Tristan and Iseult
Read Tristan and Iseult Online
Authors: JD Smith
By JD Smith
Copyright © 2013 JD Smith
Kindle Edition
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Published by Quinn Publications
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First published, 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9576164-2-4
For Marcus, a great reader, who may one day read this.
Rest assured that, although it is a story of love, it also has swords.
Promises are a show of faith when doubt shadows men,
a reflection of the person we desire to be,
and a bind to a path we wish to take.
It is the latter likely kept.
Tristan
Rustling emanates from the dense forest, even though the wind has dropped. White mist shrouds us. I tense to stop cold shivers taking hold. The rain is fine, yet a hand through my hair proves it is wetter than the streams in springtime and my footing slides on the muddy grass as we pick our way through undergrowth.
Beside me, Rufus glances
at
our
scouts dotting
the countryside
. His expression unconcerned as he tries to appear calm.
‘I
cannot
believe
the Saxon scum have moved this far west
. Who would have thought it, eh, when we were boys?’
Just
sixteen
. Still a boy, I think. And
I am
only three years older
.
‘I wish
we were back in Kernow, instead of here in this forsaken place,’ he continues. ‘
I miss the coast and the sea breeze and decent meals.
’
I look around. I have little knowledge of how far these lands extend. We are further east than I have ever been, called upon by
our neighbour, the K
ing of Dumnonia
,
to provide a defence
, and with
luck push the Saxons back. I am told beyond here lies Atrebatia and Lundein, but no Briton has trodden either ground since the invaders claimed them
.
‘I think this winter is harder than the last,’ Rufus
says
. ‘I
cannot
feel my feet. The bastards better arrive today before we freeze!’
I nod absently. I hear
a noise
in the distance. Horns, I think, but I cannot be sure. Some say your mind begins to play tricks on you after a while. The cold and the quiet and the waiting;
they let
thoughts run too free.
Ground mist and fogging breath look the same. Rufus is right: I can no longer feel my toes, despite the layers binding them. Then I
know I hear it
.
The h
orns … and drum beats.
‘You
r
silence makes me uneasy,’
Rufus
says.
‘Not so loud. The
enemy is close.
’
Rufus
’
face is white and his eyes wide in the dawn.
‘
Are you sure
?’
‘
Listen
.
Can you hear the drums?
’
I snap my head from one side to the other, trying to determine their location. Rufus falls silent and listens, too. I see other scouts smelling the air, sensing
the Saxons drawing
close.
‘I hear it,’ he says.
‘They are cowards,’ I
whisper
. ‘They come from the woods so they can hit and retreat. A stream to our left. Uneven ground to the right. We cannot flank them here.’
As I speak, the forest shimmers and dark figures emerge.
‘Gods
, y
ou are right.
Why are you not giving the orders, eh? Under the Dumnonian’s command, we might as well be led by a woman
.’
I know how he feels. Each man is as safe as the
skill of the warriors
beside him and that of the men leading him. Here we are brothers and must trust one another. But trust the Dumnonians? They let the invaders cross their borders and now they need our help. What trust does that deserve?
‘
Stop worrying,
’ I say. ‘
This is Dumnonian territory
. We will be home again soon enough.’
‘I wish I had your belief,’ he says.
The men lining the edge of the forest grow
clearer in the still air.
Rufus tugs on my arm.
‘We must go back
and report their progress.
’
The enemy’s chanting
grows
louder. They want
our army
to hear them. They want to put fear in our hearts and
make
the hands that hold our swords
tremble
.
I put my own hands beneath my arms to warm them
ready
for the moment
when I’ll
need to grip my sword. I have unsheathed it many times this day already to ensure it does not stick in its scabbard. It is a Roman blade; better forged
than
all the iron in Briton.
‘
Let’s move before they see us
,’ I say, as signals relay back and forth between the
distant
scouts, barely visible in the mist.
W
e slide our way back to our mounts
.
‘We have been lucky,’ Rufus says. ‘
W
e
encountered the Saxon
three times
this winter. Three times we
have
walked away with our lives.
Do you think we can do it again?’
He is grinning like a confident fool. I know that look.
Hesitation and a
question linger behind the smile.
‘How long will the
g
ods
’
favour last?
With luck a few more battles at least
.’
His expression falters.
‘Listen to me, Rufus. Listen carefully.’ He slips and I grip his arm to steady him.
‘
Are w
e
not
better fighters than the Dumnonians?’
He nods.
I say:
‘Then if we fall, we fall last and we fall hard.
That is all you need to know.
In the meantime,
enjoy yourself
.’
I am unsure I believe my own words. I have caused my cousin injuries with a wooden sword
more times
than I
ha
ve picked him from the ground after a fall or consoled all the girls
whose
hearts he has broken. I do not wish to lie to him. I could never twist truths as other men do. But he needs me, does little Rufus. He needs me to be strong for him. How long can a man stand in battle before the odds
turn
against him? Luck will see us right for a while. Then it will fade, just as everything in this accursed world.
We reach the horses. Mine snorts in irritation at having to postpone
grazing
as I heave myself up into the saddle and drag on the reins to pull the beast round.
‘Hurry, Rufus
.’
I do not like being so close to the enemy.
Their ways are strange. They rub their skin with stinking fat and howl like dogs.
I hear their wails and chants echoing across the muddy scrub-land. They will send their own scouts ahead
and I do not want them to close the distance between us
.
Rufus fumbles his foot into a stirrup.
I
mpatien
ce grips me
until he finally hauls himself up and we are away, the horses’ footing careful on the sodden ground.
