“She would disdain your gifts, my lady,” Branwen said slowly. “She would call them witchery and throw them in the sea.”
Guinblodwyn rose. “That is why I gave them to you. Though we share no blood, you are more like me than she is. And you are royal.” She smiled bleakly. “You see, Branwen, I know who you are.”
The girl froze on her stool, afraid her next breath might be her last. The queen laughed lightly.
“Don’t be so afraid. He lay with Keridwen before he married me. You are the only one of his bastards who is not a slap in my face. You have helped Essylte grow to womanhood, much good may it do her. I owe you something.”
Somehow, Branwen found her voice. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I have always known, though he thinks he hides it from me. But tell me, brave Branwen, when will you tell Essylte you are Percival’s daughter?”
Branwen swallowed. “Never.”
The queen smiled. “Oh, yes. You will. I have seen it in my glass. Someday you will.”
12 THE STORM
Tristan stood on the slippery deck and frowned at the rolling horizon. In the west the sky was black. He turned around, catching hold of a hemp stay as the ship pitched wildly. There, faint through the cold, streaming mists, ever present like a vision in a nightmare, he could see the shoreline. Wales. The last place he could land. He scowled up at the small patch of sail, reefed down tight against the storm. Just his luck to have a coward for a captain. At this rate, they would be a month getting to Cornwall. Meanwhile, Essylte had not eaten in two days. He was tempted to raise the sail himself and send the small ship flying over the heaving sea, but he was in enough trouble with the captain as it was. Thanks to him, they had left on the wrong tide, just as bad weather threatened. He knew the sailors blamed him for it; so did his own soldiers. What did it matter? They were strong men all, and those who were sick would soon recover. All that mattered was that Essylte got ashore without delay.
He shut his eyes. He could not even think of her without feeling heat in his face. He could not bear to think of the future, could not bear to look even a week ahead. He shuddered at the thought of what she would be made to endure when she reached Cornwall—Mark’s rough embraces, his crude jests, his boorish flattery. It was not possible to give that girl to Mark. He could never do it. And yet he must.
For the better part of two days and a night he had paced the fitful deck, unable to rest, but it had not helped. Nothing helped. Knowing the end—the inescapable end—made no difference. Some things, he swore under his breath, could not be reconciled with justice. Some things, however inevitable, were simply wrong.
He opened his eyes to find Branwen at his elbow. The wind caught at her cloak and whipped it behind her. She gathered it up neatly in her small white hands.
“Ah, Branwen.” He raised his voice above the wind’s bellow. “I’m glad to see you.”
The cool hazel-gray eyes met his own. “And I you, my lord.”
“How is it below?”
The girl paused as she gathered the hood tighter around her face. “I have given her a sleeping potion. At least she does not suffer while she sleeps.”
“Bless you for that. You are skilled with drugs?”
“My mother was skilled, my lord. I have inherited her interest.”
“Modest girl. I wish you had a remedy for—all our ills.”
She turned to him sharply but saw only his profile against the gray-green sea. “Your suffering will soon be over.”
“Will it?”
“You will return to Lyonesse after the wedding. We will be at Camelot. It will be over.”
He smiled bitterly. “Tintagel. You’ll be at Tintagel. He’ll never take her to Camelot. He doesn’t like women there.”
He saw her surprise, followed by disappointment, quickly masked. “And where is Tintagel?”
“Closer to Lyonesse than to Camelot, sweet Branwen. Oh, God!” He drew a long breath. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
They stood together and looked out at the distant shore, hidden intermittently by squalls of mist and rain. Beneath them the seas heaved and sank, and ran beyond them.
“We don’t seem to be making much headway,” Branwen ventured.
“What do you expect, with a sail the size of a washrag? By the Light! I’ve half a mind to cut that rope and haul it up myself.”
“Won’t the captain raise it?”
“Under no conditions.” He pointed to the black sky behind them. “All he wants is enough sail to keep us from foundering in the sea. He’s worried about his precious ship. Meanwhile, she sickens and starves.”
“Well, my lord, if the ship founders, my lady is certainly lost,” Branwen pointed out, “so perhaps you would do well to let the captain worry.”
Tristan smiled, and for a moment his features lightened. “I am acting like a fool—I beg your pardon, Branwen. It’s just that I’m responsible. . . .”
“My lord, I know the cause.”
He stepped aside to let two sailors pass. They ducked their heads at him and began unlashing the thick ropes that bound the sail.
“What’s this?” Tristan cried. “More sail at last?”
“Captain’s orders, my lord!” one of the sailors shouted. “This looks to be a right wicked blow. We’ll not try to ride it out after all. Captain says we’ll go inshore and look for a safe harbor.”
“Thank God!” Tristan crossed himself with fervor. “That’s half my prayer answered.”
Branwen looked up at him. “And the other half?”
“That we make it to the Severn estuary.”
“The estuary? You don’t aim for Caerleon?”
“No. Even though Markion holds it, it’s too near Guent for safety. But if we can make it to the Dumnonian coast on the southern shore of the estuary, we might take shelter there with a lord I know. He’s got a house on a point of land, a run-down villa from Roman days. But at least it’s shelter. We could ride the storm out there if we make it in time.”
They watched the men hoist the sail halfway up the mast. The ship sprang to life, bucking in the wind like a green horse, flying forward, flung on her beam at every wave crest, wallowing unsteadily in every trough. Tristan began to feel uneasy; Branwen went white. The captain himself approached and bowed, hiding a grin.
“Best go below, my lord. It’ll be rough work on deck. And wet.”
“I can see that. At this rate, how long until the Severn?”
“Nightfall, if we’re lucky. It’s a race against that storm. If she hits first, I’m heading for a harbor, I don’t care whose land it is.”
You will, Tristan thought, when they cut our throats, but he did not say it.
An hour past nightfall they raised the Severn estuary in a sheet of rain and a rising wind. Scudding like a leaf in a stiff breeze, the ship tore inland before the westerly gale, jerking in her rope stays, careening from crest to trough, her sail half in shreds, four strong men hanging on the tiller. At last, a low cliff jutting well out into the estuary afforded them protection in its lee. They dropped the anchor and swung to, riding heavily in the swells. Above them on the cliff shone the dim lights of a villa. The captain grumbled that they’d better try their luck with whoever lived there, as the ship had taken on water and if the crew did not spend all night bailing, she’d sink to the bottom and they could walk the rest of the way. Taking the hint, Tristan ordered his men ashore to commandeer whatever boats they could find and take the women off. Essylte, deep in her drugged sleep, could not be awakened. Tristan wrapped her well in cloaks and blankets and carried her in his arms.
The path up the cliff face was steep, slippery, and guarded. At the top three sentries challenged them. Tristan peered through the rain at one of them.
“By God, Blamores, is that really you? Is this Rook Point?”
The man gasped. “Tristan? Tristan of Lyonesse? You’re alive!”
“It will take more than a Welsh sword to kill me! But a cold night in a Cornish
storm might do it.”
“Come with me, my lord. I’ll take you in myself, and all your company. There’s room aplenty since my lord Guvranyl’s away.”
“Guvranyl’s not here? Where is he? With Mark?”
“Aye. Awaiting the Welsh princess.”
Tristan grunted. “I have her in my arms.”
Guvranyl’s house was of stone and wood, patched with plaster, a long, low, rambling building that enclosed a courtyard where a garden had once stood. A high wall protected its landward approach; guardhouses stood along the edge of the cliff. Secure from thieves, Tristan noted, but not from Saxons. Easy to take from the sea if you had numbers.
Old Junius the caretaker met him at the door, grinning his toothless grin of welcome.
“By the blood of the Bull, if it isn’t young Tristan, alive and hearty! Just look how you’ve grown.”
Branwen shot him an amused glance as he colored briefly. “Not now, Junius, I beg you. The lady is ill. We’ll take Guv’s chamber, since he’s left it for us. We’ll need a fire and hot water and hot broth. Does the roof still leak?”
“In places. But not in the master’s chamber. Come along, come along. You remember the way.”
Guvranyl, Tristan explained to Branwen as they followed the old servant through tiled passageways, was Markion’s chief swordmaster, and Meliodas’s before that. From childhood, he had taught Tristan everything he knew about fighting, riding, wrestling, and battle tactics. “He must be old as the hills, fifty if he’s a day, but still as nimble as a cat. He still teaches the more talented recruits. I was hoping he’d be here; I haven’t seen him since we buried Constantine. And Gerontius . . . Ah, here we are.”
Guvranyl’s chamber was large, simply furnished, and swept scrupulously clean. The walls were patched, the cracked mosaics on the floor carefully mended, the narrow windows shuttered well against the storm. Everything in the room had an obvious use; nothing was ornamental. A broad oak bed stood against the wall near a pine clothes chest and a double-flamed lamp. In one corner sat the metal tub for bathing and the covered waste pot; in the other, a small brazier. A hanger for a Roman sword hung on the wall above the bed. There was nothing else.
“A chair,” Branwen murmured. “Can I have a chair brought in, to sit beside her?”
“You may have anything you like.” Tristan sat on the bed and let Essylte slide gently from his arms. Her pale face looked serene and peaceful, surrounded by her turbulent, blazing hair. He glanced at the one blanket of fine-combed wool neatly folded across the foot of the bed. “We’ll need more blankets, Junius. Furs if you have them. And another brazier. And food, for God’s sake. Branwen, how long until she wakes?”
“By midnight the drug will leave her, my lord, but if she’s warm and comfortable, she may not wake. Don’t worry. Sleep is the best thing for her.”
“I wish,” he whispered, “I wish I had a magic salve to give her, as she gave me.” His finger traced a gentle line from ear to chin, then slowly he withdrew his hand and rose. “Junius, have a pallet made in here for Branwen, and send a servant to attend the princess.”
“My lord—” she began, but he shook his head and smiled.
“You must sleep, too. And she must not go untended.”
“And you, my lord?”
He shrugged and gestured vaguely toward the door. “I’ll be nearby.”
“Try to sleep, my lord.” Branwen laid a gentle hand upon his arm. “You have not slept since we left Wales. You look like death. What good can you do her without rest?”
“If I do, will you rouse me when she awakens?”
“As soon as she gives me leave.”
He glanced again at the bed and then nodded. “All right. After I’ve seen to the men, I’ll try. I can’t promise more.”
Late that night the wind rose to a screaming pitch, hurtling rain at the shutters, battering the doors. Tristan lay awake on a narrow bed, staring at a ceiling he could not see, listening. The unrestrained fury of the storm filled him with excitement and foreboding. His body lay taut as a drawn bow, refusing to relax toward sleep. He had felt like this, he remembered, that day his father rode away to fight Irish raiders in spite of the soothsayer’s warning, and again, on the eve of his first real battle, where he had expected to meet Percival and had met Marhalt instead. He knew what such a dreadful thrill betokened. Something was coming, something that would change his life forever. The shadow of its approach already lay across him.
Toward dawn the wind died to a fitful howl, and rain fell in a steady roar. Someone tapped lightly on his door.
“She is awake, my lord, and taking broth. She is not ready yet to see you. Wait until midday, she begs you, if you please.”
Tristan sighed, his eyelids suddenly heavy. “Thank God,” he whispered, and was asleep.
He awoke to the opening of his door. Junius himself entered with a candle and lit the lamp at the foot of his bed. Through the open doorway Tristan saw a servant trimming the wicks and lighting the lamps in the hall.
“Junius?”
“My lord?”
“It can’t be the time of lamplighting.”
Junius grinned, showing gums. “Can’t it?”
Tristan pushed himself up. He did not feel slow and leaden, as he usually did when he had slept too long; he felt refreshed, awake, eager. The familiar pain in his side was gone. He realized with surprise that he had not felt so wonderful in a very long time.
“Tell me the truth, you old pagan devil. What hour of the day is it?”
Junius laughed. “I swear by Lord Mithra Himself, young master, it is the hour of sunset.”
“No wonder I feel so good.” He swung his feet to the floor, but Junius went to the door and clapped imperiously. Three bronze-skinned boys entered carrying a tub, ewers of hot water, and armfuls of towels. “Not now, good Junius, although I’m sorely tempted—I must see to the Princess Essylte.”
“Oh, aye, your solicitude is understandable enough,” Junius agreed, directing the bath slaves to a spot in the corner. “There’s not a man on Rook Point, warrior or slave, who hasn’t been charmed out of his shoes by the Princess Essylte.”
“She is up, then, and well enough to walk about?”
“Oh, I’d say so.” Junius chuckled, unfastening Tristan’s tunic. “She and that quick-eyed maid of hers, who’s no servant born, if you ask me, have explored the house from kitchen to stables. Talked to everyone, they have, asked a million questions—mostly,” Junius said with a grin, tucking Tristan’s dirty tunic beneath his arm, “about you. What a pretty pair they are! Did you bring the brown-haired one for you?”
“Bring the—oh! You mean Branwen. No, of course not. They’ve been raised together, she chose to come. And Essylte is well? No fever? No pallor?”
Junius raised an eyebrow. “It was only seasickness. A good sleep and a hot meal, she’s right as rain. What a blessing youth is! Now stop dawdling and get in that bath.”
“I don’t have time—if it’s already lamplighting, I have to see to dinner—”
Junius grinned. “It’s been seen to, young master, while you were sleeping. Didn’t I tell you they’d been to the kitchens? Dinias showed them all through the storerooms. They’re preparing a feast for you, to thank you for their safety. I’m to take you to them as soon as you’re clean enough.”
“In that case,” Tristan replied, smiling, “I think I’ll bathe.”
The hot water felt glorious on his skin. The fresh tunic Junius brought him had to be the best in the house—soft, combed wool, bleached white, with a wide blue border. Junius found oiled sandals for his feet, and a blue robe of good thick wool.
“A proper prince you look now, my young lord.” Junius nodded in satisfaction.
Tristan smiled. “Your Roman blood is showing.”
The rain had stopped. He pushed open the shutters to drink in the rich, earth-laden scents of evening. Stars, clean-washed and bright, swarmed overhead in thick profusion. Somewhere, a nightingale was sin
ging. All his senses seemed suddenly alive and heightened, just as on the night he had met Marhalt. Time slowed down. Each passing moment brought him its own gift to savor and enjoy. He wondered if this was how God felt always, if this was what the Sacred Scrolls meant by “the fullness of time.” It was, to him, the blessing of all blessings.
“What a night!” Tristan breathed. “Tonight I believe I could conquer the world.”
Watching him, Junius chuckled. “Settle instead for a maiden’s heart.”
Tristan paled. “God keep me from it!” He crossed himself quickly. “I swear before Christ I will not touch her. She is Markion’s bride.”
Junius gaped at him, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “I was talking,” he said, “about Branwen.”
Guvranyl’s chamber was so completely transformed that when Tristan stepped across the threshold, he doubted for a moment he had opened the right door. Skins on the floors, old tapestries on the walls, silken cushions on the bed, the chairs, the floor; polished candlesticks of pewter and bronze, a small table beside a low Roman couch—where on earth had they found that old couch? He vaguely remembered it in the back of the hayloft with broken saddles, cracked reins, and assorted junk thrown upon it. Here it was, cleaned and dusted, the rents in the fabric newly stitched, looking only a quarter of its age. The general effect was startling. The old soldier’s room was now a luxurious bower, simplicity and order overcome by rampant finery.
“Well! That’s much better.” Branwen looked him up and down. “Now I can believe my lord is King of Lyonesse.” And she made him a low reverence.
Tristan smiled and raised her. “Don’t judge a scroll by its seal. I’m the same man I was before I bathed and shaved.”
“It’s the sleep more than hot water. You look . . . well, you look ready for anything.”
“Perceptive of you.” Tristan glanced appreciatively around the room. “What have you two been up to? And where’s Essylte? Where did you get all this stuff? Did you bring it with you from Wales? How ever did you get it off the ship?”