Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  He knelt by the sword. “After today, my dear heart, I cannot come near you again. Dinadan is right; it will kill us both.”

  The silver flask had slipped from her fingers and lay on the ground cloth. He picked it up. “Sweet sleep, let me stay by her a little longer, for tomorrow hope is ended.”

  Lifting the little flask to his lips, he drank.

  “You, Krinas. And you, Dinadan. Attend me.” Markion wheeled his horse and pointed. The two knights turned from the knot of men busy with the deer’s carcass, and bowed. “Get your horses and follow me. Brychan!”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Three is enough for today. When you’ve trussed them, take them home. I’ll meet you all at dinner.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Markion spurred to a fast canter down the forest track, the two knights riding hard to keep up. Dinadan frowned, crouched over his gelding’s neck to avoid whipping branches. They were riding not for Tintagel, but deeper into the forest. He hoped Markion knew what he was doing, with only two knights as escort. They rode for an hour before the undergrowth thinned and they trotted into a clearing. There was Tristan’s bay and Essylte’s gray mare. Dinadan looked swiftly about.

  “You won’t find him here,” Markion said evenly, swinging down from his horse. “But he can’t be far away.”

  Dinadan and Krinas dismounted and tethered the horses.

  “Hanno!” the King called softly. “Stand forth!”

  A minute passed and Markion called again. Leaves rustled, the bushes parted, and a youth appeared, dressed in green-dyed tunic and leggings. “Here, my lord. At your service.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “Nothing easier, my lord. I hid in a pine tree. Neither of ’em ever saw me.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  Hanno grinned sheepishly. “Why, my lord, they’re sleeping.”

  Markion paled. “Are they indeed? After a hard afternoon’s work, I don’t doubt.” Krinas and Dinadan exchanged glances.

  “No work that I saw,” Hanno said. “Unless you mean arguing.”

  Markion grunted and pointed down the path. “Unlikely. Lead the way. And go quietly.”

  Krinas bowed quickly. “My lord, shall I stay with the horses?”

  “No. Come with me. Both of you. I want witnesses.”

  “What does he take Sir Tristan for?” Krinas breathed, as he fell in step behind Dinadan. “A half-wit, like Hanno?”

  Dinadan did not answer, but prayed silently and fervently to God to deliver Tristan from the trap his uncle had set him. “Let us not take him unawares,” he whispered to himself over and over again with every step. “Let him hear us. Let him flee. Let him not be taken.”

  Soon they came to the pine ridge and the sunlit valley. Hanno stopped and pointed toward a wooded glade. “In there, my lord.”

  Markion grunted and drew his sword. “An excellent place for a tryst. Draw your weapons, men, and follow me. If he has so much as touched her, I will have his life.” He shot Dinadan a fierce look. “You will not warn him.”

  “No, my lord.”

  With a nod, Markion led the way to the bower. Under the ivied boughs, he stopped. His sword point dropped. His whole posture slackened. Dinadan crept closer and peered around his shoulder.

  Tristan and Essylte lay asleep on the forest floor, as innocent as two children. They faced each other, an arm’s length apart, with the sharp, shining blade between them. Nothing about her gown was wrinkled; nothing about his tunic was disarranged. Except for the tendril that caressed her cheek, even her hair was in place. They slept the sleep of the innocent, deep and dreamless, with such a look of peace on their faces, even Markion was moved.

  “Praise God,” Dinadan whispered.

  “I knew it,” Krinas sighed.

  “Well.” Markion straightened and sheathed his sword. “They argued, you say, Hanno?”

  Hanno, who had crept up behind them, nodded brightly. “Aye, my lord. She was right angry at him.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  Hanno lifted his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “Couldn’t say, my lord. They was talking about food. Sir Tristan, he was hungry, and the Queen wasn’t.”

  Markion knelt at Essylte’s side. He withdrew a heavy gold ring from his hand and slipped it on her finger, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “He’s overreached himself this time,” he said slowly, rising. Dinadan dodged out of the King’s way as he swung around. “Krinas!”

  “Here, my lord.”

  “I want Segward brought to me as soon as we return. Dinadan, stay here with Tristan and the Queen until they awaken. Tell them I have ordered a feast tonight in their honor.”

  “And Lord Segward, my lord?”

  Markion’s voice was cold. “Lord Segward will not be there.”

  PART IV

  20 THE BONFIRE

  Dinadan stood at the unshuttered window and gazed out at the wide blue sea. West, south, and east it stretched limitless to the horizon, glittering like metal in the midday sun. Here in Lyonesse, at the bottom of Britain, he thought wryly, water turned to gold. And the man who commanded such magnificent wealth? Away in the distance a small bleached square of canvas inched across the deep, dipping in and out of view in the gentle swells. Dinadan sighed once in exasperation. A servant scratched at the door, and he turned. “Come in.”

  “My lord, a messenger for Sir Tristan.”

  “Whose courier is it, Malken? I’ll see him myself if he’s from Dorria or Camelot.”

  The servant hesitated. “Not a courier, my lord.”

  The door swung open and a woman curtsied prettily. “And not from King Markion, my lord Dinadan. At least, not directly.” She met his eyes and smiled.

  “Lady Esmerée!” Dinadan hurried to her side, waving the servant out of the room. “What are you doing here at Lyon’s Head? This is the last place you should be. Did anyone see you?”

  Esmerée smiled and laid a hand upon his arm. “Do not fear for me, good Dinadan. I come openly. My husband sent me.”

  Dinadan stared. “Whatever for? Is this a trap?”

  He led her to a chair, but she would not sit. Instead, she walked to the open window and lifted her face to the sea breeze.

  “No, it’s not a trap. He no longer counts me sufficient bait. King Mark has orders for Tristan, and Segward decided to let me bear the message.”

  “But—why on earth?”

  “Because he knew it would give me pain.”

  Dinadan came to her side. “He’s not here, you know. He’s out there. Sailing.”

  “Yes. I recognized the sail. He was off my coast this morning. To be honest, that’s why I chose this time to come.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She shrugged lightly. “I owe him a great deal. More than I ever could repay. I never thought it would come to love, with a boy of seventeen.” Her chin lifted. “But I do not want his pity.”

  “Part of him will always love you, Esmerée.”

  She squeezed his arm. “You are a gentleman, Dinadan.”

  “I mean it. If he had never gone to Wales, perhaps—”

  “Shhh. Do not even think it. He would never be mine, even if I were unwed.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “They were destined for each other, those two. Surely you can see that.”

  Dinadan shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know about destiny. She has cast a spell upon him, sure enough.”

  “And he upon her.”

  “He cannot get free of it, whatever oath he swears.”

  “Neither can she.”

  “Look at him out there. He won’t come in for meals. He won’t come in at sunset. He’ll drift all night with the sea currents and sail back when his waterskin runs out and he’s nigh dead from thirst. He’ll push it to the edge. He’s lost flesh; he’s losing his wits. She is driving him mad.”

  “I know.”

  “He will ride up and down the coast road on a wild, un
broken colt until it drops to its knees. Or he’ll swim straight out to sea until he’s out of sight. Day and night he tempts death. That’s why I came down from Dorria, to see if I could save him from himself.”

  “Pity the woman who has no horse to ride, no boat to sail.”

  “He’s been moodier than ever. He will do anything so long as he risks his neck doing it. All his songs welcome death. He’s become a danger to himself.”

  Esmerée moved away from the window. “He won’t die. Not while Essylte lives. But his sanity is quite another thing. Tell me, Dinadan, why has he spent these last months here in Lyonesse? Is it at Mark’s command?”

  Dinadan shook his head. “He swore an oath never to see her again.”

  Esmerée sank into a chair. “For her sake, no doubt. Poor, sweet Tristan. What a dreamer he is.”

  Dinadan looked at her more closely and saw lines at the corners of her lovely eyes, the drag of weariness at the corners of her mouth, a hint of fatigue in the pale skin of her throat. For all that, she still had a face that turned every man’s head. “Would you care for wine or water? You must be tired from your journey.”

  She smiled. “I would take some tea, if you have it. Thank you, Dinadan. It was a long walk and roads are dusty in summer.”

  “Walk! Surely you didn’t walk all that way? Segward owns horses and mules; why doesn’t he use them?”

  “He sold the mules. His horse he keeps with him. He wants us to till the land with the tools God gave us. For the improvement of our souls.” She lifted her welling eyes to his. “I think it’s to keep me away from Prince Pernam, my dearest friend in all the world.”

  “The black-hearted bastard!” Dinadan cried. “May he roast long in Hell.” He shouted to the servant for willow tea. “I’ll not permit you to go home on foot. We’ll loan you a mare and a wagon—”

  “No, no, my lord,” she protested with a sad laugh, dabbing at her eyes. “Do you think he will not hear about it? You will only make it harder for me by your kindness.”

  “You will not walk home. I’ll send you home on a mare, Tristan’s gift to his uncle Pernam. Tomorrow, you can ride it to Pernam’s Sanctuary. He can take you home from there himself. How’s that? It’s only common courtesy. How is Segward to know we did it to foil his cruel restrictions?”

  “He always knows.”

  Dinadan paced back and forth across the chamber. “Is Segward back in power, then? Last May he fell out of favor with the King. I know. I was there.”

  Esmerée nodded. “When Markion returned to Camelot he left Segward at Tintagel. But now, with Percival coming, Markion must rely upon him once again whether he likes it or not.”

  “Percival is coming? Good heaven, I’d forgotten.”

  “In response to Markion’s invitation to the kings of Britain when his heir was born. He will hold a great celebration at midsummer on the cliffs of Tintagel in honor of the child. The unification of Britain, he calls it. My husband has arranged the ceremony. They will kneel by the light of a great bonfire and swear oaths of fealty.” A smile touched her lips. “To Tristan’s son.”

  Dinadan grunted. “You knew?”

  “How not? I was all last winter in Tintagel, nursing Segward.”

  “Do you know the other half—the dangerous half—of this deadly game they are playing?”

  “I know who fathered Branwen’s daughter, if that is what you mean. Essylte is such a trusting innocent. There is not much I don’t know about them.” She paused. “I fear for her. The future cannot hold much joy for either of them.”

  A servant scratched at the door and entered with a clay jug of willow tea and two painted goblets. Esmerée drank thirstily of the brew and sat back with a deep sigh. “Thank you, my lord. That was wonderful. Now it’s time to give you my message and be going.”

  “I am all ears.”

  “The High King Markion commands Sir Tristan, along with all the lords of Cornwall, to attend the presentation of the next High King of Britain on midsummer eve at Tintagel. You must be there, too, my lord. And so must I. Segward wants Tristan to be my escort north.”

  “Damn his black heart. Let me escort you, Lady Esmerée. Only give me leave, and I shall take you to Dorria tomorrow, and we can both go to Tintagel with my father.”

  Esmerée shook her head and rose. “Thank you again, but no. Although I should like to meet your betrothed. Will she be coming to Tintagel with you?”

  Dinadan colored lightly. “Not this time. We will be wed at summer’s end, and she is too busy with . . . with . . . well, with whatever girls bother about before a wedding.”

  Esmerée laughed. “With her bridegift, no doubt. I wish you well, Dinadan. Tristan will mourn the loss of your company, I am sure of it. You are the reason he still has his wits about him.”

  “If he does.”

  Esmerée lowered her eyes. “I have a reason for declining your kind offer. I want Tristan to come to my house to collect me. I want him to see my children.”

  Dinadan took her hands. “You mean his daughter, don’t you? Has he never seen her?”

  Her lips trembled as she tried to smile. “No. But I hardly expected it. He cannot treat her any differently from the others or Segward might judge it proof of his suspicions and do her harm. But I want him to see her. At least once.”

  Dinadan raised her hand and kissed it. “You are a woman in a thousand, Esmerée. We will all come to your house together, Tristan, Pernam, and I. And now, let’s go see about that mare.”

  The midsummer sun had already begun to throw their shadows long when the men of Lyonesse topped the last low ridge and looked across the ragged moors to the castle of Tintagel. Tristan raised an arm and halted his troops.

  “My God,” he breathed. “Is there anyone who hasn’t come?” Thousands of tents dotted the headland, hundreds of banners lifted lazily in the fitful breeze. On the outskirts of the encampments the horse lines seemed to stretch for miles.

  “Every lord in Dumnonia is here,” Dinadan said, shading his eyes. “And the Summer Country. Half of Logris, by the look of it. I don’t see any of the northern lords. I don’t think Elmet is here. Wait, what’s that banner yonder, hard by the causeway?”

  “Wales,” Tristan said flatly. “In the place of honor. Percival’s men.” He turned in the saddle and surveyed the rest of his company. “Once, I’d have been overjoyed for the chance to talk with Percival.”

  “You’re not looking forward to it now?”

  Tristan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing much matters anymore. There is no happiness left in anything.”

  “What has happiness got to do with it?” Dinadan whispered fiercely. “Look there! We’ve been spotted. They’re lining up to greet us. Give the signal, and let’s get going.”

  “Tristan! Tristan of Lyonesse!” The cry rose triumphant in the evening air, echoing across the moors, through the unshuttered windows of the castle, to the farthest reaches of the fortress: “Tristan of Lyonesse!”

  Percival turned from his window and grinned. “It’s young Tristan, at long last. Now there’s a brave lad, Brynn. Straight and honest as the day is long. A poet in his soul.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And not afraid to risk his skin when it matters. Sometimes I wish—if only my uncle Peredur had never challenged Constantine, I might wish to see my daughter wed to Tristan rather than Markion. And that stays within these walls.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Percival shrugged. “Perhaps it was a mistake, this alliance. She’s unhappy. She hides it, but I can tell.” He stroked his beard, and his eyes softened. “But she loves the child, God bless him. And Branwen seems content. Perhaps in time Essylte will come to like Mark better.”

  Markion sat in his carved chair while his servant struggled to pull on his boots. Segward stood at the window.

  “Your nephew has decided to grace us with his presence after all. At the last moment. How he loves an entrance!”

  “You leave Tristan
alone,” Markion growled. “He’s worth three of you any day of the year. Find out where he’s camping and send him our greetings. See that he knows we have a room ready for him here. And Sir Dinadan.” He flicked a malicious glance at Segward. “And Lady Esmerée.”

  Segward stiffened. “She comes at your invitation, my lord. Not mine.”

  “Essylte is fond of her. Why shouldn’t she come?” His boots on, the King rose and adjusted the crimson cloak his servant laid across his shoulders. “Has Merron doubled the guards outside the Queen’s rooms?”

  “Of course. And he will let Tristan know that if he wishes to renew his ties with Branwen, she must come to him. No man enters the Queen’s rooms but the King.”

  “It’s unnecessary, you know. Your distrust of my nephew has tainted all your thoughts. I’ll indulge you because it can do no harm and you’ve been of service to me. But, Segward.” Markion’s look was cold. “Don’t push it too far.”

  “Perhaps,” Segward continued lightly, “Tristan ought to marry Branwen. He’s just turned twenty. It’s high time he was wed.”

  “My nephew wed a serving maid?” Markion snorted. “You let Tristan be. He can pick out his own bride when he’s ready. He needs no help from you.” Mark reached for his crown and placed it on his head. “And if he never marries, I’ll be all the happier. No heirs but mine will ever hold Cornwall.”

  “Look, Branny, he comes!” Essylte strained to peer past the wide stone sill down into the courtyard. “Why, he’s got a woman on his arm! I thought Sir Dinadan was to be his companion. Who is she? Why did he bring her?”

  Branwen came up beside her. “Back up a little. You mustn’t be seen staring out of windows. Let me look, I’ll tell you who it is.”

  Essylte stood behind her, gripping her shoulders, standing on tiptoe.

  “Look how she leans on him. What a pretty mantle! How graceful she is. And not a hair out of place, although they’ve just ridden in.”