“You always think he’s up to something,” Tristan replied, checking his stallion’s girth. “What could he be up to? Maybe he just wants a chance to escape the castle. And Segward.” He grinned. “Now, if Segward were along, I might agree with you. Everyone knows riding is no pleasure to him. But he stays, so be easy, Din. Mark’s nothing without him. And it’s a beautiful day to be out in the open air, with the sky above alive with birdsong, the meadow grasses thick beneath our feet, the forest in full leaf—perhaps even Markion is moved by the richness of life and wants to be part of it.”
“I’ll believe that when he takes up a harp and sings. No, Tristan, there’s something in the wind besides birdsong.”
“Well, friend, let it be. Essylte is coming, that’s all that matters to me. Between her and nature’s glory—what a beautiful day it will be!”
Branwen put the last pin in Essylte’s hair and fastened golden netting around the braiding. She glanced quickly at the Queen’s bed. Only one head had left an imprint on the pillow, only one side of the coverlet had been disturbed.
“Tristan’s been shy of you lately, I see,” she murmured. “That’s wise.”
Essylte lowered her eyes. “Mark has him watched. If he stirs from Dinadan’s side, he is followed.”
“You see him only in the nursery, then?”
Essylte smiled bitterly. “I see him everywhere. No restraints are put upon our meeting. I think they are trying to catch us out.” Her smile softened. “It’s best in the nursery. He holds Keridwen while I nurse Young Tristan. We can say what we will there.” She took Branwen’s hand. “Don’t look like that, Branny. Tristan truly loves her. She’s a sweet little thing. And growing stronger.”
Branwen regarded her a moment in silence. “Wait here,” she said, and disappeared behind the curtain. When she returned, she held a small silver flask. “Now listen, Essylte, and do as I say. You are right to be suspicious. Segward is trying to catch you out. And this frolic of today, which is so unlike Mark, may be nothing but a trick.”
Essylte’s smiled died. “How?”
“I don’t know exactly what is planned, but I can guess. Now listen closely. If ever they leave you and Tristan alone together, drink one swallow of this potion. One swallow, no more. For the sake of your son.”
“What is in it?”
“An herb that will keep you safe. If you do as I say, you will be protected, and no harm will come to either you or Tristan.”
Essylte’s fingers closed around the flask. “I will obey you, Branny. Thank you. And I will be on my guard.”
“No, no, be yourself. Let Mark see no difference in your manner. With this drug you are safe from him, so be easy and lighthearted. Let him see you suspect nothing.” She paused. “Whatever he has planned, it is Lord Segward who did the planning. Do not be shy of Mark. And tell Tristan nothing of it.”
“Why not?”
“His manner to Mark must also be unchanged, and he is not so—practiced in deceit.”
Coloring brightly, Essylte turned away. “I don’t like keeping secrets from Tristan.”
“You have learned to keep so many secrets,” Branwen said evenly, “and all for his sake. You can keep one more.”
Markion and his company of chosen companions cantered across the flowering moor and over the rolling hills to the dark Morois Wood. The edges of Morois, Markion explained to Essylte as they rode along at a comfortable pace, afforded the best hunting in all of Cornwall, but the depths of the forest were to be avoided. Time out of mind, the heart of the forest had been held sacred by village folk, the haunt of gods and the spirits of departed souls. No one had ever gone deep into the forest and returned.
“Does no one live there?” Essylte asked. “In Wales, the wild lands are full of holy men.”
“It’s rumored that Morois hides a hermit,” Mark conceded. “But no one’s ever seen him. He’s likely a phantom, like all the others.”
When they reached the forest outskirts the path narrowed and they rode in silence, single file, deeper into the woods, where cool shade fell around them like a cloak. Narrow shafts of sunlight pierced the interwoven branches overhead, making a dappled mosaic of the forest floor. From everywhere around them rose the voices of a thousand birds, accompanied by the furtive rustling of small creatures scuttling to safety underfoot. Alive to every woodland scent and melody, Tristan began a song in praise of the magnificent Creator, who, with a stroke of His hand, brought forth such wonderful bounty from the rich brown earth, from the cool glades, the bright meadows, the shimmering sea, and from the wombs of women. His clear voice floated through the shadows to the treetops, enveloping the entire forest in his joy.
Mark turned in the saddle and saw tears glinting in Essylte’s eyes. He looked away quickly, his heart growing heavy. But a vow was a vow, and doubt was something he could not live with. They reached a sunny clearing and he pulled up. “Krinas.”
“Here, my lord.”
“We take this trail north and east into the deer thickets. Are the men ready with their bows? Quivers full?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll be very much surprised if an afternoon’s hard hunting won’t get us a buck or two. My lady Essylte.” He beckoned her to ride closer. “I will leave you here. I imagine you must be weary, with so much exercise after a long winter of staying in. Will you give us leave to part with you, that we may bring you back the makings of a feast? You’re in no danger, my dear. We’re a stone’s throw from the moors.”
Essylte bowed politely. “Of course, my lord. I shall not be sorry to stop and rest a while. And I am not afraid of the forest.”
“I’ll leave you guarded, of course—”
“Sir Dinadan,” Essylte proposed quickly. “I beg you, my lord, leave him with me. He is a friend to me and we might pass the time in cheerful conversation.”
Markion forced a laugh. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll leave you guarded by the finest swordsman in all Cornwall, the noblest warrior in my kingdom, a knight of the blood royal whom no one will dare attack.”
“No,” Essylte whispered breathlessly, but Markion went on loudly in an enthusiastic voice.
“My own kin, no less. My royal nephew, Tristan of Lyonesse. Tristan, attend me.”
Tristan rode near and saluted. “My lord King.”
“We have lately had words, sir, that I am ashamed of. I would show you now in what high esteem I hold you. I leave you to guard the Queen while we are hunting. Find someplace out of the sun and bid her rest until we return.”
Stone-faced, Tristan met his eyes. “Whatever my lord wills. But I assure you, Uncle, you have nothing to prove to me.”
“Well, well, I’m glad to hear it. Come, lads, let’s be off.”
“May Dinadan stay with us?” Tristan asked quickly as Markion moved to go.
“Oh, no. He comes with me. He’s too fine a shot to leave behind.” With that, the King cantered out of the clearing with all his men in his wake.
Their hoofbeats had hardly faded when Essylte turned to Tristan. “Love, I fear him! He means us harm. He’ll have us watched, for certain. Branny warned me of it. Take me back to Tintagel. Now.”
Tristan dismounted and came to her side. “I cannot disobey his direct order. Not unless you are ill. Come, Essylte, don’t shake so. We are in no danger except from ourselves.”
She laughed miserably and slipped from her horse into his arms. “Except from ourselves. Oh, Tristan.” She held him and rested her head against his shoulder. Her voice sank to a whisper. “Beloved, you have been so long from my bed. . . .”
“Don’t,” he said gently. “Not now. You know my heart, Essylte. It is only fear for your safety that has kept me away.”
She looked up at him with burning eyes, her body warm and alive in his hands. “We have so little time,” she breathed.
He let go of her and stepped back. “I’ll hobble the horses and leave them in the clearing, where they can graze. Then I will obey my uncle’
s orders and find you a shady place to rest. Are you hungry?” he asked, unstrapping his horse’s girth. “I’m famished. I’ll bring along my pack. I wish Dinadan had left me his wineskin. All I have with me is water.”
“I prefer water.”
Tristan hung the bridles on a low branch and slung the saddle pack over his shoulder. “Then we shall be content enough.” He reached out and took her hand. “Come with me. I know a place not far from here where we can sit and eat and talk.”
She gazed around at the thick undergrowth. “We won’t get lost?”
He grinned. “And be eaten by wicked hermits? Don’t be afraid. I know this part of the forest like the back of my hand. I used to hide out here to escape Guvranyl and his endless exercises when I wanted to make a song.” He nodded to a narrow opening in the bushes. “It’s up this deer trod a ways. A pretty place to sit in comfort. A bower in the wood. Come on.”
Tristan tugged gently at her hand and she followed. After a hundred paces they reached a stand of pines, where the forest opened up and a soft carpet of needles hushed their steps. Beyond the pines the land rose gently and then fell gradually away. In a shallow valley a brook ran noisily through a sun-flecked glade. Tristan stopped and pointed. At the edge of the glade a standing stone, man height, stood in dark silhouette against the summer leaves.
“Oh!” Essylte gasped. “Whose is it?”
Tristan shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing which god it belongs to. The inscription has long been worn away. All you can see are a few hatch marks. The local people say they are the marks of giants. The giants who made Cornwall.”
Essylte’s eyes grew wide. “Do you believe this, Tristan? You are a Christian. Surely you don’t believe the world was made by giants.”
Tristan smiled. “Before the one God there were many gods, and before them, who knows? Folk memories go a long way back. Who’s to say God never took another form to inspire men’s awe?” He paused. “Whatever the truth of the stone, I’ve always felt this valley to be a safe, protected place. Come. We’re almost there.”
Off the deer trod the land dipped slightly, forming a little hollow. Three hazel trees grew close together, with climbing ivy entwined so thickly among their branches that the boughs hung low, shading the hollow.
“Here we are.” Tristan led her inside the bower. “Long ago I pulled out all the rocks and stumps. The bedding of leaves and needles is ten years thick and softer than your bed at Tintagel.” He smiled quickly. “As I have reason to know.”
Tristan spread a cloth upon the ground, and Essylte sank gratefully onto the sweet-scented cushion of leaves and bracken. From where she sat she could see the glade and the standing stone and could hear the brook. But she was nearly invisible to anyone beyond ten paces from the bower. She looked up nervously at Tristan.
“This is a perfect place for a tryst.”
“Isn’t it?” Tristan bent over the saddle pack. “It’s too bad I didn’t know any girls back when I used to—” He turned suddenly and saw her face. “Essylte. I promise you. I promise you I will not.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bowed her head. “Oh, God, it’s laughable! You will not, and I want nothing more. I am alive only in your arms. How unbearable it has all become!”
He unbuckled his swordbelt and, drawing the blade, laid it down on the ground between them. “Let this be as a wall between us. We may speak across it, but nothing more. Our lives depend upon it, Essylte.”
She nodded quickly and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. He handed her the waterskin and lifted from her saddle pack a linen cloth tied with ribbon and a silver flask.
“What’s this?”
“Meal cakes and raisins, and a honey drink Branwen made me.” She avoided his eyes and tucked the flask away out of his sight. “But I am not hungry.”
“Well, I am.” Tristan sat down beside the sword with his own ration of jerky, olives, and bread and began to eat. “I have been wanting to talk to you, Essylte, about our future. Now that we have a son. I never thought about it before, but I see things differently now that I’m a father.”
Essylte sat very still. “What do you see, Tristan?”
“I want my son to grow up in Lyonesse.”
She paled. “And how can that be, without betraying our secret?”
“Perhaps Mark can be brought around.”
“You misjudge him if you think so. He has only one thought in his head, and that is his dynasty.”
“Sooner or later Branwen will bear him a son. And then she’ll tell him the truth.”
Essylte crossed herself quickly. “If she does, he will kill us all. He will kill her first.”
Tristan shook his head. “Perhaps not. Perhaps once he has a son of his own on whom to found his dynasty, he will let you and young Tristan go. Lyonesse is the boy’s birthright. Not Tintagel. Not Camelot.”
Essylte began to tremble. “He thinks he has a son of his own now! Tristan, only your dreams father these beliefs. You do not know Mark—don’t you remember that morning in Guvranyl’s house? You knew him well enough then! Never tell him. You can’t believe he would countenance such deception. He would never accept as heir a bastard boy, born of a bastard serving maid—” She shuddered. “If he ever knew that all this time he has lain with her instead of me, he could not forget it or forgive it.”
Tristan reached out a hand over the sword, but she shrank from his touch. “Essylte, I want to make you mine in the eyes of God. I want our union to be a formal one, and our son acknowledged. You deserve no less from me. I want to do you honor. I’m so damned tired of skulking around behind my uncle’s back. It’s demeaning.”
Her head whipped up. “You’re tired!” she cried. “You’re demeaned! Why, you’ve only been to Tintagel once since I was married! I’m the one who must begin and end each day with a barefaced lie. I’m the one who’s left here in this cold prison to rejoice at his departure and grit my teeth at his return, and scheme how to betray the High King’s bed. O God, grant me patience! How do you dare consider yourself demeaned for a few small hours spent conniving against your uncle? It is my life! Do you hear me, Tristan? It is my life.” She turned away and covered her face with her hands.
“Essylte, I—”
“Do you know what he did to me three nights ago? He burst in upon me in my chamber. It was the evening of his return, after he had found us in the nursery. He demanded to know what there was between us. He asked me outright—outright, with my hand upon the Book of God—if I had ever been your lover.”
“Christ!” Tristan was ashen. “Why did you not tell me? What did you say?”
Essylte struggled hard to still her tears. When at last she spoke, her voice was low. “I told him that no man had ever had me except he who had my maidenhead. Then I—I asked him if he did not remember that night, for I remembered it well.”
Tristan exhaled slowly and shut his eyes.
“Do you see the woman I have become? With my lips I told him truth,” Essylte went on, “but God knows that in my heart I lied. I shamed him, Tristan. He knelt on the floor before me and begged my forgiveness. He promised me that he should make it all up to me when the baby is weaned. I—I was ashamed.” Her voice grew bitter. “He would not forgive us, Tristan. He will never forgive us, once he knows. I thank God he is so seldom at Tintagel, and that Branny conceived when I did. We must be careful about that. Every day that passes we must plan how to deceive him. He is back before his time, and now we are unready. Every day he begs me to quit nursing, that he may come to my bed. But Branny’s not well enough yet to take my place, so I must stall him a little longer. But this is certain—by the time my father comes to visit, Branny must be ready. Mark has ordered me to find a wet nurse.”
Tristan reached out a hand across the sword but then withdrew it. He could find no words to say.
Essylte wiped tears from her eyes. “Thank God he finds childbearing repugnant, and everything it entails: milky breasts, swaddling clothes, babi
es’ cries. Blood on a battlefield may be no more than a day’s work to him, but blood in a woman’s bed is more than he can bear.”
Tristan swallowed. “Essylte, I’m so—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry!” she snapped. “I’m not sorry. It’s the way it has to be.”
“But it’s my fault it’s the way it has to be. I am sorry about that.”
“Oh, Tristan.” She cast him a sad smile. “What could we have done to prevent it? I have asked myself this a thousand times. It’s pointless to go back. Let us look only toward the future. I do not care if my life is a short one, so long as I can see you from time to time. You give me such joy—I love you so dearly—let me hold you in my arms from dusk to dawning, and I am content to suffer our separation. Until the next time.”
“But it drives me mad! You were meant for something better. Let me take you and our son to Lyonesse. Let Mark do what he wills against us.”
“No. Please, Tristan, if you love me, let things go on as they are. Don’t talk again about Lyonesse. As you value the baby’s life.” Her fingers gripped the silver flask. “Promise me. Promise me, Tristan, you will not tell Mark.”
He knelt down next to the sword and kissed the blade. “I promise, Essylte.”
With a sigh, she lifted the flask to her lips and swallowed.
“What is that you drink?”
She smiled wearily. “Only a potion Branny made me. To keep me safe from you.”
Tristan rose as she settled herself for rest on her side of the sword. He leaned against the trunk of a hazel tree and peered out at the sunlit glade. When he turned back she was asleep. A bright tendril of hair had escaped her net to frame her face. Dark lashes brushed the high curve of her cheek. She wore the same look of innocence he had seen on the baby’s face only that morning.
He swung away and glared out at the quiet forest. He must do right by her, whatever the cost. Either Mark must know the truth and set her free, or he himself must leave her. And he had promised her he would not tell Mark.