Prince of Dreams

  Tears welled in her eyes. She sank to the bed and cradled his head in her lap. “You never forced me, love. Don’t you remember that night? There was no power on earth that could have kept us apart. And if you had done your duty, I would never have known the joy of love. Nor the pleasures of the body.”

  He raised his head at the tenderness in her voice, saw the flush in her face, the brilliance of her eyes, the quick rise and fall of her gown with every indrawn breath, the firm swell of her mother’s breasts straining against the soft silk of her bodice.

  “Branny knows nothing of such pleasures. I’ve asked her. Mark’s bed is a place of labor and exertion, but not of joy. At least, not for her. All this you saved me from, that night at Guvranyl’s house. Never be ashamed of it. I am not.”

  “Oh, Essylte.”

  She gazed around the room, and a small smile formed upon her lips. “I have loathed this room from the moment I first set foot in it. It’s a chamber of births and deaths and unrequited loves. It’s filled with ghosts. When I am in it, I light all the lamps to banish the shadows.” She smiled down at Tristan and began to draw the braided laces from the bodice of her gown. “If you would do me a service, Tristan, you will banish them from my heart, as well.”

  At dawn, as she fell at last into delicious sleep, she reflected that Tristan had done what she asked of him. During all the hours of darkness she had not once thought of Mark, or Branwen, or the future. He had narrowed her focus to immediacy, to lips on flesh, to hands on skin, to the quickening friction of body against body, to the intense appreciation of each single, separate moment, full to bursting with emotion, until all ability to think was swamped in a rising sea of sensation. And she knew, as she sank toward sleep with her lips against his hair, that when they awakened and consciousness threatened to return, he would save her from it all over again.

  18 PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Tristan floated idly on the gentle swell of the sea. Above him the sky blazed with the light of midday; below him the sea’s cold caress cooled his skin, tempering the sun’s power. When he closed his eyes he saw Essylte’s image against his fire-shot lids, her beautiful body stretched pale and taut against the purples and reds of the royal bedcovers. With motherhood she had lost the last traces of her girlish shape. She was everywhere curves and firm, warm, yielding flesh between his hands. She had grown in power, too. A smile of hers could rob him of thought.

  “Tristan, don’t you think it’s time to leave? We’ve been here a week already. It’s long enough.” Dinadan sat on a boulder at the sea’s edge, letting the hot sun dry the water from his body.

  Tristan opened one eye and looked at him. “Do you miss home? Why? Who’s waiting for you?”

  Dinadan hesitated. “Actually . . .”

  At once Tristan righted himself and stood waist-deep, pushing his wet hair from his face. “There is someone? Not—what was her name? Diarca?”

  Dinadan colored. “The very same. However did you remember?”

  “She was your first. You wouldn’t tell me about it. I remember that well.”

  “You had no right to know.”

  “I was only curious. You didn’t often do things before me.”

  “You’ve made up for lost time.”

  Tristan grinned. “How prickly you are! It must be serious.”

  “Serious enough. Before we left for Elmet, my father began negotiations. I don’t expect trouble on that account. She’s been—fond of me a long time.”

  “Why, Dinadan, you never told me.” Tristan sobered and walked out of the sea. “All these months together, fighting, sharing the same tent, the same fire, the same platter, you never said a word. I had no idea.”

  Dinadan shrugged. “You’re prickly yourself sometimes, you know. Sometimes you close up, clamlike, and there’s no getting at you. Ever since Markion’s wedding, and that’s a year ago now, you’ve been fierce and temperamental. And drunk.”

  Tristan glanced away unhappily. “Why are you telling me now?”

  “For one thing, because you can hear me.” Dinadan rose and pulled on his tunic. “Whatever else she has done, Essylte has released you from your private hell. In fact,” he said, regarding his friend’s tanned body, sea water glistening on him like a shining skin, “you’ve never looked better. No more hollows under your eyes or your ribs. I’ve never seen you happier. More satisfied with life.”

  “I am alive again. I was dead, and now I am alive.”

  “Well, you’re a different man from the Saxon-killer who rode in a week ago. And you’ve started singing. The warrior is sleeping; the bard is back.”

  Tristan smiled. “Let him sleep forever. He’ll get me killed someday, with his foolish stunts.”

  Dinadan laughed and tossed him his tunic. “It was close, wasn’t it? Here. Get dressed. It’s time we got back. I won’t wake the warrior, I promise you that. But Tristan, it’s time for the lover to leave.”

  “I suppose it’s selfish of me to keep you here, when at home you might have Lady Diarca to warm your bed.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s time for you to leave Essylte alone. Do you think you can visit here forever? It’s suspicious enough we’ve stayed beyond three days. My father must be in Camelot by now, and Markion has discovered we left Elmet early. If he doesn’t guess at once where we went, Segward will. Get home to Lyonesse and safety. You’re playing with fire to stay.”

  “Let them come. I’m ready to take on any man who dares to challenge me.”

  “Markion won’t challenge you, fool. He’ll have you killed. And you know damn well he’s within his right.”

  The joy drained from Tristan’s face, and he stood, naked and defiant, at the edge of the sea. “I’m not an evil man, Dinadan. I would know if this were mortal sin by the heaviness of my spirit. But my spirit soars.”

  “You knew it well,” Dinadan replied evenly, “in Elmet.”

  “I was in darkness then. Away, far away from the light that gives me life. She is my sun, my spring, my starry night, and my brightening dawn. Oh, God, Din!” Tristan’s hands bunched into fists. “Would you send me back into that cold hell already? Would you drive that knife into my heart? It’s beyond my power to leave her.” He stilled himself with an effort and managed a smile. “Don’t be in such a hurry, my poor, lonely Dinadan. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with a woman. It’s ambrosia, it’s a bed of clouds, it’s enchantment and delight. I’ve lost the power to deny her anything. You’ll have to drag me away yourself if you want me to go.”

  Dinadan met his eyes with a worried frown. “That’s the difference between your love and mine. I’m still my own master with Diarca. She casts no spell. We’re the same together as we are apart. It’s an easy, comfortable kind of love. The kind that lasts.”

  Tristan stiffened. “What do you mean? That ours is not?”

  “Tristan, you are possessed. She owns your very spirit.”

  “And I hers.”

  “Beyond a doubt.” Dinadan’s voice grew sad. “I wish you could see—I wish there were a bone of moderation in you. Or in her. I’m afraid of where it will end.”

  “End?” Tristan forced a smile. “Why, Din, I will die before it ends.”

  Dinadan nodded abruptly and started up the path from the beach. “Exactly.”

  King Markion halted his horse at the bend in the cliff path.

  “Ho!” called the captain of his escort, raising an arm. The troop of cavalry pulled up sharply. Segward, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, kicked his horse up to Markion’s side. Before them the towers of Tintagel rose beyond the rolling turf, a dark giant squatting in the sea.

  “Krinas!” the King said to his captain. “You’ve given orders to the scouts?”

  “Yes, my lord. No one has reported your approach.”

  Markion surveyed his castle. The westering sun cast shadows across the landward cliffs, but he could see no movement anywhere. No cooking fires, no banners, no flurry at the gates, no sign that anyone knew he w
as anywhere about.

  “All right, Segward,” he said evenly, looking straight ahead and avoiding the small, bright eyes of his companion. “You’ve got what you want. A surprise it will be. Although God only knows what you expect to find.”

  “My lord.” Segward licked his lips. “I expect to find evidence of treason. There is no other explanation for their refusing to stop at Camelot. Your nephew is after your Queen.”

  Markion snorted rudely. “Hogwash.”

  “My lord will see—”

  “Damn right I will. I warn you, Segward, you are biting off more than you can chew. That business with your wife has turned your wits.”

  “I am content to face your wrath if I am wrong, my lord.”

  “As indeed you will.” Markion glanced at him, saw the fevered eagerness of his expression, and paused. “Segward, you have served me well, and I will indulge you this. But this is all. What will I tell Guvranyl when we return with no notice given? He’ll leave my service for Tristan’s. It’s where he’d rather be, anyway. In his heart he’s still Meliodas’s man.”

  Segward shook his head impatiently. “Irrelevant. He’ll stay.”

  Markion grunted. “Well, let’s get on with it, then. It means hard riding between here and the gates. Get to the rear where you won’t get run over.”

  As he spoke he put spurs to his stallion. The captain brought his arm down, and the escort thundered away in the King’s wake.

  The sentries at the causeway gate stared in shock as horsemen galloped across the headland. One lifted a horn to his lips to sound the alarm, but the other grabbed him. “Be still! It’s the King! Look!”

  “Quick! Send to Sir Guvranyl! Something must be amiss.”

  “The devil take those drunken scouts! The King in Cornwall, and no one to let us know!”

  Markion rode through the gates to smart salutes and slid from his horse as Guvranyl, breathless, ran into the yard to greet him.

  “My lord Markion!”

  Markion nodded. “Be easy, Guvranyl. You’re not to blame. We come unannounced on purpose. Tell me quick: Is my nephew here?”

  “Aye, my lord. And Sir Dinadan of Dorria.”

  “And whereabouts might I find him?”

  “Tristan?” Guvranyl, rattled, looked about as if he half expected the two knights to appear out of the stonework. “Or Dinadan?”

  “Tristan, of course. Where is he?”

  “Why, my lord, he’s with the Queen.”

  Markion drew a long breath. “Where?”

  “I—I don’t rightly know. They were—a little while ago they came in from a walk along the shore. Shall I send to find—”

  “No,” Markion snapped, pushing by him. “I’ll find him myself.”

  He strode through the castle with Guvranyl at his heels, scowling darkly, flinging open doors and curtains, his face growing more pinched and pale from one empty chamber to the next. Finally he came to the nursery. The King strode past Brenna before she had time to bend a knee, and paused at the garden door.

  Essylte sat under the apple tree, clapping her hands and laughing. Tristan frolicked on the lawn with a naked infant in his arms, raising the baby over his head, calling out, “Fly, hawk, fly!” and emitting a series of screeches from his throat. The child waved his arms and shrieked in delight, and Tristan laughed. “What a fierce little eagle you are, indeed!”

  “Tristan.”

  Essylte whirled. “Mark!”

  Tristan turned and stopped with his little eagle in midflight. “My lord King.”

  “Whose child is that you brandish about so roughly?”

  Tristan bent his knee to the ground, then rose and brought Mark the baby. “Why, my namesake, Uncle, the Prince of Cornwall. The handsomest lad in all the kingdoms. I do congratulate you. He looks just like you.”

  Markion did not take hold of the proffered baby, did not even give him a second glance. Essylte hurried to Mark’s side, making her reverence. At the sight of her he softened, slid an arm around her, and kissed her briefly.

  “Little beauty, still nursing, are you? That’s a pity. But you’re looking well.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’m sorry you had to find me here, so unready.” She straightened her gown nervously. It was stained with salt spray and muddied from her game of tag with Tristan on the beach. “I should have been prepared to greet you, but—I’m sure Sir Guvranyl told me nothing about it.”

  “No matter. He couldn’t. I didn’t let him know.” He turned to Tristan, who handed the baby to Brenna along with its swaddling clothes. “I came quietly to find out what you were up to, Tristan, passing me by in Camelot to come to my Queen.”

  Tristan looked up slowly and met his eyes. “To see your son, my lord. That’s why I came. Although your lovely Queen is well worth paying homage to in any season.” He bowed formally to Essylte.

  Markion studied him. “Paying homage, is it? All the rest of my commanders managed to follow orders and report to me before asking permission to go home.”

  “Aye, my lord, but Sir Bruenor commanded in Elmet. He gave us leave. As you are my uncle, and this young man my cousin, I considered our bond of kinship as permission. And as you are a merciful man, my liege lord, I thought you might forgive me.”

  Markion frowned. “You don’t really expect me to believe you rode all that way, in such haste, and risked insulting me, for a mewling babe? You’re not a fool. You must know he alone stands between you and my crown.”

  Essylte gasped. “But Mark, he loves the child! He would never wish him harm!”

  Both men ignored her. Tristan’s features hardened, but when he spoke his voice was soft. He met Markion’s eyes. “I have no designs upon your crown, Uncle. You must know that by now. If I had, I’d never have gone to Wales.”

  Markion scowled, at a loss to reply. Where was Segward? When would that fat peasant learn to ride a horse? It was true, all Tristan said—without Tristan, he would have no wife, no son, no dynasty. He knew it well. But he hated hearing it.

  Essylte pressed his arm and put her lips to his ear. “My lord, be easy with your nephew, I pray you. He has done us both such honor through his attentions to our son. And he has made such a difference in poor Branwen.”

  At the mention of Branwen, Markion brightened. “Well, Tristan, I mean no insult. God knows I owe you much. If you really think the child so irresistible—but in that case, why aren’t you playing with, er, Branwen’s daughter?”

  “She’s asleep,” Tristan replied evenly.

  Markion looked first at Tristan and then at Essylte. Both their faces were turned to him, hers innocent and pleading, his a mask. Markion shrugged. “Very well, then. Give us a song tonight at supper, nephew, to show there are no hard feelings.”

  “My liege lord, I would be honored.”

  Markion shrugged again, turned on his heel and left.

  When the door had closed firmly behind Markion and Brenna had withdrawn from sight, Essylte glanced quickly at Tristan. “He knows. He knows! Who told him? How could anyone suspect?”

  Tristan took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Hush, sweet, hush. He does not know. He cannot. He’s not a subtle man, Essylte. He can’t mask anger, and his anger’s gone. Be easy, now.”

  “Someone’s been talking to him, then. What shall we do? Oh, Tristan!”

  “The Snake, no doubt, has been at work. Oh, my sweet darling, how you tremble!” He slipped his arms about her and held her close.

  “Tristan, I am so afraid! Until now he has suspected nothing.”

  “From now on,” Tristan whispered, “he will always wonder. The seed of suspicion, once planted, takes root and thrives in almost any soil. And in a man past forty, with a wife of seventeen, it is certain to flourish.”

  She rested her head against his breast and closed her eyes. He pressed his lips into her hair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. A man stood in the shadows of the nursery, half hidden by the open garden door. Tristan waited, unmoving. The
figure slid slowly into the doorway until his face was in the light. Segward’s eyes met Tristan’s and locked. Tristan tightened his hold on Essylte and drew her closer. Segward’s lips thinned into a smile. With a flourish of his ringed hands, he bowed his most courtly bow and silently withdrew.

  Markion hurled a flagon of mead against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, a golden shower of liquid froth and baked clay shards. The sentry poked his head around the door.

  “Get out! God damn you, get out!” The man fled. Markion collapsed in his chair. The misery on his face aged him twenty years. “How do I know it’s true? You accuse him, but you hold a grudge against him. I won’t be the tool of your revenge.”

  “I tell you, I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”

  “Prove it to me. If it is true—if it is true, mind you—then I will punish him.”

  “How?”

  “Exile. I will send him home to Lyonesse and make him stay there.”

  Segward drew a measured breath. “The punishment for treason is death.”

  Markion snorted. “Did Arthur kill Lancelot? I will banish him to Lyonesse. He will see her no more. That should suffice.”

  Segward’s eyes narrowed in his pudgy face, and his voice sank to a snarl. “You can’t even be sure the boy she bore is yours.”

  Markion slumped, closing his eyes. After a long silence, he pushed himself up out of the chair and walked to the window. For as far as he could see, the rugged coast of Cornwall ran northward, defying the summer sea like a firm brown fist. This land, like her kings, had withstood the test of time. Born of giants, blessed by gods, guarded by the stern strength of her warriors and the wisdom of her kings, she, above all else, must be preserved. Cornwall was what mattered. But he must be sure. To act in haste might destroy what he sought to save. His fist closed around his sword hilt.

  “Prove it to me,” he said slowly, “and I’ll kill him. But give me proof.”

  Segward exhaled in a long, silent sigh. “Very well, my lord. I have a plan.”

  19 THE BOWER IN THE WOOD

  “I don’t like it,” Dinadan grumbled, packing his saddle pouch. “An outing to the Morois Wood? If he wants to hunt, why is the Queen in attendance? If he wants to picnic, why so many men? It doesn’t ring true. It’s not like Mark. He’s up to something.”