Essylte hurried to the sickroom with the news. She stopped on the threshold. He stood at the window, in boots and leggings, shrugging off his tunic, while Branwen ran her hand over the flaming knife scar on his back.
“The flesh is closed, my lord, but it’s no wonder it’s so tender. The scar is still the color of blood.”
He shrugged and bunched his tunic in his hands. “I know the feel of it. It will never heal. It’s like the other.” Then he looked up and saw Essylte.
She clung to the doorpost. It was the first time she had seen him on his feet. He was taller than Palomydes, with broad shoulders and a neat waist. The sheer animal beauty of him stirred her strangely. Even his scar—surely a battle wound—added to his allure. A purple slash across his flesh, it began on his right side, under the rib, and tore upward across his chest past the midline. How had he lived after such a blow?
He saw her looking and clutched the tunic tight against his chest. The desire to reach out and touch him was almost more than she could bear. Wildly, she cast about for something, anything, to say. “The scar will not heal, did you say? Why not?”
He held her eyes and slowly brought out the words. “I was cut, once, by a poisoned sword.”
Her breath came fast, too fast. She gulped and tried to slow it. “Poisoned? Why, sir, you have come to the right place. We have balms that can heal any poison.”
“I knew,” he murmured huskily, “I had come to the right place.”
Essylte turned and ran. She ran all the way to the queen’s workroom, unlocked it with the key from her pouch, and searched among the shelves for her mother’s special balm, the antidote to her pride concoction, devilsbane. The stuff was so powerful it could counteract anything. At the back of the shelf her hand alighted on the clay pot that bore her mother’s seal. Here it was, at last. She hurried back to the sickroom to find the prince standing stiffly by the window and Branwen frowning by the brazier, nervously plucking at her skirts. Essylte approached and held out the pot of salve.
“Try this, my lord.”
He drew a long breath as she came near him, and dropped the tunic from his hands. “You do it. Please.”
Trembling, she dipped her fingers in the cool salve and lightly touched the scar over his breast. For a long moment nothing happened. Then he gasped. “Mother of God!”
Under her fingers the puckered, purple flesh faded to red, then pink, then pale, then disappeared altogether. Quickly, she applied the salve to the length of the long scar, and within moments his flesh was as new and whole as if he had never been wounded.
“It’s a marvel!” she cried. “It’s bewitchment!”
He turned. “Quickly! Try it on my back.”
She did, and again the scar dissolved itself into new flesh. “How does it feel, my lord?”
He laughed aloud for joy. “Like heaven, you wonderful angel! The burning is gone, and all the pain—you have given me back my health and strength!”
He reached out to take her in his arms, unthinking, and they both froze as their fingers met. Branwen flung herself to the floor and reached under the bed, searching wildly for the swordbelt that had been thrown there with his boots when he had been brought in. She pulled it out and held the scabbard in her hand.
Tristan jerked toward her. “Branwen, don’t.”
Holding her breath, she drew the sword. “My God.”
She met his eyes. He stiffened. “Don’t.”
“What’s the matter?” Essylte cried.
Branwen began to shake so hard the sword waved wildly.
“Please don’t,” Tristan repeated softly.
“I should have known,” she breathed. “I should have known when you played for us. I should have known by the tale, by the fight, by your scar, by your grace, your looks, your voice, by a thousand things—”
“Please, Branwen. Don’t.”
“Did you really think you could get away with it?”
“Get away with what?” Essylte demanded. “What is going on?”
Branwen’s eyes never left his face. “You,” she said slowly, lowering the sword. “You’re the most notorious man in all of Wales. You are Tristan of Lyonesse.”
For a long moment no one spoke. Essylte, eyes on his immobile face, laughed nervously. “Don’t be ridiculous, Branny. Tristan’s dead. Everyone knows that. Prince Tantris is his kin—of a certainty it is a family name.”
Branwen held out the sword. “Look at the blade.”
As Essylte stepped forward a shadow darkened the door. Branwen whirled and thrust the sword behind her, but too late. Queen Guinblodwyn stood on the threshold. Her sharp eyes flicked from the warrior’s naked chest to the pot of salve in Essylte’s trembling fingers, to the empty scabbard on the floor, and came to rest on Branwen. She did not move, but a sudden chill encased the room. Branwen shivered.
“Give me the sword.”
“But my lady—”
Nostrils flared, the queen pointed a finger at her. “Give me the sword.”
Branwen obeyed. The queen held the weapon in her hands, examining the blade. A third of the way from the hilt a small chunk of metal was missing, the jagged edges around the gap neatly filed to razor sharpness. Guinblodwyn reached into the bodice of her gown and drew forth a small square of folded silk. Within the silk nestled a little, shining metal chip. Branwen watched at her elbow as she slid the chip into the gap in the blade. It was an almost perfect fit. Slowly the queen raised her head. Branwen, hardly daring to draw breath, slipped out the door and fled.
“You killed my brother Marhalt.” The words, spoken distinctly, dropped into the silence like icicles into still water.
Wearily, Tristan nodded. “In a fair fight.”
She raised the sword and aimed the point at his breast. “You owe me a life.”
“No!” Essylte threw herself in front of Tristan, holding him behind her. “It doesn’t change anything—It was a fair fight—You won’t kill him! He’s Father’s guest! You have no right! You gave me leave to heal him, and I did!”
Inexorably the queen approached, the sword held level. “Get out of my way.”
Essylte burst into tears. “Kill me, then! Go ahead! I don’t want to live without him, anyway!”
Guinblodwyn stopped, aghast. “Are you mad? You would die for your uncle’s murderer? Where is your honor, Essylte? Where is your sense? This man has murdered, cheated, and lied—there is no honor in defending him. Let me have him and you shall marry whomever you will—I care not—but get out of my way!”
“Never!” Essylte cried, even as Tristan took her by the waist and set her down to one side. The queen lunged. Tristan, expecting it, dove, rolled, leaped to his feet, and snatched the sword from her grasp before she could gather herself for another blow. She screamed and flew at him with her nails, opening the flesh on his shoulder. Firmly, he held her off.
“My lady queen, I wish you might accept my apologies for something that I wish, I truly wish, had never happened.”
“Fiend! Swine! Demon! I spit on the spawn who begot you!”
“I had nothing against Marhalt as a man. I never knew him. He was brave, and an excellent fighter. I was lucky, no more. It could have gone either way.”
“You had the gall to come here! To my home! Who do you think we are, that we would stand for it?”
“I know who you are. You are the witch who poisoned Marhalt’s sword. You wished me dead long before I wished any harm to Marhalt.”
“What?” Essylte cried, pushing forward. “Is this true, Mother? You put poison on Uncle Marhalt’s sword? And—and on Palomydes’s dagger?”
“I put more than poison on that blade,” the queen snapped. “I placed a curse on it as well. I did everything within my power to ensure Marhalt’s success and your father’s right to the throne of Britain. What did you expect? That with such power at my fingertips I should sit idly by and leave it for men to decide? All Marhalt had to do was nick the skin of his opponent. For a man his size, it should hav
e been an easy enough thing to do.” Her voice began to tremble as tears welled in her eyes. “He couldn’t lose. I made sure of that. He couldn’t lose that fight.”
Tristan loosed his hold of her arms and spoke quietly. “It wasn’t that kind of fight. Emotions were running high. Marhalt set himself to kill me. He warned me of it. He did more than nick me, as you saw yourself. He cut me well. If you had let him alone and trusted to his skill, I’d have died of that wound there on the battlefield. I was already blind and dying, with his hands around my throat, when I grabbed the sword and struck him. It was your curse on the sword that preserved me when he died.”
Guinblodwyn shrieked and flung her arms into the air. She wailed and screeched in a tongue Tristan did not know.
“What’s she saying?” he whispered to Essylte. “What tongue is that?”
Essylte gazed at her mother in bewilderment and consternation. “Mountain Welsh. I thought she’d given it up. . . . She’s cursing the foul fates. And asking Uncle Marhalt’s shade to forgive her. She’s calling on the Great Goddess for revenge. . . . What did you mean, that the curse preserved you?”
“It was meant to make Marhalt’s victory certain, so that even if we had the antidote to the poison, the curse itself would kill. But when Marhalt died, the effect of the curse was reversed, saving me. That’s all I know about it.”
Essylte shuddered. “That’s the trouble with witchery—it’s double-sided nonsense. Oh!” She clutched Tristan’s arm. “She’s just promised the Goddess my life for yours.”
Guinblodwyn turned to them with narrowed eyes, dry now of tears.
“Hear this, demon spawn of Cornwall. If I cannot kill you, I will curse you. You can never, ever escape a Druid’s curse.”
“Druid!” He glanced swiftly at Essylte, who stared in horror at her mother and crossed herself fervently.
The low voice spoke levelly. The words echoed in the room as in a vast cavern, and a damp chill crept into Tristan’s bones. “Five generations shall you father, and each of your descendants shall die before his time—a foul death, and without honor. Four women shall place their trust in you and live to see that trust betrayed. Three children shall your loins beget: a whore, a destitute beggar, and a murdering rogue. Twice will you swear before your God an oath you cannot keep—lies you will be called to answer for. And one day—” She drew nearer, her eyes burning in her drawn face. “One day, a man of your own blood shall avenge me, shall kill you when you least expect it, shall slay you with your own cursed sword! Yes, you shall die by the very sword that killed my brother. And in the hour of your death, Essylte, too, shall die. That is what I have promised the Goddess.”
She laughed suddenly, shrilly, and, backing away, drew a dagger from her pouch. Tristan had her wrist in an instant and pulled her arm behind her. Trapped against his body, she spat in his face.
Feet ran down the corridor, voices sang out in the hall.
“Branwen!” the queen snarled.
The doorway swelled with people, soldiers, courtiers, servants. Percival stood in the center of the throng with Branwen at his side.
“Loose the queen!” he demanded.
Wrenching the jeweled dagger from her hand, Tristan let her go. Percival paled at the sight of the dagger and turned to his wife.
“You promised me.”
Guinblodwyn straightened. “I did not know then, my lord, you schemed to give a traitor shelter under our roof.” She spoke with a calm dignity and raised her voice that everyone might hear. “This man is no cousin of King Markion’s. He is his nephew, Tristan of Lyonesse. The villain who slew my brother Marhalt. He has confessed it.”
A murmur of protest swept through the throng of people. Percival’s features hardened. “Whoever he is, he is here as Markion’s proxy. We have only one choice before us: continue this blood feud and wage war with Cornwall, or put the past behind us and look ahead to a future as a united Britain.” He looked around at all the nervous faces. “Let me remind you all, it was Wales that started this fracas. If my uncle Peredur had not been so ambitious for my honor, the queen’s brother would be alive today and we could honor this prince as he deserves.”
“Deserves!” the queen screeched. “You are mad! Kill him!”
Wearily, Percival signaled to his guards. “Remove her.”
The room cleared rapidly once the queen had gone. Essylte helped Tristan into his tunic, and he strapped on his swordbelt.
“My lord,” said the king, “it will be best if you leave tonight. Attend to your countrymen. They will be in danger even if I send extra guards. You will be safest on the ship. Essylte, Branwen, make ready at once. You will sail at dawn. We will forgo the ceremony.” He kissed them both and sighed unhappily. “This is not how I would have it, but I see no other way. Be brave, my daughter. This is not farewell. When your son is born, I myself will come to Cornwall. Until then, remember the importance of what lies before you. Britain herself is in your hands. Let us pray to God that what starts ill ends well.”
Late that night, when the moon had sunk into the sea, Queen Guinblodwyn summoned Branwen to her workroom. The girl had not slept. There had been far too much to do, and too little time. She found the queen alone in the dark chamber, a pair of candles on the worktable shedding the only light. The queen was robed in black. All Branwen could see of her was her cold, white face and her pale hands.
“Ah, Branwen. Thank you for coming so promptly.”
“My lady.”
“Sit down. I will not keep you long. No doubt the king wants to spirit you all away on the dawn tide.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Her lips thinned. “Percival thinks he is being clever.” She studied the girl’s face. Branwen found it impossible to meet her eyes.
“Tell me, Branwen, what do you want from life?”
Branwen looked up quickly. The queen’s face was perfectly smooth, empty of expression. “Me, my lady?”
“I see behind your meek façade, my dear. You are intelligent enough to be ambitious. A woman of your mettle will not be content to be my daughter’s handmaiden all her life. Don’t deny it. Only a fool would want to serve Essylte.”
“My lady does her an injustice.”
“Do I? Perhaps. I confess she is a disappointment to me. You ought to have been my daughter. You have ambitions above your station, don’t you, Branwen?”
Branwen’s eyes were caught in the queen’s gaze and held there. “Yes, my lady.”
“Good. What is it you aspire to?” Branwen shrugged. “I knew your mother, Keridwen,” Guinblodwyn mused. “When I first came to Gwynedd, she was tending the kitchen gardens. I brought her to help me in here. She was a magician with herbs. She healed anything she touched.”
Branwen’s eyes widened and her mouth went dry. She had not known her mother served Guinblodwyn.
“It’s a shame she was not higher born. As it is, with your bastard blood, you can hardly hope to marry a lord in Cornwall. What, then, do you aspire to?”
Her face flaming, Branwen shrugged again.
The queen’s voice sank to a gentle murmur. “You can’t have him, you know. He loves Essylte and he always will. Don’t grieve over it. It’s a waste of your time. He’s a simpleton, in any event. You deserve someone cleverer than that.”
Branwen said nothing. Guinblodwyn rose and went to the shelf behind her, selecting three small dyed linen bags tied at the necks with silken cord.
“I am giving you three gifts before you go. Use them well. If you are as wise as I think you are, you will live a future that you choose.”
She placed the first bag, a green one, in the pool of candlelight.
“This herb is the giver of sleep. One pinch in liquid, and whoever drinks it will sleep the sleep of children, deep, unwakeable, and long. Three pinches produce a painless death, five hours in coming. Save some for old age.” A crimson bag dropped into the candlelight. “Loversbane. An aphrodisiac so powerful there is not a man on earth who will not be driven to c
onsummation within an hour of taking it.” The queen smiled. “Nor any woman. Remember this when you find the man you want.”
Branwen hesitated. “Is that all it does? Does it not produce love?”
Guinblodwyn stiffened. “It’s a distillation of nine herbs, not a magic potion. It will not produce passion out of nothing. It will intensify emotion. In some instances, that may be enough to bring forth love out of liking. But I advise you not to place much importance on love. It never lasts. You cannot afford to be romantic, Branwen.”
A black bag was pushed into the light. “And this is my special gift to you. Witchbane. Deadly. Painful. Quick. Tasteless in wine or strong, hot tea. No one will know.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “This is a key to the highest power in the land. With this, you control your enemies. But it does not come free. There is a price.” She leaned forward until the circle of her white face shone fiercely in the light. “Kill him. I need his death. Kill him on the ship and they will not have the courage to face Markion. You will be back home, with no questions asked, within the fortnight. I will find you a suitor worthy of you, you have my word. Or kill him in Cornwall, and set them all by the ears. Let them accuse one another and fight among themselves. Let it be done where and when you choose. I don’t care, Branwen, so long as he dies. But die he must.”
Branwen reached out a trembling hand and took the linen bags, tucking them securely in her pouch. The queen sat back, a cold smile on her lips.
“And if I don’t kill him?”
“Then I have misjudged you.” The white face leaned forward again. “Don’t cross me, Branwen. You will regret it. I curse you thus: While he lives, your children will be girls, heir to nothing. And it won’t save Tristan. If you don’t kill him, he will come someday to the fate he deserves. I have cursed him, and it will be so.”
She paused. Her voice grew weary; lines appeared around her eyes. “I should be having this conversation with Essylte, not you. These should be her gifts, received from her mother on the eve of leaving home, as I received them from my mother, the Lady Niniane, when I came here to marry Percival. But my daughter, to my great grief, is a light-headed fool. She would not listen to a word I said.”
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