Prince of Dreams

  Markion was thrown into confusion, and Essylte hid a smile. She spoke out of two sides of her mouth, this lovely woman, and to the High King’s face. She had courage.

  “My dear,” Segward interrupted in an icy voice, “you must be tired from your journey. How delighted I am to see you so early in the evening. It will give us time to talk later.”

  For the first time Essylte saw her tremble, and then still herself. Did she fear her own husband? Essylte looked at Segward with new eyes.

  Esmerée made him a low reverence. Unobtrusively, Pernam’s hand shot out to steady her. “My lord, I look forward to it. I hurried on the road for the purpose.”

  Markion cleared his throat. “Er, you remember my nephew Tristan, I think.”

  For a brief moment, no one moved. Essylte saw Segward flush and pale, Esmerée lift her chin, Tristan shift from one foot to the other.

  Esmerée curtsied low to Tristan. “Of course. My liege lord, Tristan of Lyonesse. A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

  “And I you, Lady Esmerée.” The tone of his voice was barely cordial, but it burned into Essylte’s heart. Segward, too, looked short of air.

  Esmerée paused. “My lord looks—hard used. Do you suffer from old wounds, or was your journey into Wales a danger to you?”

  “I am recovered from my old wounds,” Tristan said quietly.

  Segward had opened his mouth to speak when Pernam intervened. “I will have a look at him later, my lady, if he will permit me. He’s young yet. Whatever ails him will heal in time.”

  Markion was clearly at a loss to understand what had been said. “Well,” he grumbled, “enough of that. Let me present to you my betrothed, the Princess Essylte, daughter of Percival of Gwynedd.”

  Essylte rose as Markion took her hand. Esmerée’s eyes widened, and she made her reverence very low.

  “Princess Essylte.”

  “Lady Esmerée. Prince Pernam. I am honored to make your acquaintance.” She extended her hand to Pernam but found it grasped by Esmerée, and held between her hands with a firmness and warmth that surprised her.

  “How beautiful you are! And so young. You must miss your homeland terribly. Have you seen much of Cornwall since you’ve been among us? Or just the environs of Tintagel?”

  Essylte blushed. “Not even that, my lady. Mostly just the inside of the castle, and the sea.”

  “Oh, my dear, I beg you will let me come to attend you later. I can help you through the days that are to come.” She smiled a little bitterly and let go of Essylte’s hand. “I was married at your age. I remember what it was like.”

  Essylte’s hand grew cold, released from that warm grip. “Oh, I wish you would!” she cried with more vehemence than she intended. “Please, come to me after hall. I would so like to have someone to talk to.”

  Esmerée smiled. Mark grumbled and cleared his throat. Pernam looked pleased, Segward annoyed, and Tristan startled. Beside her, Essylte heard Branwen’s stifled laugh. She turned to Markion. “And now, my lord, may we not find these honored guests some seats among us? They have traveled a long way and we keep them standing.”

  Back on solid ground, Mark nodded and clapped his hands for servants. Everyone began moving, and the hall once again filled with the clamor of voices. Essylte felt eyes upon her and looked up. Tristan, smiling, stood gazing at her with his hand over his heart.

  Late one afternoon as the sunlight waxed golden and gilded the sapphire sea, Pernam descended the cliff path that twisted down the headland opposite the great rock of Tintagel. He walked slowly, frowning, scanning the broken shore. At last, reaching the rock-strewn beach, he heard the sound he sought: the loud slap-slap-plop of a flat stone thrown hard against the incoming tide. He paused a moment to whisper a quick prayer and smooth away his frown. Then he climbed over a wall of tide-washed boulders and stepped lightly down the other side, choosing a flat rock near the bottom for his seat.

  Scowling, Tristan sent another stone flying into the sea—three skips and smack into a wave, startling a seabird, who flapped away in noisy protest.

  “What do you want?” He spoke belligerently.

  Unruffled, Pernam arranged his robe about him and did not answer.

  Tristan flung another stone, missing badly, and swung around. “I suppose you’ll never forgive me for Esmerée.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You gave her what she wanted. You’ve protected her as best you could. What he does to her, you cannot prevent. . . . Did you think I was angry about the child?”

  Tristan flushed suddenly and looked away. “Yes. But I’m not even sure she’s mine.”

  “She most certainly is yours.”

  Tristan’s eyes flew to his face. “Truly? How do you know?”

  “She told me. . . . You ought to come visit me when you’re next in Lyonesse. I’ll have the child with me, like as not.”

  “What—what is her name?”

  “Aimée. It means ‘beloved.’ ”

  Tristan’s features softened, and to cover, he bent for another stone. “Odd name.”

  “Frankish. Like Esmerée.”

  Tristan looked startled. “Esmerée’s a Briton.”

  Pernam’s long mouth twisted in a half smile. “Is she? Then her father wasn’t killed at Autun, fighting for Childebert with Arthur. Then she wasn’t orphaned at three, raised by her brother, promised to a nunnery at twelve to ease the burden on his family. Or rescued from that fate by Segward, who saw her as she traveled with her brother to that impoverished convent, and who, seeing her promise, outbid the Christians for her services.”

  “My God,” breathed Tristan, staring. “Twelve?”

  “He used her as his bath slave for the first two years—”

  “The monster!”

  “And only forced her when she had turned fourteen. He considers he has done her greater honor than she deserves by making her his wife. Here in Britain, no one can prove her father once served a long-dead Frankish king. She must be forever in Segward’s debt for whatever standing she has.”

  “That demon’s spawn!”

  “She’s never had anything to call her own,” Pernam finished gently, “excepting only her children. And of them, only Aimée was conceived in love. It is a great gift, Tristan. No, I do not hold the child against you.”

  Tristan sat heavily on the shingle near Pernam’s boot and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “I never knew.” Pernam watched his dark hair ruffle in the wind. “I apologize for my rudeness to you,” Tristan said, looking up. “I’ve avoided you for four days, and all to no account.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought you sent Esme to Essylte to keep me away.”

  “No. That was her own idea. Don’t look like that—you would only bring tears to that pretty child. The girl needs her, Tristan. Esme can give her a strength that you cannot.”

  “But I—I need to see her. I have so much to say, and there is so little time!”

  Pernam watched his face carefully. “Yes. Tomorrow she marries Mark.”

  “Oh, God!” The cry was wrenched from Tristan. He bent forward, burying his face in his hands.

  Pernam laid a hand upon his shoulder and felt him shake. “Tristan. You must be strong.”

  The dark head shook from side to side. “This is beyond my strength.”

  “You only think so.” Pernam sighed. “How did it happen?”

  “One look!” came the muffled cry. “One look at her face, and I knew. I knew in my soul. Clearer than I’ve ever known anything. Dear God, Pernam, I would give up anything I possess to make her mine. I would give up my name, my crown, my birthright. If she—if she—there’s no hope of rescue, Pernam. I shall die tomorrow.”

  Pernam looked sadly down at him. “Is that how you see it? As all-encompassing disaster?” He sighed again and stared out across the sea as the sun sank, flaming, toward the horizon. “You are only a man, Tristan. How do you know what the gods hold in their hands for you? You see a maelstrom all around
you, but it is a matter of perspective. With distance, with clearer sight, you would see the ebb and flow of divine purpose. You would see not only the storm’s face but the quiet waters, the eddies and still pools where peace reigns, where wisdom takes root and grows—these also surround you, although you see them not. With patience, you will come upon them. Patience and time.”

  “Is this meant as comfort?”

  Pernam’s hand fell firmly on his shoulder. “You have always been a restless soul. Since your youth you have been seeking something beyond your reach. It is what makes you such a daring warrior, and what makes your music so poignant and profound. Can you not see in this ‘disaster’ the touch of the god’s hand? You ache to possess this woman. Yet what would such possession bring you? The fulfillment of all of your desires? Nay, Tristan, it would only bring you a moment’s respite from your seeking. Yours is a nature destined to reach beyond your grasp. If she were yours, you would reach beyond her, too.”

  “Never!” Tristan cried. “How can you think it? You don’t know her—she’s quick, changeable, alive. Vivid. She belongs with me. We are right together. Mark is—Mark is all wrong.”

  “Nevertheless, the gods gave her to him. There is a reason.”

  “What reason? Am I doomed, then? I warn you, Pernam—”

  Pernam shrugged. “No. I meant only that, being human, we cannot guess what the gods have in store. All we can do is take what we are given and do our best by it. The acceptance and the striving are what make you the man you are. To succumb, either to love or to despair, is death.”

  Tristan shot to his feet. “What nonsense! To succumb to love is the purest joy I have ever known.”

  Pernam’s brows lifted.

  Coloring, Tristan turned away. “I didn’t mean—it doesn’t matter. Never mind. Tell me, Pernam, why you have come all this way to see me.”

  Pernam paused. “You face a wall too high to climb, too far to go around, too strong to batter. There is only one thing to do. Yield. Turn away, and get yourself gone from here.”

  “You understand nothing if you think I can leave.”

  “Come, Tristan, use your wits. What can you do to prevent it? If you are wise, you will not make it harder for her, but will take yourself away and bide your time. Go home to Lyonesse. Go back to Dorria with Dinadan. Take up your sword and fight some Saxons. Leave the girl alone to work out her fate. It is the only way she will get from one day to the next.”

  “And leave her here alone?” He looked toward the fortress, visible beyond the nearest cliff. Tintagel stood on a great rock rising from the sea a stone’s throw from the jagged coast. A narrow neck of land connected the fortress to the shore. Like Lyon’s Head, the place was easily defended. Approach from the sea was impossible; the sheer sides of the castle grew straight from the vertical tower of living rock. The causeway, guarded at both ends by gates and troops, could be held by a handful against an army of thousands. Tristan had spent much of his life at Tintagel, both when his father held it and after Markion took over his education. Still, he shivered whenever he rode under the great gates. To him it was a prison. He could not forget poor Elisane: Not once after she married Mark had she set a foot outside it. No wonder she had gone half mad before she died. It might well be impossible to capture, but it was certainly impossible to escape.

  “I can’t leave her here to wither away like Elisane. It’s cruel. It’s impossible.”

  “You only think so. But you will have to do it. The sooner you face that, the better off you will be.” Pernam rose and looked hard at his nephew. “Come, Tristan. You are a king. Kings have no easy choices.”

  Closing his eyes, Tristan drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. “What I wouldn’t give for your cool sense, Pernam. Don’t you ever want what you can’t have, so desperately you can think of little else?”

  Pernam’s lips twisted. “From time to time.”

  “Do you? And do you ever lie awake possessed by a fever only love can cure?”

  “Often.”

  Tristan smiled bitterly. “And Mark thinks you a weak man. All right. If I can bring myself to it, I will do as you advise. After it is over—if I can—I will leave with Dinadan and not come back.”

  “Do not wait,” Pernam urged. “Go now. I will square your absence with Mark.”

  “You forget the High King’s command. I am to sing at supper, a merry song to send them off to bed.” He shuddered. “I can’t desert her before that. I have to stay until—it is done. Come morning, I will go. That’s the best I can promise, Pernam. Don’t ask for more.”

  Pernam bowed slowly. “I cannot ask for what you cannot give. But I have your promise. Thank you, Tristan. In time, perhaps sooner than you think, you will see the wisdom of it.” He raised his hand in blessing. “May the Goddess watch over you and guide your steps.”

  15 THE PLEDGE

  At midmorning King Markion wed Essylte of Gwynedd with all his nobles in attendance. The Bishop of Dorria pronounced the words that bound them one to the other in the eyes of God. Markion himself placed upon his bride’s head the silver crown studded with amethysts that Queen Guinevere had worn so many years ago, and Ygraine of Cornwall before her. From then on, until day darkened into night, it was a time of feasting and games for the pleasure of the wedding guests. At dusk, fatigued from exertion, or ceremony, or drink, everyone gathered inside the great hall at Tintagel for the long-awaited wedding feast.

  Essylte sat beside Markion, slim and straight, clothed in a golden gown. More than one guest remarked to his neighbor that the new queen had not smiled all day, not even once, not even to Markion. But others shrugged, winked, and put her solemnity down to her maiden’s modesty. Look at Markion, they said—half drunk before the feast even began. What untried virgin wouldn’t fear a night in his bed, wild as he got in his cups? Look at Tristan, some observant souls whispered. What ailed the man? He drank nothing but water, and kept himself as far from Markion as he could get. Ah, replied others with knowing nods, but he always was a strange one, brooding over his music when he wasn’t killing heathens, always restless, that lad, always moving on. What Tristan needed, they laughed to one another, was a woman of his own.

  So they drank, and ate, and toasted the king and queen, and drank some more. Two boys from Logris played duets upon the lute; people danced and sang, the dances and songs growing bawdier as the hour grew late. Markion, flushed with wine and straining at his tether, began to kiss his young bride’s fingers, then her cheek, then her neck. For as long as blushes and coy protests could hold him off, she checked his advances. But when his hands began to grope her under the table, she pushed him away.

  “My lord king,” she said firmly, “isn’t it time for the bard?”

  “The bard? What bard? Oh, yes. Tristan. I nearly forgot.”

  At his signal, the great harp was carried into the hall. Men quit their dancing and made room, respectfully, for the bard and his instrument. Tristan strode to the center of the gathering, pale-faced and solemn. He bowed once to Markion. “My lord King and uncle. Queen Essylte. My lords and ladies all. In honor of my uncle’s wedding I have written him a song of celebration, to honor his ancestors and his descendants. I give you ‘The Glory of Cornwall.’ ”

  Markion looked delighted and settled back in his chair to listen. Tristan seated himself on a stool, leaned the harp against his shoulder, and, closing his eyes, let his fingers stroke the strings. The notes spun golden to every corner of the great hall, enthralling, compelling. One by one, heads turned, conversation died, until they were all caught in the web of his music, expectant and intent.

  Tristan lifted his head and began to sing. His tale recounted the stories everyone loved best, of Cornwall’s past glories and the men who had led her. But in each case the hero had fallen because he had lost the love of the woman he took to wife. The great Gorlois had made Cornwall first among all the kingdoms in the time of Ambrosius, but his wife had loved Uther Pendragon, and Gorlois fell. He sang of the golden age, of
Arthur and Guinevere, of Lancelot, Gawaine, and the justice of the Round Table. Whatever men believed about Lancelot, no one could deny that Guinevere had long loved King Arthur. While she stood behind him, his power lasted twenty-six years and peace reigned throughout the land.

  Tristan’s melodic voice ensnared his listeners. He wrapped them in his song, binding their wills to his. Through him they saw the great battlefields of the past come to life before them: Doward, Caer Konan, Caer Eden, Calidon, Agned, Badon, Autun, Camlann. Through him they saw faces many of them had never seen in life: Vortigern, Ambrosius, Gorlois, Uther, Arthur, Lancelot, Gawaine, Mordred, Percival, and Galahad. They saw as well the women who stood by them, or deserted them, or were left behind, neglected, as each king crafted his own fate. Most of them knew from their own lives what it was to have the comfort and support of a loving woman, or to want that if they did not have it. Not a single heart was left untouched as the music sang to them of promise, of what Cornwall could become, of what Britain again could be, if Markion could win Essylte’s affection, as Arthur had won Guinevere’s.

  Now a new age was dawning. Would Markion rise to take his place among the great Kings of Britain? It would depend, it would all depend, upon whether or not he earned the love and respect of his young Welsh wife. For the heart of all lasting glory, Tristan sang, his clear voice rising to the rafters, was lasting love.

  As the final notes whispered around the walls, all eyes turned to the High King’s table. Esmerée and Branwen had kerchiefs before their faces; Essylte’s eyes were swimming. Markion himself, grave and excited, rose slowly and bowed low to Tristan.

  “My thanks, nephew, for a moving tale. It is excellent advice. And I shall take it.”

  The hall exploded with noise as men cheered and clapped. “Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!” They brought him wine from the High King’s table, and he drank deeply of it. They lifted him upon their shoulders and paraded him around the hall. Markion raised Essylte, apologized for his impatient advances, and bade her lead the ladies out. He would come to her, he said gravely, at midnight. Essylte made him a deep reverence, and in her wake the women left the hall. Tristan was deposited at the High King’s table, toasted thrice, and begged for another song. He gave them a rowdy one, an old favorite about the fisherman’s daughter and the wandering knight, and everyone joined in. Soon the hall was full of laughter and singing, drinking and dancing, ribald jokes and betting on the birth date of the coming heir.