Prince of Dreams

  Essylte shook her head impatiently. It was the Christian in him that made him so gloomy, so conscious of sin. Christ, like Mithra, was a man’s god, with a man’s understanding of the world. But the Power she had met on that Druid hilltop was a different sort of Power altogether. As ancient and fundamental as the earth itself, it spoke to her in a language she understood, a mother tongue of mysteries profound. It had claimed her soul on that sacred hill in the white moonlight, and it protected her still. The Goddess—if one could use such a term for a Presence undivided into gender, a spirit both male and female, both spear and vessel, both driving force and receiving joy—the Divine, the wellspring of holiness, had been there on the hilltop with them, sweetening their union with a silver shower of moonlight kisses, inflaming their desire with the heat of the earth itself. That Spirit had entered her body with Tristan. It had kissed her with Tristan’s lips, touched her with Tristan’s hands; it had driven them, whipped them to urgent frenzy, to fierce rejoicing. It had cried out in ecstasy with Tristan’s voice, and as the stars exhaled, it had slept pillowed on her breast with Tristan’s dark head. There on the bright hill, with the warm earth below them and the starlit sky above, the Spirit of the Mother had blessed their union and breathed the breath of life into Tristan’s seed.

  Essylte’s hands met instinctively over her flat belly in a protective gesture. She had not told Tristan. This was her secret, shared only with the Mother, a blessed gift, a warm nugget of joy she cradled with a fierce, possessive love. It gave her the secret strength to laugh when Tristan frowned, to see the sun behind the clouds, to regard each morning as blessed renewal and the coming of night as a lovers’ celebration, full of mystery and delight.

  She had not told Tristan because she did not want to lose this magic. She did not want to return to Tintagel and part from him again. She did not want to hear any more oaths. Tristan, worried about the coming of winter, wanted to be out of Morois before the first snows fell. He waited daily to hear that she had conceived and his duty was done. She shuddered. He would do what it took to protect her, even if it meant sending her back to Mark. But the thought of Tintagel and its cold, encasing walls terrified her after the freedom of the forest. She wanted never to go back.

  Wind stirred the treetops, and a shower of leaves drifted down across her path. There was a definite chill in the air, and now the nights were growing cold. When the wolves came down from the heights she and Tristan would need a bonfire to keep them off—and the smoke from a bonfire could be seen for leagues. Essylte looked around at the forest about her. Half the hardwoods still bore their leaves, and the sky was more blue than gray. Surely winter was at least a month away. On the thought, the treetops rustled and swayed, and a gust of cold air touched her cheek. The sky was darkening swiftly. Up ahead, Tristan stopped and cocked his head to listen.

  “What do you hear?” she called, running to catch up.

  “Rain.” He sounded edgy. “In the west. Coming this way.”

  As hard as she tried, she could hear nothing. “Nonsense. It’s a beautiful day.”

  He jerked his head down the path. “This trail was made by men. I’m going to follow it over that ridge. Perhaps there’s a farm or a village on the other side.”

  “A village! Then we ought to go the other way.”

  He gazed at her darkly. “Essylte, you need food and rest. You ought to see your face. No one would know you. This is the heart of Morois. If anyone is there, they won’t have heard about us. No one comes this deep into the wood. Not alone.”

  “Perhaps only Druids live here, or Faerie folk, or giants! Oh, Tristan, let’s go another way!”

  “I’m going to find out. Listen—do you hear? That’s thunder. We were lucky with the last storm, we found an empty cavern. But I don’t want you spending a night out in the wet, not as thin as you are.”

  “Oh, I see,” she returned bitterly. “Now that my curves are gone, you have no more use for me. When my breasts were full of milk you were attentive enough, but now—”

  He stopped her with his lips upon her mouth and drew her so roughly to him that she could not breathe. “Such nonsense!” he whispered. “Such foolish prattle.” He kissed her again and held her head against his breast. “You can’t seriously doubt me, Essylte. I have never given you cause. If you die, I will die with you. This I swear. But I want you to live. You are not as strong as you think you are. I want a decent shelter from this storm, that’s all. Will you condemn me for wanting as little as that?”

  She blinked away tears and looked up at him. “I’m stronger than you think. I’ll never die while you live.”

  His hand caressed her cheek and lifted her chin. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, no. Nothing at all is wrong. I am happier than I have ever been.” Hope lit his face, and she pushed him gently away. “Go ahead, look for your shelter. Don’t worry. I’ll follow you faithfully.”

  He pointed up the path. “An hour’s walk, I wager, to the ridge. We’ll climb a tree and look for firesmoke. But it may rain before then. You’d best put on your cloak.”

  Long before the hour was up the swift-flying storm came upon them, broke the heavens open with thunder and blinding fire, and drenched them to the skin.

  24 THE HERMIT

  Cold, slanting rain drove them down from the ridge into a hollow dell. There, a low hut hunched among the pines like a wounded animal trying to escape notice. Huddled against the trees, well off the path, it looked an odd-shaped shadow in the blowing dark. Tristan drew his sword, but he knew before he entered it was empty. It had the feel of solitude.

  “Come on in, Essylte. It’s safe.” Her hand was freezing, and her whole body shook with wet and cold. Inside it was so dark they could see nothing. His foot touched a stone. He dropped to his knees and explored the dirt floor with his hands. There was a ring of stones in the center, hearthstones, almost certainly. Overhead rain dripped through a hole cut in the thatch to let out firesmoke. He searched eagerly beside the stone and found flint and tinder, and nearby a basket of kindling.

  While he bent over the flint he whispered a prayer of thanks, to Christ, to Mithra, to the Great Mother, especially to the Mother, who seemed to have taken Essylte under Her wing. Even from where he knelt he could feel Essylte’s shivering, the cold that pierced her to the bone. In the past month they had grown so close, he seemed to have entered beneath her skin to share each of her sensations. He thought what she thought, felt what she felt, dreamed what she dreamed. Their physical union was not that of two separate bodies meeting, but of two seeking halves of one self, one hope, one dream, one flesh, complete only in the sweet, fierce mystery of joining. She was his breath of life, the melody of his harper’s song, the flashing blade of his warrior’s spirit: his soul. He could no more part from her than he could leave his bones behind.

  A spark struck, the tinder caught, a wisp of flame curled upward and blossomed into fire. He added kindling and watched as the flames sucked and sighed, snatched at the dry sticks, and settled down to burn. He rose and looked around.

  They stood in a circular dwelling with a domed roof of thatch, built in the beehive, pre-Roman pattern of Druid days. There were no windows and only one door, low and curved, made for a smaller man than Tristan. The hut was scrupulously tidy. A bed of bracken and straw lay snug against the wall, covered in skins, with an old wool blanket folded carefully at its foot. Near the hearth he saw a short, three-legged stool, a cooking pot, and a tripod. An odd assortment of wooden bowls, spoons, and cups were neatly stacked on a low shelf beside crude clay oil jars stoppered with rags. An ax hung in its sling behind the door, its edge bright with use. Underneath it was a small locked chest.

  “Whoever lives here left without his ax,” Essylte observed, her teeth chattering. “Whose place could this be? It’s not a woodcutter’s cottage.”

  “Of a certainty,” Tristan agreed. “For one thing, there’s no wood.” He took her by the shoulders. H
er lips were blue with cold. “You’re soaked to the skin. Come, let’s get these wet things off you.” Her fingers were stiff and unmanageable; she could not even undo the clasp to her cloak. Gently he did it for her, drawing off the sodden garment, unlacing the ragged gown and lifting it over her head. Even her shift was wet, even her undergarments. He reached for the woolen blanket on the bed and wrapped it tight around her naked body. Then he took her in his arms and clutched her to his breast, stilling the upwelling of desire. Always, always, whenever he looked at her, the fierce yearning for her struck at his soul.

  “My sweet Essylte, you will soon be warm enough. Sit here on the stool and feed the fire with kindling. I’ll take the ax and bring back enough wood to get us through the night.”

  “Be careful, Tristan.” She drew his head down and kissed his lips. “I will be with you.”

  Wood was easy to find. An hour’s work in the pelting rain yielded him more than enough, but he didn’t want to stop. The labor relaxed him. The swing of the ax stretched and bunched muscles stiff with cold, the sweat worked loose the hard knot of fear that ate at him like a canker, and cooled the longing that still pulled at his body. He smiled to himself. She had only to look at him with those dark-lashed blue-green eyes to stir the very fibers of his being. Dear God! To think that he had lain with her every night for two months and still she was not with child! Was there magic in Morois? Were they under some evil spell? Even as he thought it, he dismissed it. Nothing could be evil that so clearly pleased Essylte. She was like a child in her delight, carefree, glorying in every moment. Knowing what she had been through, fearing what might yet come to her, he did not begrudge her her joy. To love without secrecy, to love with abandon—it was clearly heaven to her. Why was it not heaven to him?

  He piled the logs on one of the deerskins and dragged it back to the hut. He knew the answer to his question. He was responsible for the way she looked: the ragged gown, the slippers nearly in shreds, the wild, uncombed hair, and worst of all, the way her collarbones and hipbones stood up from her flesh. He was the reason she risked her life in Morois. But for him, she would be safe in Tintagel, dressed warmly in rich furs and velvets, sitting in the Queen’s chair by an open blaze, her hair dressed with pearls and ribbons. For all their love, he was a curse to her, he thought bitterly, and always had been.

  “Your mother cursed us, sweet Essylte,” he muttered to himself. “And cursed we remain.” He shuddered as he remembered her words: Four women shall place their trust in you and live to see that trust betrayed! Three children shall your loins beget: a whore, a destitute beggar, and a murdering rogue! But this was witchery. No one could possibly know his fate. He didn’t have three children, at least not yet, and only two women had ever put their trust in him. Three, if one counted Branwen.

  A thought struck cold at his entrails. Why had Branwen not told Essylte of her conceiving? If Branwen should waver, if Essylte should ever be forced to lie with Mark . . . Tristan stood rigid in the rain, shaking. Clear in his mind’s eye he saw Mark’s lean, stringy hands on Essylte’s body, his dry lips against her face, his drunken, grunting lust, his impatient, driving need between her soft white thighs . . . He bellowed aloud, filling the forest with his cry. His chest heaved for breath. He fell to his knees on the sodden forest floor, nauseous to dizziness. He waited, head down, until his breathing slowed and all that remained was a bitter cramp in his gut and the taste of bile in his mouth.

  Essylte stood in the doorway, looking out. “Tristan? Tristan! Are you there?”

  He forced himself to calmness and pushed himself to his feet. “I am here,” he called. He grabbed the end of the deerskin with trembling hands and dragged it to the hut. “I am coming.”

  She gasped when she saw him in the light. “Tristan, what has happened? What’s amiss? You look like you’ve seen a spirit from the Otherworld!”

  He smiled weakly. “Nay, not that. Be easy, sweet. I’m all right.”

  She clutched the blanket tighter around her. “I felt fear suddenly, as I sat by the fire. As if something crept up close and touched me with a slimy paw. Something horrible!”

  He dragged the logs inside and shut the door behind them. “We are one soul, you and I. Yes, I was afraid. But it passed.”

  “What was it?” Her drawn face looked up at him, her eyes enormous. “Is there something out there?”

  He shrugged and forced a smile. “No, love. Not out there.” He touched his breast. “In here. Don’t ask me what it is.”

  She smiled, to his surprise, and sighed in relief. “It’s only your silly fears. You’re the bravest man in all Britain, and the best warrior, too—why do you torture yourself with worries? Come, take off those wet clothes and sit by the fire with me. You’re too cold for me to touch, now that I’m dry.”

  He stripped quickly and laid his wet clothes next to Essylte’s on the other side of the hearth. The heat of the fire met his skin like a caress. Or was it Essylte’s gaze? He looked up. She knelt by the fire, stirring the cooking pot, her eyes fierce with desire. Life stirred his loins, and he laughed out loud. “Witch woman! What will you do to me? I am your slave, Essylte. Have you not had enough of me yet?”

  “I will never have enough of you.” She smiled. “But I will feed you first.” She had arranged skins on the floor beside the stool, and she beckoned to him. “Come. I’ve put some deer meat in the pot with the nuts I gathered. It’s a poor excuse for stew, but at least it’s something.”

  “Let me add a good log to that fire, and it will cook faster.”

  The fire hissed and spat in protest at the wet wood, but the resulting steam was hot and welcome. He pulled the door tight and stuffed handfuls of grass in the ill-fitting space around it. The hut warmed quickly. Essylte’s shivering diminished, and warmth returned a little color to her cheeks. She sat on the stool with Tristan at her feet, his head resting against her knees.

  His quiet voice split the silence. “Tell me now about Branwen.”

  “I told you. She’s sick as a dog.”

  Tristan paused. “That’s not what I mean. You told me you felt this child meant something important to her. Did you mean she planned it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Essylte said thoughtfully. “It’s odd that she didn’t tell me, isn’t it? If I’d known at midsummer what she intended, we could have lain together under the apple tree and perhaps all this could have been avoided.”

  “Yes,” Tristan replied evenly. “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  “She knows how to prevent bearing, yet she didn’t.”

  Tristan looked up quickly. “She can prevent it?”

  Essylte nodded. “Mother taught us. I wish now I had listened better, but at the time I couldn’t see the point.”

  “Are there really such herbs? I know every village midwife claims such power, but I’ve never seen it work when it was wanted.”

  “It’s three herbs, mixed in proportion, boiled over fire for the time it takes to chant the spell, and then set to cool under the waxing moon. I know the herbs, but I can’t remember the amounts or the words of enchantment.” She grinned. “As a sorceress, I’m hopeless.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  Her fingers stroked his hair and tickled the new beard on his chin. “Why did you ask about Branwen?”

  “Oh,” he said slowly, “I wondered if she has a plan she hasn’t shared with us.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of plan?”

  Her lovely eyes narrowed in a frown, and he was relieved to see it. She had worried about it, too.

  “Think back to the plan we made that day in Guvranyl’s house. Look at it from Branwen’s point of view. What does she stand to gain?”

  Essylte began to tremble. “She is my dearest friend in all the world, Tristan. She has served me since we were children. She did it for me.”

  He shook his head gently. “No, my dear. Servants, even dear ones, are not such friends as that. She may have felt for your distress, but she did it for he
rself. For the same reason she agreed to lie with Mark beyond the wedding night.”

  Tears brimmed in Essylte’s eyes. “Why, then? To bear the King a child?”

  “To bear the King a son.”

  “Let her. What difference does that make? She can’t ever let him know it’s his, or he will kill us all.”

  “Perhaps. He will kill us, that’s for certain. And our son. But whether he kills Branwen or marries her in your stead depends upon several things.”

  Essylte gasped. “She would never! And Mark would never marry a lowborn girl—it would insult his pride.”

  Tristan paused, watching her face. “Who are her parents, Essylte?”

  Essylte gaped at him. “Her mother was a common house servant in my father’s castle. In the garden. Later she served my mother. No one knows who her father was.”

  “Someone knows.”

  “Well, Branny doesn’t, or she’d have told me. Her mother died when she was little. How on earth would she find out unless her father revealed himself to her?”

  Tristan shrugged. “If you are right, then we have nothing to fear. And this pregnancy of hers was a mistake. Perhaps she didn’t remember the words, either.”

  Essylte shook her head. “Branny never forgets a thing. Perhaps the herbs don’t grow in Cornwall. Oh, Tristan, now I am afraid. Ever since little Keridwen was born, things have not been quite the same between me and Branny. Now you tell me you suspect her of some kind of treachery. Can it be possible she means us harm? After all she has done for us?”