Tristan and Iseult (3 page)

‘Are we ready?’

A rumble of agreement and a low rattle of swords against shields.

I scan the solemn faces. Dumnonians. Eyes half closed with fatigue, limbs shaking with cold, muscles wasted from a raided harvest. Spirits waning. I know they are unsure we can prevail. Mark would have fed them before any other in the kingdom — our protectors — bolstered their morale to make a confident band of warriors. Mark would do many things differently, but Geraint lets his lords take first tithe, and there is little provision in the borderlands to swell the food we are given.

Our small force moves south, leaving the two thin lines behind. Mud drags at my feet with every step. Some chatter nervously, but the older, seasoned warriors hiss for silence. Leather creaks in time with our pace. My fingers are numb. I tense my grip on both sword and shield, release and tense again, trying to bring life back. 

Geraint has acknowledged my suggestion. He knows another head-on battle would see an end to Dumnonia, to more of Briton. His warriors are better trained; disciplined in the Roman way and yet our numbers diminish with each year as the Saxon become stronger. The position of our people weakens as Geraint calls on all the lords.

I thought the king would stay with our feint; his huge, bear-like figure with his army, further persuading the Saxon our force remains to their fore.

Instead he leads us.

We reach a beck. Small, but too wide to jump. I clamber down into the freezing water, gasp as I slither a couple of feet across, and hoist myself up at the other side. I turn to see Rufus’ face, tense against the cold. He thrusts his sword and shield at my feet and tries to pull himself out. His hands are too cold to grip properly and he slips back into the water. I grab his arm and haul him up.

All along the beck others are doing the same: helping their brothers across and onto the slick earth, weed and debris.

Rufus’ jaw quivers with the cold.

‘How far?’

We are making a loop out before circling back on the Saxon. I doubt they will hear us now, but he whispers anyway. He looks a little startled, as he did when we faced a small force in the north two months ago. He almost got himself killed, then. He broke our wall and for that many warriors are wary of butting their shield next to his. You protect the man next to you with your shield, and the man on your other side protects you. Break and brothers are exposed. You let them down.

I persuade myself it was not cowardice. He is young. He needs to learn, that is all; learn that you do not break for anything or anyone. You hold. Hold fast.

Afterwards, I beat him as his father would have done, for being a simpleton, because he is more like my brother than my cousin. 

‘Not long now. We are over half way,’ I say.

He breathes heavily beside me as we trudge on, more from a rush of anticipation than any exertion, I suspect. My own breathing is slow and controlled.

‘Do you think they know?’ he asks.

‘That we will strike their arse whilst they shout insults at a few old warriors waving their swords?’

Rufus smiles weakly as we hurry on. ‘What if they do?’

‘Doubtful,’ I say. ‘They are Saxon. They will be drunk.’

Iseult

Acha is watching me. We are in my bedchamber and she combs my hair. She is twice my age, with a face that is beginning to crease when she smiles and a wariness that tells me she is not happy with the role my mother has given her: to watch over me, I suspect. Because I like to walk along the beach as the light begins to emerge, signalling a new day.

A ship has been spotted on the horizon. Our people are sure it is our warriors returning from Briton. When they left they said they would return to us in five days, and today is the sixth day. Lord Morholt leads them, and I pray and pray he does not come back; that the men of Kernow have taken his life and unknowingly saved me from an unwanted union.

‘What I would give for hair as fair as yours, Iseult,’ Acha says, as she teases the comb through tangles.

I feel myself grow hot.

‘Because you comb and dress it,’ I reply. ‘Without you it would be tangled with seaweed.’

She laughs.

‘And full of sand, too.’

I know she is avoiding talk of our men’s return, even though they are close. She knows better than any that I fear becoming Morholt’s bride and do not wish to talk of it. His face lurks in my mind and turns my stomach like the morning after a night of mead.

She continues combing in silence for some time. Then finally she says: ‘Please, do not wander any more. You have me in trouble enough with your mother, without disappearing every other night.’

‘Oh, Acha, I am sorry. I never thought ...’

‘It is all right. Just promise me you will not keep doing it. My nerves play me terribly!’

I turn to face Acha and see her worried expression; caught between my mother and me. We are close, and my mother knows it.

‘I am sorry,’ I say again.

‘Do not be daft, child.’ She pulls a smile onto her face and kisses the top of my head fondly. ‘Come now,’ she turns me back so she can finish my hair, ‘we must be ready for…’

Her words go unfinished. Awkwardness follows in which neither of us speaks. She ties ribbons into my hair and weaves them around the strands, intertwining and curling until hair frames my face with flecks of silver and gold and trails over my shoulders.

‘We must be ready for Morholt’s return,’ I say eventually, and my own sadness is loud in my ears.

‘We must.’

Tears well and I cannot keep them back. They spill down my cheeks and I brush them away and try to hide my face.

‘Och, come now. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.’

Acha pulls my hands from my face and dries it with her skirts.

‘You are young, and this world is a very old place. In time you will know worse than lying with a man you would rather not. Get with child quickly and he’ll not visit you again. I promise.’

I am unsure I believe Acha. She is more of a mother than my own. I care for her dearly. But for our closeness I know she would lie to comfort me.

‘When I become his wife, you will stay with me? Do not leave me alone.’

It is the first time I have shown how afraid I really am. My mother is a woman who admits nothing. I see her hurt, and her discomfort, and her tiredness, and that she misses my father, but she will never say it or look to be consoled. So now I am weak because of the words I dare to utter.

‘Bless you,’ Acha says, as if I am but a silly child with no reason to worry. ‘Of course I’ll stay with you. I’ve not left you these many years now, have I? Why would I leave now?’

I do not know why I asked. She knows, as I do, that she may not have a say. Morholt could send her away with nothing to be done, and I would be alone with only my mother, who lets the days slide by with little joy.

Acha and I grip one another in a tight embrace, which is more comfort than any words. Behind me, I hear footsteps. A moment later my mother’s voice:

‘We must head to the shore. Our ships have landed.’

I pull away from Acha, careful not to turn and let my mother see my face.

‘I am coming.’

I sense her pause. Then in words that convey no warmth she says: ‘For all our sakes, Iseult, do not displease our lord.’

Tristan

Our group makes a path through the forest to the rear of the Saxon force. Dark, dense, sweet with rotting foliage: punctuated by the smell of shit where the lazy bastards have not the mind to dig a hole. Dying fires litter the ground where they ate the night before and carcasses of Dumnonian livestock scatter the moss. I hear the low rumble of warriors not far away; shouting and drumming spears on shields. Cursing.

A Dumnonian boy, the same age as Rufus – not lean but scrawny – pauses to pull a lump of still fresh meat from the bones of a doe. He shoves it into his mouth and chews frantically. An older warrior claps a hand over the boy’s mouth, punches his head with the butt of his sword and shoves him onward.

My own stomach grumbles, empty and aching. But I run on, swift and sure of my footing. Over a hundred warriors and we make barely a sound save for the twigs beneath our feet complaining of passage. The king is ahead; eyes alert, darting; sword, as mine, held ready.

I spot the back of Saxon warriors a few hundred yards away; furs padding huge figures, helmets encasing their heads. The smell of mead heavy on the air.

Our group begins to slow.

A gesture from Geraint brings us level. Trees shadow us. Our attack delayed with every moment concealed. I have broken a light sweat and there is no breeze to cool me. I rub the side of my face on my shoulder and draw a few long breaths.

Rufus stares ahead. He holds his sword in front of him. It wavers slightly, and I notice sweat breaks on his brow also. 

‘They are greater in number than last time,’ he says.

I judge them for myself. Their number is not as large as he thinks.

‘Keep your head, Rufus,’ I say in a whisper. ‘It is just like last time and the time before. We go in, we attack. Think only about the man coming at you. And kill him.’

Rufus gives a small nod. He is wearing his father’s old armour. I recall when Mark gave it to him. He wanted his son to have the best, to be protected against the enemies we would meet in Dumnonia. Rufus is proud of his father, of his country, of the people that will one day be his. He polishes the scales for hours at a time, because he wants his father to be proud of him in return. To see what a warrior he could become. 

Scales rust fast in the damp air.

Men of Kernow catch my eye and press their shield arms to their chests. I gesture back and nod. All our men do the same. Feuds matter not in these moments; we put aside any grudges and become brothers. We will fight the enemy as one. Dumnonians look to each other, raise a sword in salute, but there is less conviction in those men. Their bond is not as ours. Not as close. Too long have they found a need to protect themselves and their families. And for all the requirement and desire to have us here, these proud warriors believe they can manage alone.

Waiting.

I hate the waiting. I can hear my own breathing, steady and coarse. I hear everything: men sniffing back dripping noses, creaking leather, scrapes of iron, whispered orders … pleas to the gods. Loud; so loud. I am surprised the enemy does not notice our presence.

I almost fall forward in anticipation of the command to charge. It does not come. Not yet.

I want to be in a shield wall, but it will not be possible this time. We need to attack quickly, surprise them. Halt to form a wall and we lose that.

I think again on Rufus’ words, wishing Mark were here, in command. It is hard, putting trust in a lord who is not your own. Mark trusted me to come here with Rufus and ensure our men were led by the Dumnonians wisely. Difficult, when you are following their lead. 

My thoughts are taking over now. Gods, I wish Geraint would call the …

‘Briton!’

The king’s roar pierces the rumble of Saxon chants. Geraint begins to run, and I run too, matching his charge. Howling the name of our country, our lands; the lands the Saxon are trying to take from us. 

I step clumsily at first. I find my footing. Legs steady and I close the gap. Drag my heavy blade across a man’s throat. Shock shows on his face and in his eyes. His head begins to roll back. Blood sprays my face.

I step past him before his knees hit the ground. Drive my Roman blade at the next in line. The iron glances on deep furs and the bastard bares his teeth and screams at me as he lifts his own blade. I am already pulling my sword round and up, deep into his groin. An axe comes towards me. I let my shield take the blow, bludgeon the man with my sword. Hit again and again. Wary of my back. Knowing the whole Saxon force has turned to engage us.

The thud of weaponry on shields all along the enemy line — the war cry as we engage — is deafening. My voice lost in the rage. The Saxons did not know we were coming. I see it their faces; shock in wide eyes. Their movement is unsure, weapons awkward in their hands. But they are also angry. They are brutes. Huge men bringing down their blades with force, not skill. I smell them. Their sweat and dirt and foreign stench. Their madness.

I strike over and over. Moving lithely. Never still. And I think of nothing and no one.

Bloodlust has taken hold and my duty is to kill; simply kill every last stinking Saxon that would take our lands for their own.

Iseult

I am standing in the same place I lay this morning, where my mother found me. The wind is stronger and the sea’s spray cold on my cheeks and nose and neck. A crescent moon is clear in the sky, even though it is day, and spittle-flecked waves scurry towards me, then retreat.

Hundreds of warriors, old men, women and children, snake the shoreline. They talk and eat. Boys wrestle on the shingle and in the grass, sprint across the sand and leave footprints in their wake. My mother speaks with the other women of our tribe; those wed to the men with power: council members, warlords, elders. She is desperate to hold her place amongst our people. When at my father’s side, they would gather around
her
, praise her, ask her advice. Now she is one of the gatherers. Sometimes I think she would like to be with a man again. But she is too old to bear more children. Acha whispered to me once that my mother offered herself to Morholt, and that he refused her in preference for me, still a woman of the blood, yet young enough to provide an heir.