women amongst these Kernish men. I do not know what we should do. We could follow our warriors but they will not wait for us if we fall behind. Do I believe that King Mark will honour his word that we should live if Morholt fell?

I realise in that moment which king I trust in most. Whose people I am drawn to.

I pull from Acha’s grip and look steadily at the king’s son who has slain my lord as I walk to where King Mark kneels in the mud, clutching his face. The young warrior makes to approach me, and so keeping my eyes on him I say to the King of Kernow: ‘Let me see, Lord King. Let me look at your face.’

‘It is nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing at all.’

I manage to tease his hand away and see the cut is far enough from his eye not to have damaged his sight. But the wound is deep, and I am sure his cheekbone is shattered.

‘You need a physician, Lord King. It looks as if the bone is broken.’ I take a rag from my skirt pocket, fold it, and press it gently against his face. Beneath the blood he is almost as white as my hand.

‘I will see a physician when I am home.’ He looks at me, his eyes focussing on me for the first time and I feel conscious of my hands upon him; that tending his wound has not been well received. I should have waited until he addressed Acha and me.

He clutches the wad of cloth and using my hand for assistance, pulls himself to his feet.

‘It looks like I am still the King of Kernow,’ he says to his son. ‘But my choice still stands. You will remain my heir, Tristan.’

And now I am puzzled. Would not this young warrior, Tristan, already be the king’s heir if he was his son? If he has been chosen, then is he a younger son, or no son at all?

‘What is your name?’ he asks me.

‘Iseult, Lord King.’

‘And your companion?’

‘My maid, Acha.’

‘Your maid?’ His voice is steady but he knows already I am no servant girl or slave.

I take a deep breath and say as confidently as I can: ‘I am King Donnchadh’s daughter.’

I await his response, growing more nervous because he is looking at me without a word, and all eyes are upon me.

‘I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing,’ King Mark says eventually. ‘We had an agreement, your father and I, one to which your Lord Morholt was too greedy to adhere.’ The king looks down at Morholt’s body. ‘He can stay where he fell. If your companions wish to return for his body when we have gone, they are welcome.’

‘And us?’ Acha says, her voice uneven. ‘What of us?’

‘As King Donnchadh’s daughter, she will fetch a high ransom,’ Tristan says. ‘Or fair terms when you negotiate the treaty.’

‘You suggest taking her back to Tintagel?’

‘Until an agreement has been decided with her family. It would be the obvious course.’ Then in a low voice he says, ‘The north of Ireland is ruled by her uncles? Whom Oswyn talks with now?’

King Mark’s eyes flick to me. I nod confirmation.

Then Tristan says: ‘Even if you do not ransom her, the kings of Ireland might consider our leaving her here as disrespectful if her people do not return and she should perish.’