Prince of Dreams

  “I took you for a better man!” she spat. “I thought you were Dinadan!”

  Tristan hardly flinched. He could not believe he had ever left her willingly. He could not believe he had endured three long years without her. She filled the room with her righteous fury, her glorious rage. She lit the night.

  “He has always been worth two of me.”

  “How dare you! How dare you come here!”

  “My heart, how could I not?”

  “Get out! Get out!” Her voice rose in a dangerous crescendo. “Oath breaker! Adulterer! Liar! Thief! I’ll call the guard!”

  Tristan leaped onto the bed and grabbed her, covering her mouth with his hand. “Be still! If they find me here, they’ll kill me before your eyes.”

  “Let them!” she gasped, fighting him off. “Let them! Die for me the way Branny died for you!”

  He pushed her flat on the bed and forced his mouth on hers. She scratched and clawed him like a caged beast. She bit his lips and kicked against his weight, but the enormity of desire so long denied, of suffering and separation, of wild tears, spent dreams, and bitter loneliness, overwhelmed her rage and left her defenseless against his tenderness. She wept as she held him to her breast, wept as she kissed him and drew him close, wept even as she yielded, aflame with the heat of his desire, to the undeniable power of his need. A sense of hopelessness possessed her, a bittersweet certainty that he was her fate, her doom, her death, her life, her only love, and that it was all come upon her at this hour.

  “Tristan . . . Tristan . . . I am undone!”

  “Essylte,” he whispered, holding her as if to press her into his own flesh, to make their union solid, indivisible, eternal. “You are mine, now and forever. In life and beyond. We are one, joined in spirit, in soul, in flesh.” He spoke in sighs, his lips against her neck, as his breathing slowed. “No one will ever come between us again. I swear it.”

  Tears slid down her cheeks even as she cradled him against her body. “Not my husband? Not your wife?”

  He fumbled on the bed for his discarded tunic and drew forth the blue enamel ring. He slipped it onto her finger. “You are my wife, Essylte.”

  “You married that Breton girl. After all your promises to me.”

  “A marriage of words, like yours to Markion. But I never lay with her.”

  She gazed up at him and pushed his hair from his eyes. “No? Then you shamed her, and her family, too.”

  “I did as she bid me, Essylte.”

  “Indeed?” She shut her eyes tightly. “But Mark did not do my bidding, Tristan. Ours has been a marriage of more than words since the night that Branny died.”

  Tristan bowed his head. “I know, my sweet.”

  “That makes this adultery.”

  “No. No. Do not speak of it. The love we share—”

  “Not speak of it?” She pushed him away, eyes blazing, and straightened her nightdress. “I must speak of it. Yes—it is only fair. We deserve one another, you and I. But let our eyes be opened. You must know every last indignity of my suffering, every last humiliation, every wrenching diminution of my soul. Whether it is God’s punishment for our sin or the retribution that comes of its own will from men’s actions, I do not know, but you must hear it. Listen, Tristan, while I tell you what the brute has done to me.”

  Tristan sat beside her in the bed, holding hard to her hand.

  “That very night—after you leaped from the window and Branny drank the poison—that very night he came to my bed, heavy as I was with Ysaie, and lay with me. It pained me fierce, which was what he wanted, and I could not keep from crying out. No—say nothing. Be still, I command you. It is your punishment to hear it, as it was mine to endure it. It was the last time he came into my chamber. After we left Lyonesse he never came to my bed. But he—he took me in other places.”

  Tristan gasped. She shot him a sharp look. “For a warrior, Tristan, you don’t show much control. I have learned to hide behind a wooden face while my heart is screaming. Attempt it, for my sake. Or I shall not get through this.”

  “All right. All right. I will.”

  “My confinement with Ysaie was a long one. He was big, and was three days being born. I thought I should die, then. I know I prayed for it. I bled and bled until there was nothing left of me. He had to be put to the wet nurse, for I had no milk, no strength; I could not lift my head from the pillow for a fortnight. And through it all, I had no one to talk to, for my dearest Branny lay deep in the soil of Lyonesse. My only solace was that Mark kept away. Far away. He never even sent to learn of the baby’s birth or if I had survived it. He was gone to Logris, thank God, fighting Saxons.

  “Then, when Ysaie was three months old and I had regained my feet and something of my color, he returned. He began a campaign of insults designed to humiliate me before his men, before his courtiers, before even my own servants. At dinner he would slide his hand under the table and up my skirt. He allowed no protest—he struck me when I objected. He would open my bodice and expose me to his men and his dinner companions. He would take my breast in his hand and ask them all if they had ever seen a finer.”

  “Christ!” Tristan’s face flushed dusky red. But Essylte went on, heedless of the interruption.

  “When I tried to leave he would not let me. He told me it was his right. A few of the men had the grace to be embarrassed and turn away, but most of them enjoyed it. Little by little they began to egg him on. I was no more than his prize cow that he showed to everyone.” She shut her eyes so she would not see Tristan’s tears and continued evenly, “I often went up on the northern battlement to be alone, to weep for you and Branny and all that I had lost. One day he followed me, and when he found me in tears, he grew enraged. He accused me of pining for you, but I would not admit it. He told me I would bear him a real heir or I would die. And then he forced me.”

  “He broke his oath to me that day!”

  “Once in Gwynedd a man tried to rape me,” she whispered, tears seeping from beneath her lids. “He would have done it but for Branny. It was—awful. I used to have nightmares about it. But Markion was—a thousand times worse.” She shuddered. “He enjoyed my pain. He bent me back over the parapet, until I was nearly upside down. To struggle meant instant death.” She bit her lip. “That was the last time he took me in private. After that, he raped me as a matter of routine. He did not much care where it happened, so long as it was public. He took me in hallways, in front of the guards; in the kitchen garden, with all the cooks looking on; in the stables, for the amusement of the grooms; outside in the castle courtyard, on the cobbles, and once—the last time—in the middle of the hall at dinner.”

  “Oh, God! No more—no more, I pray you! The black-hearted fiend!”

  “His men would lay bets on his staying power. All the women hid behind doors, for his men learned to enjoy the sport as much as he. The ones who disapproved were posted elsewhere.” Tristan thought of Sir Bruenor at Caerleon and regretted that he had not stopped to see the man on his way to Cornwall. Perhaps he could have come to Tintagel with reinforcements.

  “If he caught me going up the stairs, he would grab me and lift my skirt. If he caught me coming down, the same. The only place he would not touch me was here, in my chamber, and in the nursery garden, the two places you had been. If I protested, he beat me. And I—I always fought. I could not help it. I could not bear it!”

  “He shall die for this.”

  “I grew to hate him with a passion so virulent, so wild, I plotted long how I could kill him. I had Branny’s herbs, and her book of charms, and what little I remembered of my mother’s spells. I made a concoction for him. I have it in the chest, all ready for him, but he never came to me. Twice I conceived the heir he wanted. . . . Oh, Tristan, I can hardly speak this—I sealed my damnation on the day I drank the broth that rid me of the child.” She looked at him dry-eyed. “I killed my baby. I killed them both. He never knew. He thought I had miscarried. The second time, last winter, I nearly died of it
. I know it was wicked, I know I am damned, but I would do it again if I had to. Oh, Tristan! My loathing has taken me so far from God!”

  “I was a fool to leave you. I should have known I couldn’t trust him—better we died together in Lyonesse than you should suffer thus.”

  “I believe I did die in Lyonesse,” she said slowly. “I am not the person I used to be, and neither are you.”

  “My love. My sweet, enduring love.” He bent over her and kissed her. “Why didn’t you send to Percival for help?”

  “I did. But what had Markion done but assert his rights as a husband? My father told me I must bear it as best I could. It was not his right to interfere.”

  Tristan shut his eyes. Long ago, Pernam had said the same to him when he wished to save Esmerée from Segward. “You didn’t tell him everything you just told me—he’d have come with every warrior in Wales.”

  “No,” Essylte admitted. “I’ve never told the whole truth to anyone but you.” She clung to him a moment, then pulled away. “Our love,” she breathed. “Is it a blessing or a curse? Between us, we have killed Branny, and two babies, and many others who did not deserve to die. We have placed our sons in jeopardy. Mark is on his way here to kill them.”

  “I heard the tale in Maridunum—that’s why I’m here. To take you and the boys away with me. A ship lies waiting off the coast of Lyonesse. I’ve brought help—this very night we shall escape from Tintagel and fly away south.”

  She smiled then, the indulgent smile of a mother to her wayward boy. “Of course. We shall escape and live forever in a land of golden dreams. You have always been a dreamer, Tristan.”

  “But my dear—”

  “Don’t you yet see? The size of your army does not matter. How could it ever be? There is so much more between us now than love.”

  Tristan pulled her closer as if his physical touch could soothe her agony. “What suffering you have borne! Let me take you away from this stifling prison and into the sweet air outside. Your scars will fade with time and distance, and your heart will heal.”

  She said nothing but turned her face away and slid out of bed. She walked across the room to a great carved trunk and fumbled with the catch. Tristan quickly pulled on his leggings and his boots. But when she turned around she carried not her traveling clothes, but his old horn lap harp with horsehair strings. Merlin’s harp.

  “Play for me, Tristan, would you? I should like to hear your music again . . . in the time that we have left.” Her voice sank to a whisper as she spoke and he missed the last words.

  He took the old harp from her hands. “I never dreamed you had this. I thought it was lost forever.”

  “I brought it home from Lyonesse. Next to our sons, it is all I have that is yours.”

  He curled on the bed and tuned it lovingly. “I shall sing you a traveling song, sweet Essylte. Get you dressed and ready for the road.”

  She smiled sadly. “Never mind that. Just play for me.”

  “Within the hour we’ll be gone!” he urged.

  She nodded wearily and reached obediently for her comb.

  Essylte stood at the shuttered window with the night wind breathing through the cracks, listening to the roar of breakers far below. Tristan’s voice rose and fell with the liquid cascade of the harp in a song of love, bittersweet and enchanting. The years dissolved as she stood and listened. Once again she was back in her father’s castle, kneeling with Branwen at the bedside of a handsome stranger while he beguiled them both with his beauty and his song. Her heart lifted. The night wind whispered in her ear. Was it possible she might rediscover hope if she could get beyond the confines of her prison? She had despaired so long that hopelessness had become a habit. But here was Tristan, sitting cross-legged on her bed as if he had never left. His voice, his strength, his beauty, his passion—all were undiminished. If she should let him have his way, if she could rely on his promises, if only she could get beyond this devastating fear, beyond Mark’s reach—

  “Tristan!”

  He looked up, startled at her cry. “Love?”

  “Swear to me now you won’t leave me again.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Promise me we will be together always.”

  “Until death, sweet.” He placed his hand over his heart and extended it toward her. “It is a vow.”

  The door burst open and Markion strode into the room.

  The two men stared at each other. No one moved. No one breathed. In the same instant both men lunged for the sword that still lay in its scabbard on the chair. Tristan, encumbered by the harp, was a trifle slower. Markion got there first.

  Breathing heavily, Markion faced them, a drawn sword in each hand. “By God, I’ve got you now! Caught you red-handed, you fornicating villain! Death is too good for you. No!” he barked at Essylte, “don’t bother to plead for him. Say farewell, if you like. He’s mine now.”

  Essylte shrieked. “Tristan!”

  Tristan dove under the bed as the sword came down, rolling out of sight. Markion bent and stabbed viciously at the crawl space. A hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched it sideways. Markion half fell, catching himself on the bed, but the sword skittered across the floor. Tristan swarmed after it. He leaped to his feet, sword in hand, to see Markion grab Essylte by the arm and pull her in front of him, placing the blade of his sword against her neck. He smiled contemptuously.

  “I’ll not battle for the right to kill you,” he snapped. “Drop the sword or watch her die.”

  Tristan lowered the sword. “Coward. Let her go. This is between you and me.”

  Markion laughed. “To the victor go the spoils? Oh, no. She’s my best weapon against you. Yield, Tristan. This is your deathday.”

  Tristan tossed the sword onto the bed, halfway between him and Markion. Essylte whimpered as Markion jerked her aside.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Markion commanded. Tristan obeyed. Mark walked up to him until the two men stood face-to-face. “You bitch’s spawn.” He spat into Tristan’s face. Tristan twitched, but before he could move, the point of Markion’s blade pressed cold against his ribs. “You’ve ruined Cornwall, you traitorous dog. You’ve ruined Britain. My father’s dreams, your father’s dreams, her father’s dreams—all come to nothing. Over a woman!”

  Over Markion’s shoulder Tristan saw Essylte bend over the chest and lift something from it.

  “You would never understand it, Mark, if I had time enough to tell you the tale from its beginning. Leave it that we must be enemies.”

  Markion smiled. “So long as we both live, we must. But I intend to live long without you. You’ve done making a fool of me. Good riddance to you, harper.”

  Markion thrust his knee into Tristan’s groin and, as he doubled, slipped the blade in between his ribs. Tristan gasped once and slowly crumpled to the floor. Essylte screamed. She flew to his side and bent over him, trying to staunch the flow of blood with her bedgown.

  “Tristan! Oh, Tristan, don’t leave me! I am ready, love, I am ready to follow wherever you lead—to the golden land, to the Paradise of your dream . . .” She bent her head in a long, keening cry, the ends of her hair afloat in the dark pool of Tristan’s blood.

  Markion raised the dripping blade again and squinted at it in the flickering light. “Killed with his own sword. How fitting.” He tossed the sword away, and it clattered across the floor. “I’ve another blade for you if you want to join him.” He reached for the sword on the bed.

  Essylte looked up at him with drowned eyes. “Go ahead. I beg you.”

  Markion grunted and sheathed his sword instead. “I won’t give you the satisfaction. Better you should live to service me.” He clapped a hand to his groin and grinned. “Now that his shadow no longer lies across your bed, I think I’ll visit you here. Make ready, for I’ll be back tonight.”

  He spun on his heel and went out the way he had come, slamming the door behind him.

  Essylte cradled Tristan’s head in her lap and str
oked his hair. Her body shook with unvoiced sobs as tears splashed down on her hands, on his hair, on his livid face. His dark eyes looked up at her, struggling to keep her in focus.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he breathed. “There is a land of golden dreams. I am going to it now.”

  A spasm crossed his face. A thin stream of blood dribbled from his lips, and the light in his eyes began to fail.

  “Don’t go, Tristan! My dear heart, don’t go without me.”

  Love. His lips formed the word but no sound came out. His breath had stopped.

  Essylte pressed her cheek to his, closed his eyes, and slowly rose. Her bedgown was smeared with blood, her face ragged with grief. Only her eyes were calm. She went to the winestand and poured wine into a silver cup. From the painted wooden box she had taken from the chest she withdrew a black linen bag. Outside the door she heard Markion’s shouted orders to the guards. Beyond the window came the sea sounds on the night wind, breathing a gentle summons like a soul in passing.

  She pushed open the shutter and with a small smile emptied the bag into the winecup, stirred it carefully, and knelt beside Tristan’s body. Already the guards were thundering up the stairs.

  “Husband,” she whispered, lying beside him and taking him in her arms. “My beloved, wait for me.”

  As the door burst open she downed the wine.

  EPILOGUE

  THE HAZEL AND THE IVY

  Iseulte stood in the apple orchard wrapped in a thick cloak. Overhead gray skies lowered, muffling the sound of the sea and drizzling a light, cold rain. At her feet stretched two long scars of naked earth, ugly against the new green of the orchard grass. No headstones marked the site. No carved cross, no crown, no mark of honor due a prince’s grave. Only a shoot of ivy to mark his resting place, and a hazel sapling to mark hers.

  Iseulte looked up as a tall robed man came toward her from the nursery door. She attempted a smile and made him a reverence. It was thanks to Prince Pernam that they at least had ground to rest in. Markion had wanted them thrown into the sea, food for fish.