Prince of Dreams

  “Oh, no,” Tristan groaned. “Not again.”

  A servant stood at the door with two young girls, one dark, one fair, clutching their robes about them.

  “Sir Tristan, Sir Dinadan, my master Prince Drustan sends you these maidens as his gift. They are village girls, but they’ve been washed.”

  “Please,” Tristan said quickly, “thank Prince Drustan for us, but we don’t—” Dinadan elbowed him sharply as one of the girls looked up, fear in her eyes.

  “My lord,” the servant said nervously, “it is an honor for these girls to serve you. And for their families. They’ve been chosen with some care. If you reject them, they will be sent home in disgrace and never get husbands.” He took the fair girl by her thin wrist and pushed her toward Tristan. The robe slipped, revealing a small white shoulder. Head down, the girl trembled until her pale hair shivered. Tristan put a hand under her chin and lifted her head. Enormous dark eyes looked back at him in a face already familiar with suffering. Gently, Tristan drew her robe tighter around her and pulled her to his side. Dinadan breathed a sigh of relief and took the hand of the other girl. The servant smiled and bowed low. “When you are done with them, my lords, send them out. They know where to go.”

  When the door closed behind them, Dinadan shot Tristan a sharp glance. “Are you mad, Tris? You’d insult Drustan to his face? Our host and the future king of Elmet? Over a girl?”

  “No, over a pledge.” Tristan looked down at the girl held tight against his side. “What is your name?”

  “Farra, my lord,” she whispered.

  Tristan poured wine into a goblet and handed it to her. “My name is Tristan.”

  She smiled shyly. It lit her face. “My lord, I know.”

  Across the bed, Dinadan winked at him and took the dark-haired girl in his arms. Tristan tossed some cushions off the bed, piled them on the floor, and threw a wolfskin over them. He sat down on the makeshift pallet and held out his arms to the girl. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid to the floor. He pulled her onto his lap, an insubstantial weight, her body light and fragile beneath the woolen robe, all arms and legs. He guessed she could not be much past thirteen. She trembled violently. He hugged her and pressed his lips against her ear.

  “Farra, what is it I am required to do to satisfy your honor? Don’t be shy. Tell me straight out. What were your instructions?”

  She turned in his arms until she faced him. Spots of bright color appeared on her cheeks. “They said I must please you—my lord, I am sure it was understood that—” She gulped. “My lord, I must lie with you.”

  “Will they require proof?”

  Her face flamed. “I don’t know what you mean. . . .”

  He smiled briefly and touched his finger to her lips. “Of course you don’t. Forgive me, sweet child, but I cannot lie with you.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Shhh.” He indicated the bed, where Dinadan and the dark-haired girl were busy amid the blankets.

  Farra’s voice voice sank to a whisper. “But you must, my lord! I—I am not afraid!”

  “I know. You are a brave girl, Farra. But that is not the reason.” He ran a finger down the childish curve of her cheek. “I was hoping for some way to compromise. I do not wish to shame you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and her lower lip trembled. She tugged at her robe until it fell from her body and she sat naked on his lap. She slid her slender arms about his neck. “Why don’t you want me, my lord? Do I not suit your taste? Prince Drustan chose me himself.”

  Tristan groaned. “Prince Drustan has an eye for women. You are very lovely, with a shape beyond your years.” He reached out and brought her hair forward until it hung in two long, glimmering sheets over her shoulders and hid her breasts. “Do you think I don’t desire you? I want you more than I have any right to. But I am bound by a pledge.”

  “What pledge?”

  “I have promised a woman, a woman I dearly love, that I will hold faith with her, and she with me. For as long as we live, we will lie with no one else but each other.”

  “Oh!” Farra quavered, her eyes shining. “How noble! Is she highborn? Is she very beautiful?”

  “Very highborn and beautiful indeed. But this is a secret, Farra. Will you keep it for me? Her, uh, father does not favor my suit.”

  “How can he not? Everyone says you are the finest knight in all the land.”

  “I would that he thought so, too. Promise me, Farra, to keep my secret?”

  “I promise it, my lord.”

  “Now pull your robe up, little vixen, and do not tempt me from my vow.”

  “But my lord, I will be sent home in disgrace.”

  “Don’t despair. We’ll find another way to please your father.”

  The girl wriggled back into her robe. Tristan glanced up at the groaning bed. Dinadan and the girl were completely absorbed in the intensity of their exertions. Tristan pulled off the golden wristband Talorc had given him and slid it up Farra’s arm. The gems winked in the lamplight, bloodred, blue, and green. The girl gazed at it in wonder. Never in her young life had she seen such wealth so near.

  “It’s yours,” Tristan whispered, amused by the expression on her face. “You deserve it for your service to me this night.”

  “But my lord, I have done nothing for you tonight!”

  “Shhh. That is not so. You have done all I wanted. What lord could ask for more? Take this home to your father and show it to him. He will not doubt its source. Half of Elmet saw King Talorc take it off his wrist and give it to me. Your father will need no other proof.” He smiled at her disbelief. “Who will believe I would give you such a gift, except in exchange for pleasure? Say nothing, and let them draw their own conclusions.”

  “My lord,” she whispered, clutching the wristband, “you are a noble prince. I don’t have to earn it? I don’t have to”—she gestured toward the bed and wrinkled her nose—“do that?”

  Tristan laughed lightly. “Indeed, you do not. Now hush, and lie down here with me and shut your eyes. We, too, will fall asleep. No one will know what we have not done.”

  Happily, she snuggled against him. “Oh, my lord,” she breathed into his ear, “I shall have such sweet dreams.”

  “Yes,” Tristan whispered. “And so shall I.”

  17 TINTAGEL

  It was easy going cross-country. Although they often skirted Saxon lands, they met no one who challenged them. Past the Giants’ Dance they ran into two of Markion’s scouts and learned that the King was still at Camelot and expected to remain there until King Percival’s arrival at midsummer. Well east of Camelot they turned south, and by the middle of May they stood on the Tintagel headland, looking at the dark stone fortress silhouetted against the sun-bright sea.

  “Well,” said Dinadan. “There it is.”

  Tristan stroked his chin. “I must be shaved before she sees me. I’ve been a year away at war—she won’t know me with this beard.”

  Dinadan laughed. “Oh, aye, isn’t that like a woman? Not to know a man but by his chin?”

  Tristan managed a smile. “Go ahead, have your sport. I’ll be shaved anyway. Guvranyl’s a man who loves a razor. I’ll borrow his servant for an hour and have my hair trimmed, too.”

  They turned their horses down the slope and galloped to the causeway. The guards recognized Tristan and saluted smartly, calling out congratulations. Guvranyl himself greeted them in the forecourt.

  “Tristan! Dinadan! My scouts sent word you were on the road. I hear you did old Talorc a better turn than he expected, and rid his land of all his enemies at once. That’s my boy! Come on in and tell me all about it. How was it in Elmet?”

  Tristan saluted his old arms master, then hugged him. “Touch and go, Guv. A risky business. I should have let the Saxons have Elmet. It’s cold as a witch’s tit up north. Thank God I’m back in Cornwall, where the land is green and the wind soft.”

  “Then it’s just as well you returned in springtime. The winter was a hard one.??
?

  Tristan glanced anxiously at his face. “Is all not well, then? Who’s fallen ill?”

  “Not to worry. The Queen and all her ladies are fine. Some of the men had fevers. Too much food and wine, if you ask me, and not enough hard living. Segward was abed six weeks. So ill his lady wife came north to tend him. Nothing but soft flesh, that man. Why Mark loves him, I’ll never understand. He’s recovered now—but you’ll know that; you’ll have seen him at Camelot.”

  “Er, we didn’t stop at Camelot.” Tristan was busy adjusting his swordbelt, and spoke casually. “We thought Mark might be here, with his wife and heir, and didn’t hear differently until we were well into Cornwall.”

  Guvranyl chuckled. “You never were a liar, Tristan, God be thanked. Don’t bother to try to fool me. I know well why you’ve come back.”

  Tristan looked up sharply. “You do?”

  “Certainly. But it’s not my place to give you the news you came to hear. Get yourself a wash and a shave, and I’ll send to the Queen.” Tristan froze. “She can tell you all about it herself.”

  He turned and led the way into the castle as Dinadan came up and took Tristan’s arm.

  “Don’t panic, ass,” he whispered. “He’s talking about Branwen.”

  Tristan exhaled in relief. “My conscience is quicker than my wits. He must think I came to learn about Branwen’s child.”

  “Well, didn’t you?”

  Tristan stood nervously in the great hall, waiting with Dinadan and Guvranyl for the coming of the Queen. Long shafts of light fell slanting through the tall, unshuttered windows, illuminating in sharply defined rectangles the cracked mosaics on the floor. A young spider swung on a slender thread into the sunlight and stopped in his descent, basking in the heat. Outside, the cries of wheeling seabirds pierced the silence like the mewling of a human babe.

  At last they heard her footsteps. The sentries snapped to attention, flattening themselves against the doorpost as the Queen swept by. She wore a spring-green gown trimmed in gold. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tightly braided and bound in a golden net. Her ears, throat, and wrists were adorned with jewels, and around her brow she wore a thin circlet of beaten gold. She walked with a measured step, holding herself straight and tall. Three of her women attended her, all wearing the unbound hair of maidens. They were only a year or two younger, but next to the Queen they looked like children.

  Coolly detached, she stood before Tristan and Dinadan while they made their reverences and watched them without expression. Behind her, her girls peeked around her skirts, eyeing the two knights and smiling shyly.

  “My lady Queen,” Guvranyl began. “Your husband’s nephew Tristan of Lyonesse and Dinadan of Dorria are just returned from their travels to Elmet, where they have put down a great rebellion among the Anglii there.”

  “And among the Saxons, too, I understand. My lords, I congratulate you on your brave exploits.” Her voice was formal, cold and correct.

  Tristan found himself tongue-tied, unable to frame the words he knew he ought to speak. Could this be his fiery Essylte, this cool queen who looked at him with a stranger’s eyes? What had happened in a year’s time to take the passion from her?

  After a moment’s hesitation, Dinadan stepped forward. “My lady Queen, it is we who have come to congratulate you, on the birth of your son and the Kingdom’s heir.”

  A light flush spread across her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I didn’t know—” Tristan whispered, and stopped.

  She met his eyes at last. “My lord king is a superstitious man. He wanted no one told until the prince was born and pronounced healthy and likely to live.”

  Dinadan nodded. “Of course, of course. Not an uncommon practice. And—is the child still healthy? May we see him?”

  Something flashed in the blue-green eyes, something that set Tristan’s heart beating painfully, but her answer was still cool. “Indeed, I should be happy to show him off.” She paused. “There is another child in the nursery besides my own, Sir Tristan.”

  Dinadan nudged Tristan sharply. Tristan cleared his throat. “Er, my lady, I beg your pardon. . . . We have traveled so far and so fast to see for ourselves. . . . How does Branwen? Had she a son or a daughter?”

  Guvranyl smiled. Essylte’s features softened. Tristan received the distinct impression that he had at last said the right thing. “She had a daughter, my lord. Three weeks ago. After you have seen the child, I will take you to see the mother.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I see she does not attend you. Is she ill?”

  Essylte smiled briefly and her three attendants exchanged knowing looks. Tristan realized with a rush of relief that all of it was pretense, her coldness, her distance, her disinterested speech, this meaningless conversation. It was all pretense for the sake of Guvranyl and the girls.

  “She does not feel as she ought, and keeps to her chamber a good deal. The midwife says there is nothing wrong. I thought perhaps a visit from you might do her good.”

  “I should be delighted. But first—first I should like to visit the nursery.”

  Guvranyl smiled and nodded his approval. Essylte turned to him. “I will take them there myself, Sir Guvranyl, if you do not need them?”

  “No, no, go right ahead, my lady. It’s what they came for.”

  Essylte led the way through the corridors, Tristan and Dinadan following at a respectful distance, and her three maids behind them. At the nursery door she dismissed the girls, who curtsied prettily with smiles and blushes for the two knights, and hurried away giggling among themselves.

  “Half-wits!” Essylte hissed under her breath, then pushed open the door.

  The nursery rooms opened onto a walled garden, with a fine lawn between old apple trees, and roses climbing rampant over the nursery door. Tristan was flooded by a wave of memories. He had been a child here once, had played on this very lawn with Gerontius. He had stayed here whenever his father had come north from Lyonesse. He had never stopped to wonder, until now, why Meliodas did not leave him at Lyon’s Head. Perhaps, with his beloved wife dead, he had been reluctant to part with the child who was her pledge of love to him. Tristan turned slowly. He remembered these walls, this very woven hanging depicting ships upon the sea. There in the corner stood the old chest full of knights and horses carved of wood. The battles he and Gerontius had waged! He remembered round, full-breasted Gurna, who had tended them, healed their hurts, listened to their woes, fed them, clothed them, and rocked them to sleep upon her bosom, crooning in her gravelly voice. He remembered Gerontius’s bony arm clutching him in the bed they shared, spilling his awful childhood secret—he had wished Gurna was his mother, instead of the sad and distant Elisane.

  Here was another Gurna, kind-faced and placid, who handed a swaddled bundle into the waiting arms of his beautiful Essylte. Tristan was transfixed by the change that came over her as she took her child in her arms. Her cold demeanor melted before his very eyes. A solemn, quiet joy diffused her features as a tiny hand clutched her finger. She seemed to glow, alight with wonder and happiness.

  “So this,” Dinadan said softly, “is your son Tristan. What a handsome babe he is. Tris, come look.”

  Tristan looked down at full, pink cheeks, mud-colored eyes, a tuft of dark hair, and a red, toothless mouth gaping like a wound. The baby had eyes only for Essylte. He would not be distracted, but looked up at her adoringly, openmouthed, emitting urgent noises from his throat. Essylte smiled down at him in delight, but Tristan frowned. Something must be wrong. He felt nothing, looking at the child, not a twinge of tenderness or recognition. Was he Mark’s son after all? Mother and child seemed to share a means of communication that was denied him. They were in a world he could not enter without a key.

  “Come,” Essylte said softly. “He is hungry.” She walked out into the sunlit garden and beckoned them to follow. “Wait here, Brenna,” she said to the nurse. “They will want to see Keridwen next.”

  Essylte seated her
self on a bench beneath a budding apple tree in a pool of dappled sunlight, undid the laces of her bodice, and put the baby to her breast. She looked up to find Tristan watching.

  “Come,” she whispered, smiling. “Sit here beside me, and look.”

  Nervously, he sat down at her side and looked over her shoulder at the smooth curve of her breast, the baby’s rounded cheek, the full eyelids closed in ecstasy, the thin seal of milk at the corners of the busily sucking mouth, the tiny fist held motionless in the air. A sudden wrenching deep inside him forced out a sigh.

  “How I envy him!”

  Essylte turned and smiled. “He takes after his father.”

  His chest tightened until he could not breath. “He looks like Mark.”

  “No, no,” she breathed, “he looks like you.”

  Tristan bowed his head. He found he was trembling uncontrollably. She leaned gently against his shoulder and his arm slipped around her waist. Only Dinadan was near enough to see them, and he had found something interesting to examine in the grass.

  Tristan looked up to find his son regarding him, lazily content, his mother’s nipple resting in the corner of his mouth. The little hand waved. Tristan put forward a tentative finger; the baby grabbed it and pulled it toward his mouth. Tristan laughed. “What a strong little fellow!”

  Essylte smiled and lifted the baby to her shoulder. “Like his father.”

  Tristan gazed at the child, who would not let go of his finger. “Essylte—I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I didn’t know. . . .”

  “It’s just as well you weren’t here.”

  “Was it hard for you? The birth?”

  She was silent a little while, patting the baby on his back. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It took a long time. I’m glad you weren’t here. You’d have given us away.”

  He nodded, running his hand over the baby’s oval head, the firm skull, the thin, silky hair. “More than likely.”