Essylte clutched at his hand. “Where, Tristan? Where can we go that no one will know you? All of Britain will be looking for us. You can never put your hand to a harp, or sing aloud, or talk in your sleep. Or wield a sword. Where will we be safe?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere! It must be possible.”
“The High King will get word to all his allies,” Branwen said quietly. “You must seek refuge among Britain’s enemies. Saxons? Franks? Alemans? Who will shelter you and risk war with Britain?”
“Oh, no!” Essylte pleaded, looking up at Tristan. “I couldn’t do that to my father. Seek shelter with his enemies? Oh, don’t ask it, I pray you, Tristan. If you love me, don’t!”
Tristan looked down at her. “Where, then? Shall we disguise ourselves as beggars? Shall we live in caves in the wilds of Rheged? You can no more hide your birth, Essylte, than a swan can pass for a goose. And I would not foist such a life upon you, when but for me you might have all of Britain at your feet.”
“I don’t want all of Britain. I want you.”
“O God, deliver us! Is there no way out?” Tristan fell to his knees, and Essylte slid from the chair into his arms.
Branwen watched them, unmoving. They were circling, slowly but inevitably, toward the center of the web she had so carefully designed. All that was required of her was patience. Soon, very soon, they must do her bidding. Their tenderness, their very devotion to each other, would be their own undoing. She schooled her face as they embraced before her, ignoring her presence. Once—how recently!—their whispers and their cruel kisses had struck at her like knives. Now she had armor against them. She rose and stood at the window, looking out. If Tristan truly loved the girl, he was trapped. If not, she herself had risked little, lost nothing. But how long would it take them to decide to do what they must do?
The sun rose high, and then began its long descent. Still Tristan paced back and forth across the chamber; still Essylte wept and wrung her hands. Again and again they went over all the possibilities, but they came no nearer a solution. To live, they must separate, and separation to them meant death. Essylte lay upon the bed with a headache from so much weeping. Tristan drank a skin of wine. Branwen said nothing but had fruit and bread brought in, which no one touched. Junius came twice to beg Tristan’s attention, and twice was sent away. The third time, he had the ship’s captain with him, who wished to report to Tristan on the readiness of the ship. Glaring at Junius, Tristan strode out to hear him. The damage to the ship’s hull had been repaired, and the sail mended. If Tristan wished, they could sail on the morning tide. Tristan nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and returned to Guvranyl’s chamber, shutting the door behind him.
Dinner was brought in. No one ate. Finally, dry-eyed and exhausted from weeping, Essylte spoke.
“Tristan, there is only one choice before us. You see it as clearly as I.”
“No.”
“My love, I must marry Markion. If I don’t, you will die.”
“What is death? I will not give you to him.”
“Let me do it, Tristan. It’s the only way for us.”
“For us? What is left for us if you marry my uncle?”
“We will live. You will live, and I will see you from time to time. We may at least have speech together.”
“Speech.” He spoke bitterly. “This is a life of torment you doom us to.”
“But it is life. Who knows what might happen? Markion will not live forever. You said yourself you would not wish death or shame upon me. Yet any other course will bring us to such straits.”
“God forgive us, there must be some other way.”
“God will not forgive us for a sin we don’t regret and would do again. There is no other honorable end for us.”
“Oh, Essylte! How can I give you to him?”
“Because I ask it of you, love. Because it has to be.”
“Sweet Christ. To have brought you to such a pass.”
“Is there any other way? Tell me, and I will do it.”
A long pause. At the window, Branwen hardly breathed.
“No.” His voice was weary, defeated. “I would rather see you High Queen of Britain than disgraced for my sake. If it must be so, so it must be.”
“Thank you, Tristan.”
Branwen turned. They stood together, arms about each other, lips joined in a sensual kiss. Her fingers dug into the window ledge. They were almost there.
“But my dear love,” Tristan whispered, “we have forgotten something. You are no longer maiden. He will know I—someone—has been with you. There is no getting around it. Even drunk to the point of senselessness, Mark will know.”
Essylte closed her eyes and leaned against him. Branwen let out a long, silent sigh.
“I would not turn time back, even if I could,” Essylte murmured. “Oh, Tristan, I can’t bear this any longer! Let us choose death together if there is no other way.”
Tristan’s arms tightened about her. “If only—if only there were some way to fool him.”
At last Branwen stirred. “Perhaps there is.”
She had been silent for so long, her words had the effect of a thunderclap. They both jumped.
“How?” Tristan asked eagerly. “You have a plan?”
Branwen held herself very still. “The king must be deceived for only one night.”
“Yes. One night.”
“Then you need someone to take my lady’s place. For one night.”
“Take my place?” Essylte looked quickly at Tristan. “Is this possible? Can it be done? Would he not know, by her shape or voice, that it was not me?”
“He would know,” Tristan said, “by the hair alone.”
“Not everyone looks at me with the eyes of love,” Essylte replied with a ghostly smile. “Perhaps it could be hidden somehow?”
Branwen stepped closer to them. “I think, my lady, that if the imposter were of your age, your height, your shape, and knew you well enough to imitate your ways, it might be done. Markion will not know you well. The room will be dark. We can find a way to disguise the hair.”
“But where can we ever find such a maiden? How could I ask it of her? Who would want to make such a sacrifice for me?”
Branwen took a deep breath very slowly. “I would.”
Essylte gasped. “You? Oh, Branny! No! I daren’t let you.”
Tristan rose. He took both of Branwen’s hands and searched her face. “Are you serious? Would you do it? Why?”
Branwen dropped her gaze. “What reason could I give that you would believe, my lord? Because Essylte and I are, well, almost as sisters? Because I see no way out of this dilemma except death? I don’t want either of you to die.”
Tristan said nothing; neither did he let go of her hands. She smiled bitterly and looked up at him again. “What do you want me to say? That I don’t want her to die because my future is tied to hers and I don’t want to go to Gaul? It’s true. I will live better, and find a nobler husband, in Markion’s court than in any other. If she is shamed, I am shamed with her. If she is sent home in disgrace, what happens to me? . . . Now do you believe me?”
“You can’t know what you risk. It is your own life, if you are caught, as much as ours.”
“I know.”
Tristan looked at her a long time. He dropped her hands.
“We owe you much for this. It is—a lifelong obligation. What can we give you in return?”
Branwen managed a small smile. “When I find the lord I wish to marry, you will approve my choice and help me to my desire. Both of you. Whoever he is.”
Tristan did not hesitate. “Agreed. But that is little enough to do. Surely there must be something else?”
“Nothing. Except—except if I should conceive a son by Markion, Essylte must agree to raise him as her own. Neither of you must tell the truth of his parentage until I give you leave.”
Essylte looked bewildered. “But is it possible to keep that secret? Markion will guess all on his own. You will be with
child, and I will not.”
“It is an easy thing to fool a man about pregnancy,” Branwen said. “You can safely leave that part of it to me.”
Essylte shrugged. “Well, it is an honorable enough request. It will be Markion’s child, after all. As long as my father thinks it is mine, all will be well.”
Tristan frowned but raised Branwen’s fingers to his lips. “I owe you service, Branwen. You have saved Essylte’s honor and her life. You are a noble woman.”
“Oh, Branny!” Essylte cried suddenly. “Are you sure? He’s old enough to be your father—you can’t guess what it might be like.”
“Can’t I? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“But he might be—ugly or cruel.” Essylte blushed scarlet.
Branwen half smiled. “I don’t much care what he is like. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he thinks I am you. I trust Tristan to get him drunk enough.”
“Nothing easier. But Branwen, think carefully. This is sin, this is a stain upon your soul. We two are already guilty, but you are not. This is not a thing that will lightly wash away.”
“But it is my soul, my lord. Let me sin where I choose, as you did.”
Tristan reached down and lifted Essylte into his arms. “Though I am damned to let you do it, Essylte will die if you do not. I must accept damnation.”
He looked out Guvranyl’s narrow window to the oncoming night. Was it only last evening he had looked out upon a world full of promise and delight? Now the future stretched out before him, fearsome, comfortless, dust and ashes on a bed of coals. How it was to be borne he could not guess. And all his life, every waking moment, he would owe Essylte’s life to Branwen.
PART III
14 THE CLIFFS OF CORNWALL
Markion stood on the dais in the great hall of Tintagel and raised his tankard.
“To Essylte of Gwynedd, the loveliest maiden in Britain!”
Servants scurried everywhere with skins of wine and pitchers of mead as the press of men below him raised their cups to the king.
“To Essylte!” they shouted, and drank.
“To the fair Essylte, Percival’s daughter!” Mark lifted his tankard a second time.
“To Essylte!” The echoing roar reached to the rafters.
“To my Essylte, soon to be Queen of Cornwall and High Queen of Britain!”
The hall erupted with cheering as the men toasted and drank and stomped their boots upon the floor. At the back of the hall, unnoticed in the commotion, Tristan upended his winecup and spilled the final portion of his wine upon the floor, where one of Markion’s hounds eagerly licked it up.
“Segward!” Markion shouted, grabbing his counselor and pulling him forward. “You’re a genius, man! You’re to be commended. By God, if she isn’t an unholy beauty!” The rest of his remarks were lost in the boisterous laughter and ribald jests of his courtiers. Segward bowed, unsmiling.
“Calm down, Tris.” Dinadan nudged him gently. “You look ready to cut someone’s throat. Ease up, man. You won, and Segward lost. You’re alive. You’ve covered yourself with honor. You’ve returned to Cornwall. Let him stew in those juices awhile. Isn’t that revenge enough?”
“Damn Segward. I wouldn’t waste a moment’s thought on him.”
Dinadan watched him worriedly. He could see that Tristan’s mind was somewhere else, and he recognized the symptoms that usually preceded the blackest of Tristan’s moods. Ever since morning, when the Cornish ship had sailed into the narrow, cliff-crowned harbor, bearing with it the Welsh princess and every man of the escort alive and well, all Tintagel had celebrated the triumph of Tristan of Lyonesse. Everyone except Tristan himself.
Dinadan had been ecstatic with relief. The courier they’d had three days ago had told a harrowing tale: The Welsh had seen through Tristan’s thin disguise and attacked him, whereupon he’d killed one of their princes in a swordfight and been cut himself. Dinadan had seen with his own eyes the satisfied smirk on Segward’s face when he heard this news. But the courier had continued: Tristan had nevertheless managed to escape Gwynedd with the promised princess and Percival’s blessing, only to be shipwrecked on the journey home. Again Segward’s eyes had lit, as Dinadan’s hopes plunged a second time.
Dinadan had accompanied his father to the harbor that morning in Markion’s train, not truly believing anyone could survive such a journey against such odds. When he saw the battered ship, her sail patched in fifty places and her hull hastily repaired, he knew the courier’s tale was true. Not since that summer morning in Pernam’s Sanctuary two years ago had he been so happy to see Tristan.
But Tristan had not seemed happy to be back in Cornwall. Throughout the disembarking, the greeting ceremony, the presentation of the princess to Markion, the ride up the cliffs and along the high moor from the harbor to the fortress, Tristan had been at his formal best, cool, distant, but very, very pale. The only person he had spoken to willingly had been the little mousy girl who attended the Welsh princess and who had ridden at Tristan’s side during the long procession north.
If Tristan’s formal demeanor had puzzled Dinadan, it had puzzled Segward, too. Dinadan had seen those little sharp eyes studying Tristan’s face, and he had seen Segward frown. Something was amiss. It crossed Dinadan’s mind that the wound Tristan had received in Wales might be mortal, and that he strove to hide this from everyone at court. It was the only reason he could think of for Tristan’s black humor and odd aloofness.
“Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!” The cry filled the hall. Heads turned, searching for the King of Lyonesse, as hands clapped and boots stomped to the rhythm of the swelling cry. From the dais, Markion’s gaze found Tristan, and the King beckoned to him. Dinadan grabbed his arm as Tristan tried to turn away.
“What ails you? Go on, get up there. This is your triumph, Tris.”
Strong hands steered Tristan across the room. Men thumped him lovingly on the back and called out his name. Stone-faced, Tristan was pushed and led to Markion, who slung an arm around him and kissed his cheek.
“Here’s the brave son of Cornwall who carried out Lord Segward’s plan and made our great union possible!” Flushed with wine, Markion waved his tankard in the air. “My nephew, the brave and honorable Tristan of Lyonesse!”
The room roared.
“Ah, Tristan.” Markion hugged him roughly, “I couldn’t have done it without you. For this you will be remembered long in Cornwall, and honored well.”
Tristan looked into his uncle’s face and saw there his emotion, his gratitude, even his admiration. But he saw no more than the plain, open face of a commander, pleased with victory and acknowledging his thanks to the troops who had brought it to him. There was no trace of deceit or hesitation in Mark’s manner, no scent of shame. He couldn’t have known what a death trap Gwynedd had been. He couldn’t have known about Marhalt’s sister. He could not have known.
With an arm around Tristan’s shoulder, Markion faced the crowd. “Let us today proclaim, this wedding will be the biggest celebration Cornwall has seen in a hundred years! This is the start of our own golden age! Merron, let the word go forth—we invite everyone in Britain to attend. I set the date a month hence, that all have time to come. Ask all the lords of Cornwall, and all my noble companions from Dumnonia and the Summer Country round about Camelot. Send couriers to the north, to Rheged, Strathclyde, Lothian, Elmet. And to those lords left in Logris, whose lands we will yet reclaim from Saxon hands. Let them all receive my personal greeting, and let any who will, come into Cornwall and celebrate this union with us!”
The great hall erupted with wild cheering.
“Eh, Segward?” Markion grinned at the little man. “What say you to that? Let’s have everyone witness this bedding!”
Segward’s eyes glittered in amusement. “Wedding, you mean, surely. A slip of the tongue, my lord, but a revealing one. With such a woman, a month is a long time to wait.”
Markion laughed. “Aye, it is indeed, when I think I might lie between thos
e soft white thighs tonight!”
Tristan froze. The hall rang with laughter. Markion’s arm around his shoulder clamped him to the king’s side, yet he began to tremble and could not still it.
Markion looked down at Tristan and hugged him hard. “Come, come, Tristan. Do I offend the poet in you? Would you rather sing about her hair and eyes? Ha! Ha! Where’s the red-blooded man in you, nephew?” He drained his tankard and staggered a little sideways. “My nephew disapproves of me.” He grinned to his men. “He would rather sit at his harp and sing her praises than lift his spear to her! Ha! I shall serve you well, Tristan. You will sing us to bed at our wedding feast, an ode of your invention. How’s that, then, my lad? Show us what you can do.”
Tristan did not move. He looked at the throng of grinning, eager faces, seeing in them a wolf pack salivating for the kill. But Markion, pleased as punch at doing him honor, was waiting for his reply. He struggled to make his lips form the words.
“I would be honored, Uncle.” A low bow hid his face.
Markion thumped him on the back. “She is my betrothed, I have a right to her bed. Yet I swear before you all that I, like Arthur, will forbear to touch the maiden until I wed her. I will prove to all my people, to all of Britain, that I am a man who can command his appetites. I can wait patiently, when necessity demands, and I am a man of my word. She is safe from me until we are married.” He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “But then, let her look to her skirts! I’ll make up for lost time!”
The men roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and cheering the king on. Unobtrusively, as slowly and carefully as he could, Tristan disengaged himself from Markion’s embrace and made his way to the door. Segward’s eyes, narrow slits in his pudgy face, followed him with an eager look of speculation.
Dinadan met him on the threshold but, seeing his face, stood aside to let him pass. Tristan strode down the wide hallway, up a winding staircase, and out onto the battlements of the northwest tower. At Dinadan’s sign, the sentry saluted and retreated, leaving them alone. The two men stared out at the quiet sea, stretching unbroken from the cliffs to the horizon in a blue sheet of unfathomable dimensions. Overhead, seabirds wheeled and called to one another, high, mournful cries carried away on the ever-moving air.
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