Prince of Dreams

  Tristan slammed his fist against the stone. “Damn him! What a swine he is! Oh, God, Dinadan, this is impossible.”

  “Listen, Tristan, so he’s coarse in his speech and his ways? He has no grace about him. You knew that. You’ve known him all your life. Markion hasn’t changed.”

  “He’s a pig in human garb.”

  “I thought he showed commendable restraint, promising not to touch the girl until they’re married. It was a noble impulse. He must be in awe of her.”

  Tristan turned to face him, his dark eyes enormous in a pale, drawn face. “Dinadan, there’s something I should tell you.”

  Dinadan’s breath stopped. “I knew it. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  Panic flickered in Tristan’s eyes. Dinadan grabbed him and embraced him roughly. “The courier told us about it, the fight in Wales. It’s mortal, isn’t it? The wound the villain gave you.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened. The corners of his mouth lifted briefly. He gripped Dinadan’s arm and kissed his cheek. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”

  He paced back and forth across the battlement. “You were right, you know, about the danger that awaited me in Wales. You can’t know how right. More than once I wished I’d listened to your excellent advice. The man I fought was a rejected suitor of Essylte’s. After I disarmed him he threw his dagger at my back. A poisoned dagger.”

  “Poisoned! You mean, like Marhalt’s sword?”

  “Exactly like Marhalt’s sword. It was the same poison. It came from the same hand.”

  Dinadan licked dry lips. “Whose?”

  Tristan stopped his pacing and faced his friend. “The Queen of Gwynedd. Essylte’s mother. Percival’s wife. Marhalt’s sister.”

  Dinadan staggered. “What?”

  Tristan nodded, resuming his pacing. He sketched briefly the events that had followed, ending with the queen’s discovery of his name, and the flight from Wales.

  Dinadan paled. “Wait—you go too fast—do you mean to say she made the poison? And the princess found the antidote? Are you healed, then?”

  Tristan shrugged off his tunic and showed his astonished friend his unmarked chest and back.

  “My God!” Dinadan cried. “There’s not even a normal scar! But how can that be?” His face lit with joy, and Tristan could not help a smile.

  “Maybe Pernam could tell you. All I can say is that the Queen of Gwynedd has some very odd and very old powers.”

  Dinadan grinned. “I’m beginning to be glad you made that trip to Wales, in spite of my advice. But if you didn’t suffer a mortal wound, why did you say you did? You scared me to death.”

  Tristan dropped his eyes. “I know. Forgive me. You see through me too well. And your guess was almost right. I do suffer from a wound that’s likely to be mortal, but no villain gave it to me.”

  Dinadan frowned, but Tristan had raised his head and was looking beyond him into the distance, a look of longing on his face. Dinadan turned. Far to his left he saw two figures walking on the battlement of the southern tower. One was the princess. He recognized her green gown from the morning’s presentation. She had doffed her golden veil, and now her radiant curls fell loose around her shoulders. Her companion walked beside her, demurely dressed with her mousy hair bound in a plain scarf. They walked arm in arm, looking out to sea. Even as he watched, they paused, and the princess turned his way. For a long moment she stood perfectly still. Then slowly she placed her right hand over her heart and extended her arm toward him, all in one graceful motion. Yours forever! Pain caught at his chest. Wasn’t that how Diarca had saluted him as he rode away from Castle Dorr? He glanced behind him. Tristan’s arm was outstretched toward the girl, desperation, devotion, agony, adoration plain upon his face.

  In a flash Dinadan understood. How could he not have guessed? He remembered well the awe, the admiration that had struck his own breast that morning when Markion raised the girl’s veil and they all beheld her face. To a man like Tristan, so sensitive to beauty and sensation, two weeks in her company would be enough to destroy him. A heaviness gripped Dinadan’s heart. Of course the girl was in love with him. Ask Esmerée if he couldn’t charm birds to his hand, songs from the sea, and hearts from their moorings. What chance had the poor princess had? A handsome stranger sweeping into her father’s castle and carrying her away—it was the stuff of daydreams.

  In silence, Dinadan slipped his arm across Tristan’s shoulders and turned him away.

  April slid swiftly into May, the earth warmed and sprang to life, decking the open moors with wildflowers and the forests with a hundred hues of green. Day by day lords arrived with their trains of knights to pay homage to King Markion. Tents sprang up everywhere. By day the country around Tintagel was filled with the sounds of warriors’ greetings, their hunting calls, their games. By night their cooking fires lit the gullied headland and their music rose to the stars.

  In all this time Tristan did not see much of Mark, who was kept busy overseeing the arrival and welcome of his guests. Although no one came from the northern federation or from Wales, three lords came from Logris, two with news about recent Saxon encroachments and the sack of Amesbury, one with nothing but bitter complaints about the hopelessness of fighting an enemy whose numbers increased by thousands every year. But every man of standing in the Summer Country, Dumnonia, and the heart of Cornwall came. The most important kings had to be well entertained. Mark dined with them and drank with them, gleaning what information he could about the state of things in their homelands and trying to judge their true feelings about his marriage to a Welsh princess. For this he kept Segward always near him.

  With Segward occupied, Tristan slipped away more and more often to the company of Branwen and Essylte. There Dinadan would find him, in the garden or the bower, wrapped around his harp and singing to them, or sitting in silence, gazing into the girl’s face, while Branwen chattered on between them and the servants went about with lowered eyes.

  “Come away, come away,” Dinadan begged. “They have more than enough to do, there are a thousand preparations, look how their fingers fly at their needles—you hinder them, Tris, but they’ll never tell you so.”

  On most days Dinadan was adept at getting him out of Tintagel on one excuse or another: hunting, patrolling the coasts for signs of Irish raiders now that the seas were open, leading an honor guard to welcome the wedding guests, who began to arrive in increasing numbers. Even so, Dinadan could not be with him every minute. Sir Bruenor, his father, had arrived with all his knights from Dorria a fortnight early and commanded much of his time. But whenever he was free from his father’s service, Dinadan hauled Tristan off to another gallop over the open moors.

  One day he came upon Tristan at the foot of the stairs to the women’s quarters.

  “Tristan.” Dinadan pulled his friend aside. “You’ll never guess who’s coming from Lyonesse. I overheard Merron giving orders to the chamberlains—your uncle Pernam is coming, and he’s bringing Esmerée.”

  “Esmerée! Pernam I can understand, but why would Esme come? Is something wrong?”

  “Segward must have sent for her.”

  “He never would!”

  “Well, she’d never come unless commanded. And he’d never bring her to court again, not without a damned good reason.”

  “What reason could there be?”

  Dinadan met his eyes. “Either it’s a test for you, or for her, or both . . . or he’s learned the truth and seeks to taunt her with it.”

  “Taunt her? How?”

  “I wish,” Dinadan said with a half smile, “you could see your face whenever you look at Essylte. If I can see your heart so plainly, what will Esme see, who knows you even more, uh, intimately?”

  Tristan flushed. “Do you mean Segward expects her to be jealous? And has brought her here to inflict that punishment upon her?”

  “That is exactly what I mean.”

  “The poor fool. She won’t be jealous. Segward misunderstands our frien
dship.”

  “She’s more than a friend, surely.” Dinadan lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “She lay with you for a year and bore you a child. How can you think she won’t be jealous? She wouldn’t be a woman, else.”

  Tristan shook his head. “If she were to wed a man who made her heart sing, I’d be the happiest man in Cornwall. I’d come to celebrate the marriage and honor the man who pleased her so. I’d never be jealous of him. I’d only be happy for her. And she will feel the same for me. Wait until she gets here. You’ll see.”

  “But it’s not you who’s getting married.”

  Anguish flared in Tristan’s features, and Dinadan cursed himself for a fool. His friend turned away and slumped against the stairwell.

  “I’m sorry,” Dinadan said swiftly. “Forgive me. But you’ve got to be more careful, Tristan, and guard your face. Segward already suspects there’s something going on. I think he’s bringing Esmerée here to make sure of it.”

  Tristan shuddered. “That man can’t live without suspicion.” Then his voice softened. “But don’t worry about Esme. She isn’t stupid. She’ll protect me.”

  “Pray God she can. Because this castle is a trap. Once you’re in, there’s no way out. And it’s a long way down.”

  Essylte sat on a velvet stool while Branwen braided and bound her hair. She gazed out the unshuttered window at the violet evening sky, strewn with stars springing to life in the wake of the dying sun.

  “Tell me, Branwen,” she said slowly, “do you think the sun wheels across the sky, as the Romans believed, unharmed by the dark? Or do you think, with the Ancients, that he meets his death each night in the western sea and is born again each morning in the east?”

  Branwen looked down at her sharply. “I believe the sun rises each morning and sets each evening. The why of it matters not to me. What makes you ask?”

  Essylte shrugged. “If he dies each night in the sea, then a new beginning is always possible. It would give me hope. But—my whole life I have watched him sink into the sea, and never have I seen the steam arise. I fear the Romans have it right after all.”

  “What nonsense to bother so about! You are out of humor, that is all. I will be finished in a moment, and we can go down to the hall. You should eat more than you do; you have lost flesh since we’ve been here.”

  Essylte shuddered. “How many days are left?”

  “Five.”

  “Oh, God! Why did I ever agree to this? Tristan was willing to go anywhere in the world.”

  “But this is the only place you will be safe. Let’s not go through it all again, for both our sakes.”

  Essylte turned on the stool and grasped Branwen’s hands. “Oh, Branny, I beg your pardon. That was selfish of me. I forgot what you have promised on my behalf.”

  Branwen half smiled. “You act like I am going to my death.”

  Essylte colored. “No, but—if there is not love between you . . .”

  “Never mind,” Branwen said gently. “It will all be over soon.”

  Essylte cast her glance around the small antechamber, which held the chests of clothes, the tall polished bronze that gave back her reflection in the lamplight, the table with her jewel box and comb, the gilded chair in the corner. Beyond a thick silk curtain lay her chamber, luxuriously appointed with skins upon the stone floor, triple-flamed lamps on bronze stands, two braziers kept heaped with coal, two great windows opening onto the unending vista of the western sea, a great tapestry on the wall depicting the death of Uther Pendragon, and the huge bed, piled with furs and blankets. Ygraine herself, they said, Uther’s wife and Arthur’s mother, had lived most of her long life in that very room. In that very room was Arthur himself begotten and Gorlois of Cornwall betrayed. She shivered. She was terrified of that room, full of ghosts as it was, signifying power and betrayal. She much preferred Branwen’s room, which opened off the antechamber through a low door opposite the curtain. It was small, with one lamp and one brazier, no tapestries at all, but a comfortable bed and a window looking south along the coast. Most nights she could not abide the queen’s bed, but halfway through her sleepless vigil crept into Branwen’s, and finally fell asleep to the gentle rhythm of her steady breathing.

  What would her father think of such cowardice? She straightened her shoulders and looked up at Branwen. “I’m ready to go down.”

  Branwen nodded. “Remember, keep your eyes down when he addresses you. Offer nothing. It’s gone well so far. He knows next to nothing about you, perhaps not even your voice.”

  “Have more people arrived today? I seem to hear noise from every landward window, and the moors are filled with tents. Will there be new faces to greet and try to remember?”

  “No doubt. We’ll go over their names and ranks when we get back here. You’ve done brilliantly so far. Everyone is impressed.”

  “If I don’t concentrate on that, all I see is Tristan. I don’t dare look his way, I don’t dare. But he’s all I think about.”

  Branwen took her hand. “Be strong, Essylte. Segward’s always watching. Both of you. Ah, I hear Sir Merron at the door.”

  As they had done every night for three weeks past, they descended to the great hall on the arms of Sir Merron and Sir Guvranyl. Everyone rose as they entered, bowed as they passed, only taking their seats again when Essylte had made her reverence to King Mark and been handed into her chair. Then the meal was served and conversation resumed.

  Essylte concentrated hard on listening to everything and saying as little as she could. The hall was warm, even though the windows were unshuttered and open to the sea air. The smoking torches, the close-thronged men, the stale smell of sweat, old wine and leather clogged her throat and killed her hunger. It seemed like only yesterday she had been at Guvranyl’s house eating fresh fish stew, Tristan as young, handsome, and sweet-scented as these men were old, ugly, and foul. Her hand shook as she reached for her winecup. Seeing it, Markion grinned. His hand slid under the table and squeezed her thigh.

  “Only a few more days, Princess. Be patient.”

  Essylte gagged on her wine and pressed her hand to her mouth. At that moment, a horn sounded, and the door swung open. A courier strode in and bent his knee to the ground.

  “My lord king. Your brother Prince Pernam has arrived from Lyonesse with two servants and Lord Segward’s wife. They are in the forecourt now.”

  “Well! They’ve made good time. I did not expect them until tomorrow. By all means, beg them sup with us. I will see them at once.”

  When the courier had gone, Mark turned to Essylte. “I expect you haven’t heard much in Wales about my brother Pernam. When you see him you’ll know why. He’s hardly a warrior. Truth to tell, I’m surprised he came. He’s never been in a hurry to do me honor. Perhaps he came as escort for Segward’s wife.”

  “And why, my lord, does Lord Segward not keep his wife at court?”

  Markion grinned. “He can’t stand other eyes looking at her. Afraid someone will take her from him. She’s a beauty still, although she’s past five and twenty. So he hides her away in Lyonesse.”

  “Lyonesse? Does Sir Tristan protect her, then?”

  Markion smiled slyly. “Indeed he does, although it’s not the kind of protection I think Segward has in mind.”

  He laughed shortly, and Essylte looked puzzled. “Does your nephew know her?”

  “Oh, aye!” Markion hooted. “Rumor has it he knows her very well indeed.”

  Essylte’s eyes flew to Tristan’s face as the guards at the door announced the guests and Markion rose to greet them. A hush descended on the throng. Pernam stepped into the hall in a gray robe, a black cloak slung around his shoulders, hood thrown back. He wore no sword, nor even a dagger in his belt, and from the thong around his neck hung the symbol of the Good Goddess, the Mother of men. Yet no one, not even Segward, dared a sneer. The healer carried himself with authority, a certainty that belied any need for weapons. His close-cropped hair, bony face, and deep-set, piercing eyes made an ind
elible impression. He was not a man, once seen, to be forgotten.

  Essylte watched him approach the king, but it was the woman on his arm who absorbed her attention. Segward’s wife kept her eyes down, her hood forward, her face hidden.

  Pernam’s eyes flicked once toward Tristan, then twice more in quick succession. A light frown creased his brow. Then his fierce, assessing gaze slid in turn to Segward, Markion, and Essylte. A faint smile touched the long, thin mouth, and Essylte smiled back.

  “My lord king.” Pernam bowed to Markion. “You do me honor to receive me here.”

  “Well, well, Pernam.” Markion shifted uncomfortably. “You do me honor to come to Tintagel. It’s been a long time. You look—the same.”

  Essylte was sure Prince Pernam’s eyes were laughing, but his face was grave. “And you, Mark, are looking well. I was grieved to hear about Gerontius. He was a fine lad. I have asked the Good Goddess to protect his spirit.”

  “We’ve been Christian here for three generations, brother. He’s in Christ’s Heaven if he’s anywhere. Put your pagan ways aside while you’re in our midst.”

  Pernam bowed again. “Let me present Lady Esmerée.”

  At last the woman let her hood fall back. Essylte caught her breath. How could this lovely woman be Segward’s wife? She was stunning, with dark, shining hair and flawless skin, lovely eyes that met the king’s with calm certitude, delicate fingers that accepted his kiss without a tremor. More striking even than her beauty was her poise, her graceful bearing, her serene calm.

  “My lord king.”

  “Lady Esmerée. How good to see you back at court again.”

  “I am delighted to be here, my lord. I congratulate you on your coming nuptials. No one expected them so soon.”