Prince of Dreams

  Tristan, pleading fatigue, asked Markion for permission to retire. Mark gave it to him willingly. Segward’s eyes followed Tristan to the door, but when he was joined there by Dinadan, who threw an arm around him and walked out at his side, Segward shrugged and went back to his winecup.

  In the dimly lit hallway Dinadan stopped. “Well, I’m to bed. I’ve not much of a head for wine. Are you coming, Tris? We should be off early if you want to be clear of the headland by dawn.”

  “Soon, Din. I’m going to walk a while on the battlements and get some night air. I need to clear my head. Don’t wait up.”

  Dinadan smiled. “That was one hell of a tale. Do you think it will work?”

  “I pray so. But I don’t know.”

  “A stroke of genius to make Markion think the attainment of his dearest dream depends upon gentle treatment of Essylte. I salute you, Tristan.”

  Tristan shrugged. “It’s all I could think of to do for her. But you know, Dinadan, it’s not just a tale. It’s true enough.”

  “Aye. I don’t doubt that it is. If Markion could only be that kind of man . . . Well, good night, then, Tristan. Be at the gates an hour before dawn.”

  “Good night, Din.”

  When Dinadan had gone, Tristan slipped silently through the dim corridors to the stairs leading to the women’s quarters. Few men stood guard tonight. Mark had given everyone light duty on this night of celebration. At the foot of the stairs Tristan waited in black shadow. There was a guard at Essylte’s door, standing beneath a lamp, but the lamp burned low and flickered dangerously. He waited. Time dragged by in silence. The guard shuffled once, yawned, leaned against the wall. From far away came the faint sound of singing, off-key and raucous, the riotous celebration of drunken men. Tristan waited, palms sweating, growing ragged with impatience. What if Mark, eager for the release of his singular, self-imposed restraint, could not wait much longer and cut short the celebration? It could not be much shy of midnight—how could he explain his presence here? If he went openly up the stairs, what excuse would the guard believe? His hand slid to his sword hilt; the feel of cold iron gave him courage. Just as he stepped forward from the shadows, the lamp flickered wildly and went out, throwing the stairs and the landing into darkness.

  The guard swore aloud. “Damn lazy house slaves! There’s no oil in this lamp. What were they doing at lamplighting? Playing dice? Sweet Christ, and with the King due here any minute! Oh, yes, I know who’ll be blamed—not the house slaves, God forbid. It was Kellis’s post, it was Kellis’s duty to check the lamp. Kellis will be blamed, sure as God loves kings.” Tristan flattened himself against the wall as the guard felt his way down the stairs, still mumbling. “Might as well be a house slave myself. Have to do all the work anyway. Watch now—as soon as I’m well away fetching the oil, the King himself will come and find no one at the door. I’ll be on border patrol by dawn, see if I’m not.”

  Smiling bleakly, Tristan slipped silently up the stairs, felt for the door, and tapped gently on it. Instantly it opened onto blackness. A hand grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in.

  “Name?” Branwen’s voice breathed in his ear.

  “It’s me. Tristan.”

  A sigh of relief. “Safe, Essylte.” A sliver of light grew into a shaft as a the curtain parted and Essylte stepped forward, light from the room behind her throwing her shadow forward at his feet. He caught a glimpse of the great bed, piled with furs, and wine set to warm for the coming King.

  He took Essylte in his arms and kissed her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Her slender body shook uncontrollably, and he pulled her hard up against him to still her fear.

  “Essylte. My sweet love. Be strong. Be patient. I will not leave you.”

  Branwen beckoned them into her chamber. “Come in here. Hurry, do. The guard will be back any moment and he must not hear you.”

  They followed her into the little bedchamber. Here, the light from a single candle filled the space and warmed it. Essylte, her arms around Tristan, laid her head against his chest.

  “You brought your sword.” Branwen spoke flatly.

  “Yes. If we are discovered—well, at least we can choose how we will die.”

  “Please,” Essylte whispered, “don’t talk of death. I am responsible.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If anyone is to blame—”

  “I am the one who should lie with him. I—I am the one who made the vow.”

  “If you keep your vow,” Branwen said calmly, “Tristan dies.”

  “I know!”

  “And you as well, my beautiful angel.” Tristan’s arms around her tightened. “We have been over this a thousand times. There is no other way.” He looked at Branwen, standing straight by the door. “Are you ready, Branwen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I honor your courage. Tell me what preparations you have made.”

  Branwen took Essylte by the hand and drew her away from Tristan until they stood side by side. Tristan’s jaw dropped. They wore identical bedgowns of cream-colored silk, intricately embroidered with blue and green threads upon the bodice. Their hair was dressed the same, braided with thick cream-colored ribbons and wound upon their heads. The effect was astonishing. In the candlelight, he could hardly tell them apart.

  “Amazing!” he breathed. “What’s the secret of it? Am I bewitched?”

  They both smiled, the same smile. “We are much the same height and build,” Branwen explained, “and but for our hair and complexions, similarly featured. People have remarked upon it all our lives. So I bound up our hair, and hid my freckles with a bleaching cream. We’ve made a pair of nightcaps to cover our hair. Essylte will tell Markion, or, rather, I will,” she colored quickly, “that these caps are the custom in Wales. No woman sleeps without them for fear the beauty of her hair be ruined. If he doesn’t see my hair, I may go undiscovered.”

  Tristan walked up to her, still staring. “The effect is magical. Why, in this light your eyes look green, like hers.”

  She looked up at him. “Is it enough, my lord? Will it work? Will Markion be able to tell us apart?”

  “Never. Not in his state. He won’t see you both together?”

  “No. Essylte must be there when he comes in; the place is lit well. She must blow the lamps out, and make some excuse to come out for a moment. Then I go in.”

  Tristan nodded. “And in the morning?”

  Branwen met his eyes with barely a tremor. “I’ll come out before dawn and help her dress. She must be gowned for day when she sees him, so he will know the night is over and not grow amorous.”

  Essylte shuddered. Tristan slipped an arm around each girl’s shoulder. “We three are in this together. We must keep each other strong.”

  Essylte nodded. “If Branny can lie with him, I—I can bear his kisses.”

  Tristan touched his lips first to her forehead, then to Branwen’s. “We do it for each other, that we may all three have a future.” Branwen shot him a quick look, passionate and fierce, but he was turned to Essylte and did not see it.

  A scratch came at the outer door.

  “My lady Branwen!” a man’s voice called. “Bid the Queen be ready. The King is on his way.”

  “Kellis,” Branwen whispered. “Quickly, Essylte, into the Queen’s chamber with you. Tristan, close that door and stay behind it. Be sure you keep still.”

  Tristan stood for what felt like hours near the window in Branwen’s chamber, looking out at the night sea. How fathomless she seemed, robed in endless black, yet in a few short hours she would be all glittering surface, all shallow glory in the dawn. The sea was always spoken of as if she were a woman—why was that? What if women were really so changeable? Here he was, risking everything—his honor, his name, his very future—for a girl just turned sixteen he had known two months. And yet just the thought of Mark’s arms around her was enough to—

  The door opened quietly and Branwen came in. “You are safe. Kellis suspects nothing. The lamps are all r
efilled and rekindled.”

  Tristan made an effort to think of nothing but her words. “You did well, my pretty Branwen, to steal the oil. It worked perfectly.”

  She smiled lightly. “I like it when you call me that, my lord. I always have.”

  He reached out an arm to her, and she hesitated a moment before she walked into his embrace. “You have more courage than many men I know. I like that best about you.” He held her lightly. She slipped an arm about his waist.

  “It is only a bedding, my lord. It is not a battle.”

  “There are beddings and there are beddings. If you have seen sheep rutting in the field, you have seen Mark’s idea of making love. No, forgive me, sweet Branwen, I did not mean to speak so crudely. Soldiers celebrating a victory is one thing; a king with his young bride may be quite another. Must be. I’ve seen Mark at one, but not the other.”

  Branwen drew a deep breath. “Others have survived it. So will I.”

  “That’s the spirit I like so well. You will survive it and save us all.” He looked down at her upturned face. “Tell me,” he said lightly, “what you want from me. In exchange for our lives. A good marriage? A kingdom of your own? I know more than one prince who might provide that.”

  She gazed up at him, a light flush warming her features. “In time, my lord. When I am—ready.”

  He hugged her gently. “What do you think of Dinadan? Is he comely enough? He’s heir to Dorria, unpromised, and he’s a good man. Moderate in his habits, steady and good-humored.”

  Branwen smiled. “I pray you will not try to sell me a horse, my lord, until I am in the market. At the moment, I am content to go without.”

  Tristan’s smile faded. “What if you should get with child?”

  “In one night? It’s unlikely.”

  “But if you do?”

  She looked up at him swiftly. “What is it you want to know? Which horn of the dilemma shall I choose, the hasty marriage or the bastard child? I can’t tell you that, because I don’t know.” She paused, and lowered her eyes demurely. “I did not mean to be insolent, my lord. I beg your pardon. But—surely we need not think of that tonight.”

  Tristan dropped his hands. “But I believe you have already thought long about it, Branwen. I know you’ve already worked it out in clear detail. Tell me what your plan is.”

  Branwen turned sharply as the sound of voices reached them, soldiers’ voices, raised in shouts and exclamations, coming up the stairs. “He is here!”

  Tristan was already at the door to the antechamber when Branwen caught his arm. “No! My lord, stay in here! Keep the door closed. They must hear nothing.” She pushed by him firmly, pulling a dark robe over her bedgown. “Don’t worry. Essylte knows what to do. We have talked of little else for a solid month. Now close the door and await me.”

  Tristan stood with his ear pressed to the crack in the door. He was scarcely aware he breathed. He heard the King’s men sing Mark to the door of the Queen’s chamber, and then, amid much shouting and laughter, descend the stairs to their own rest. He thought he heard the soft, unintelligible music of Essylte’s voice. Certainly, that was Mark’s baritone, imperious, importunate. He inched open the door, hardly knowing what he did, just as the curtain parted and Essylte stepped into the antechamber, wide-eyed and shaking.

  “I’ve blown out the lamps,” she whispered, clutching Branwen. “But the braziers are lit. He’s abed and drunk, but—but not near sleep. He—he did not want to let me go. You’d better hurry. Oh, Branny!”

  Branwen squared her shoulders. “Not now, Essylte. It’s too late for regrets. Is my cap in place? Very well, stand aside.”

  “Oh, Branny, I can’t let you!”

  “Don’t fret so. My fate is in my own hands. I prefer it that way.” With a quick shrug she was free of Essylte’s restraining hand and gone through the curtain into the darkness beyond. Tristan stepped into the antechamber and Essylte collapsed against him. He held her tight, his lips pressed against her hair. Together they stood, hardly daring to breathe, listening to the man’s low laughter, the girl’s soft replies, the creak of the ancient bed, and then, unmistakably, the sounds of love. Essylte drew away without looking at him and ran into Branwen’s chamber.

  He found her lifting the wineskin from its stand above a flame. She filled a winecup and downed it all in one breath.

  “Oh, Tristan, I am evil to let her do such a thing on my behalf. I know it is a sin. It must be. It feels like one.”

  “You have not forced her,” he said quietly, taking the winecup from her shaking hand. “She does it of her own will, for her own reasons. And it is not all on your behalf.”

  Essylte’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? If not for me, for whom?”

  “For herself,” Tristan replied, lifting a hand to her hair. But she shied from his touch and backed away. “For the chance to be the mother of the next High King.”

  Essylte grimaced. “Let her. I do not envy her that.”

  “Don’t you? Are you certain? You are Percival’s daughter; can you be without ambition?”

  She smiled at him and set his heart singing. “You are the son of Meliodas and grandson of Constantine. Can you?”

  He laughed lightly. He was her instrument, he thought irrelevantly, and she could play him like a bard. “We are cut of the same cloth, you and I. I knew it the moment I saw you. We take little joy in power.” He took a step forward. “We take joy only in each other.”

  She backed against the door. “Tristan, I beg you not to touch me. You know I love you with all my heart, and I always will, but—but I—today I vowed before God, and now it is a mortal sin.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have not forgotten. I want only to comfort you. I promise you by the blood of Christ, Essylte, I will not lie with you again. I cannot. It would mean damnation for both of us.”

  She nodded, calmed a little. “If we are not already damned. And whom can I confess it to? Not to the bishop, who is my husband’s friend.”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “My husband?” Anger flicked her voice. “He is my husband. We can’t undo it now. And while we speak, he lies with my servant instead of me. I have made him an adulterer, though he knows it not.”

  “He is no innocent in fear for his soul. What Mark is doing now he has done a hundred, a thousand times before.” He smiled sadly. “Did you think him faithful to Elisane? Not a day of their marriage. Nor will he be to you. He takes his pleasure where he finds it, and always has.”

  Tears edged Essylte’s eyes. “This is the man my father chose for me?” she whispered. “It’s not fair! Men do without a backward glance what they would kill a woman for!”

  Unable to help himself, Tristan stepped closer. “Yes, sweet, but you know the reason as well as I. Let him plant his seed where he may; only you can bear the High King’s heir.” Tristan cupped her shoulders in his hands. “The heir must be his, and no one else’s. So no one cares who lies with Mark, but it is Cornwall’s, nay, Britain’s business who lies with you.”

  Her eyes, green in the candlelight, gazed into his. “Then get you away, Tristan!” she whispered. “For when you touch me, I am afire!”

  He retreated at once, his breath fast and light, and gripped his sword hilt. “My lady, I am going.”

  “Going?” She quailed. “But I did not mean—going where?”

  “Away. To Dorria. To Lyonesse.”

  She cried out, and covered her mouth with both her hands. “So far away? But why?”

  “To stay would only endanger you. You know that. I must leave.”

  “When? How soon?”

  “Before dawn.”

  “Tonight?” She gasped, and clutched at his hand. “Tonight? Oh, my love, don’t go! I pray you! Not so soon! What shall I do tomorrow night, when—when—” She fell to her knees, pressing his hand to her lips.

  His fingers closed around hers. “Essylte, my Essylte, take courage. I will be back. God knows I could not be
long away from you. But we—we must be careful. There is no reason I can give for staying that Segward would believe. As it is, he already suspects me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Dinadan is certain of it.”

  She rose, smiling up at him. “My source is better informed. Lady Esmerée told me his suspicions all run another way.”

  “What do you mean?” Tristan sat on the stool beside the bed as Essylte paced back and forth across the little chamber, her eyes bright with excitement, her hair springing loose, here and there, from its tight bonds about her head.

  “It’s amusing, really. You’d never guess—Segward thinks you burn for Branwen. It is a rumor Sir Guvranyl has spread, in perfect innocence. He got it from the courier we sent before we sailed from the estuary, who got it from old Junius, no doubt. He thinks, they all think, you are lovesick for the Queen’s maid. Lady Esmerée said we should do nothing to dispel the rumor. It is a perfect cloak to hide behind.”

  Tristan stared at her. “Branwen? Is this a jest?”

  “Certainly not. You may ask Esmerée yourself if you doubt me.”

  “No, no, I don’t doubt you. It’s just—”

  “So you see, you can stay on and everyone will put it down to love for Branwen. You will stay, Tristan, won’t you? You said you wanted to offer me comfort.”

  “Yes, but I won’t endanger you to do it. This is not a lie Segward will long believe. I can’t hide my heart. It’s a cloak made of netting; it will not bear inspection.”

  “I will need an oceanful of comfort tomorrow night!”

  Tristan closed his eyes to blot out the thought. “But Essylte—I can’t be here tomorrow night.”

  “Why can’t you? I must.”