Prince of Dreams

  The courier steadied himself. “Well, my lord, the Saxons have been gaining every season. Last spring the High King lost a battle at the Giants’ Dance. The Saxons overran Amesbury again and all the land around. Drustan of Elmet was killed by Anglii invaders, and the northern federation is split into factions over the succession. Only Percival of Gwynedd has kept faith with Markion. Only the west stays strong.”

  “Thank God for Percival. Now, tell me what you know of the Queen.”

  Iseulte looked up at him and reached for his hand. Dandrane rolled up her scroll and tucked it away, watching from the corner of her eye.

  The courier hesitated, licking dry lips. “What about the Queen, my lord? I have not much news of her.”

  “You know well enough what I want to hear. Is she well? How fare the children?”

  The courier pulled anxiously at his beard. “Both boys are well. About the Queen herself, reports vary. After Ysaie the Sad was born she was ill for months. Some say she has been low-spirited ever since, but others say her health has been perfectly fine. I know not which tale is true.”

  “Ysaie? Why did she give the child so dolorous a name?”

  The courier shrugged. “Perhaps because the High Queen wept for two months before and after he was born. Perhaps because the birth was overhard. He’s a big lad for his age, and was so when he was born. She’ll have no more, they say, although she’s young enough and Markion himself is strong as a horse.”

  Something near a growl issued from Tristan’s throat. His hand slid to his sword hilt.

  The courier bent his forehead to the ground. “Forgive me. My lord asked me for the news.”

  “That’s not news.” Tristan spun on his heel and strode away, then turned and came back again. “Is that all you can tell me about her, man? Did you see no one who had been at Tintagel?”

  Sweat beaded the courier’s brow. “Well, my lord, we had a bard once. Hebert of Aquae Sulis. Said he knew you.”

  Tristan nodded. “He does.”

  “He sang us a song in your honor, my lord, full of the tales of your exploits. That’s how most of us learned what was going on in Britain. He said you came three steps shy of death to gain King Markion his crown, and risked your life in Wales to bring his bride out. But for all your bravery and daring, Markion defeated you in the end, by denying you the only reward you wanted. Your life is forfeit now in Britain.” The courier lifted his head to glance at Tristan and quickly bent it once again. “It is not always wise to help kings to their desires, my lord. So Hebert said. Obligation makes them irritable.”

  “Irritable!” Tristan laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “As a starving wolf is irritable. Hebert has eyes in his head. If he’s been to Tintagel, he sang of more than that. How does the Queen? Does she smile? Dance? Sing? Surely she cannot pass every hour of the day in misery.”

  Iseulte squeezed his hand. The courier’s eyes flicked uneasily from lord to princess. “Hebert never mentioned Tintagel, my lord. But, um, he did say, uh, that without her faithful companion—I forget the maid’s name, but you know it well enough, my lord, if the tales are true—without her Welsh servant, the High Queen is most unhappy. ‘A rudderless ship on a stormy sea’ was the bard’s way of putting it. I suppose that—”

  Tristan’s face lost color. Iseulte slipped an arm about his waist. His voice was a whisper. “Branwen? Do you mean Branwen? Branwen is gone? Where?”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Gone, my lord? Aye, to the Otherworld. The lass is dead.”

  Tristan closed his eyes.

  “How?” Dandrane asked quickly. “By disease, by accident, or at another’s hand? Quick, man. Speak.”

  The courier turned to her and ducked his head. “Yes, my lady. I thought you knew already of these events. The maid has been dead two years. She died the day Sir Tristan disappeared from Lyonesse.”

  A cry escaped Tristan, and Dandrane spoke fiercely. “How? Who killed her?”

  Confused, the courier shook his head. “Nay, lady, no one touched the maid. She took the poison draught herself, and by her own will she died.”

  Tristan staggered, his eyes blind with tears. “That cup was meant for me. Oh, God, how I am damned! But I never knew she meant to take it. Oh, Essylte, forgive me! I have robbed you of everything dear to your heart.”

  Dandrane rose. “Thank you for risking the hazards of the road,” she said firmly to the courier. “My servant will show you to the kitchens, where you may wash and have a meal. I will send for you later to hear more news about my husband.”

  The courier bowed low and hurried out behind the servant. Dandrane turned to Tristan and Iseulte. “Take him to the chapel, Iseulte. It is the best place for such grief.” She hesitated. “Stay with him and bring him what comfort you can.”

  The girl’s lips worked, but no sound came out. Her brilliant blue eyes gazed longingly into her mother’s face, then shuttered closed as she turned away and nodded. Dandrane stood watching the empty doorway for a long time after they had gone.

  Galahad came home at sunset three days later. Queen Dandrane waited in the forecourt of the king’s house, with Kaherdyn on her right hand and Tristan and Iseulte on her left. Flanking them on both sides stood two companies of Lanascol’s young army and behind them the house guard, boots and buckles polished until they gleamed in the dying light.

  From the king’s house they could see the slow procession, thirty horses coming two abreast behind a litter. Torches lined the steep, ascending roadway, forming a tunnel of light for the returning king.

  Tristan stood with his arm around Iseulte’s shoulder. Beneath her robe she felt as still and rigid as an oak.

  “He already knows,” Tristan said quietly, pulling her closer. “Your uncle Galahodyn told him. He’s had time to come to terms with it. There is no need to be afraid.”

  She did not respond. Her eyes remained fastened on the roadway and Tristan sighed inwardly. He absorbs sin as a sponge does water, she had said to him once. He believes himself the father of sins. And I—I will add another to his burden. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around her shoulder. Iseulte’s sin had been thrust upon her, but his own—his own had been fashioned by his own hands, with hardly a regret. . . .

  Six quick blasts on the horn signaled the approach of the procession. As they crested the hill Tristan saw a man walking before the empty litter. He wore an old bleached robe and sandals, and leaned heavily upon a staff. He might have been a beggar, he was so plainly dressed, but there was no doubt who he was.

  Queen Dandrane stepped forward. Tears misted her eyes. “Galahad! My dear lord, welcome home!” She embraced him quickly and then knelt at his feet. He raised her, took her by the shoulders and spoke softly, then held her in his arms and kissed her. Iseulte drew a long breath, and Tristan felt her shoulders soften.

  Kaherdyn stepped forward, and as Galahad greeted his son, Tristan watched the great knight in fascination. His head was bare—no crown, no circlet, no helm, not even a hood against the sun—and raven-black like his daughter’s, flecked with gray only at the temples. But his beard was white. He wore no ornaments—no torque, no wristbands, not even a swordbelt—yet he was by reputation the deadliest swordsman living, and a powerful king besides. His face was tanned and weathered by years in the sun, and he moved like an old man, but his eyes! Tristan quailed momentarily as Galahad’s gaze slid over him and fastened on Iseulte. His eyes were as brilliant blue as his daughter’s and alive with the intense vitality of youth.

  Iseulte began to shake as he approached. “Elen, Elen, Elen,” Tristan hummed a ditty under his breath, “beautiful Elen of the west, whom we all love best, sing me a sweet song as you send me to my rest.”

  He knew by the catch in her breath she had heard him, and for a moment he thought she would step forward of her own accord into her father’s arms. But instead she sank to the ground, lifted the dusty hem of his coarse robe, and pressed it to her lips. Galahad knelt stiffly beside her and lifted her chin so their eyes
met. For a long moment they gazed at one another.

  “I left a child,” the king murmured, “and return to a woman grown. I hardly know you, little Elen. Be patient with me. I love you so.”

  Tears splashed down the girl’s face as she fell into his embrace. Galahad held her and whispered to her, taking his time, oblivious to the people all around him. When he loosed her he smiled shyly at her and offered her his hand. She took it and helped him rise.

  Tristan felt the blue eyes meet his as an arrow strikes a tree. “My lord king,” he breathed. His legs buckled, and he found himself kneeling in the dust. “Sir Galahad.”

  A strong, browned hand reached out and raised him. “Tristan of Lyonesse. I bless the day you came to Lanascol. You rescued my daughter, who is more precious to me than any living soul, and you saved my kingdom. I thank you from my heart. What is mine is yours.”

  “Hardly that, my lord,” Tristan responded weakly. “Your kingdom was in no danger with such a queen as your noble wife in command.”

  Galahad smiled, the seamed brown skin creasing along familiar lines in a handsome, fine-boned face. “She is worth three of me any day, as any one of my men will tell you.” He extended his arm toward the doorway of the king’s house, where Dandrane and Kaherdyn waited in ill-concealed impatience. “Come, lend me your shoulder, if you would. I believe Dane has a feast prepared. Although in truth, I have not much stomach for it, having got so used to foreign food.” With one arm wrapped about Tristan and one hand on his staff, Galahad made his slow way up the wide steps and back into his home.

  True to his word, he ate little enough at dinner, and no animal flesh of any kind. But he looked pleased when others ate and drank, and Iseulte, who sat beside him, could not take her eyes off him. He talked little about his travels; mostly he wanted to know what had happened in Lanascol in his absence. He questioned Tristan and Kaherdyn about the defeat of Ryol, their travels about the kingdom, the building of the army, the state of relations with the Franks and Alemans, and any news of his youngest brother, Gallinore, King of Brittany. Mention of Iseulte’s ordeal was carefully avoided. Eventually, as the candles dimmed and the wine went round, talk inevitably turned to his pilgrimage. He sighed heavily and his eyes grew distant.

  “It is another lifetime,” he said slowly, half to himself. “It is another world. I left my youth there, Dane, in the white hills around the City of David.”

  “Is that where you were wounded? How did that happen? Were there bandits?”

  He smiled wistfully. “Oh, no. Not there. We fought a pitched battle there. This wound in my thigh was from a Persian arrow.”

  The queen gasped. “You led an army against Persians? Dear God!”

  “No, my dear, not I. A Hebrew king, clever as a fox. I’ll give you the details another time, if you like, but I’m growing tired of talk.” He smiled a quick, apologetic smile. “I’ve had so little of it, you see.”

  Queen Dandrane signaled the torchbearers nearer. “You’ll let me send for the physician, surely. We must find a way to heal your wound.”

  He laughed. “Do you imagine they have no physicians in the East? I assure you, my wound has been examined by a dozen skilled physicians, true men of learning, not charlatans armed only with leeches and spells. I was half a year in a desert hospital working the poison out. It has knit as well as it ever will. Men can do no more. Let it be. It is the Lord’s reminder to me that a humble spirit is a great gift and pride a curse.” He lifted Dandrane’s hand to his lips and gazed into her worried eyes. “What was it but pride that made me think that I, like Christ Himself, could carry the world’s sins on my shoulders? What was it that made me go all the way to Jerusalem to discover what I had left at home? Pride and vainglory, nothing more. You see again how thickheaded I was born. I learned on David’s hilltop what you have known all these years: that I am no more and no less than an ordinary man. My own misdeeds are more than I can handle. I need take on no others.” He glanced gently at Iseulte, whose head was bowed.

  Dandrane blinked back tears. “You are first among men, my lord, who would be last. That is wisdom as old as Solomon.”

  Kaherdyn rode at Tristan’s side in the warm November sun. Most of the hardwoods stood gray and naked along the forest road, readying themselves for the coming winter snows, but along the edges of the lake the pines grew green right down to the water’s edge.

  “How’s your father today?” Tristan asked.

  “About the same.” Kaherdyn pointed across the lake to an island in the middle. “My father used to spend a lot of time on that island when he was a boy. So did my grandfather, Lancelot, in his youth. It’s pretty, isn’t it? But somehow it’s never called to me.” He smiled quickly at Tristan. “In fact, it gives me the shivers sometimes. The locals think it’s haunted.”

  “Indeed? By whom?”

  Kaherdyn shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t believe in phantoms.”

  Tristan smiled. “Clear-eyed Kaherdyn. Of course you don’t. Your path is straight.”

  “No,” Kaherdyn said solemnly. “It’s not.”

  “What? Trouble with lovely Lionors? I thought you had her father’s blessing.”

  “I do.” He looked quickly away and shut his mouth on what he had been about to say. Tristan glanced at him and smiled. Kaherdyn was nearly eighteen, no longer a boy, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and thick chestnut hair that women loved to touch. Surely whatever problems he thought he had were easily surmounted.

  “Well, then, marry the lass next spring. Your father won’t object. Queen Dandrane practically raised her, she has been so long in her service.”

  “But my father does object,” Kaherdyn blurted, reddening.

  Tristan pulled up his horse and stared. “In heaven’s name, why?”

  Kaherdyn looked at him, shame, despair, humiliation, and then hope passing in successive waves across his face. “I promised I wouldn’t tell you,” he said at last. “I ought not to have said so much. I promised Father. He sent me to find you and ask you to go see him. I don’t know what he wants, Tristan, but I think it may be partly about that.”

  Tristan scratched his head in bewilderment. “What do I have to do with your marrying Lionors? Well, if your father’s waiting, let’s not delay. Race you back?”

  Kaherdyn grinned, his good humor restored. “Oh, there’s no hurry. He had just sent for a hot bath when I left. He’ll be hours yet. It takes him forever to get up and down, his joints are so stiff.”

  Tristan frowned and started his stallion forward again. “He was not so afflicted a month ago.”

  “Mother says it was because the weather was warmer then.”

  “I wonder how he will survive the winter. Perhaps it is a consequence of so much time spent in the sun.”

  “Do you know what Sir Bellas told me, Tristan? My father killed seventeen hill bandits by his own hand as his traveling party passed through southern Gaul. And saved thirty children from a massacre by some barbarous Massalian lord. And rescued a Hebrew maiden from stoning outside the holy city—I tell you, Tristan, the more we learn about what went on in those four years, the more amazed I am. Is Bellas telling me lies, do you think?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Why would he? And he was there.”

  “But if Father did all those things, why won’t he talk about them? He’s as silent as Iseulte about his exploits.”

  “A good deed done in darkness,” Tristan said slowly, “is a better deed than one done in light for all to see. Who needs to know about it but the ones concerned?”

  “But he deserves praise for such deeds!”

  “Of course. But perhaps he has already had all he wants. He’s not a man who feeds on praise.” Tristan frowned. “And he literally eats almost nothing. Have you noticed, Kaherdyn, how thin he’s getting?”

  “I know his leg is worse. He can hardly walk without his staff.” Kaherdyn hesitated and then asked in a halting voice, “Do you think he’s come home to die?”

  Tristan shrugged,
and moved to put heels to his horse. “It had crossed my mind.”

  He found Galahad in his chamber sitting straight in a tall-backed chair. The windows were shuttered against the evening chill and the room was warm with two glowing braziers, yet Galahad wore a heavy cloak over his white robe and a blanket over his knees.

  “My lord Galahad.”

  “Arise, Tristan. Loosen your tunic and roll up your sleeves or you’ll be sweating soon. I know it’s overwarm in here. But my bones are cold.” He waved his chamberlain out of the room and told the sentry on the door to let no one in. “Please be seated.”

  The brilliant eyes lifted to Tristan’s and once again pinned his will to the wall. Tristan met that gaze with the qualm a soldier feels in meeting his new commander’s eye. “Tristan of Lyonesse, I am honored to have you in my household. In the months since my return I have come to know you, and I find only honor in you. I knew your father and admired him. I know of the brave deeds you have done in Britain, both on behalf of your uncle and on behalf of the kingdom itself. I am honored to offer you a home here.”

  “My lord, the honor is all mine.”

  “I speak of a permanent home.”

  A light frown flicked across Tristan’s brow. “Thank you, my lord. You are graciousness itself.”

  Amusement pulled at the corners of Galahad’s mouth, but when he spoke, his voice was grave and gentle. “I am asking you to marry my daughter.”

  Tristan blanched. The room reeled, and he grasped the arms of his chair.

  “Dane and I have worried about Iseulte for years,” Galahad continued. “No suitor ever stepped forward for her. I used to fear it was my reputation that frightened them away, but in truth I think the explanation is simpler. Since Hoel of Brittany died and left the running of his kingdom to Lancelot’s heirs, the noble families of Less Britain are all my kin. My brothers’ sons are younger than Kaherdyn. And everyone in Britain persists in believing that I am dead. There is no one eligible for Elen.” The blue eyes flickered. “And there is only one man I have met who is worthy.”