Tristan and Iseult (19 page)

‘There is something I did not tell you when I returned from Caerleon,’ I say. And now that I have said it, I know I must go on. ‘Cunedda did not wholly refuse your offer of a treaty. He would bind himself to Kernow and to Briton, but not to the Irish.’

‘He is already at peace with the Britons. He is too indebted and owes too much coin, especially to me.’

‘He would have the same bind that you now have with the Irish.’

‘Go on.’

‘He proposes that I marry one of his daughters.’

I am not sure what I hope to achieve. Whether I want Mark to agree, to disagree, suggest I leave and strip me of the title he has bestowed. Instead his expression relaxes, as if relieved.

‘My boy, I have waited a long time to hear that. This new marriage alliance could see more stability to Briton than you know. This is great news. I would see you as happy as I am. For all that I have heard of Cunedda, I believe his daughters are beautiful.’

‘There is one. Her name is Iseult.’

Mark pauses, a little surprised. Confused, perhaps.

‘Iseult of the White Hands?’

‘A coincidence, I know.’

‘This is the one you would marry?’

I nod. I watch the waves rolling in, one after another. The sea which brought my Iseult here.

‘You will live in the castle?’ he asks.

‘You misunderstand, Mark. We would not live here. I would go to Ceredigion and front Cunedda’s defences. It would give us greater control over their movements, perhaps one day result in a greater peace.’

Mark’s face appears broken. He turns his back on me and when he speaks his voice is angry and hard.

‘Tristan, you cannot leave Kernow and live in Ceredigion and still be heir to the Kernish throne. You cannot simply return when I am dead and assume the role. There is work to be done here, with our people, to ensure the transition of power is smooth. You know that Oswyn would not allow you to set foot back on Kernish soil as a man, never mind a king, when I am gone.’

‘I know this.’

He turns back to me. ‘Then why? An alliance with Cunedda is no more valuable than your rule here. You must see that.’

‘I cannot be the person you want me to be.’ The words are true enough, but my omissions are heavy with guilt.

‘Of course you can. I lost Rufus, now you, is that it? If I can bear his absence then so can you, Tristan.’

‘That is not true, not the reason I leave. I will be in a neighbouring kingdom. You said yourself; you may yet bear another son who will become heir.’

‘And you would have been his guardian.’

‘I will go, Mark. This is Cunedda’s offer and I have chosen to accept. ’

He nods his head. Tired and defeated.

Iseult

I see Mark and Tristan high on the ramparts. I know Mark speaks with Tristan of leaving for Dumnonia, and that Tristan will stay here, with me. I was unsure at first, Mark gone and Tristan and I sharing our days alone. Then I thought of the past few weeks and the walks we have had and the time we have shared and felt relieved that it would continue if Tristan stayed and Mark went in his place.

Isabel speaks to me, but I do not hear. I am watching, waiting, wondering what is said. When they have finished Mark does not return to where I wait, and instead walks along the far side of the rampart. I think to follow him, but Tristan appears.

‘Might I speak with you, Iseult?’

‘Of course.’

Isabel embraces Tristan.

‘It is for the best, that you stay here,’ she says. ‘I could not bear to lose you too.’ Then she leaves.

We walk back the way we came in silence. Tristan looks away from me, distant and thoughtful. His loose shirt billows slightly in the breeze.

‘Mark has already told me he will go to Dumnonia,’ I say.

Tristan sighs. A long, heavy, mournful sound.

‘I will not be staying here, Iseult. I am going back to Ceredigion to fight for King Cunedda.’

‘But why?’ my voice is edged with hysteria, but I cannot
hold it back. Fear rides within me. Not anticipation 
or excitement, longing or desire. Just fear of the words I am willing not to follow.

‘Because I cannot stay here with you.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my voice uneven. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Nothing. I want nothing from, nor would I ever ask anything of you.’ He pauses. ‘I know I must be hurting you, because I am hurting every day. I never meant for this. I knew before we rode to the priory together my feelings. I want to spend every fragment of every day with you, walking the beach, looking out to sea, but you must know that it is hard to be close and yet never close enough. I live on the outskirts of your life, afraid of seeing you with Mark. Please, Iseult, you must understand it is a shadow of a life for me. We cannot pretend any longer that there is nothing between us.’

‘Why Ceredigion?’

‘I am to marry.’

There is silence for a long time as I inhale his words. Become sick on them. Feel the jolt as they hit the pit of my stomach and I cannot breathe. I look into his face and sense he is waiting for me to reply, but I have nothing to say. Nothing that will make my own pain dissipate, nor stop my heart from crying.

‘My apologies,’ he says.

His words sound strange, rehearsed. Is this the way he feels, or is it just pretence? What happened to the walks we shared and the laughter we had? How has it suddenly disappeared?

‘There is no need for an apology,’ I say.

‘There is. There is so much to apologise for. I am sorry that I did not speak up to Mark and tell him how I felt. But I could not. After Mark forgave me Rufus’ death … He needs you more than I do, Iseult.’

I want to cry, but I hurt too much for tears to come. I want him to make things better. To take back what he has said. How could he, I think. Making me want him, turning his back because of his guilt, forcing me to feel a marriage to Mark was my only choice. I am angry with him, with myself, with Mark and with everything in this world. I am saved from Morholt but still I am not free.

‘Every day is hard,’ Tristan continues, the creases of his face echoing his words. ‘I am trying to make it easier for us both. I am trying not to spend the rest of my life a bitter man, taunted by your presence.’

‘Taunted?’ the word catches in my throat. ‘But my bitterness will never cease, will it?’

‘No, it will not. Not if you keep it close.’

‘Have I a choice?’ I say, and recoil at my own, venomous tone.

Tristan grips my hand and squeezes.

‘I cannot spend my whole life wishing I was with you. The gods know I want things to be different, but we both know that cannot be. They are laughing at us, you know. We must amuse them greatly.’ He laughs a little. ‘Now I am trying to make something of my life. I am trying to start afresh, from nothing, and learn how to be content with someone other than you.’

They are the hardest words I have ever had to hear. Tears are running freely down my face. I am ashamed of them, embarrassed at my feelings, knowing he will care for another in the way he cares for me. 

‘I will never stop wanting you, Iseult. To me you will always be something extraordinary. Something special. You have a piece of me that can never be taken back. You will own it for the rest of your life and beyond, if you want it.’

My throat is tight and I cannot speak. I look at the ground, wanting it to swallow me whole and suffocate the flames.

Finally, I manage a little nod.

He wraps me in his arms and holds me tight. Tighter. Then lets go.

I grip his hand again and he kisses it.

‘And when you return, you will be married,’ I say, forcing a light tone into a constricted voice.

Tristan glances to the ground.

‘I will not return, Iseult. I forfeit the succession to the Kernish throne.’

His grey eyes meet mine. I am unable to speak. The bottom of my world drops away and there is nothing to catch my fall.
 

‘And will you fight my uncles for King Cunedda?’ I ask, more spiteful than I ever thought I could be.

Tristan closes his eyes. ‘I do not know, Iseult. Perhaps. The Saxon, the Irish. Does it matter?

‘Mark would never let you leave his side,’ I say. Then realise the futility; the selfishness. ‘But ... you have already spoken with Mark?’ I continue, angry with him, with myself, with it all.

‘Yes.’

I nod. As if it all makes sense. Feeling like I already knew this. That I was waiting for it to be spoken.

‘When do you leave?’ I ask, not really wanting the answer.

‘A week from now.’

‘Will I ever see you again?’

‘I do not know what will happen. I am sorry, but I cannot promise what I do not yet know.’

I pull my hand from his, the world turning and turning and I cannot see. I cannot breathe. I want it to stop. I want to plead with him not to go, but what right do I have to ask him to stay? I can give him nothing. I can never be his. But the hurt is unbearable and I do not know how to make it all go away.

‘Forgive me,’ I say, and turn to leave.

My heart beats faster than a running hare. So fast it is almost a blur. My legs are weak and I am unsure I can walk back to the keep, but somehow I manage. Up the grassy slope. Away from the man I care for above all else. Away from the man I cannot imagine leaving.

‘Iseult!’

He calls my name and the wind plucks it from the air and carries it toward me. Each syllable a distinct imprint of his voice in my mind.

I do not turn back. 

My vision is obscured and I am sobbing.

Tristan

Iseult and I barely speak. She does not seek me out, and neither do I approach her. Our heated words and the tears I caused compound my guilt. I have been selfish. Forced Iseult into a marriage with Mark because I could not bear to see his grief and feel the guilt I should have felt. Instead I wound Iseult. What made me believe her pain would be less than mine? Did I realise her marrying Mark would feel so utterly despairing?

Now I intend to leave.

It is best, I tell myself: to leave and let them start their lives afresh.

Mark comes to my rooms as I pack, sits on the edge of my bed. The lines of his brow are deeper as he watches me.

‘Is there any point to my persuading you to stay?’

‘I am grateful for everything you have done for me. But my mind is made up. This is my path.’

Mark exhales, heavy and tired.

‘All right. You will report to me often, let me know the situation in Cunedda’s kingdom?’

‘Of course.’

He stands, our conversation at an end. He embraces me. Awkward. A shirt still in my hand.

‘Take care, Tristan.’

Once I have finished packing I seek Iseult. There are things I must say, though I am not sure what. To wish her well, to say something of a goodbye? Whatever is spoken, I would rather it was out of Mark’s hearing.

I find her with my mother, working on a tapestry in the tower. Another passage of time Mark will forever enshrine to the walls of his rooms. I thought his documentation of life instead of living it had passed with Iseult’s presence. It seems it has not.

I watch a moment, her nimble fingers stitching the face of a young man. For a heartbeat I think it Rufus, then I realise it is me.

‘A fair likeness,’ I say.

Iseult startles.

My mother says: ‘This tapestry is for me to remember you by, Tristan. I have already stitched Rufus.’

Her voice near breaks, so fragile are her words. I wish I were a boy again, sat cross-legged at her feet, listening to her tales. Those times are gone. I steady myself with the thought of my own children and the stories I will tell. Of what? A cousin lost, a woman I could not have, and a kingdom I should have ruled?

‘I must have a word with the kitchen,’ my mother says.

She leaves, her eyes telling me she extends the same courtesy Iseult once gave her.

I sit down on my mother’s stool. I think to take Iseult’s hands in mine.

Should not. Do not.

‘Iseult …’

‘There is nothing to say, Tristan. Live your life. I am happy for you.’

Her words are gentle, sad. She stares at the thread in her lap, playing it between her fingers.

‘This is why I must go. It is too much. We both know that. So many reasons why we cannot be together … Please, never think that I do not care for you.’

‘I know,’ she replies, her voice forlorn.

She must know as I do how unbearable it would become if I stayed. Better to forget until another time. Better to pretend it never was.

I reach out and brush her fingers with mine, and she grips my hand. This is the closest we will ever be, a light touch of fingers; all I will have to remember her. She has never been mine, even when I rode with her, held her, kissed her forehead and walked the shores each day. But I am hers. There is a piece of my heart she took for her own the day she came to Kernow. Once hers, she moulded it so that it would never fit back.