Tristan and Iseult (13 page)

I see her maid look intently at me. I falter. It is not my choice what happens, perhaps not even Mark’s. It will depend on the Irish kings and their decision. Do I say more empty words, more worthless assurance to her as I did my friend?

‘I have no way of knowing.’ I watch her as I speak. She already knows I can give her no answers. That there are no answers to be had. We live in a world where the only surety is that promises are made and broken.

The day is almost snuffed out. My eyes strain against the dark. We are picking up pace and the castle is close. The girl Iseult is quiet beside me. I can think of nothing to say either. It matters not. It is an easy silence; as familiar as scouting the Dumnonian frontier with Rufus.

We reach the castle. My mother runs across the courtyard to greet us. She takes the wad of cloth from Mark’s cheek and I hear her gasp. She presses the cloth back and kisses his other cheek. Then she falls into a clumsy embrace with me. She is shaking. I feel the damp of her cloak and know she has stood on the ramparts waiting for our return.

‘Calm, mother. There is no damage done.’

She whimpers and gabbles into my shoulder. ‘Do not leave again, Tristan. I cannot bear it. Please do not leave again, my son.’

I stroke her wet, braided hair and hold her tightly. When she is ready, I let her go. She gives a small sigh then turns to the two Irish women.

 ‘Welcome to our home,’ she says as brightly as she can. ‘My name is Isabel.’ She does not know them. There has been no introduction, but that is the way of my mother.

The two women dip into a curtsy.

‘No need for that, my child,’ my mother says. ‘Come inside and we shall find you food and warm, dry clothes and chambers. They will be with us for a while, Mark?’

‘For now.’

‘Come then.’

I know by the way my mother puts her arm on Iseult’s shoulder that she has adopted herself a daughter. She is a mother to all lost souls, and I think how alike the two women might be.

Iseult

Acha and I are given separate rooms and yet we stay in the same bed on our first night with the Kernish. I know as I lie on the soft mattress that I am no longer afraid. I wonder if my mother worries for me. Whether s
he knows more than I did of the Britons across the sea and trusts I am safe and well.

I think of King Mark and his bravery, facing Morholt and the wound he has suffered. I do not know what will happen to Acha and me, whether we will be returned to Ireland. But I think no harm will come to us in this castle on the coast of a land I had once thought savage. It was our men who were savage; I see that now, the great castle stood proud and strong against the sea-storms raging, holding wealth my people desired. I wonder who will command the men of my homeland now Morholt is gone, and whether his men returned to the island to take his body home. No woman will taste the stench of his breath or his rage, no man will feel his blade tear them in two, and for that I am thankful.

And I think of the young nephew, of Tristan. I think of the way he caught Acha as she fell and his jests, and of his wanting to prove himself against Morholt. He is a troubled man, I know. I sense his mind does not rest easy nor does sleep come to him. I think of his eyes staring at me as our lords fought and his thoughts no longer interest me. I find myself instead searching my own memory for the colour of those eyes that watched me. My mind lingers on the way he held his mother and stroked her hair, offering her a comfort I remember my father giving me. I imagine his firm embrace, the sudden safety I find myself in tenfold, and I am there in his arms as I drift into undisturbed slumber.

I wake to sunshine pouring through the thin windows of our room and I wonder if the gods favour me this day, if the fine weather is an omen to precede a new life here in Kernow.

Acha is already awake and dressed. She is folding and sorting and hanging.

‘What are they?’

‘A gift, from the king’s sister.’

I crawl sleepily from the bed and stand beside Acha to inspect the gifts we have been given. The dresses are beautiful. Isabel’s own? I am not sure. To whomever they belong I am grateful to have something to wear, for my own clothes are soiled and torn and wet from the day before and many days of sleeping beside the sea.

‘We should be careful of the gifts we accept,’ Acha says as I step into a gown she holds for me. ‘We are not guests here, we are prisoners.’

‘We are not treated as prisoners, Acha.’

‘That may change.’ Her mouth is stern and pinched so that her lips wrinkle as if sucking something bitter. How wrong she is.

We are escorted through the castle and to a room where a small fire burns in a hearth, despite the spring day. There is a table and a dozen or more chairs, and I sit as close to the fire as I can, for my bones are still damp-cold. Acha stands waiting. She does not feel as comfortable as I, not knowing why we have been called to wait in this room.

A few moments pass and the king himself enters. I stand quickly and curtsey, and he ushers me to sit, that there is no need for such formalities. He sits close to the fire so that there is barely an arm’s reach between us, and I look at the wound on his face. Small, neat stitches tie the cut together, and I wonder whose precise hand it was that tended him last night. I am responsible, I feel, for he saved me, even though he would have fought Morholt whether I was present or not.

‘My Lord, I must thank you —’

‘Finding chambers fit for a king’s daughter is not worthy of gratitude. You have my sister to thank for the clothes she has found for you. My late wife would approve, I think, that her gowns were put to use.’

I see sadness glimmering in green eyes and I will a tear so that I can wipe it away as I pressed cloth to his wound, and feel suddenly conscious of the fabric which skims so perfectly my body. He is watching me, or perhaps he sees his dead wife sat before him. I want to speak but I am unsure what to say, to feel.

‘I will thank her then, when I see her next.’

The king appears to stir from a trance.

‘I must understand your situation in Ireland.’ He glances to Acha. ‘It is important we know what we face and how amenable your uncles in the north of Ireland might be to another treaty. My nephew already discusses terms with them, but they will not yet know of Morholt’s death. They did not support him, I think?’

King Mark desires peace. His voice, the softness edged with hope and desperation tells me so. He wants to spare his people the raiding Morholt subjected them to, and I cannot blame him. He must know, too, that I can offer him little. My knowledge does not extend to the desires our northern kings may have. They did not come south when my father was killed.
They offered my mother and me neither hope nor protection.

‘I am afraid, Lord King, that I can offer you no insight. Lord Morholt was a man whose greed preceded all else. I had thought my uncles would protect us, but we have heard nothing since my father’s death.’

‘Iseult …’ He seems unsure of himself. A man, I know already, who is always sure of everything; as the sun rising and setting and the winter that will see the weakest of his kingdom perish. ‘… you were married to Lord Morholt?’

‘I was not.’

King Mark nods, and I look at his hair, almost black and combed back from his high forehead. His cheeks are sunken, as if slumped in a chair after a day’s work in the fields. His hands rest gently on his knee.

‘I will wait for my nephew, Oswyn, to return from your uncles in the north before taking any further course of action. I fear you must suffer our damp halls and Kernish food a little longer. You have everything you need?’

‘You have already been more than kind.’

‘You are no prisoner here, Iseult. Either of you,’ he says, looking to Acha. ‘You are free to come and go as you please.’

Free to come and go as I please, he says, and I feel tears forming a hazy film over my eyes and my throat tightens. Does he know, this man, this king, what he gives to me? A freedom I thought I would never have. I cannot speak.

King Mark does not wait for my response. I may cause him discomfort, I think, and he stands and leaves the room without another word. And I am left alone with Acha. She comes to me and holds me as she knows the relief I feel, that at least, for now, I am safe in this castle of our enemy. Our enemy. I laugh into Acha’s shoulder at that. She pulls away from me.

‘What is it?’

‘We are being treated as queens in our enemy’s castle and lands,’ I say.

I see a rare moment of relief spread over her face also and I know in that moment no matter what happens from this time forward, we will stay in Kernow.

And never return to Ireland.

Tristan

Mark waits and so do I. Mark because he wants an end to the Irish feud, to know what news Oswyn will bring with his return. I wait because the presence of the Irish girl unnerves me, causes a sense of dread.

She sits in the great hall each night. Her smile brings merriment to those around her. Her hair shines silver, no longer tangled with mud and seaweed and salt-damp. I see her cheeks rose under the gaze of our men. When I watch her too long my heart grows heavy and I think of Rufus; drifting out to sea, flames defying the water upon which they dance. Iseult’s laughter has replaced his. Her light makes others forget. But my heart is torn. Her innocence can never bring Rufus back across the lake with the Ferryman. He is waiting now in the feasting hall. I see him. Laughing just as Iseult does now, joking with the men, causing the cheeks of the women to warm.

I sit, thinking of Rufus and Iseult with barely a thought for my future reign over Kernow. I wonder how serious Mark is. Was his decision spurred by fear of defeat when fighting Morholt? I see the men, they look at me differently. I am no longer simply the King’s nephew. One day I will sit where Mark sits now, and know I accepted the throne only because I want to save our kingdom from Oswyn’s rule.

Mark smiles. The only time I have seen the sorrow of losing Rufus lift since I gave him the news. Iseult stands and walks to the harp in the corner of the room. She has told Mark she plays, and when she sits and her hands touch the strings I hear music to rival the larks’ voice in the forests as I silently wait for deer or Saxon enemy.

The hall falls silent. When she has finished everyone erupts with applause. She has become a source of entertainment to our people. They watch her. Every man in the room is becoming infatuated with her. Mark is still smiling as she takes her seat. He too is under her spell. It is why I will not approach her, or take the time to know her better. She is a being from another world, and to the Irish coast she will go. That is what I dread: her departure which will surely come with Oswyn’s return.

Three days and no sighting of a ship bearing my cousin. I long for its approach so that the girl with the silver hair will return to Ireland. I find myself drawn to her. She lingers on my every thought, and yet I spoke with her only briefly on her arrival to our lands.

My mother wishes to visit the priory and I am to accompany her. The skies are bright and calm as I saddle the horses ready. My mother worships the old gods of Briton, but even so her sympathies to the orphans cared for by the sisterhood see her take food and coin weekly to ease their suffering.

I wait for her by the castle’s forge, watching the rhythmic beating of iron and feeling the heat of the coals on my face. I see Rufus in the glowing embers. The blood from his wound. And I hear his voice as we spoke to one another in our tent each night, alone.

When I look up I see not only my mother approach, but Iseult too. I curse inwardly. She will ride with us to the priory. A good half day round trip.

‘I thought Iseult might join us,’ my mother says.

‘The brothers will need to take confession after seeing Iseult,’ I say. I realise a moment too late the words I have spoken. My mother pretends not to have heard, but Iseult will not meet my eye. I realise they are words Rufus would have spoken.

I call for a squire to saddle another two horses.

‘I had not thought we would ride,’ Iseult says quietly to my mother.

‘You do not ride?’ I ask. I am shocked by this news. Remind myself she is the daughter of a king. She would have always ridden in a cart, not upon horseback.

My mother says: ‘She can ride with you, Tristan.’ And I feel greater dread than standing in a shield wall. I am sweating and have lost the order of my thoughts.

Iseult waits as I take the reins of my horse and guide him across to her.

‘I will lift you up.’

She is in front of me. Her eyes downturned, the long, fair lashes resting on her cheeks. I take hold of her waist and she grips my shoulders. I lift her easily into the saddle. The horse moves under the weight of his rider, but before I can soothe him she is already stroking his neck and he calms.

I mount behind her, loop my arms either side of her waist and take the reins. We set off and her hair flutters in the breeze. I smell camomile and lavender. She is tense, I notice.

‘Relax, he is friendly enough.’