Prince of Dreams

  Dinadan hurried back with a bundle of Saxon clothing under his arm. “Here, half-wit, take what you want.” He lowered his voice. “My God, Tris, you’re nothing but skin and bone. What ails you?”

  Tristan looked up, eyes full of grief. “You know what ails me.” He pulled a tunic from the bundle and gestured to the rowers. “You’d better change, too. Everybody’d better. In an hour we’ll be at the river mouth, and we don’t want to be taken for Britons then.”

  “Why not? All this land belongs to Elmet. Talorc’s an ally.”

  “Then where did this landing party come from? This is a river keel, not a longboat. She’s not fit for the open sea. The Saxon Shore’s a long sail from here. So where did the keels come from?”

  Dinadan frowned. “You mean, they have a base somewhere? On Angli ground?”

  “Indeed, and if all this land is Elmet’s, someone is betraying old Talorc and dealing with Saxons. I want to know who.”

  The men looked at one another. “What are we looking for? Longboats?”

  Tristan nodded. “Or a Saxon camp. Or a fleet of river keels. Somewhere where the natives raise a hand to wave us welcome.”

  “But,” Dinadan said slowly, “we are one keel, and they are many. We can’t outrun a well-manned Saxon craft if they give us chase.”

  Tristan looked up at the coarsely woven brown sail with the white sea dragon painted on one side. “Don’t be downhearted, Din. I have an hour to learn how to sail her.”

  Men crammed into the feasting hall that night, vying for a seat on the crowded benches, standing pressed three deep against the walls. Badulf was dead, and everyone wanted to see for himself the Cornish prince who had, in one afternoon, freed Elmet from a decade of Saxon trouble. Servants scurried everywhere. Meat and wine were placed on the tables and passed freely among the standing men. The king wanted no one to go hungry or thirsty on this night of celebration.

  On the dais with King Talorc, Prince Drustan, Sir Uwaine, and Sir Bruenor sat the men responsible for the Saxon ambush: Tristan sat the king’s right hand with Dinadan beside him, and beyond Dinadan the four Cornishmen who had manned the oars in the Saxon keel.

  Talorc rose, splendidly dressed in a fur-trimmed scarlet robe, and hushed the crowd. He raised a formal toast to his Cornish guests. Not only had their combined forces won a great victory against the Anglii, Elmet’s ancient enemy, they had also routed the hated Saecsens from their land. The old wolf himself was smoked from his lair and killed, all by the clever ruse that Sir Tristan had devised. By stealing a keel and disguising himself and his brave companions as Saecsen thegns, he had discovered the Saecsens’ sea lair and had drawn seven of their fearsome longboats upstream in hot pursuit, where the Briton army, still on the field, had surprised them and demolished them with fire arrows. Badulf was killed, and his son with him. The good Briton villagers had arisen and burned the Saecsen base. Those who were left had taken to sea in whatever craft remained.

  Dinadan looked up during this speech and winked at Tristan. Talorc made the victory sound inevitable, but it had been a close thing. Tristan and his companions had been nearly overtaken by the longboats. It had needed courage and a neat bit of sailing to evade them. A great risk, but it had worked. Tristan raised his winecup to Dinadan and drank.

  Thanks to Tristan of Lyonesse, Talorc finished, thanks to the brave Cornishmen sent to Elmet by the High King Markion, Elmet was free of the Saecsen scourge upon her shores for the first time in ten long years.

  Every warrior in the hall rose to his feet, stomping his boots and clapping his hands in thunderous applause. Tristan bowed low, and when at last they hushed to let him speak, he thanked them gracefully, in the accent of Elmet, for the opportunity to come to their country and slay their Saecsen dogs. It was sport he liked well; he was honored to have been of service to the great king Talorc. If ever they found another warren of such foxy devils, he would be pleased to join them in their hunt again. They laughed and applauded. He had copied their speech exactly, they marveled to one another. He sounded just like a Parisii of the tribe of Drustan. He must have the ear of a bard.

  Talorc slid a gold wristband, heavy with gems, from his own arm and pushed it onto Tristan’s.

  “You do us honor, my lord Tristan,” he said gravely. “Take this as a sign of my respect. In all my life I have met only one man as brave as you. And that was Galahad of Lanascol, a Breton born, but a Briton to his soul. My father, Drustan, lived in Arthur’s time, a time of heroes. You belong, if you will pardon my saying it, to such a time, a time of brave men and noble deeds, a time that is already past, and lives on only in the songs of bards.”

  Tristan bowed low. “They have a saying in Lyonesse, my lord, that I was born between the stars. I do not live in that world; I do not belong in this. They say that I belong”—he gestured vaguely toward the door—“beyond. That I am a wanderer.”

  Talorc’s eyes narrowed. “May Mithra guide your steps. It is a hard fate. I would not have that on my back for all the world.”

  At that moment a horn sounded, the doors of the hall swung open, and a courier strode in. He wore the royal badge upon his cloak, a sign that he came from the High King Markion. The man strode to the dais and went down on one knee before Talorc.

  “My lord Talorc, King of Elmet, greetings from Markion at Camelot. I bring good news to all of Britain. Eight weeks ago the High Queen Essylte bore a son to Markion at Tintagel. The babe thrives and grows strong. The union of Cornwall and Wales is now complete. In token of this, King Percival of Gwynedd plans a visit at midsummer to Camelot and Cornwall. We invite you to join us, my lord, if the wars allow, and help us celebrate the union of Britain by pledging your kingdom’s support to Britain’s higher cause, and by lighting a bonfire to celebrate the birth of Britain’s heir.”

  Expressionless, Talorc nodded. “Elmet thanks Markion for such welcome news. We’ll be pleased to light the bonfire. A healthy prince is a good omen for any kingdom. As for traveling to Camelot at midsummer to join Markion’s alliance, we will take counsel first, and send our reply later. Now come, man, sit down and take refreshment. And give us the details. What’s the boy’s name? Constantine?”

  “No, my lord. The High King named him after his nephew, who won him his throne and his wife. Tristan the Younger, they call him.”

  Dinadan turned to Tristan in time to see color wash his face and drain away, leaving him paler than before. “What’s the matter, Tris?”

  Talorc frowned at them both. “My lords, what is amiss? Sir Tristan, the Queen of Cornwall has borne a son with your name. Your uncle Markion has done you a great honor.”

  “Who named him?” Tristan leaned over the table, his voice shaking. “The Queen? Lord Segward? Mark himself?”

  The courier looked blank.

  “What does it matter who named him?” Talorc wondered. “Your uncle consented to it. He honors you by it. I raise a toast in your name. Long live Tristan of Lyonesse!”

  The hall resounded with cheering. The courier was given a seat at the king’s table, and everyone plied him for news.

  “Were you at Tintagel?” Dinadan asked. “How fares the Queen?”

  “Aye, my lord, I was there for her lying-in, with all of Markion’s court. A healthy boy she had, may God be praised, born at midwinter. The image of the High King. By the time the King left for Camelot, the Queen was up and well enough to sit with us at dinner. Lovelier than ever, if you ask me. Which is saying something.”

  The men grinned and Talorc nodded. “Aye, I’ve heard of her beauty. As who has not? Markion’s a lucky man.”

  Tristan passed a hand before his eyes. The courier, having refreshed himself with wine, settled down to give them all the gossip. “The Prince of Cornwall’s not the only addition to the nursery,” he said with a sly look at Tristan. “The lady Branwen’s heavy with child as well and due to bear—probably has, by now. I’ve been gone over a fortnight.” Eyes turned to Tristan.

  He looked up. “Branwen? Branwen,
too, did you say?” His face was ghostly pale and his eyes glittered. The men smiled among themselves. “What was it? A son or a daughter?”

  The courier cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lord, I can’t tell you that. By now she must have been delivered, but when I left Tintagel she was still cursing the day she ever lay with a man.” All the men laughed heartily, except Tristan, who looked away in anguish.

  “Dinadan,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You can’t leave now. You’ll insult Talorc—this feast is in your honor. You’ll start a war if you leave before the king.”

  It was late before the men would let Tristan go. He and Dinadan, both unsteady from the liberal supply of rich, unwatered wine, stumbled arm in arm after the page to the rooms King Talorc had prepared for them. Compared to Tintagel, the king’s fortress was a primitive place, with floors of hard-packed dirt and walls of wood and wattle. But the bedchamber was hung with tapestries, strewn with straw, and lit with four triple-flamed lamps. The bed, although uncarved and plain, was huge, and richly adorned with skins and cushions. A wineskin warmed near the brazier. Silver goblets stood on a low table. Tristan went right to the wineskin, filled a goblet, and drained it.

  Dinadan turned as the chamberlain shut the heavy door. “What in God’s sweet name is the matter with you tonight? You’re drinking as heavily as Segward.”

  Weaving on his feet, Tristan met Dinadan’s eyes. “I didn’t know—she never sent me word—God, Din, I never knew she was with child.” Tristan clutched his winecup until his knuckles whitened. “How long have I been away? Six months in Dorria and Lyonesse before coming to Elmet—plenty of time to send me word. Why on earth didn’t she let me know?” Tristan hiccoughed and stared miserably into his wine. “Unless, after all, it is not mine.”

  Dinadan gripped Tristan’s shoulder. “Be easy, Tris. Of course the child is yours. Everyone in Cornwall knows it.” Tristan blanched. “But she’s a proud girl. Perhaps she didn’t want to force your hand.”

  “Force my hand? There’s nothing I could have done.”

  “Well, then, there you are. Why would she send to you? She knew, no doubt, you’d find out in time.”

  Tristan stared miserably into his winecup. “I wonder. I wonder if she’s been able to be faithful.”

  “Of course she has. She’s been in love with you since before you brought her to Cornwall.”

  Tristan flushed. “But is she still? Oh, God, Dinadan, I wake up some nights in a cold sweat, thinking of her with Mark—”

  “With Mark? Why would Mark—”

  “What if he’s not my son?”

  “Son? The child is—”

  “Didn’t you hear? The Prince of Cornwall has my name.”

  “—yet unborn . . .”

  Silence fell between them. Tristan replaced his goblet on the table with extreme care. Dinadan’s eyes widened, and his breath whistled sharply through his teeth.

  “We are not talking about Branwen?”

  Tristan shook his head.

  Dinadan stared at him unblinking. “Are we—are we talking, then, about the High Queen of Britain? Markion’s wife?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Are you telling me—” Dinadan gulped. “Are you telling me the Prince of Cornwall might be your son and not Markion’s?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Possibly. Probably.”

  Dinadan gaped, unable to speak. He grabbed the bedpost for support and sank heavily to the bed. Tristan said nothing but stood still, straight as a spear, waiting for what was coming.

  Dinadan’s eyes were full of fear. “You’ve lain with Essylte? That’s what you’re telling me? Jesu God, Tristan. You’re a dead man.” Dinadan spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I wouldn’t have believed it of you. You, of all people, to cuckold Markion.” He looked away, avoiding Tristan’s gaze and twisting his hands together. “I know you’re infatuated—that’s not hard to understand—but to betray Markion for her! You have put her own life in danger, I hope you realize. And for what? This isn’t a secret that can be kept. Markion—or Segward—is certain to find out.”

  “It isn’t infatuation.”

  Dinadan looked up, startled at the irrelevance of Tristan’s response. His friend’s face was no longer a mask, but an open window to his heart. Tears welled in Dinadan’s eyes. “Oh, God, Tristan. No. She is not your true love, the heart of your heart, the soul thrill you’ve been seeking. She can’t be. She’s your uncle’s wife. Your sovereign. To lie with her is treason.”

  Nothing changed in Tristan’s expression.

  Dinadan reached for a winecup and drained it. “How long has this been going on?” When Tristan did not answer, Dinadan rose unsteadily and faced him. “You’re going to shut me out, too? You don’t trust me to stand by you? You’ve changed, Tristan. I wouldn’t breathe a word of this to any living soul. I wouldn’t dare. You have my word. But get it through your thick head that Essylte is Markion’s wife and High Queen of Britain. She is not, and cannot ever be, your lover.”

  Tristan flushed and gripped Dinadan’s arm. “Thank you. You’re a good man, and I need you.” Then he turned and began to pace. “You’re wrong about Essylte. But how can I explain it? If you’ve never felt what it’s like to die as a single individual and be reborn, in a hail of light, as a whole person, complete, in need of nothing—if you haven’t been wholly overmastered by a woman who loves you, then I have no excuse to offer that you would understand.”

  Dinadan shook his head. “Is this your justification for betraying Markion? May God forgive you.”

  “It wasn’t preventable,” Tristan flared. “I tried everything I could think of to prevent it. To stay away. It was beyond my strength. Some things are impossible. Some things are meant to be.”

  “Meant to be.” Dinadan regarded him unhappily. “If that’s how you felt, why in God’s name did you bring her back to Cornwall? And stand by while Markion wed her?”

  “What choice did I have?” Tristan cried.

  Dinadan slung an arm around him. “All right. At least you saw that. You had no choice unless you wished to spend your life in exile. Hang on tight to your love of Lyonesse. Now, explain to me, please, how it is possible this child of Essylte’s could be yours? You’ve spent very little time with her, she’s been attended every minute, if not by Esmerée, then by Branwen. And how did you manage to get past Branwen? It struck me last spring that she had all her wits about her. No one got in to see Essylte without going through Branwen first. And you’d be the last person she’d let in alone.”

  Tristan drew a deep breath. “Wrong again, my dear friend. Branwen is part of the plan.”

  As Dinadan listened to Tristan’s full confession, a weary numbness grew around his heart. He grew less and less able to think clearly, to make sense of what he heard.

  “But you can’t know if this boy is yours,” he protested finally. “We’ve been gone almost a year. Your sweet Essylte must have lain with Markion a hundred times since then.”

  Tristan paled. “She swore she wouldn’t. But I don’t know if—it was possible to keep that vow. So you see why I must go back. Tomorrow. To find out if he is my son, or Mark’s.”

  Dinadan passed his tongue over dry lips. “What do you mean, she swore she wouldn’t? How could she avoid it?”

  “If Branwen agreed to take her place.”

  Dinadan exhaled slowly. “Jesu God! Permanently?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “How could you? Two innocent maidens—you’ve ruined them both.”

  “What if neither of them has ever lain with a man except the man who took her maidenhead? Isn’t that fidelity?”

  “But you’ve been in Branwen’s bed—it’s all over Cornwall—”

  “Yes,” Tristan said softly. “But not with Branwen.”

  It took Dinadan a moment to understand. “Dear God. Then Mark is the father of Branwen’s child?”

  “He must be.”

  Dinadan’s lassitu
de left him, and he began to pace feverishly about the room. “What if it’s a boy? Your life’s in her hands, Tristan, and so is Essylte’s, if she tells Mark the truth.”

  “That’s why I want to get back to Cornwall.”

  Dinadan nodded. “We’ll leave at first light. Talorc will let you go. My father can finish the mopping up with the men he has.” He paused. “It’s not possible this can all be true. How could Mark not know?”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Tristan’s lips. “He’s seldom there. And he’s easy to fool.”

  “Segward’s not.”

  “Like all of Cornwall, Segward thinks I pass my time in Branwen’s bed. I’m safe, so long as Branwen is my shield.”

  Dinadan shook his head. “Why, Tristan? Why do you take the risk? And you, a Christian, how do you justify it to yourself?”

  Tristan shrugged unhappily. “I don’t. I can’t. . . . Sometimes I—I want so much to die, to release her from this cursed bond between us, I put myself in the way of death, hoping it will take me.”

  “Today in the Saxon keel you did that. And nearly succeeded.”

  “Yes. Selfish, to risk all your lives as well. If I had the courage, I would take my life by my own hand. But I’m a coward.” He turned away, reaching for the wineskin. “When I am away from her, it is all I think about—death, sin, misery, damnation.”

  “And so you drink.”

  Tristan filled and drained another winecup. “When I am with her, Din, it’s as if a great cocoon is spun around us, holding us safe and close in a world of our own, in a time of our own. When we are together, nothing else matters. Nothing can touch us. It is the closest thing to Heaven I’ve ever known.”

  Dinadan gripped his arm. “Tristan, this is more than foolhardy. It’s suicidal. There must be an end to this, a way out.”

  “Besides death?”

  A scratching came at their door. Dinadan shook him lightly. “Here is something better than wine to make you forget, if only for a while. Prince Drustan said he’d send us a gift tonight. Mind your manners, now, and be polite.”