Prince of Dreams

  Segward shook his head. “Look ahead, Mark. What are you going to do about Cornwall?”

  “What about Cornwall?”

  “You are High King of Britain. But you still have Cornwall’s future in your hands. Think about it, Mark. Think now. You need to let the people know. Who will be King of Cornwall after you?”

  Markion’s eyes narrowed as he frowned, searching Segward’s face. “Do I have to decide this now? Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now is the time to act. Are you ready to make your nephew Tristan your heir? Are you ready to acknowledge him publicly when he returns? To let him take Gerontius’s place? To promise him Tintagel?”

  Markion’s features hardened and he looked away. “Hell, no.” He ran a distracted hand through unkempt hair. “But who else is there? My God, Segward, how Meliodas haunts me from his grave! First he takes back Lyonesse, and now Cornwall.” He rose, his face haggard in the firelight. “Damn him! Meliodas’s son will come into his inheritance after all, and I—I, Markion, High King of Britain, will leave nothing behind me.”

  Segward leaned forward, and his voice sank. “Not necessarily.”

  Markion’s head jerked toward his counselor. Segward regarded him coolly, his bright eyes intent. He looks at me, Markion thought, like a bird at a worm.

  “We have spoken before,” Segward said softly, “about a dynasty. A line of Kings of Britain sprung from Cornwall’s seed. A line of kings to reign forever, a royal heritage I can help you build. A line of kings, Mark, descended from you.”

  Markion stiffened and glared at him to keep his eyes dry. “My line is dead.”

  “If you give Tristan Cornwall, you give up that dream.”

  “I did not give it up! God took it from me!”

  “And when the great wave crashes over your castle in the sand and destroys it down to the foundations, do you run weeping from the beach?” The corners of Segward’s mouth twisted upward as his eyes glittered. “Or do you start anew?”

  Markion frowned. He had the sense of slowly twirling, like a leaf in a rising breeze, unconnected to his past, free of his future, a plaything for dust devils and the wayward wind. “Start anew?”

  Segward sat back, half smiling, and held Markion’s eyes. “You are in your prime. With decent luck you’ll live another twenty years. Time enough to raise three more sons to manhood. Time enough to get yourself another heir. It is the simplest solution, Mark. Remarry.”

  Markion shot to his feet and strode away. “Remarry! You talk like a madman. The last thing I want is another nagging, sharp-voiced woman at my heels, always trying to interfere in things that don’t concern her. Heirs are one thing—I confess, I hadn’t thought of that—but wives are quite another. Easy to get, perhaps, but difficult to keep.” He stopped and turned, a malicious smile forming on his lips. “But of course you know that.”

  Segward’s smile broadened, but his eyes grew smaller. “There is always a price to pay. But suppose I found you a wife both young and pretty, sweet-voiced and sweet-tempered, who regarded you more as father than as husband, and who never gave a thought to disobey? What would you say to that?”

  Markion snorted. “You are dreaming. There are no such women.”

  “Suppose there were. Imagine it, just for the moment. The dynasty of Markion lies within her womb.”

  “It wouldn’t bring Gerontius back.”

  “No. If that’s what you want, I can’t help you.”

  Grunting, Markion paced another length of the chamber. “Well. I suppose if such a maiden could be found, I would give it thought.”

  “And suppose,” Segward continued, “that in wedding her you bound forever to Cornwall’s side a rival kingdom and made a friend of a potential enemy, made a promise of a threat.”

  Markion stared. “Why, in that case, I would do it without thought. Is this a leg pull, Segward? Is there such a maiden?”

  Segward rose, rings glittering on his small, fat hands as he straightened his robes about him. “Oh, yes, my dear Markion, there most certainly is. All I have told you is no more than the simple truth.”

  “Who’s her father? Where is this rival kingdom?”

  “Remember the Welsh?” Segward smiled in satisfaction at Markion’s surprise. “Her father is the most powerful man in Britain after yourself. King Percival of Gwynedd.”

  “Percival’s children are babies. I warn you, Segward—”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but time has passed without your knowing. His sons are only a year or two short of warrior age; his daughter is just fifteen.”

  “Fifteen! Already?” He let out a low whistle. “Percival’s daughter. Would he ally himself with me, I wonder? After Marhalt?”

  “Now that you are High King of Britain, I have no doubt of it. He has always wanted peace through strong alliance. Marriage to Gwynedd brings you all of Wales. Percival has kin in Strathclyde; there’s at least a hope of treaties in the north. The match can do you nothing but good.”

  “And she is not promised yet to anyone?”

  “To my knowledge, no. But she is rumored to be a beauty, and we must make an offer soon. You must put the past behind you, Mark, and commit yourself to the future.”

  “Help me decide on the size of the offer, and I’ll send a courier at first light.”

  Something close to a grin touched Segward’s plump face. “No, no, my lord, a courier would never do. Nor such unseemly haste. Have you forgotten the Welshman’s devilish pride? Send an advisor, a man you can trust, to negotiate the terms. Let it be done with subtlety and grace, with a minimum of fanfare, and let it take the long winter to unfold.”

  “You go, Segward. There’s no one better. Be my ambassador and arrange it all. You’re the only one who can.”

  Segward inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord. I would be honored.”

  “And in the spring I will go myself to fetch her.”

  Segward smiled and shook his head. “You are too much the soldier, my lord, and not enough the diplomat. You are far, far too direct.”

  “So? I am a soldier. The direct route is the shortest one.”

  “Ah, but now you are Lord of Britain. The direct route might make you enemies you cannot afford. Give a thought to the circuitous approach. There might be those in Wales, in Guent, say, who will howl at the very idea of your standing on Welsh soil.”

  Mark threw up his arms in exasperation. “Well, what would you have me do, then? Send for her as though she were my servant? Surely that would be a snub Percival could not ignore.”

  Segward paused, and Markion could feel his thoughts sharpening as surely as if he heard the scrape against the whetstone. “There is a middle road, my lord. A time-honored one. Used by Arthur Pendragon himself. Send a royal escort and a proxy to represent you. Have her escorted south in grandeur and ceremony, and meet her here at the gates of Tintagel. Percival will be impressed, honor will be conveyed, and you need not set foot in enemy territory.”

  “Surely once we are betrothed the Welsh will be our friends.”

  “Once the marriage is consummated and blessed with heirs, once a son of Wales is heir to the throne of Britain, they will love you well enough. But until then, you will be welcomed only in Gwynedd, and even then with reservation.”

  “If Wales is such a dangerous place for a Cornishman, how can I send you, Segward? I will not risk your life among them. I need you here.”

  “Percival is honor-bound to protect me during the negotiations. I’m hardly a warrior. I may be scorned and made the butt of jests, but I’m unlikely to be attacked. There would be no honor in killing me.” Markion’s face relaxed in relief. Segward leaned forward intently and placed a hand on his arm. “But neither can I be your proxy, Mark. I am not highborn. I am not of the blood royal. You would insult Percival to send me.”

  “Then who can I send?”

  Both men went still, looking at one another. Stretched on the hearth, the dog raised his head
and whimpered. Sweat broke on Markion’s brow.

  “There is only one man,” Segward said.

  Markion swallowed. His breathing quickened. He whirled away and strode down the length of the chamber. The dog rose from the hearth and watched him, whining.

  “He may be the only one suitable, but Christ, Segward! He’d never go—I could never ask him. As it is, my remarriage robs him of his future. How could I possibly send him to fetch the bride? It’s callous, it’s cruel, it’s beneath me.” He stopped in midstride and suddenly laughed. “It’s worthy of you.” Segward inclined his head, accepting the remark as a compliment.

  Markion resumed his pacing. “But it’s too obvious. Everyone knows how dangerous it would be for him in Wales. Why, they’d kill him before he put a foot ashore! And how would I look, then?”

  “They think he is dead.” Segward’s voice was a low, flat calm in the whirl of Markion’s storm. “We started that rumor ourselves.”

  “They’ll know he’s living as soon as they see him!”

  “They will not know. Peredur is dead. Percival has never seen him. The only men who can recognize him are Percival’s soldiers, and they would not know him now. They only saw him covered in mud. He was sixteen then, still more a boy than a man. He’s eighteen now, taller than you are, grown broad in the shoulder and lean in the face. No one who saw him then would know him now. And, of course, we will give him a false name. He will go as your cousin, Tantris of Caer Budeca, son of Rivalen, son of Constantine’s brother Gerfeint.”

  “Rivalen had no son.”

  “The Welsh won’t know that. He was a hermit. He could have had a hundred children unbeknownst to them. Or to us, for that matter.”

  “He was mad, Segward. He threw himself from a cliff at thirty.”

  “They won’t know that,” Segward repeated patiently. “What matters is that they will accept your proxy as a legitimate son of Cornwall’s royal house. Since you cannot send your own son or your nephew, he will be deemed an acceptable replacement. That’s all that matters.”

  Markion whirled and strode back down the room, the dog trotting after him. “It won’t work, Segward. Even if he fooled them, even if he agreed to go, which he won’t—what a halfwit I would look, sending him! Would you make me the scorn of all Cornwall? My own people will see the injustice of it, even if the Welsh do not. They’ll think I sent him to his death on purpose. That’s all I need, to drive a wedge between us. He’s Meliodas’s son and the people love him. Let me send him once into the lion’s den, let me even seem to wish him ill, and no one in Cornwall will ever follow me again. They will despise me, down to the last goatherd.”

  He stopped before Segward, breathing hard, hands on his hips. “As it stands now, I’ve given him Lyonesse and I’ve trapped him there, if you’ll only let him be. Let him stew on that godforsaken rock he loves so much. Let him stay there at the bottom of Britain, out of my way, out of the people’s sight. For God’s sake, let him stay there. I don’t want to risk my kingdom for Meliodas’s son.”

  Segward stoked the fire, unmoved, and then looked up. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “I’ve heard everything. It won’t work. They’ll kill him and I’ll be blamed.”

  “No. The danger is so obvious it will never occur to the Welsh to suspect him. They wouldn’t believe the truth if he proclaimed it.”

  “Are you trying to tell me there’s no risk?”

  “Not precisely.” Segward’s voice went soft. “There is risk, of course. The danger is undeniable, given his utter lack of subtlety. Suppose for a moment that the worst happens. Think, Mark, of what it would mean for you.”

  “I tell you, I won’t have his death laid at my door.”

  “But if it is laid at Percival’s door?” The small eyes glittered; the soft body leaned forward. “If the Welsh do it for you?”

  Markion frowned, biting his lip. “I will still be held to account.”

  “To what end? You will be the only one left alive who can lead Cornwall. You will be the undisputed rightful heir. You will have no rival. You can take your pick of Cornish maidens to found your dynasty. You can do absolutely anything you choose. You will be the only one the men can follow. Don’t you see?” Segward’s lips drew back, revealing small, even teeth. “You can’t lose. You win either way.” He chuckled silently, his cheeks creasing, his body fluid with spasmodic laughter. The hair rose on the back of Markion’s neck.

  In the long silence, the snap of the fire grew unnaturally loud. The hound, grown bored, slept again on the hearth.

  “How will you get him to go?” Markion whispered at last.

  Segward breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. “That is easy, really. He will want to go. He will volunteer.”

  “Are you mad? Whatever makes you think so?”

  “It is part of his charm that he risks his life for you. He doesn’t do it for the people’s adoration; he likes to do it. I know him better than you think. He’s a neighbor of mine in Lyonesse.” Segward’s voice had grown rough, and he paused to clear his throat. “Send him a letter and open your heart to him. Tell him about your plan to unify the kingdoms, to re-create the kind of union that existed in the golden days of Arthur. You know his great love for Arthur and the Companions.”

  “It’s because he met Galahad once when he was a child. It made an impression on him.”

  “Explain to him that you have offered for Percival’s daughter, although you have no desire to remarry, because you have a vision of uniting Britain once again under a strong king. Tell him your problem—war has taken all your relations from you, all but him and Pernam.”

  “Pernam!” Markion snorted. “The lover of boys. He hardly counts as a relation.”

  “Put it that there is no one but Tristan worthy to represent you. But you can’t send him into Wales, for obvious reasons. Ask his advice on what to do.”

  Markion frowned. “He’ll tell me to stop being so careful of my own skin and go to Wales myself.”

  “That is you speaking, not Tristan,” Segward said calmly. “I know what Tristan will say. I know Tristan as well as he knows himself.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am reasonably certain. And there is another reason he will want to go.”

  “Oh?”

  “Percival himself. Since boyhood, Tristan has wanted to meet Percival of Gwynedd. He dreams about him sometimes.”

  “However do you know that?”

  “I have my sources. However reluctant.” Segward began to chuckle again, and Markion turned away.

  “What if something happens, if he is discovered or kills one of them? The marriage is sacrificed and my dynasty is again in ashes.”

  “And we will have war with the Welsh.” Segward watched him coldly. “It is a risk. But for great ambition, risks must be taken. If you win the war, any maiden in Britain will be glad to have you. Do you want to be the founder of a line of kings that will outshine the name of Arthur? Or do you want Tristan to love you until the end of your days, then succeed you and eclipse you? This is the choice before you, Markion of Cornwall.”

  Markion walked away and pushed open the shutters of the western window. The wind rushed in, clean and sharp with salt. Above his head clouds raced across the frozen, starlit sky. He drew a deep breath of the biting air and exhaled slowly. Life was short and often bitter. Would he be numbered among the thousands who lived and died without a trace? Or would he be one of a handful whose names were remembered beyond a generation, like Cunedda, like Ambrosius, like Lancelot, like Arthur?

  “All right. I will do it.”

  They talked about Cornwall’s offer late into the night. At last Markion stretched and drained his winecup.

  “How you have the time to think of such far-fetched plans, I’ll never know. But I’ll bet there’s something you’ve not thought of.”

  “Indeed? What would that be?”

  “What if, as happened with Arthur himself, the bride falls in love w
ith the proxy before she ever meets the bridegroom? Even so great a king as Arthur was bedeviled by that mistake until the end of his days.”

  “Not thought of it? Of course I’ve thought of it. Although, in truth, it hardly matters. She will go where she is promised, and bear you the sons she is required to bear. Do you care overmuch that she love you?”

  “I hate discord in my house.”

  “Put yourself in her place, my lord. She is young and about to be forced to leave her home forever. She is far more likely to hate the very sight of your proxy than to love him, whoever he is. Unlike Guinevere, she has not been raised to revere the name of any king but her father. The very thought of Cornwall will be anathema to her.”

  “But if she hates Tristan for taking her away from her home, how much more will she hate me when she gets here? I am the very cause of her distress.”

  “By the time she gets to Cornwall, she’ll be away from familiar surroundings and too frightened to show her temper. She’s fifteen. It’s unlikely she’s ever been out of her own valley. Use your charm, Mark. You can be her protector, her guide, her friend. Be a second father to her; she will revere you. If we arrange things right, you have a very pleasant life ahead of you.”

  Markion stroked his beard thoughtfully. “For a time, perhaps, if we are successful. But have you forgotten the nature of women? Before she is twenty she will think she knows everything. Even kittens grow up to be cats.”

  “Give her a passel of children and by the time she is twenty she will have no time for you.”

  Markion smiled bleakly. “I suppose you are right.” He rose and stretched again. “I’ll sleep on this, and we’ll talk again in the morning. Nothing can be done until the buryings are over.” He sobered and walked to the door. As his hand touched the latch he turned back. “By the way, you never told me her name. The mother of my dynasty. What’s her name?”

  “Essylte.”

  “Essylte?” Markion frowned as he tried out the name. “Strange. But pretty.”