For the first time he saw a glimmer of a smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He kissed her gently and pulled her down onto the bed, gown, cloak and all, and held her in his arms until, together, sleep overtook them.
On the day of the vernal equinox a courier arrived from Britain. Galahad lay on a pallet in the garden, carried there to benefit from the strengthening sun. Dandrane attended him, reading to him in her melodic voice sacred verses from the Holy Book. Lionors and her women were in the weaving room, frantically stitching and weaving against her upcoming wedding day. Kaherdyn and Tristan sat together in the king’s workroom, reading dispatches, dictating to the scribe, planning a summer campaign against the Franks should diplomacy fail to settle the border dispute between them. Iseulte, in a comfortable old gray gown and patched blue girdle, curled on the floor at the end of the room, playing with the newest litter of puppies.
The courier was a young man who stared nervously at everything about him. When the page announced him he bowed low and went down on one knee before Tristan.
Tristan looked up from his work and smiled, pointing to Kaherdyn. “There is the Prince of Lanascol, lad. Address yourself to him.”
“Yes, my lord,” the young man quavered. “But the message I carry is for you, if you are Tristan of Lyonesse. I come from Tintagel.”
Color drained from Tristan’s face. He rose unsteadily. Iseulte came immediately to his side and drew Kaherdyn away.
Kaherdyn shrugged. “Call me when you want me, Tristan. I’m going to run this battle plan by Father.”
When he had gone Tristan came around the worktable and stood before the courier. “Arise, man, and give me the news. Do you come from the Queen?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“How does she?”
“I am instructed to give you no news of her, my lord.”
Tristan drew a long breath. “Give me the message, then.”
The courier reached into his pouch and placed something small and cold in Tristan’s hand. Tristan stared down at his own golden ring with the eagle of Lyonesse carved into blue enamel. It was the ring he had given Essylte on her wedding night. His own voice resounded from the past: You have my heart, Essylte, and no one else. And if it comes to damnation, we shall walk through the gates of Hell together, arm in arm. . . . This is a token of our promise. . . . Remember, when you see it, that you are Queen of Lyonesse, and my wife.
His fist closed on the ring and he cleared his throat. “Did she—did she send no message with it?”
“Only two words, my lord,” the courier gulped. “ ‘Never return.’ ”
Tristan froze.
Iseulte stepped forward and raised the courier, taking his arm and leading him to the door. She reached into her pouch for a gold coin and pressed it into his hand.
“Tell me quickly, lady, yes or no,” he whispered furtively. “Did Sir Tristan really marry?”
She nodded slowly, her glance flicking to the stone-faced sentry beside the door.
The courier’s shoulders sagged. “We had a bard with us at Tintagel three weeks after the thaw. Old Rhys of Wales. He told us he had sung at Sir Tristan’s wedding feast. He caused much grief in Cornwall, I can tell you. We thought my lady would die from weeping.”
Iseulte laid a hand on his sleeve and gazed pleadingly into his face, mouthing words.
“What is it, lady?” He glanced anxiously up at the guard. “What does she say?”
“My lady has been dumb for years,” the guard replied with a quick bow toward Iseulte. “No fault of her own, but there it is. She can be understood if you watch her lips.”
Iseulte mouthed the words again, but the courier shook his head. “Might as well be Greek for all I can make of it.”
“She said,” the guard told him gently, “ ‘Tell your lady Sir Tristan loves her still.’ ”
Iseulte made the guard a reverence and turned away. As the door closed the courier caught a glimpse of Tristan on his knees, bent double, hands covering his face.
“I’ll be damned,” the courier whispered. “And just how would she know that?”
“If anyone knows it, she does,” the guard replied stiffly. “That was Iseulte, the king’s daughter. Sir Tristan’s wife.”
The garden was crowded with servants and courtiers. Queen Dandrane and the physician bent over the king’s pallet while onlookers muttered prayers under their breaths.
“He lives,” the physician pronounced uncertainly. “But only just.”
Kaherdyn, the battle plans rolled in his hand, pushed through the throng to look down at his father’s wasted body. A lump rose in his throat. The left side of Galahad’s face sagged as though some sculptor had tired of his clay and made a halfhearted attempt to erase his work.
“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
Dandrane wiped her eyes and drew a trembling breath. “I was reading to him. And then he started talking to me, reliving old times, all the adventures we had been through together when we were young. The light was back in his face. He even laughed. He hadn’t talked so much in so long, I begged him to take care and preserve himself, but he just smiled and told me God would take care of him. He—he told me about a dream he’s been having lately, about returning to Britain, to a—a place in Wales, that he would like to see it once again, that he wanted to take us all to Britain when the weather warmed. But then—” She gulped hastily and clutched Kaherdyn for support. “His lips stopped moving, his eyes rolled skyward and then closed, and he sort of—crumpled.” She shuddered. “After that I couldn’t wake him.”
“Hot water and blankets,” the physician mumbled. “Rest, complete rest. Don’t move him once you get him inside.”
Dandrane looked at the man as if seeing him for the first time. “Will he live?” she asked. “What are his chances? For how long?”
The physician hemmed and hawed, but in the end he answered her. “My lady, it is not likely. If he lives through tomorrow, he may last a week or a month, but his God has laid His finger on him, and claimed him. You can see the Maker’s mark.”
Dandrane straightened. “If he lives through tomorrow, we will take ship to Britain.” The crowd buzzed, the physician remonstrated, but Queen Dandrane was firm. “If he wants to go to Britain, we will take him. If God sent him the dream, surely God will preserve him long enough to enable him to fulfill it.”
34 CAER MYRDDIN
Tristan leaned over the ship’s rail and peered at the cold green waters sliding past the hull. Behind him sailors tugged at the great sail as the oars came out, for they were leaving the Severn estuary and entering the wide, tidal mouth of the River Tywy on the southern coast of Wales. Somewhere far across the estuary ran the northern coast of Dumnonia, where, above a rocky cliff, Guvranyl’s house overlooked the same sea. The sailors chanted as they rowed upstream toward the old Roman town of Maridunum, and Tristan watched as the banks of the tidal river, steep on the west, flatter on the east, grew slowly closer. Here, myriad fishing coracles lined a pebbled beach; there, a local trader wallowed at a wharf with her decks piled high with wool; and farther upstream, near the Roman bridge that spanned the Tywy, a sleek, painted merchantman from more distant waters rode serenely at anchor, casks of pressed oil or wine still strapped to her decks.
He stared hard at the foreign vessel and tried to guess from which sun-drenched city she had come, trying to keep his mind busy, fighting off the memory of his last glimpse of the Severn—that midnight race from the tempest in beating rain, the long climb up the cliff to Guvranyl’s villa with Essylte warm and fragile in his arms. He grimaced and turned sharply away.
Coming up on deck, Iseulte saw the movement. “What is it, Tristan? Are you ill?”
He forced a smile. “A little queasy. It will pass. How is your father?”
She shook her head. “It’s Britain, isn’t it? It’s not the sea. It’s your homeland and all that it holds.” She took his hand and held it firmly. “But I am so glad you came. It would have be
en so much harder for me without you. And I believe it will do you good as well.”
This time he smiled more easily. “Not if you keep calling me by my name.”
She colored. “Dear God, did I forget? And this is Wales!” She shivered and glanced swiftly behind her at the busy sailors.
“Never mind. No one noticed. How is your father?”
Her face lightened. “Better, Marcus, I’m glad to say. Not awake, but breathing quietly. Mother is with him. Kaherdyn’s still seasick.” She paused. “The closer we get, the better Father does. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Nothing about your father is ordinary.”
Together they stood and gazed out at the approaching shore. On the rising land of the western bank, drab wattle buildings huddled against the wharves, seaward shutters opened to the April sun like newborn eyes squinting at an uncertain world. A thin curl of smoke marked the roof of an inn, where something was already warming over a peat fire, although it was a mild afternoon. Beyond the town rose a cluster of low green hills dotted with sheep and an occasional farmhouse, squat, round, with a conical roof of thatch. In the distance the rising land hinted at mountains, and the land breeze still smelled of snow.
Iseulte pointed ahead to the arched Roman bridge. “That’s where we’ll be going. Mother says we must cross that bridge.”
“Easy enough. It looks unguarded. Look at the stone. Built to survive the Saxon raids, and it’s been kept in good repair. I wonder who the commander is.”
But Iseulte was staring hard at the thinly inhabited eastern shore across the bridge from the town. “The river road must be up there. The Christian monastery should be around that bend. Somewhere up yonder there’s a mill, if it’s still standing.”
“A mill? Is that where we are bound?”
“We’re going to Caer Myrddin and the mill is on the way.”
“What’s at Caer Myrddin?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m just repeating what Mother told Kaherdyn.”
“Well, it can’t be hard to find. Maridunum’s not a big place. There are only two roads in the whole town, from the look of things—the shore road to Caerleon and the river road.” He leaned his back against the railing and looked down at her curiously. “Why all the secrecy, do you suppose?”
Iseulte looked up at him. It flashed through Tristan’s mind that she herself presented the greatest danger to him, with those brilliant eyes that seemed to cast a staring spell on everyone they met. Like her father, she stood out in any crowd, she drew the eye of every man. Few could meet her gaze and turn away. He knew Iseulte herself was unaware of this. He often wondered if it might have been her startling eyes, so clear, so direct, so powerful, that had aroused Ryol’s raging need to conquer her. Those eyes might determine his future as well, for merely by accompanying her he risked recognition.
Iseulte dodged his question. “Mother begs you will find us a room at an inn, if there is one.” She slipped a small leather bag of coins into his hand. “And would you see to the harbormaster, too? I hope that’s enough, but I confess I know nothing about harbor dues.”
Tristan looked amused. “It depends on whether Vortipor’s still King of Dyfed, the old skinflint, and whether or not he’s planning a summer campaign. Don’t worry, I’ll see that we’re not cheated. Tell the queen I’m certain there’s an inn. When does she wish to go ashore?”
“At dusk. So no one notices him.”
“In a place this small nothing goes unnoticed. But old and frail as he is, he’s unlikely to be recognized. If anyone asks, we’ll tell them we’re taking him to the monastery to be healed at Ninian’s spring.”
Her great blue eyes lifted to him, blinking back tears. “Oh, Tristan, perhaps we should! Is it really a healing spring?”
He leaned down and pressed his cheek to hers. “No, my dear, it’s just a tale of mine. Hold on, now. We’re nearly there.”
She nodded, and together they turned to watch the shore approach. On a hill above the bridge, two low stone buildings formed a courtyard. “Look at those barracks,” Tristan murmured. “Neat. Orderly. Right on the road. Someone knows his business. I wonder who the commander is.”
“Why? Does it matter?”
Tristan shrugged. “It does if he knows me.”
Her hand trembled on his sleeve. “Be careful, then, I beg you. For my sake, if not your own. I can’t do without you, Tristan.”
He smiled and bent down to kiss her lips. “Marcus, if you love me.”
The inn turned out to be little more than a one-room hut with outbuildings clustered behind it, but the walls gleamed under a recent limestone wash and the roof was newly thatched. A dozen scrawny geese and chickens pecked discontentedly along the verge of the road, but the door stood open to all comers and the landlord, a cheerful, heavy man with a ring of grizzled hair around his balding pate, stood on the threshold and welcomed Tristan in.
“You’re a stranger, sir,” he ventured, placing a tankard of mead on an ancient oak table that ran the length of the room. Too thick to burn, Tristan guessed, and too heavy to steal, it must have survived a century of Saxon raids. A handful of villagers sat at the far benches, near the peat fire. They rose as he entered and resettled themselves closer to the door, leaving him the best seat and a degree of privacy.
He bowed politely in return. “My thanks, friends.” He drew off his cloak and was aware of five pairs of eyes staring at his sword.
“We don’t get many strangers here,” the landlord suggested, hovering at his elbow. “Sailors off the ships, mostly, and them thieving foreign devils. Rarely a warrior.”
“Foreign devils? Oh, you mean the merchantman. What’s she got aboard her? Wine?”
The landlord nodded. “Oh, aye, wine aplenty in her belly, wine from southern Gaul, all headed for King Vortipor’s cellars. But oil on her decks, my lord, and some of it coming here.”
Tristan flashed a grin. “In time for supper?”
He was rewarded by the landlord’s delighted smile. “Indeed, my lord, most happy to oblige. Just let me know your pleasure. A fat fowl, perhaps? Or a leg of mutton?”
Tristan glanced hastily out the window at the chickens and wondered if the landlord’s sheep had stood the long winter any better. “Er, no. Fish is preferable. Hot fish stew. Something light. There are ladies coming ashore later.”
The landlord rubbed his hands together and winked knowingly. “Aye, the sea do make them ill, don’t it? Not travelers, women. Will my lord and his company be wanting a place to sleep?”
Tristan looked doubtfully at the shabby curtain that separated the common room from the kitchens. “If there’s room for us all. We are five, and one an invalid.”
“Oh, aye, don’t worry, my lord. There’s room and to spare. A good bed out back, and two stuffed pallets. And a loft with plenty of straw.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Will there be horses?”
The landlord knew perfectly well he had come off the ship, alone; he was asking, as politely as he could, for news. The villagers, too, listened intently, although their faces were buried in their mead. Tristan knew it was time to weave the man his tale.
“Oh, no, no horses, although I’d be obliged to know the name of a trader hereabouts. I came off that Breton ship that sailed in this afternoon. Name’s Marcus Cunomorus. I serve young Kaherdyn, the Breton prince. He hopes to heal his father at Ninian’s well.”
“Spring,” the landlord corrected eagerly. “It’s up the river road at the house of the Christian sisters. My name’s Rufus, my lord, at your service.” The round eyes flickered. “Yours is a Roman name, my lord, but surely that’s a Cornish accent.”
Heads rose at the far end of the table, and Tristan found himself faced with five pairs of hostile Welsh eyes. So much for Percival’s unity, he thought bitterly, if here in Dyfed the old hatreds still burned so bright.
“I was born in Cornwall,” he admitted easily. “But when I was a lad King Markion cheated my father out of his land, so we went to
Brittany, where more honorable men prevail.” He paused for a swallow of mead and let the statement sink in.
The Welshmen glanced surreptitiously at one another, and the landlord’s smile grew nervous. “Aye,” he said softly, “I can’t deny I’ve heard such tales before.”
“Best be careful of your tongue, stranger,” one of the villagers mumbled in an accent so thick Tristan could barely comprehend it.
Rufus nodded. “Speak no ill of the High King Markion,” he said loudly. “We’re all loyal Britons in these parts. We honor the King.”
But Tristan noted the grim faces and the small beads of sweat along the landlord’s brow. “Do you? Well, you can have him, then, and welcome to him. You’ll never convince me he’s not an arrogant, greedy bastard.”
Sharp, meaning looks flew between the men. One of the villagers nodded solemnly at Rufus, and the landlord sighed heavily in relief.
“Yes, indeed,” he breathed. “We’ve heard that, too. King Markion’s no friend to us. Not us Welsh.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “But I thought he took a Welsh princess to wife. The next High King will be a son of Wales.”
Once again the landlord and the villagers exchanged meaningful looks. The landlord cleared his throat. “I see you’ve heard the official tale, the one the kings of Wales and Cornwall like to put about.” He leaned closer until Tristan could smell his last meal on his breath. “But there’s another story, one many of us think may be closer to the truth.”
A small thrill slid up Tristan’s spine. “Oh? What tale is that?”
But Rufus backed away, smiling nervously. Tristan placed a silver coin on the table and looked up slowly into the landlord’s eyes. “Another tankard of mead, if you’d be so good.”
The silver coin swiftly disappeared into the fastness of the landlord’s tunic, and a villager rose without a word and closed the door. When Rufus had refilled everyone’s cup he sat down himself at the table.
“Well,” he began in a conspiratorial whisper, “have you ever heard of Tristan of Lyonesse?”