Prince of Dreams

  “My lord.” Tristan found himself on his feet. “My lord, it is impossible.”

  “Kaherdyn wishes to marry,” Galahad continued, looking idly down at his hands. “Young Lionors, a distant kinswoman. I have only one objection to the match. Iseulte is one and twenty and unwed. When he marries and brings his bride into the house, supplanting Iseulte’s place, he makes a spinster of his sister.” A tender note crept into the even voice. “Surely, after all she has borne, she deserves better.” He looked up at Tristan. “Is that not so?”

  “Yes,” Tristan breathed, gulping for air. “She’s a noble-hearted woman. And brave. And beautiful. But my lord—”

  “You do like her, Tristan? Dane gave me to believe you two had become the best of friends.”

  “Friends, yes, my lord. Without a doubt. I can tell her anything, and she me, but—”

  “The love of a friend is often the truest of all. And you are more than a friend to Iseulte. You are the only one she speaks to. You are her healer, Tristan. With scars such as hers, she may have need of you her whole life.”

  Tristan paused, breathing rapidly. “My lord, I can’t. It’s impossible. Have you asked her? No, I see you haven’t. She would not accept me. She knows my heart. She knows that I am promised to another. Surely she deserves a more devoted husband than a man who will always regard her as second best.”

  Tristan braced himself for a stinging rebuke, but when Galahad spoke, his voice was low and gentle.

  “You are promised to a woman who is the wife of another man.”

  Tristan nodded miserably. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well,” Galahad said softly, “my father once faced just such a dilemma.”

  Tristan gaped. He sank slowly down into his chair, his heart roaring in his ears, and listened.

  “In the end, we put our feelings aside and do what honor demands. To do else, we demean ourselves and debase the love we hold so dear. If she were free, you would wed her. Unimaginable joy would be yours forever.” The blue eyes narrowed in a sad smile. “But she is not free. More than that, she is married to your sovereign lord, a man to whom you owe service and allegiance.”

  Tristan’s head hung lower. He nodded dumbly.

  “Then you know that your promise is a vain one, made in the heat of passion, and impossible to keep.” Galahad’s voice grew even gentler. “She has not been able to keep her promise, either.”

  Tristan bowed his head. Here was the wound that had kept him awake so many nights, the enduring pain he had striven so hard to hide from everyone. And now a stranger, a man he had known two months, whom he had supposed knew nothing at all about it, had struck his sorest spot with unerring accuracy.

  Galahad lifted the wineskin from the flame, filled a silver cup, and handed it to Tristan.

  Obediently, Tristan drank. “A promise is a promise,” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “I must leave, then.”

  “I will not prevent you, but there is no need. You are welcome in Lanascol for as long as you like to stay. You are welcome to make Benoic your home. We, all of us, love you as though you were already family.”

  Tristan looked up at him with drowned eyes. “But if I stay after Kaherdyn marries, there will be talk. About why I stay so close and do not marry her. It’s not fair to Elen.”

  “No,” Galahad said quietly. “It’s not fair. But it’s not new.”

  Tristan’s throat closed. “What do you mean? Has there been talk already? Is that what you are telling me? Have I shamed your daughter?”

  Galahad shook his head firmly. “No. Without you, she would be dead. You are the joy in her life, son. Very nearly her only joy. It never does any good to listen to kitchen gossip. Ignore it. Iseulte would want you to stay at any cost.”

  Tristan leaped to his feet and strode around the room, muttering under his breath. “If I stay, I am the cruelest man alive; if I go, I am an unfeeling, ungrateful wretch. If I break my promise, I am cursed; if I keep it, I am no more than a miserable sinner, already damned. O God! I cannot see the honorable path. There is no honor for me anywhere.”

  “Yes,” Galahad said evenly, “there is. Sit down, Tristan, and calm yourself a moment.” Galahad watched him with compassion. “You chastise yourself because your life is full of mistakes, errant judgments, wrong choices, even sins. But which of ours is not? You are not damned if you can put those hurtful acts behind you and go forward a better man. God forgives us all. We can begin anew.” Galahad grasped his staff and slowly rose to his full height. Tristan slid off the chair to his knees. “I will not tell you what honor is, for this you know as well as anyone. I tell you only, do not despair. Seek a new path, find the straight road. Hope is always with us. That is God’s great gift.”

  He made the sign of the cross over Tristan’s head and slowly and stiffly moved toward the door, leaving Tristan bent double on his knees.

  33 ISEULTE OF THE WHITE HANDS

  On a clear day in December Tristan stood in the marble Roman chapel on a hillside in Benoic, surrounded by the white blaze of candles, while a priest spoke the solemn words that bound him for life to Elen of Lanascol.

  After the wedding the small procession wound up the hill to the king’s house, Dandrane following Galahad’s litter, Kaherdyn and Lionors walking hand in hand behind the bride and groom. Last night’s snow had carpeted the world in crystalline brilliance, a blinding blanket of light marred only by their footsteps. It was fitting, Tristan thought numbly, that he should embark on a new life on such a day. The whole world was clean, cold, unmarked, and dead.

  The feast began as night drew down. All the young men in the army cheered Tristan, toasting to his happiness over and over again amid their dancing, jesting, and singing. Neat Gaulish wine flowed like water and the wedding guests grew wild as the night wore on. At the climax of the evening, Dandrane revealed the surprise she had been hinting at all week. Old Rhys, the master bard of Wales, stepped into their midst and bowed low.

  “My lord Tristan,” he growled in his rough speaking voice. “How glad I am to see you still alive. God bless you, sir.” He beckoned to his apprentice to bring in his harp. He gave them all the old sweet tales of Britain: “The Song of Maximus,” “The Lay of Arthur,” “The Parting of Lancelot and Guinevere,” “The Defeat of Cerdic,” and one or two tales of his own devising about events more recent. His singing voice was clear and true, carrying to every corner of the hall with a melancholy sweetness that brought tears to many eyes. At the finish, Tristan pulled the gold brooch from his shoulder and pressed it into the old bard’s hand.

  “Bless you, Master. You speak to all our hearts. Would our lives were all like your heroes’ tales, with noble endings.”

  The bard peered down at the brooch. “The Eagle of Lyonesse?”

  “Take it, Master. I have no more need of it. And you have done me a service tonight. You have taken me back to Britain, which my eyes shall never see again.”

  Rhys bowed low. “The future is what we make of it,” he murmured, as the queen signaled her women to lead the bride out. Pale Iseulte, her black hair braided with garnets and river pearls and a laurel garland around her brow, raised her eyes briefly to Tristan and then lowered them demurely as she turned to go. A cheer rose from the wedding guests, and Rhys raised an eyebrow.

  “Congratulations, my lord. She’s a beauty.”

  “Oh, God,” Tristan breathed. “Is it time already? Sing me another song, good Rhys, a long one, that lasts until the dawning.”

  The old bard looked at him knowingly. “My lord is an unwilling bridegroom?”

  Tristan smiled bitterly. “Alas, no. Let it not be said I did this with my eyes closed. It was by my will I chose it. Yet . . . yet I would put it off a little longer. Sing for me, I pray you.”

  “Very well, my lord.” He bowed again to the king and queen. “I give you the tale of Tristan of Lyonesse and the giant Marhalt.”

  The room was dark when Tristan opened the door. An applewood fire bu
rned low in the grate, shedding the only light. He glanced furtively toward the big bed but saw only an unmoving bulge in the bed furs. After a moment’s hesitation, he took his own garland from his head and let it fall to the floor. He stirred the fire to life, added another log, lifted the wineskin from its stand, and poured himself another cup of wine. He drank it standing. Finally he put down the cup, squared his shoulders, and walked to the bed.

  “Elen. Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down beside her. “Sit up and talk to me.”

  Still the furs did not move. “I am afraid.”

  “Of me? It’s only Tristan. I won’t harm you. Come on, sit up. We haven’t said two words to one another in one long, dreadful month. I need to speak to you.”

  She pushed herself up slowly. They had dressed her in an ivory gown trimmed in white fur, and they had removed the lacings from the bodice so that the fabric parted as she moved, revealing the sweet curve of her breasts. Tristan took a slender white hand in both of his. For the first time in years he felt the stirrings of desire. Rosy firelight played across her face, highlighting her cheekbones and throwing her magnificent eyes into shadow.

  “How beautiful you are,” he whispered. “You deserve a better husband than I can make you.”

  She smiled in quick relief. “Oh, Tristan, I do not worry about that. Just be who you are; it is enough. But I fear I will not be able to be a wife to you. It is you who deserve a better wife than me.”

  “What does any man want in a wife but a good companion?” he asked, bringing her hand to his lips and watching her face. “We two are already companions of long standing. And you are beautiful besides, sweet-tempered and brave.”

  “Not so brave,” she quavered. “And that is not all most men want. They want a willing breeder of sons.” She gulped audibly and stiffened as he lifted the palm of her hand against his new-shaved cheek. “I don’t think—I’m not sure I can—lie with you.”

  Tristan pressed his lips into her palm. Her raised arm parted the fabric of her gown even further and his voice caught in his throat. “I understand your fear. Nothing need happen between us, Elen. Nothing at all. No one will ever know but us.”

  Her eyes widened and caught the light, blazing blue. “And God.”

  “Is that so important? You are even braver than I thought.”

  She bit her lip and pulled her hand away. “It is not a marriage without. Why did you accept me if you did not want me?”

  “Not want you?” He laughed hoarsely. “Oh, God! How little you know about desire.” He ran a finger along her jaw and down her neck to the open bodice of her gown. “There is no fire in all the world like this fire,” he breathed, drawing her closer and touching his lips to hers. She bore it stiffly at first, but after a moment, her lips relented and returned his gentle pressure. When he pulled away, her face was flushed with color and a dawning excitement danced in her eyes. “Lovely Elen, I accepted you because I mean to spend my life in Lanascol, and I want you as my companion always.” She nodded shyly, her breath coming fast and a little shallow. “And why, if you are so frightened of a man’s touch, did you accept me?”

  After a struggle, the blue eyes lifted to his. “Because I love you.”

  He looked away without meaning to. “A gift, a great gift. But I am not worthy of such a treasure.”

  “Because you still love Essylte? I know that, Tristan. You needn’t try to hide it. She is in your heart, and she always will be. I don’t mind. I love her, too, because she is part of you.”

  “You’re a generous woman. Indeed, you shame me.” He took her hand again and held it. “You have borne with courage the worst men have to offer. Be patient with me tonight, and I will offer you the best. It need not be a sacrifice.” He leaned forward. “Lovely Elen,” he breathed into her ear, “let me lead you to the wellspring of desire.” She trembled violently as his arm slid around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Come, hold on to me. That’s right. You’re safe in my arms, and I in yours. We are here together. Don’t be afraid to touch me; I’m only an ordinary man.”

  He kissed her softly, moving his lips over her face, her mouth, her jaw, while his hand slid slowly through the parting of her gown. His own heart raced against his will. He spoke to her gently, keeping his voice calm, keeping his touch gentle as he moved his hands over her body, easing her slowly to relaxation and then gradually to pleasure, conquering her fear. Her breathing quickened, her face flushed lightly, and her eyes looked up at his in growing surprise as her body responded to his touch of its own will.

  “Tristan,” she whispered, “I feel—like a waterfall.”

  He laughed lightly. “There are many currents in the river of bliss. Heaven waits at the end, I promise you.”

  Betrayal! The thought flashed across his mind with the speed of a sword stroke and stayed his hand. Essylte—had he not promised Essylte fidelity unto death? He stared down at Galahad’s daughter, breathing hard. Essylte had been compelled to break her vow, but he was not—this he did of his own will. He knew it by the fire in his loins.

  “Tristan,” she whispered. There was an ache in her voice, an ache he recognized. Her arms reached out to him.

  He hesitated half a moment, knowing that despite her apparent willingness he must continue at a snail’s pace. But his body, fully reawakened after so long a sleep, cried out in exasperation. Before he knew it he had taken her in his arms, parted her thighs, and moved to cover her. Then the night exploded.

  She screamed. Wild, frantic, in abject terror, she pounded on his shoulders with her fists, thrashing, kicking beneath him, forcing him up. She knocked over the candle stand at the bedside, she pulled at his hair, she sobbed aloud for the angel of death.

  “Elen! My God, Elen!” He rose to his knees and pulled her up, hugging her tight against his body, holding her immobile while she screeched and sobbed.

  “Leave me alone! Animal! Swine! I hate you! How could you? Oh, God, I am dirty, how dirty! I will never be clean!”

  “Elen, sweet Elen, it’s Tristan! Don’t you know me?”

  But she sobbed mindlessly and ferociously fought to escape his grip. He waited, it seemed like hours, while she clawed at him and howled, until the sobbing died to whimpers and, her strength spent, she sagged listlessly in his arms. Carefully, he lowered her to the bed, covered her with furs and then sank down beside her. For a long time he lay absolutely still while the pounding in his head slowed and the fire that consumed him subsided to ash. When her breathing fell at last into the slow rhythm of sleep he closed his eyes. Saved from betrayal by a woman’s fear, he thought, his face hot with shame. What have I done to the woman I would die for? Dear God, let her never learn of it! He shuddered and turned on his side away from Iseulte.

  When he awoke the gray light of morning streamed in through the open window and with it a chill wind. Iseulte stood at the window, staring out, wrapped in a heavy gown and cloak with her hood pulled tight around her face.

  Tristan pushed himself up on his elbows and frowned. “Elen? Where are you going so early?”

  She started at his voice and looked quickly down. “Away. Just away.” There were still tear tracks on her face, and her voice was harsh with weeping.

  Tristan pulled on his bedgown. “What do you mean, away? Away where?” Shivering, he went to the window and pulled the shutter closed. Iseulte slid to her knees, her beautiful hands upraised and clasped together.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said hoarsely. “Please. I beg you. I must have your forgiveness.”

  “Your hands are ice.” He stooped and lifted her bodily, carrying her back to the bed. A shudder went through her as he put her down. “Just sit there a moment. I’m not going to touch you, I’m going to stoke the fire.”

  It did not take long to get a good blaze going, but the room was still so cold he could see his breath in the air. He hurried back to the bed and huddled into the furs beside her, teeth chattering. “If you are trying to kill me with
cold, you may well succeed.”

  He regretted the jest the instant he made it. Her pale face flamed and tears filled her eyes.

  “Put me away, Tristan,” she whispered. “Put me away and be done with me, if you can’t forgive me. I can never be your wife.”

  “Forgive you for what? Don’t be ridiculous, Elen, I will never put you away. I meant what I told you last night. We can be whatever we want to each other. It doesn’t matter to anyone but us.” She was shaking horribly, and he put an arm around her shoulder. Her body was as rigid as a board. He hugged her gently. “We are what we are. Friends. It’s enough for me.”

  “It isn’t a marriage.”

  “Who says? It is to us. And I believe it is to God as well.”

  “But—we haven’t—”

  “Consummation is unimportant unless sons are needed. You and I can do without children. Let Lionors bear sons for Lanascol; as Kaherdyn’s wife, it is her duty.”

  Iseulte shook her head slowly. “You are so generous. I would not shame you for the world. Last night I—I did not mean to deny you. But I couldn’t help it.”

  “I know that.”

  “You were so sweet to me, so gentle and so kind.” Her eyes flicked quickly to his and then dropped. “I did—I did like it, you know. At the start.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  “I don’t know what happened. Something came over me. I—I remember a dark shadow above me, swooping down.” She shuddered. “It had talons. It was coming for me.” Tristan squeezed her closer. She looked steadily away. “I don’t remember anything after that. When I awoke at dawn, you were lying beside me with bites all over your chest and bloody scratches on your back. For an instant I thought the monster had—had attacked you, too.” Her voice quavered close to tears. “But then I realized there was no monster but the one living in my head. I did that to you.”

  Tristan lifted her chin and gazed into her brilliant eyes. “There is no monster in your head. You are not yet healed from your ordeal, that is all. It was too soon. As for the scratches, they are only skin deep. A long way from my heart.”