Prince of Dreams

  It was very dark. No light showed within the nursery, and the orchard was deserted. Crouching, he ran to the ancient tree and climbed up into its lower branches. The orchard remained perfectly still. Tristan settled himself to wait.

  Before long he saw the flicker of candlelight in the nursery window and heard the soft chime of women’s voices. The door opened.

  “Pay me no mind,” he heard Essylte say. “I only want a breath of solitude. There are too many people about. And the night is so fine. Go back to your bed, Brenna. I will let myself out in a bit.”

  She wore a dark cloak over her gown, and when she stepped out into the orchard she seemed to disappear. Brenna, in her nightdress, came partway out across the lawn, holding her candle high, ostensibly to light the Queen to her seat, but Tristan saw her eyes flicking all about. At length, as Essylte reached the bench, she dipped a curtsy and returned indoors. A few moments later the light went out.

  Essylte sat on the bench with her cloak wrapped around her. Tristan waited. She began to hum softly, and he saw her pale arms moving. He stared through the dark until his eyes ached and smiled to himself. She was taking down her hair. Once he thought he saw the nurse’s round face at the window, but then, after a while, nothing moved anywhere. In the still night the only sound was the sweet melody of Essylte’s soprano.

  Slowly Tristan let himself down to the ground, cupped his hands, and let fall the liquid notes of the nightingale. Essylte’s song cut short. She waited a moment, then began to hum once more. Tristan repeated the call. Still singing, she rose and began to stroll across the lawn, back and forth, in apparent aimlessness. With each traverse she came a little closer to the orchard wall. Tristan stared hard at the black square of nursery window. He saw nothing. Essylte reached the old tree as her song ended. She ducked under the boughs and found herself in Tristan’s arms.

  “Oh, Tristan!” she whispered between kisses, “how my heart has longed for you!”

  He held her tight, glorying in the feel of her body against his, in the sudden blazing of his long-dead soul. “At last,” he murmured into her unbound hair, “the pulse of life returns. Beloved, this is happiness.”

  They embraced, their lips and hands eloquent with longing. At last Essylte pushed him away. “Tristan, I must lie with you or I must leave you. This wanting cannot be endured!”

  He sat at the foot of the tree and pulled her down onto his lap. “But we must endure it. We cannot lie together. Not here. And I have sworn, not anymore.”

  She slipped her arm around his neck. “You swore it for me. But I cannot endure this abstinence. I absolve you of your oath.”

  He laid his head against her breast and drew a trembling breath. “Would that I could obey without dishonor! Nay, Essylte, let us sit quietly together and talk—about our son, about our future—and let our consciences be clean at the hour’s end.”

  “My conscience is already clean,” she whispered.

  “Last time we met you were full of recrimination.”

  “I was not burning alive with a desire so long unrequited!” she cried, half weeping. “Oh, I am as changeable as the sea! One day it is all despair, the next withering desire, the next dying by degrees of loneliness. Only in your arms can I find peace.”

  He laughed softly. “It is the same with me.” Against his head the silken fabric of her gown rose and fell with each quick, indrawn breath. He closed his eyes. He was alive again, resurrected by the warmth of a woman’s body. Here was the central truth he had sought for in heaven’s storms. To live again on the blade edge of ecstasy! His arms tightened about her. “Sing to me, sweet Essylte. Surround me with your voice. Penetrate my heart and let my spirit soar. We will live forever, joined together, in your song.”

  In the middle of the night twelve days later, a scratching came at Segward’s door. Cautiously he arose from bed, lifted the latch without a sound, and inched the door open.

  “Brenna?”

  “My lord.”

  “Keep your voice down. Have you news?”

  “Yes, my lord.” She looked behind her nervously, but the corridor was dark. “I believe they are meeting. In the nursery garden.”

  “Ahhhh.” Segward’s sigh was rich with satisfaction. “Go on. How do you know?”

  “For twelve nights now, excepting only the night of the storm, my lady has come to take the air alone. Once, Branwen came with her, but she stayed indoors. She didn’t tend the babies. I think she was watching me.”

  “More than likely. What did Essylte do?”

  “She sat on the bench beneath the apple tree. At first. And then, when the nightingale started singing, she began to pace, or sing, or walk about. Then she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yes, my lord. I dared not light a candle. I dared not go out and call her name. I could not discover where she went. But tonight—tonight I saw her.”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “There was a moon tonight, my lord. I saw them both come out from beneath the old apple tree at the bottom of the garden.”

  “Both? Give me names, woman, and be quick about it.”

  “Sir Tristan, my lord. He climbed up that stone wall as nimble as a spider. I never saw anything like it. One minute he was there, and the next, gone. And my lady was humming to herself and lacing up her bodice, bold as brass, as she came back.”

  Segward chuckled. “Very good, Brenna. Very good indeed. When did this start?”

  “Twelve nights ago, my lord. The night after the bonfire.”

  “Day after tomorrow everyone goes home. I have but one night, then.”

  He reached into his pouch and counted out three silver coins. “There. Tell no one what you have seen, or that you have spoken to me, until I give you leave to tell the King. Or I shall see you hanged for stealing.”

  She clutched the coins and hurried away. Segward laughed softly to himself and closed the door.

  Behind him in the dark, Esmerée lay on his pallet with her face against the wall. Her eyes were open.

  The final day of celebration was a day of games and contests, with horse races and footraces over the moors during the morning, and swimming races along the seashore in the afternoon. As the heats progressed, the wagering grew fast and heavy as each kingdom bet on its own young men to win the day. Tristan brought joy to Cornwall by winning the final swimming race three lengths ahead of everyone and causing more than one bystander to remark that he must be part fish to beat them all so handily.

  “Well done, Tristan.” Dinadan waded into the shallows and threw an arm around Tristan’s shoulders. “Well done indeed. You’ve beaten them all: Logris, Dorria, Dumnonia, the Summer Country, even Gwynedd. I congratulate you.”

  All along the shore the Cornish lords cheered and applauded, while the defeated swimmers sat catching their breath on the pebbled beach. Tristan stood knee-deep in the sea, bronze-skinned and naked, with water streaming from his hair. He bowed in acknowledgment of the applause and grinned at Dinadan.

  “Thank God there’s no one else. I’m about done in.”

  “You don’t look it. You look like you could race all day. They’re all gasping, and you’re not even out of breath.”

  “I’ve spent half the summer in the sea.”

  “When we left Lyonesse you were thin as a rail. You didn’t sleep. Now you’re as fit as ever. You’ve put on flesh and you’ve found your smile. And your songs are no longer all about death.”

  “Well,” Tristan said with a brief smile, “you know the reason.”

  “But you’ve hardly seen her, Markion keeps her so close.”

  Tristan bent sideways to clear water from his ears. “Haven’t I?”

  Dinadan looked at him sharply. “Have you? How? I’ve shared a room with you. What haven’t you been telling me?”

  Tristan laughed and waded toward the beach. “If I keep secrets from you, Din, it’s so you can swear in perfect honesty I’ve been in my own bed every night.”

  “I’ll be d
amned—you have seen her.”

  The crowd of onlookers began to break up as they walked out of the sea. Many of the swimmers came up to congratulate Tristan on his victory.

  “Where’s Mark?” Tristan asked Dinadan. “Has he gone in already?”

  “He left after the third heat, when he was certain of your victory. You fattened his purse for him today. No doubt he’ll reward you publicly at the feast tonight.”

  Tristan toweled himself dry and pulled on his tunic. “What a day!” He gazed westward toward the dark blue horizon. “On a day like this, I feel I could live forever.”

  “In that case,” a deep voice said behind him, “I pray you have not gone near the Queen.”

  Tristan whirled. Pernam sat on a boulder at the foot of the cliff path, his short-cropped silver hair brilliant as a jewel in the sun.

  “Uncle Pernam! Where have you been keeping yourself? I’ve hardly seen you since we rode in two weeks ago.” Tristan embraced him warmly and Pernam smiled.

  “I’ve been given a room in Tintagel, but I prefer a tent on the open moors. That place”—he nodded toward the brooding towers of the castle—“has more the feel of a prison than a fortress. It pens my spirit in. Besides,” he added, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, “I prefer the tent for more practical reasons. My brother Markion disapproves of my friends.”

  Dinadan fidgeted. “He disapproves of most things, it seems to me.”

  Pernam rose. “But not of Tristan. Not anymore. Tristan is his golden boy at the moment. He can do no wrong.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about, Uncle? If you came down to the beach for more than a greeting, now’s the time to tell me.”

  Pernam spoke in his calm, unhurried voice, collecting them both with his gaze. “Esmerée sent me. She has a message of some urgency for you, or she’d not have ventured from the castle without Segward’s leave. She wants to speak to you in person.” He paused. “I must tell you, Tristan, that my only interest in this affair is in protecting Esmerée. She has taken a risk on your account. I hold you responsible for seeing no harm comes of it.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Tristan said meekly. “I will do my best.”

  “She is in my tent. Come with me, both of you.”

  Pernam’s tent was pitched on the open moor behind the Lyonesse encampment, not far from the horse lines. A startlingly handsome youth guarded the entrance. Although he carried a polished dagger, it was clear from both his stance and his nervousness that he was no warrior. Joy flooded his face when he saw Pernam, and after bowing low and showing them all inside, he left them alone and went to tend the cooking fire.

  Esmerée rose from a cushion at their entrance.

  “Thank you, Pernam. You are too good to indulge me. Much too good.”

  Tristan noted her pale face, and instead of taking her hand, he drew her into an embrace and kissed her cheek. “Sweet Esme, don’t risk yourself for my sake. It can’t be so important it could not wait.”

  “But it is,” she said gravely, gently pushing him away. “I came as soon as Segward went to Markion. It can’t wait, Tristan. He means to have your life.”

  Dinadan started. “Who does? Markion?”

  “Why don’t we sit,” Pernam suggested, “and I’ll ask young Arthur to bring us some willow bark tea.” They obeyed, and Pernam went out to his beautiful assistant.

  Esmerée did not wait for his return but said at once to Tristan, “Segward has been spying on you through Brenna, the wet nurse. With my own ears I heard her report to him that she had seen you with Essylte in the nursery garden, an hour before midnight, every night but one for a fortnight past. Is this true?”

  “So that’s where you’ve been!” Dinadan groaned. “I should have guessed it. Sir Grayell didn’t know where on earth you’d gone.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Tristan grumbled. “Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than meddle in my affairs?”

  “But you are meddling in Markion’s affairs,” Pernam said gently, coming in with four clay cups of tea. “Had you done as you ought, none of this would have happened.”

  “I know, I know.” Tristan bowed his head and ran his hands distractedly through his hair. “But I’ve only had speech with her, Uncle, nothing more. I’ve barely touched her. We’ve met, we’ve talked. It was all so innocent, Mark himself could have watched us without blushing.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Esmerée said quietly, “because tonight he will be watching.”

  “What?” Tristan paled.

  “Segward took Brenna to Markion. What else can that mean, but that he has told the King all he knows? That you are here with us now means that Markion does not believe him. If I know Segward,” Esmerée said slowly, “he will not rest until he convinces Markion of your guilt.” She gazed into Tristan’s eyes. “And your guilt is your death.”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Knowing the time and place of your tryst, I believe he will make Markion a witness to it.”

  “Yes,” Dinadan put in quickly, “Markion believes what he sees.”

  “But how?” Tristan whispered. “Where will he be? Waiting in the garden?”

  Esmerée leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Not where you can see him. Most probably he will be in the apple tree.”

  Tristan grimaced. “It was foolish of me to think we could meet unobserved, even for private speech.”

  “It was foolish of you to meet with her at all,” Dinadan breathed. “You can’t go tonight, Tristan, you can’t. Now that you know about the trap, avoid it.”

  Tristan shook his head. “A trap that misses its prey once is still set for another day. I must try to spring the trap but catch Segward in it instead of me.”

  Esmerée agreed. “It is easily done if you and Essylte have the courage for it. Meet as you have been meeting. Change nothing. Only let him witness a meeting between two true and loyal subjects who are driven to secrecy by Segward’s devious behavior, and who have the best interests of the kingdom at heart. Discredit Segward, and you will be safe from Markion.”

  Tristan took her hands in his. “Can you get this message to Essylte?”

  “Yes. If not to Essylte, to Branwen.”

  “Good. Tell her to follow my lead. I will play her the tune to sing.”

  “I will.”

  He lifted her fingers to his lips. “Thank you, Esmerée, thank you again for the gift of life.”

  She smiled at him, unaware that her features were alive and glowing, that her heart could be read upon her face. “My lord is most welcome. I only return the gift that you gave to me.”

  When she hurried away moments later, the three men stood outside the tent and watched her go. Pernam raised his hand in blessing. “There goes the most noble heart I know.” He looked at Tristan. “You realize what will happen to her if you succeed in discrediting Segward. . . . He’ll be banished to Lyonesse, and in his fury he will beat her every night.”

  The night was dim enough. Thin clouds shrouded the waning moon and a seaborne haze hugged the cliffs, breathing damp against the castle walls and throwing haloes around the torches. Tristan landed on the soft turf with a light thud. The old apple tree looked spectral in the mist, and he hesitated for a moment, heart pounding, before he slipped beneath its branches. He knew at once Markion was already there. It wasn’t anything he could hear or see, and he dared not look up into the branches, but he had the distinct sense of being watched. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and his shoulders itched.

  “This is foolishness itself,” he murmured firmly. “I’m glad it’s almost over.”

  Soon he saw lights in the nursery windows, heard Brenna’s smug voice and Essylte’s brave one. Essylte waited on the bench until he called her down the garden with the song of the nightingale. She came directly, without subterfuge, and slipped under the branches of the tree. Tonight she wore the circlet of gold around her brow.

  “Sir Tristan.”

  “My lady Queen.” He bo
wed. “How does your son, the heir?” He made it sound like a ritual question, and he was glad to find her quick to take up the same bored tone.

  “Fine. Fine. Keridwen was a little better today. I believe her teeth are coming in. That’s what makes her so fussy.”

  “I wish I could see her more often, but Branwen advises against my going too much to the nursery. She doesn’t trust that nosy nurse. Branwen thinks that Segward pays her to gossip about us.”

  “About us? But why?”

  Tristan shrugged in annoyance. “He’s never liked me. I think he’d like to blacken my name, if he could.”

  “What a small-hearted man he is. My lord Markion never smiles when he’s about. It makes me wonder why he keeps him in his service.”

  “Oh, he’s a very clever man,” Tristan said lightly, “but he hasn’t Mark’s judgment. That’s why we must meet like this. Although we have been friends since I brought you home from Wales, Segward would like to see in it something more than friendship.”

  The frightened quaver in Essylte’s voice was real enough. “What do you mean, something more?”

  “Don’t upset yourself, I pray you,” Tristan said gently, taking her arm and seating her on the soft grass between the roots of the tree, where they had been wont to sit together. “You know the king has doubled the guards at your door and forbidden entrance even to me, so that Branwen must come out to me, through the very corridors of the castle, and endure the stares of the sentries, their winks, their sly jests”—his voice grew warm with indignation—“just to spend an hour with me in, er, talk.”