Tristan and Iseult (4 page)

I look back out to sea, my eyes pinched against the sun. A little way off is the outline of our ship, riding the waves back from Briton. Carrying gold. 

Acha pulls her shawl about her.

‘I’ve seen too many years to stand in the cold,’ she says. ‘Gods speed them so I can return to the fireside.’

The hairs on my arms stand proud, the skin tight. I shiver and link her arm.

‘You are not so old, but I agree that the fireside be preferable this night.’

Small boats are carried to the shore on lapping waves, bobbing up and down. Filled with our warriors. I try to see if Morholt is amongst them, but I cannot make him out. Men jump from a boat and it grinds on the shore and water tugs their legs; tries to pull them back.

The warriors ascend the incline to where we stand. Morholt, I see now, is at the head of them, his face hard. Matted hair is clipped back and his beard heavy with plundered jewels. A shudder runs through me.

My mother and a group of our men walk to meet them.

‘You return to us well, my Lord?’ I hear my mother say. Her voice is courteous. She wants his attention, to ensure we stay favoured even though her position will guarantee it.

‘Aye,’ he replies, and brushes past her to talk in low tones with his men.

Once his back is turned, she catches my eye. There is loathing, as if it is my fault he does not honour her with gifts. And I see embarrassment and shame in the slight downturn of her head and the flush in her high cheeks.

I am simply thankful he has taken no heed of my presence.

I expect the men to unload the tribute taken from Briton. Instead Morholt heads to our hall and our people follow, whispering. I think we are all nervous of him, of his mood and his temper and what has happened in Briton.

In our hall the fires have been built and stoked and tended. The heat hits my face as I enter; sore on wind-burnt cheeks. Then the sting subsides and I appreciate the warmth our feasting place offers, thankful that Acha’s old bones will ease their objections.

Acha and I sit at the top table in the same place we always sit. Only now the largest of chairs is not empty. Morholt fills it and his warriors — his followers — the seats beside him. I am careful not to look into his eyes. If I do not meet them, it is as though I am hidden from him and he will not recall my existence. 

We eat. Every morsel taking an age to chew and swallow as our people mutter and gesture and cast guarded looks to our leader. Morholt eats and drinks relentlessly. His cheeks bulge as he chews and mead mixes with every mouthful. The man beside him tries to talk with him, but Morholt does not reply and his face grows ever more discoloured and dangerous. 

Finally he stands before our people. His eyes rove the room, looking for something … someone.

‘Iseult.’

Slowly, uncertainly, I lift my head and look across to our lord, the man who will become our king; who is already our king in all but name. Time looks unkindly upon his face and his head is unsteady with drink. His eyes are fixed on me.

‘My Lord,’ I say. At least I think I say it, for I do not hear my own words.

‘Play, Iseult.’

‘Play?’

‘The harp, Iseult,’ he says, his voice monotone and daunting. ‘Play the harp. I like to hear it. I like to hear you of all our fair women playing it. You ease my thoughts.’

Beneath the table Acha grips my leg in concern before I push back my chair and stand. A few places to my right, my mother glares in irritation as if I do not move fast enough. 

‘My Lord,’ I say. ‘What do you wish me to play?’

But Morholt has sat down once more and is now talking with his men, his mood apparently lifted by the prospect of music, and my voice is lost in the mist of chatter.

I play and our people become steadily drunk and Morholt’s mood appears ever lighter. Briton is forgotten, his displeasure soaked in drink and hidden behind merriment. I relax, the music drifts from my fingertips and distracts my mind.

As the fires die and the night grows cold, our people wander to their rooms or sleep where they lie. Morholt sits slumped over the table. Cups are scattered all about. Dogs find the courage to steal from the table as their masters sleep. My mother has long since retired and I am thankful she has, for her mood has not lightened as our lord’s has.

Acha approaches me as I continue to play.

‘It is time to sleep, child,’ she says.

Her voice is loud in the quiet hall and I worry it will wake Morholt. I am equally afraid to cease plucking the strings for the silence that might also cause him to stir.

‘Iseult,’ she says, taking my arm.

We leave the hall and I follow her to our rooms. She pulls off my dress and helps me into a light shift; I do the same for her. Then we cuddle together in the bed for warmth.

I feel safe for the moment. For tonight.

Tristan

‘The day for this life has past!’

The Saxon cannot understand Geraint’s roar, just as we cannot understand their howling tongue. I am tired and my limbs are both fire and death. I move slowly, careful with my energy. Striking to kill as I finish the last of this battle. Gods give me the strength to continue, for the fear no longer drives me forward.

I stumble upon the bodies of the fallen: Saxon, Dumnonian, Kernish …

They are everywhere and part of me wants to look for the faces of the brothers that we will have lost. Concentrate. It will keep me alive.

The war cry of my people leaves my lips. I almost lose the grip on my sword as I let the weight of it crash into another bastard enemy. I hear the groans of the dying and smell the blood of a hundred men in the air. A haze of red floats before my eyes. Air burns my throat and lungs and my head feels light.

To my right Geraint hammers blows upon the enemy. A frenzy of cuts and slashes. I look for the next man to meet my blade. I see few Saxon. Relief soaks me as I realise we are winning and the last of the Saxon are trying to turn from us into the two lines left at their fore, or falling to the ground.

Muttering a prayer of thanks to the gods, I stumble across to where Rufus squats beside a tree, retching. We have not eaten so nothing comes up. He is pale and as I take his arm to help him to his feet he is shaking so hard I grip him tight to steady him. All about us the remains of the Dumnonian warband howl and shriek their victory. But it is no triumph. I see our men scattered on the ground, slain, their families’ prospects and safety draining away like the blood that seeps into this cold, wet earth.

‘Rufus. Look sharp. You are being watched.’

Rufus wipes his mouth on his arm. I take his sword from him and stoop down, tear grass. Wipe the blade clean. Rufus has killed again, we all have: lives taken so that one day we may live in some ideal of peace that will likely never be known.

The sword clean, I hand it back to Rufus and he sheaths it.

‘How many of our own are lost?’ he asks.

‘The Dumnonian loss is more than ours. And the enemy loss is higher still.’

Not one Saxon remains standing. Some of them writhe on the ground, but our warriors have not the compassion to end their misery.

‘Get moving,’ I hear one commander call, referring to the men looting the dead.

We would not want to be here when a larger Saxon force arrives. I wish everyone would hurry. I am tired, weak, thirsty, and I want nothing more than to return to camp and sleep.

‘Come on,’ I say to Rufus, but he is examining a gash on his thigh.

I stoop down and pull his hand away. The wound is crying red streaks down his leg.

‘A scratch,’ I say. ‘We will clean it when we are back.’

We walk back to the camp without uttering a word. Gaps linger in our lines as if we save spaces for the brothers we have lost. I avoid my fellows’ eyes; sure that every man is grateful that we make our way back to camp instead of waiting for the boatman to take us to the Otherworld.

Rufus limps from the cut to his leg. He keeps a brave face and makes no complaint, no sound of any kind.

We arrive back and I peel off my armour. Dried blood cracks. The stench of sweat and leather is pungent. I beckon Rufus down to the stream where we wade into the cold water. I see there are grazes on my arms and legs and my face is stinging, too.

‘I will be as scarred as your father by this time next year,’ I say to Rufus.

Rufus smiles but says nothing. It is the sort of smile that holds no joy.

Later we eat. Quickly. Wanting only to see our beds and savour the knowledge of being in battle and surviving.

‘We beat them,’ Rufus says, as we lay side by side that night.

Other men murmur in their sleep, betraying their fears of battle when in the day they know nothing of weakness. I stare into the darkness and whistle a long sigh. We survived once more but how much longer will it last? Another fight, two perhaps?

‘We will crush them until not a single Saxon remains on this island,’ I say.

How empty those words are. Every time we face these bastards the odds become lower. The Saxon increase in number as their ships land on the east coast, yet our numbers diminish with every battle, the only men left either infants or the crippled.

‘We must write to my father in the morning,’ he says. ‘Tell him of our progress.’

I lean on my arm to face him. His immediate shock of battle has gone, replaced with excitement at yet another victory. He is riding on the alternate waves of fear and elation.

‘You write to him, Rufus. Tell him from me that he has every reason to be proud of his son.’

Rufus nods. ‘When I am king, I will rule as well as my father.’

I smile at the earnestness in his voice. So many men are corrupted by power. Our cousin, Oswyn, is one such man. But Rufus is not.

‘Mark is a great man and a better king, Rufus. Do him justice and you will know respect.’

We lie in silence a while. I hear other men snoring or talking. Some men cannot sleep after battle, the haunting of the dead keeping them awake. I am one such man.

‘What I would give for a woman,’ Rufus says. ‘A beautiful woman to take my mind off Saxon scum.’

‘Do not think about women whilst sleeping next to me.’

‘I shall face the other way.’ Rufus grins.

‘Still not sure I am happy with that arrangement. You talk in your sleep.’

‘I do not!’

‘Yes you do. I know the name of every woman you ever rutted!’

‘Even I do not know that!’

Rufus soon drifts into slumber. I lie awake for a while listening to his shallow breathing and worry about what will come. Rufus may one day become a leader of men, but he has never shown that strength of character yet. He shies away from confrontation, lets other men dictate what is right and make decisions for him; looks to others for guidance. But little Rufus is his father’s son, I am sure. He can be the leader we need when his father passes. And with luck that will be a long time from now.

I wake. Pull the blanket up around my shoulders to stave the chill of night.  It is still dark and I hear owls. Beside me, Rufus groans and I realise it was he that woke me.

‘Rufus!’

I nudge him.

He moans.

‘Rufus, the camp stirs.’

He looks as I feel. Tired and wasted. Eyes thin slits above blue rings. Bruising on his cheeks, yellow and fresh. I feel the draw of brotherhood.

‘I could sleep all day and another night,’ he says.

‘There will be time for that. Our army stirs and we need to move. The Saxon will send a force twice as large when they discover what we have done. They are like the tide.’

‘We will never go home, will we?’ He rubs his face as though washing.

‘Of course we will go home. Kernow is but two days away.’

‘No, Tristan. That was not what I meant.’

‘Then what?’

‘The Saxon, they will always come, and we will never escape them. We will never be enough to win. A frontier will always exist and warriors will forever need to defend it.’

His words strike me. I pause a moment. Partly because they are true, and partly because I have never heard him speak with such clarity. He is right. We will never be free of threat. Not unless we scourge Briton of every last Saxon.

It seems impossible.

‘Concentrate on the little fight,’ I say, ‘and the battle will take care of itself.’

I am right that the enemy would come.

We collect our dead the following morning. The scouts have returned, telling us the Saxon are a couple of hours east; a force larger than we have seen before. This time we will not survive if we face them.

But this time Rufus and I will not have to.

Iseult

I wake in a dark room and the night is so cold my breath is a cloud of white. Acha argues in the doorway. I slide from the bed and cross to her to find one of Morholt’s men with his booted foot forcing the door open.