Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  “I want to know what’s going on in that council,” Tristan repeated. “Let’s join them.”

  “And be publicly shamed when we’re thrown out? I have a better idea. In this rain, there’ll only be a couple of sentries, and they’ll probably be guarding the entrance where there’s shelter from the wet. Let’s go around back and eavesdrop.”

  “I’m with you. You might as well undress and go as I am, unless you brought another tunic. We’ll be lying in the mud.”

  No one guarded the rear of the High King’s tent. The night was black. Torches seemed to shed no light at all. In the downpour they could hardly see their hands before their faces. Within minutes of lying prone in the mud their bodies were so filth-spattered they looked more like logs than human flesh. Lifting up the dirty canvas, they stuck their heads carefully inside the tent.

  Warmth assailed Tristan’s senses, the warmth of bodies pressed together in a small space, the musky stench of old sweat and unwashed men, steamy exhalations of bad wine and stale jerky, and above it all the sharp, acrid sting of firesmoke. He lay still and savored the rich heat while icy rain pricked his skin like needles and the thick, muddy ooze sucked him deeper into the earth. It was dark. He could hear the hiss of flames on wet wood, but something large and black blocked his view. Nearby he heard the steady suck and wheeze of an old man’s breathing. His arm slid through the mud and nudged Dinadan.

  “We’re right behind Constantine,” he whispered.

  Dinadan’s fist struck his ribs. “Shut up, fool.” The words breathed on the edge of sound. “Behind his cot. Forgot to mention. He’s wounded.”

  “Wounded!”

  “Shhh! Not bad. Shoulder, I think.”

  As his eyes adjusted, Tristan could see a dull orange glow on the tent cloth and a darker shape that moved across the light, back and forth. But he found he could hear better if he lay still and closed his eyes.

  A man was talking, a voice he did not know, low, clear, and melodic, with the unstudied authority of a commander. An older man, he decided, but still powerful. And by his accent, a Welshman. He was retelling the day’s battle in a light most favorable to the Welsh, calling it a decisive rout. Well, a rout it had certainly been, but they’d been lucky with the terrain. Eight hundred fewer Saxons alive today than yesterday, but many thousands more where they came from, all along the Saxon Shore, the eastern territories, and more lately the rich lands of the southern Briton lords. He struggled to attend to the words, but the man’s voice entranced him. There was something lyrical in it, the timbre both sweet and guttural, as if he tried to speak with a voice meant for singing. As if he tried to tell a tale with one harp string only and left all the others lying idle.

  “Peredur,” Dinadan whispered. “Leader of the Welsh kings. A graybeard. Uncle to Percival, King of Gwynedd.”

  Tristan struggled to remember the map in Markion’s workroom at Castle Dorr. Gwynedd was the largest and strongest of the Welsh kingdoms, and since their federation after Arthur’s death it had been the leader. King Percival was a noble warrior, with many great deeds to his credit. Tristan remembered well the song the bard Hawath had sung about him. The prospect of meeting Percival was the reason he’d begged Markion so desperately to accompany Gerontius to this battle. But Percival had not come. Some excuse had been given about an Irish uprising in Demetia. It might even be true; Irish coastal raiders had kept Markion in Cornwall. Still, it had been a disappointment.

  He heard the name Rhydderch of Powys. Where was Powys? For the life of him he could not remember the names on the map. But he recalled Hawath’s tale, which interwove the lineages of all the great Welsh families, all Cunedda’s children, and gradually the names of Welsh kingdoms came back to him: Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Northgallis, and Guent. Rich names, rich heritage of heroes.

  “Well, that’s torn it,” Dinadan whispered under cover of general conversation as the wine went round. “All the firebrands are here. Peredur’s the only graybeard.”

  “Who’s here? I didn’t catch it all.”

  “Granach of Powys, Emrys of Northgallis, Llanyrr of Dyfed, and Marhalt of Guent, may he roast in Hell. He’s the one who raped Granach’s daughter as she was on her way to the convent her father promised her to. Year before last. Surely I told you that story. Strong as an ox he is, and just as bullheaded. Won’t take no for an answer. He fancied her, so he took her.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “He married her, after.”

  In the dark Tristan grinned. “It was probably a plot cooked up between them.”

  Suddenly the voices quieted as Peredur spoke again.

  “My lord King, as loyal Britons, we are concerned about the Kingdom’s future. We have fought for you, all of us, these twenty years against Saxons and Anglii, against the Irish, even against the Picts.”

  Constantine stirred on the cot. “When it’s suited you,” he wheezed, but Peredur did not hear him.

  “No High King can live forever, and there are those among us, and those back home whom we represent, who wish to preserve a united Britain. We wish to know who will be your choice to succeed you. Let us take council on it, and before we leave this battlefield, let us be certain of our futures that we may avoid bloodshed and warfare upon your death.”

  Constantine struggled to sit upright, his breath rasping in his throat.

  “Bold!” Dinadan whispered. Tristan nodded.

  “Sir,” the High King rasped, “do you think age has blinded me? Am I without sense because I have lived beyond my youth? There will be no bloodshed. Your future is certain now. My son Markion is my heir. Who better than a proven prince of the blood royal to take my mantle? When,” he snapped, “I am ready to pass it on.”

  Angry whispers snaked around the tent. “Blood royal? Who in God’s creation does he think he is?” “The old goat thinks he is Pendragon! Listen to him!” “By Llud of the Otherworld, I’ll have Percival before I’ll have Markion!”

  “No more dirty Cornishmen!” someone muttered a little too loudly, and everyone went still. The only sounds in the tent were the flames’ hiss and the old king’s breathing.

  “My lord King.” Peredur’s cordial voice slid smoothly into the silence. “We Welsh dispute the choice.”

  “Go to Hell!” Constantine croaked, and men jumped from their seats, all shouting at once.

  2 MARHALT

  A mistake, thought Tristan. Outright defiance would gain Constantine nothing. He was outnumbered. The Welsh were ready, organized, and well led. Who would stand for Constantine? Gerontius, a good fighter but a poor substitute for Mark; himself; Dinadan of Dorria; and the princes of Dumnonia, who had served Cornwall for generations. They were, all told, perhaps five hundred strong. And it was foolishness, pure idiocy, to go to war with one another with the barbarian Saxons barely out of earshot.

  No sooner had the thought passed through his head than Tristan heard it voiced aloud.

  “My lords all, this is unseemly.” Peredur’s commanding voice cut through the protests. “We are allies, after all. We are all that’s left of a united Britain. We were once great—some of us here can remember the days of Arthur and what it was like to live in peace. If we fight among ourselves, we do all Britain a disservice, for the Saxons wait poised to pick apart our leavings.”

  “How do you propose to settle this, then?” cried a Cornish voice. “Do you withdraw your insolent opposition?”

  Peredur waited for silence. “That we cannot do. We oppose Markion because he has shown himself to be a greedy, selfish leader who thinks only of his own aggrandizement and not of Britain.” He raised his hand to forestall the storm of protest. “I’m sure it looks quite different to you. You are happy to grow more powerful at our expense. But that is how it looks to us. And it is not, and never was, Arthur’s way.” He paused. “Many of us do not wish to serve King Markion. We want a leader who honors men beyond his own borders. We propose Percival of Gwynedd.”

  “Ha!” sneered Constantine. “Your own ne
phew, by all that’s holy. What a surprise!”

  “Yes, my own nephew,” Peredur acknowledged calmly. “But a man who has seldom taken my own advice when I wished to see Gwynedd rise to prominence among the kingdoms. Instead of Gwynedd, he has always thought of Britain first. He remembers Arthur.”

  “Oh, certainly, and wants his crown!”

  “No.” Peredur spoke sharply. “That has never been his ambition. It is our ambition for him. He does not even know we propose him.”

  This news silenced everyone.

  “Then how do you know he will accept it?” someone asked. Constantine snorted and fell into a coughing fit. Peredur waited until there was silence.

  “If Britain chooses him, he will serve. I know him well. Not even his enemies doubt his prowess as a warrior. He was one of the Twelve who survived Camlann.”

  “My son Meliodas was another,” Constantine spat. “There are heroes beyond your borders, Peredur!”

  “My lord King, no one denies it. Had Meliodas lived to be your heir, we would not be here asking you to choose another.”

  In the dark, Dinadan’s hand found Tristan’s arm and squeezed it.

  Constantine’s breath was short. “I will not choose another. Markion is as able as his brother.”

  “We contest that choice,” Peredur said gravely.

  “How? If, as you claim, you do not want civil war?”

  “We will select a champion to fight in single combat on Percival’s behalf against anyone you put forward for your defense. If our man wins, we choose the heir; if he loses, you do. We are willing to swear, all of us, tonight, by whatever gods we each hold holy, that we will abide for all time by this decision.” Utter stillness blanketed the company. “There are three conditions. Both champions must be kings’ sons; both must be men of honor, Britons born. And both must volunteer.” He paused. “Is this acceptable?”

  “Grandfather,” someone nearby whispered, “let me do it! Let me fight for my father.”

  “Hush, Gerontius,” Constantine growled. “Have you forgotten your ankle? It’s as big as a melon. You can hardly stand upon it. Damn Markion! Why isn’t he here?”

  “Is this acceptable?” Peredur repeated. “Or isn’t there anyone who wants to fight for Cornwall?”

  Tristan ducked out of the tent and pulled Dinadan with him. He shivered with excitement, breathing fast.

  “Don’t you want to see what happens?” Dinadan objected furiously. “Why, the future of Britain is up for grabs!”

  “Quick! There’s not a moment to lose. Will you do me a service, Din?”

  “Certainly, but—”

  “Run to the tent and fetch my sword.”

  Dinadan stared at him. Tristan scooped up great handfuls of mud and smeared it over his chest and arms and legs.

  “What in God’s name are you—”

  “Quick! In another second it will be too late. I need my sword!”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Hurry, can’t you? If I go myself, there won’t be time.”

  Dinadan disappeared into the darkness. Tristan smeared mud into his hair until it was one thick, glossy mass, and tied it behind his head. He covered his face, his neck, his shoulders, then rolled to cake his back. He stood, rubbing the thick ooze well into his legs. Thank God he had come barefoot. When Dinadan returned Tristan was so dark he was invisible in the gloom, and Dinadan called his name aloud.

  “I’m here, oaf, at your elbow.”

  “Good God!” Dinadan jumped. “What have you done to yourself? Have you gone mad?”

  “I don’t need the swordbelt. Just the sword.” Tristan drew his weapon from the scabbard and hefted it in his hand, loving the way it felt, cool and balanced and familiar. “Promise me, Din, that whatever I say, you’ll back me.”

  “First tell me what in God’s name you’re going to do.”

  Tristan smiled. His white teeth were the only part of him Dinadan could clearly see.

  “I’m going to defend my uncle Mark.”

  “Dear God, no! Tristan, they’ll kill you!”

  “Listen.” Tristan spoke gravely. “Do you think I don’t know what they say behind my back? Do you think I’m deaf? Everyone, even you, thinks my uncle Mark has played me for a fool. This is my chance to do him the greatest service of his life, and to reclaim my birthright. If I win his battle for him, he must make me King of Lyonesse or be known all over Britain for a blackguard. It is his test as well as mine. We will know, after tonight, the kind of men we are.”

  Tears ran down Dinadan’s cheeks. “You will be dead, Tris, that’s what kind of man you’ll be. Let Gerontius do it.”

  “He can’t. He’s injured.”

  “It’s certain death! I know who they will choose—Marhalt the butcher!”

  Tristan shrugged. “Every man has a weakness. I’ll find his. And he has more to lose. I am unwed, unpromised, I have no kingdom. And even if I die, well—it will be something new I’ve never felt before.”

  “Oh, God!” Dinadan wept. “You and your damned sensations! Just once, why can’t you think like other men? Let me do it, then. I’m older, I’m a king’s son, I’ve as much right as you.”

  Tristan threw an arm around his shoulders and hugged him quickly. “Your heart wouldn’t be in it, my friend. Mine is.”

  He turned and strode to the entrance to the tent. The sentries cried out in fear and drew their swords.

  Tristan gave the password and pushed past them into the smoky light. Faces turned to him; eyes widened; men gaped. He stood still before them all, sword raised.

  “I accept Peredur’s challenge on behalf of King Markion of Cornwall!”

  Someone laughed. Others grinned. But Peredur, standing alone in the center of the gathering, regarded him gravely.

  “Are you a king’s son?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  More laughter. “King of the swamp, that is!” “He’s blacker than a Spaniard’s whore! King’s son, indeed!” “Worse, he’s blacker than a Pict!” “Be gone, you savage!” “Go back to your cave, animal!”

  Peredur raised a hand and stilled them. “Your father’s name?”

  “Meliodas of Lyonesse. King of Cornwall.”

  The laughter died. Peredur’s blue eyes narrowed and a smile touched his lips. “He was a king, indeed. Your name?”

  “Tristan.”

  Peredur bowed his head in greeting. “Welcome, Tristan. How old are you?”

  “Age was not among the qualifications, my lord. I am a Briton born. Bred and raised by King Meliodas, trained by Markion. You will find me a man of honor.”

  Peredur eyed him thoughtfully. “I believe you.” He turned. “King Constantine, is the lad acceptable to you?”

  Constantine glared at Tristan, clutching Gerontius for support, but he said nothing.

  “No one else,” Peredur ventured quietly, “has volunteered.”

  Constantine nodded sharply. “He is my grandson. Of course he is acceptable to me.” He shrugged. “If he’s fool enough to take your bait.”

  “Very well, Tristan. I regret I placed no condition upon age, but as I did not, I must accept you as well.” He turned and gestured behind him. “This is the man you will face. His name is Marhalt.”

  Out from the shadows stepped the biggest man Tristan had ever seen. Tall and thickly built, with arms and legs the size of tree trunks, and hands that could encompass a man’s waist, Marhalt’s blue eyes bulged as he stared at his young opponent. Tristan’s first startled thought was to wonder what horse had been able to carry him from Wales, or had he walked? The irrelevance of his thought made him smile, and Marhalt frowned.

  “Find me funny, do you, Tristan?”

  “Not at all, my lord.”

  “Then quit your grinning. I’ll make mincemeat of you.”

  Tristan turned to Peredur. “I make one condition, my lord.” Around him men sniggered. Peredur raised a hand for silence.

  “And what is that?”

  “Sir Marhal
t may choose the weapons. I choose the time and place.”

  “It must be done before we depart this valley and not three years hence.”

  “Agreed.”

  Peredur nodded. “Fair enough. Eh, Marhalt?”

  Marhalt stared hard at Tristan and nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Very well. Marhalt—”

  “Wait!” someone cried from the back of the tent. Gerontius hobbled forward into the light. “Tristan. Cousin. Please do not take this upon yourself. By rights this duty should fall to me. Let me fight him. It is my own father’s honor that is challenged.”

  “You are injured, Gerontius. It would be unfair.”

  “Unfair!” Tears sprang to the prince’s eyes. “Do you call this fair? My lords, my lord Peredur, he’s only sixteen, only been a year in the army—”

  “Thanks, cousin, for your praise of me,” Tristan muttered between clenched teeth.

  “And yet this very day, my lord,” a voice cried from the tent flaps, “Tristan has slain a hundred Saxons with only thirty men!” Dinadan stepped forward, clad in boots and leggings, strapping on his swordbelt. “If that doesn’t make him worthy to fight this lecherous dog, I don’t know what does.”

  “Ha! Ha! Lecherous dog!” Cornish voices cried as the Welsh jumped to their feet.

  “Silence!” Peredur bellowed. “We do not want civil war! Let Marhalt do the fighting.”

  “Please, Tristan,” Gerontius begged, “you take on too much. You cannot defeat this man. It is better I should die than you.”

  “Certainly your father would not think so. Take heart, cousin. Perhaps I will defeat him.”