“Esmerée!”
She lifted a finger to her lips and slowly smiled. The shock of that smile tore through his body. A sound like thudding hammers filled his ears. He jerked upright on the pallet. Moonlight lit the smooth curve of one bared shoulder. She came to him silently, from light to shadow, and knelt at his side. The hollow of her throat throbbed in steady time; her sweet breath blew warm against his cheek. As she leaned forward the robe swung open, revealing the dark, curving crevice between her breasts. A moan escaped him. She kissed his mouth, drawing his hands to her body, lifting them to her breasts, a mother’s breasts, full and firm with nipples already erect.
“Why?” Tristan gasped. Under his hands her flesh was warm silk, smooth, glorious, and unbelievably soft.
She laughed, a low sound of joy deep in her throat, and then caught her breath as his hands moved, curving to her shape, caressing with a tenderness she had only dreamed of. “Oh, Tristan,” she breathed, her lips against his ear, “I do this for myself as much as for you. I want, just once, to know the pleasure without the pain. And you, my sweet, my beautiful, generous boy, if you must live with his hate for my sake, let it at least be for a reason.” She put a hand against his chest and felt how it pounded. “I am going to teach you how to love a woman. It is a gift worth having. If you learn well, you will thank me for it all the rest of your life.”
She kissed him again, moving her hands on his body. Leaning into his touch, she shrugged off the robe.
PART II
6 MARKION
“Good hunting today, my lord?”
“Those are the last deer we’ll get this season, Segward, unless we’re very lucky.”
“Aye, my lord, perhaps, but you’re well known for your luck.”
A company of men followed the king into the hall, stomping snow from their boots, blowing upon their hands, raising their voices in exaggerated retellings of the day’s events.
Markion strode to the log fire and held his hands out to warm before the blaze. He was a tall man of middle years, with gray in his hair and beard and a body kept lean and hard with a soldier’s discipline. Only at the neck and wrists did his leanness hint at the stringiness of coming age. He was plainly dressed in boots, leather leggings, leather tunic, and woolen cloak, but his cloak was pinned at the shoulder with the great enamel badge of Cornwall, the Black Boar with amber eyes, and around his neck he wore a golden torque. A servant approached with a cup of mead. Markion drank deeply, turned from the fire, and sighed.
“All in all, it was a good day. How was it with you, Segward? Where’s Merron? Is there any news?”
The shorter man shook his head. “Not yet, my lord.”
“Surely they’ve given the Saxons battle by now. It’s less than a week’s ride to the river mouth.”
Segward shrugged lightly. “Perhaps the barbarians made it up the river to the high ground. Even so, it is possible Merron is right and Constantine has enough men to take them, even without the Welsh. But if they’ve made the high ground, it will take longer.”
“And cost more.” Markion frowned darkly. Behind him his hunting companions were sitting down to table as servants hurried in, laden with food. But although the meal could not begin until he took his place, he made no move to join them. Instead, he regarded his advisor. Segward was near his age, a little older, but there was nothing soldierly about him. Heavyset with flesh slack from light use, arms adorned with silver armbands and fingers thick with rings, swaddled in a soft woolen robe with a decorated border a handspan deep, he looked, Markion mused, like an old, fat peasant dressed in a rich man’s clothes. Until you looked into his eyes. Those quick, sharp eyes missed nothing. They seemed to have the ability to see around corners and into the dark. It was for those eyes, and the sinuous subtlety of his thinking, that Markion employed him as political advisor. He dared not let him serve anyone else.
“Perhaps I should have followed your advice and sent for the Welsh,” Markion said slowly, still frowning. “But you wanted Tristan there, and I could not do both.” Segward said nothing. They had gone over the arguments a dozen times before. “The next time, Segward, I will go myself. I will not let you talk me out of it again. I’m too often at home. People say I leave the defense of Britain to my relations, father, son, and nephew while I hide at Tintagel. I cannot abide that.”
“Someone must defend our homeland from the godforsaken Gaels. We know they fear you and keep watch upon your movements. If you leave Cornwall, my lord, they will be upon us like a swarm of biting flies.”
Markion shook his head. “Let Gerontius handle them and make a name for himself among them. I should be out there in Britain, among the kingdoms, letting people learn who I am.”
“Why?” Segward asked softly. “Your succession to the High Kingship is already ensured. You have little to gain by risking yourself against the Saxons, and perhaps much to lose. Give it time, my lord. Remember what King Arthur used to say. All things come to him who waits.”
Markion grunted. “And where is Arthur now? Dead these three and twenty years. Killed at forty by his own son. That’s what comes of waiting. Come, Segward, more of this later. The men want to eat, and so do I.”
After dinner the wine and mead went round. Men stretched out on the hearth, elbowing the dogs for a space near the fire. Some lay on the benches or sat in groups, idly talking, eyes sliding closed from time to time, bellies full of meat and wine, warmed by the log blaze.
Markion sat in his big chair, the king’s chair of Cornwall, with his eyes upon the fire. Segward’s mention of King Arthur still rankled. He was determined that one day his own fame would outshine that of Arthur, and his name, not Arthur’s, would be remembered through the generations. Even now, so many years after Arthur’s death, the memory of Pendragon had the power to infuriate him. Who had Arthur been to deserve such a legacy of admiration? A bastard born of rape and betrayal. A scoundrel’s by-blow. Nothing more.
The tale of his begetting was the tale of Cornwall’s shame. Uther Pendragon had no sooner been crowned High King of Britain when he invaded Cornwall, sneaked into Tintagel, and raped Ygraine, Cornwall’s duchess, behind the old duke’s back. Yet it was thanks to Duke Gorlois that Uther had a crown at all. Gorlois had been instrumental in enabling Aurelius Ambrosius, Uther’s elder brother, to retake Britain from the usurper Vortigern. Uther had owed allegiance to Duke Gorlois, who had made Ambrosius High King. Instead, Uther had killed Gorlois on the battlefield and raped his wife. And what had Uther done with the product of this criminal union? Instead of exposing him on a hillside or throwing him into the sea, he had handed the ill-begotten child to Merlin the Enchanter, to be hidden from his enemies, to be coddled, spoiled, and raised as a prince.
You would think, Markion brooded, that it shouldn’t be difficult to outshine a man with such beginnings. But men had loved Arthur. He had possessed that most elusive of gifts, the ability to lead men by inspiring their love. And in his youth even Cornishmen had loved him, for he had made Cador of Cornwall, Gorlois’s son, his heir. Had he stuck to that promise, Markion, too, might have followed him anywhere.
But the acorn never fell very far from the tree. When Cador’s son Constantine reached manhood, had Arthur formally declared him? In a move that had shocked all Britain, Arthur had acknowledged a pagan bastard from the outland Orkneys as his own son and made the uncouth brat his heir in Constantine’s place. A veritable outlander! A pagan as wild as the seas that raised him—and begotten on Arthur’s own sister, if the tales were true, as evil a sorceress as ever blackened Britain’s darkest haunts. This was the boy Arthur had chosen over Constantine, this demon’s spawn, this witch’s whelp, this incest-bred traitor, Mordred.
Markion’s lips thinned in a bitter smile. For that, the great Arthur had deserved the fate that overtook him. The heir he chose had been his death. Markion himself could not have devised a sweeter revenge. He sighed deeply and signaled a servant to pull off his boots. Holding his feet to the fire, he rested his legs
against the body of his favorite hound, sprawled asleep beneath his chair. To either side of him stood Segward, his advisor, and Merron, his seneschal, the two companions he was never without except on the battlefield. Sometimes he was tempted to think of them as gadflies. They never let him be, never stopped planning, never stopped plotting, never stopped goading him to action. But these were the men who shared his dream of a kingdom greater than Arthur’s, of a legacy more enduring. Thanks to them, he had never been more powerful. His future as High King of Britain was ensured. Thanks to them and to his nephew, Tristan.
His fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. What to do about Tristan of Lyonesse? Surely God had blessed him, to let him live. Many of his own men believed that. The common people all over Cornwall loved him. Meliodas’s son, they still called him, a good lad, noble, brave, and honest, the image of his father. Aye, that was the trouble. He was the image of Meliodas.
Growing up in Meliodas’s shadow, Markion had seen at close range the spell his brother could cast over men. Like Arthur, he not only inspired them, he won their loyalty and worship, he seduced their love. To a man they would gladly have died for him. What Markion would not give for the secret of that magic! But try as he might, it had always eluded his grasp. Had Meliodas not fallen to an Irish sword, Markion would not be sitting in the king’s chair at Tintagel with the crown of Britain within his grasp, and he knew it well. He wished heartily his success had not come at the hands of Meliodas’s son. He hated owing so much to Tristan. There was no way to repay that debt, and people would remember it. The last thing he needed was a budding Meliodas in his kingdom, a man whom people could point to and say: If it weren’t for him, Markion would not now be king.
“My lord,” Merron murmured in his ear, “what dark thoughts are you thinking, to make you brood so? Have another cup of wine. The hunt was successful. Within the week we will no doubt hear of yet another great victory over the Saxons. Prince Gerontius will return home covered in glory. There is nothing to brood about.”
“And Tristan?” Markion muttered, half to himself. “Will he come home, too?”
“Why, surely he will, my lord.” Merron shot a swift look at Segward. “The men believe his sword is touched with magic. They are all eager to fight in his company. Thus he is surrounded by the best knights in Cornwall. Do not doubt he will come home safely.”
Markion half turned in his chair to see Segward’s face. “If he is so much as scratched by a Saxon weapon while I’m here in Cornwall, I’ll not be able to ride abroad among my own people. Why was it, Segward, you so badly wanted him to go?”
“Does my lord not remember,” Segward replied smoothly, “that young Tristan had lately been suffering from his moods? He penned himself too long inside his castle, and took to acting rashly—riding out alone at breakneck speeds in the early hours of morning, sailing alone in stormy seas out of sight of land. A call to battle was exactly what he needed to bring him to his senses. You know him, my lord. When once the soldier in him is awakened, he is unstoppable. Without doubt he has sent the Saxons fleeing. His exploits will be the talk of the army for months to come.”
Markion barked a short laugh. “That I can believe. Have you been spying on my nephew again, Segward? Surely I must have foes more dangerous.”
Segward’s mouth slid into a mirthless smile. “I watch everyone, my lord.”
“Fine, fine. Just remember this: I can’t afford to have his death laid at my door. So let him stay in Lyonesse, why don’t you? Out of danger. Let him play his harp and sing his songs. Forget him. He’s spinning moonbeams, not plotting my downfall. He’s a bard at heart.”
Not a muscle moved on Segward’s face, but his small eyes hardened. “He is the son of Meliodas. He must be watched.”
Markion nodded slowly and turned back to the fire. “All right, then. Watch him if you must. But if he’s wounded, just see that I’m not blamed.”
The door flew open, and a cold gust of wind sent the flames dancing. A courier staggered in, numbed with wet. Merron hurried to his side as idle conversation died and the hall went still. Shrugging the snow from his cloak, the tired courier followed Merron to Markion’s chair and went down on one knee.
“My lord king.”
“Rise, Krinas. Do you bring us tidings of defeat or victory?”
The courier replied without expression, “We loyal Britons have defeated the Saxons in a rousing victory.”
The room erupted with cheering as men awakened and harkened to the news.
“Five leagues from the river mouth we caught them, my lord. But there were many more than we had estimated. It took—”
“How many?”
A weary shrug. “Two thousand, roughly. Cynric himself was there. It took a week and every man we had. In the end, we drove them from the land and back down the river. But we could not hold the river mouth against them, my lord. They were so mobile; we were so few. We had to burn the land.”
“Never mind,” Markion said fiercely, so that all could hear. “We denied them access to the land they wanted. They will never settle their farmers on our soil. Let them go back out to sea and vent their rage. I care not if they own the seas—we own Britain!”
The soldiers cheered again, drunken and ecstatic, while Markion smiled wryly to himself. Not one of them reflected that Cornwall was a land bound by the sea, wrapped by coastlines, as vulnerable to sail as to horse. He was certain Segward was thinking of it, and of the Irish raiders who knew it, too.
Markion rose and lifted his goblet. “A toast!” he cried, and the men sprang to their feet, reaching for their winecups. “To the glory of Britain, and the glory of my father, the High King Constantine!”
The men shouted, stomped their boots and drank. “To Constantine!”
But the courier paled and again went down on one knee.
“My lord.”
“What is it, Krinas? Tell me.”
Markion raised a hand. The noise in the hall settled to a restless murmur. “My lord Markion, we paid a heavy price for victory. The High King Constantine—my lord, the High King is dead.”
Silence fell. Markion did not move.
“Long live the High King!” someone cried wildly. “Long live Markion!”
“Long live the High King Markion!” they all shouted, grinning, slapping one another’s backs, and finally kneeling before the new King. Markion watched them without expression, then turned back slowly to the courier.
“How did he die?”
“A broken neck, my lord. A messy skirmish—he was thrown from his horse. Sir Gerontius and Sir Tristan begged him not to ride, but he refused to take the field in a litter.”
“An honorable death,” Markion said calmly. “We will mourn him with a public ceremony. When does Gerontius bear the body home?”
The courier avoided his eyes. The hand that went to his pouch shook visibly, his fingers stiff as he withdrew a piece of parchment, much folded, unsealed.
“My lord King, my lord—” He forced himself to look up at Markion’s frozen face. “My lord King, this is a letter from Sir Tristan, explaining and saying how sorry—” He gulped hastily. “—what a tragedy it was—Prince Gerontius was also killed.”
The soldiers gasped. Merron clutched Markion’s shoulder. The king himself did not move, could not move, but stared in disbelief at the trembling messenger. Segward bent and took the folded paper from the courier’s fingers.
“My lord, he came to Constantine’s aid, he and all his company. But it was an ambush, my lord. They didn’t see the Saxons in the woods and were taken by surprise. They were all taken by surprise.”
Markion’s lips moved slowly. His voice was a bare whisper. “How did we ever defeat them?”
“Sir Tristan, my lord, your nephew. It was Tristan of Lyonesse who routed them from the woods and drove them to the river. He had circled behind the woodland, outguessing their strategy, and when they looked up from their slaughter, they found themselves surrounded. That’s when they fl
ed. They lost two to every one of ours.”
“They didn’t lose as much as we did!” Merron cried, gripping Markion’s arm. “How could this have been foreseen? Cynric himself—he was reported in Saxony, my lord, a mere month ago. How could Gerontius—”
“Shut up.” Markion’s voice was cold and flat. Merron withdrew, wiping his eyes. Breathing hard, Markion turned to the room and looked into the stricken faces of his men. “Leave me.” Heads down and eyes averted, they shuffled out. “Segward. Stay.”
Markion stood before the fire. The hound pressed against his leg, tail beating a gentle rhythm on the floor. Segward saw the hard control that held in his grief, the clenched jaw, the upright body, the blank, icy stare.
“Go on, Mark,” he said gruffly. “Let it out.” And he turned away and crossed the room to stand before an old tapestry, worn with time, hung to keep out the winter drafts. He stood there a long time, listening to the awkward, broken sobs of a man familiar with pain, but not with its release. How much easier it would be if Markion had an enemy to fight, a miscreant to punish with his own hands, to reach out and grapple physically with the anger in his soul. What he needed, Segward thought, was a woman.
When the sound of weeping died, Segward turned. Markion sat hunched over in the big chair, his hands clasped, his beard wet with tears. Approaching in silence, Segward stoked the fire and pulled up a stool. He waited.
“Ah, God,” Markion muttered. “I remember when Elisane died, I thought, Go in peace, unhappy woman. You have done your duty, you have borne me three fine sons to build my kingdom on. And now—” His eyes squeezed shut as he drew a trembling breath. “Now they are gone. All three. Constans but a baby, Gerfeint at seven. And now, my pride, my firstborn—Jesu God! What have I done to deserve it?”
“More to the point,” Segward said quietly, “is what you’re going to do about it.”
The complete calmness of his voice struck Markion. He opened his eyes and straightened in the chair. “What do you mean? I’m going to bury him next to my father.”
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