Tristan and Iseult (15 page)

Tristan laughs.

‘Of course not. Why would I mind?’

I shrug his question away. Perhaps he does not mind because he cares little either way.

We walk back to the horses and mount. Isabel looks more tired than she did before, her hair grey in the dying light. We ride carefully and I am pondering so many thoughts and visions of a future on these shores. What would happen if I stayed, I wonder. Would Tristan want me as Morholt had wanted me? Would it be to secure his position as King of Kernow, and an alliance with my uncles that coin could never buy? A woman of the blood. I remember it as suddenly as if I had tripped upon it. Which man would ever marry me for me and me alone when the blood of Irish kings flows in my veins? What escape am I to find from my history and my fate?

Tristan

We approach the castle. The sun hides from the day and mist begins to rise. My mother is unwell. Her distance is greater than when I first told her of Rufus and I wonder what the priests said to her; what portents they have conjured for her nightmares.

If I ask Mark whether Iseult can stay in Kernow, will he have any power to make it happen? She is a prisoner on our shores. A future queen of Ireland and in no future can I see her uncles allowing her to reside here. What would Mark say if I confessed of my attachment to an Irish girl? Would he think me stupid? Compassionate? Lustful? Then it comes to me. A light so blinding, so warm, that I can do nothing but bask in it.

A new treaty. Forged with blood.

I feel Iseult against me. She is no longer tense. Her body has relaxed against mine and I dare myself to think that she enjoys the pressure of being pressed against me as much as I do. I can no more let her leave than I would have let Rufus die if I could have stopped it.

Excitement fills me as I think on my words to Mark. This is why I have been destined to Kernow’s throne; to allow me this chance. I will tell Mark of my proposition; to agree a unity between Iseult and myself, an alliance between the Irish and the Kernish secured with marriage.

I drift into my own world. It is brighter than before. I forget the Saxon and the field of blood, death and mud in Dumnonia. My aching for Rufus does not disappear, but it eases. Our enemies seem far away if they exist at all. I think of my bed and I think of Iseult beside me, her silver hair on my pillow and the sons and daughters she could bring. I had thought life began with a sword in your hand, but now I know it begins with this bond for which I cannot find words. We do not speak to one another, yet our silence is comfortable.

I am lost in my thoughts and do not realise that with my arm wrapped around her waist my thumb strokes her stomach with a longing of years rather than days. I notice only when she places her hand over mine.

I help my mother down from her horse. I do not think she has seen the intimacy which has passed between us, and does not comment upon it. She kisses my cheek, then Iseult’s, and leaves, her expression heavy with sorrow and troublesome thoughts. I am torn between staying with Iseult and ensuring my mother is well. I choose to stay.

Now Iseult and I are alone again.

We are stood in the castle courtyard. The sun has disappeared. We are illuminated only by the echo of the day and it lights Iseult’s hair so that if you breathed it might fly like a dandelion gone to seed. Should I take her hand in mine, I wonder. I want to, but I am unsure. I do not wish to make promises I cannot keep, or utter words of assurance for fear of shattering the dream. I must speak first with Mark.

‘It is late. I must ready for dinner,’ Iseult says.

‘You can find your rooms?’

‘I can.’

I nod and turn to leave.

‘Tristan, wait.’

She looks confused. Lost, even. Am I the cause?

I step closer, put my hands upon her shoulders and kiss her forehead.

She smiles at me and I leave her then. She does not say my name again nor halt my departure. I had thought to wait until tomorrow before seeking Mark, but I am compelled to talk with him this night.

I walk the halls determined. The thought of waiting until after we have eaten to gain audience with Mark is unbearable. I know that he can give little assurance, even if he agreed to my proposal, but I am compelled to speak with him anyway.

‘Tristan!’

Eurig runs to catch up with me.

‘What is it, friend?’

‘Oswyn has returned from Ireland,’ he says. ‘Mark asked me to find you.’

I double back and we make our way to the council chambers.

‘What news does Oswyn bring?’

‘The kings of Ireland know of Lord Morholt’s fate. They are open to a new truce. That is as much as I know.’

‘That is good news.’

‘You would not think it to look at Oswyn’s face. I must warn you, Tristan, he knows of your being Mark’s heir. Tread carefully, your cousin is not a man you want to make an enemy of.’

It is the first mention of my becoming heir that Eurig has made.

‘He will be an enemy either way. We have never agreed on anything.’

‘True. But you should not antagonise him.’

‘Me?’ I half laugh and Eurig smiles.

‘You have not made mention of Mark’s decision. You are always a man of opinion, Eurig, yet you do not have one now?’

Eurig weighs me. Then says: ‘It was I who told Mark to make you heir. Rufus could never have been king, we both know that.’

‘You spoke with him of this before Rufus died?’ My voice has risen.

‘You asked my opinion, Tristan, and I have told you. I thought Kernow would do better under your rule than any other man after Mark.’

My anger slips away. I shake my head.

‘I am grateful for your confidence, Eurig.’

I open the door to the council chambers and look upon my cousin for the first time since the balance of power shifted. Many claim Oswyn and me to be twins. We are the same height, our long, rectangular faces angled with symmetry. We are the same but for our hair: his is dirty and yellow, mine is dark like Mark’s.

He looks at me as I look at myself when I think of Rufus’ death, with disgust and anger.

‘Safe journey?’ I ask Oswyn.

‘Tedious. Talks with the Irish always are. I hear our cousin Rufus died fighting at your side.’

I resist the urge to draw my sword and instead ask Mark:

‘What say the Irish?’

Mark appears positive in his expression and almost joyous. Surely the Irish cannot have proposed a treaty so amenable as to lighten his mood? Then I glance at Oswyn and know from the humour laced with his hatred that he plots against me already.

‘The Irish kings learned of Morholt’s fate whilst Oswyn was at their court. It seems he was a common enemy, allowed to rule for a short time only because the northern Irish had yet to muster a force to quash him. Now that Morholt is dead, the northern kings will send a force to either encompass Morholt’s remaining supporters, or defeat them. One of Donnchadh’s brothers will move their army and rule the southern kingdoms.’

‘What of the treaty?’ I ask.

It is Oswyn who answers, his voice taunting. ‘The old treaty and tribute will stand. As a gesture of goodwill, the Irish kings offer the hand of Donnchadh’s daughter to Mark, Kernow’s
king
.’

His emphasis on the final word is unmistakeable, but I barely take note. The daughter of which Oswyn refers is Iseult. My head feels light. Sickness overwhelms. I need Mark to understand that if she is to marry a man of Kernow, it must be me.

‘Mark, might I speak with you?’ I find my voice is not as loud and sure as I intend, but he hears me. I note Oswyn takes a care to watch me.

‘Of course.’ He turns to Oswyn and grips his shoulders. ‘You are a good man. I am proud of you. I have named Tristan heir to my throne after me, but I think no less of you. No man could better serve.’

Eurig serves better, I think, and it pains me to realise he is still in the room listening to the words Mark speaks, knowing as he must that he is as equal in loyalty and skill as Mark’s other nephew.

Oswyn and Eurig leave the room. Mark and I are alone. As I attempt to form words, Mark speaks for me.

‘I know what you are thinking. She is Irish and I never expected a daughter of Ireland to become a queen of Kernow, but I feel it is a good solution; a benefit to the future. Might I be open with you, Tristan? This could be our chance to secure the peace I have longed for my whole life. Peace with the Irish, at least. But it’s not just peace with our enemies I crave, it is my own.’ He pauses. ‘I find the nights cold and my years are advancing more quickly than I had ever imagined. It is a long time since Rufus’ mother died.

‘I fear I burden you. I have named you heir and could yet take that away from you. Iseult has little choice, of course, on the fate her uncles have chosen for her, and I would never force her to a marriage she wholly refused, but I would like to think there is some affection between us, if only a certain respect.

His words are a sour wine I am forced to drink. With each one I come closer to drowning. I cannot speak. My throat is tight and I do not believe my own hearing.

‘Mark —’ I begin.

‘I know. Her years are very young. There is perhaps twenty five between us. But I have been given a great opportunity, Tristan. A second chance. I have lost my only son and I sit at the head of the feasting table beside a seat that was once reserved for Rufus. Now Iseult sits in his place. I did not realise how much I missed him. There is a chance I could father another child, perhaps even another heir.’

I pull a chair out from the table and sit. Put my head in my hands. Mark continues.

‘My life is shortening every day. When, if, I have another son, I would still need you to protect him and rule Kernow until he came of age.’

‘You speak as if he is already born.’

The words stick in my throat. Mark is full of hope for a future filled with peace and a wife and children. He longs for what I took from him. For another little Rufus. How can I ask him to give that up? What makes my longing more worthy than his happiness? He is a man more deserving than any I know and yet he has asked for little more than respect from his subjects and his enemies. He has given me everything, and I have given him nothing in return.

‘It is not just about children, Tristan, though she is young enough to bear many.’

‘I understand. When will you tell her?’

‘After we have eaten.’

I embrace Mark briefly and leave.

The sea is dark with no horizon. Clouds shelter the moon. I think of the years I have walked along this shore and wonder how many times Iseult walked her own shores beyond tonight’s unseen horizon. The distance is little, and yet she is now in Kernow and the distance is further still. How long since I slept in the damp beside Rufus? How long since I last lay with a woman? I try to grasp a joyful memory but they are lost to me now. I am resigned, suddenly, to return to Dumnonia and fight again for Geraint. I know my sword. I understand it and it sings for me.

Iseult

Acha brushes my hair, gentle but firm, and I am distant as my thoughts roam their own lands. Lands of Tristan and me and the horse we rode. I think what it would be like to kiss him and I think of his touch and his hand upon my body. He is tender and strong. And I am weak in his presence. Not weak as I was with Morholt, unable to free myself from his rule, but unable to part my mind from thoughts of the man who will be heir to Kernow. A man so different from my Lord Morholt or of any man he led.

‘The king’s nephew has returned from Ireland,’ Acha says. She is leaning close to me, her voice low, as if she is not meant to know, and I wonder how she discovered this news.

‘What have my uncles said? Do you know? Are we to return to Ireland?’

‘Too many questions,’ Acha says.

I take from her answer she knows nothing more.

A fire pours heat into our small room. I grow sleepy and after a while Acha stops brushing and looks through the gowns Tristan’s mother has given me. There are shades of red the colour of roses, fabrics of silvery moon, and blue as pale as the sky. I choose gold for the warmth it reflects.

Acha slips the gown over my head and I hope that it is a favourite of Tristan’s. That his memories of King Mark’s wife wearing the same are not tarnished. I wonder how his wife died and remember the sorrow in his eyes. I cannot remember seeing a man as alone as he.

We arrive in the great hall, Acha and I. People crowd every corner and I think perhaps they have come because of Oswyn’s return. I look for Tristan, eager to see his face and assure myself the afternoon I spent with him was not a dream, but I do not find him.

Was it real? I begin to doubt everything that has happened these past hours when a voice behind me says: ‘You look beautiful, Iseult.’

The king smiles gently. He looks happier and I think he is glad to see his nephew safely home. He takes my arm and threads a way through the crowd as I struggle to match his stride. Acha follows behind.