“Essylte, do be quiet. You’re acting like a—”
“Oh, Branny! See how he smiles at her. How does he dare, when he knows I am within? I will have her eyes out, the brazen—”
“It’s only Lady Esmerée. See? Lord Segward is coming forward to take her arm. No doubt Tristan served as her escort. That’s all it is.”
“All?” Essylte cried. “She’s traveled all the way from Lyonesse with Tristan. Next you’ll try to tell me that they haven’t seen each other all summer long, and I know she lives only five leagues from Lyon’s Head.”
Branwen drew Essylte away from the window. “Come, Essylte, such jealousy is unbecoming. Do you doubt him?”
“I must see him, Branny!”
“I’ll think of some ruse to get you near him, and you can satisfy yourself your fears are false. Just give me time.”
At sunset Markion addressed the gathering of lords from a great rock near the edge of the headland. Queen Essylte brought forth her son, a sturdy babe beginning his sixth month of life, and displayed him before all the gathered kings. Percival swore an oath of fealty, as did Tristan, Bruenor, Pernam, and all the lords of Cornwall. Other men followed, one by one, pledging their united service to the child. When it was done, Markion set torch to a great bonfire amid thunderous shouting and stomping. Someone struck up a lute, another a lyre, the cooks hurried to lay meat upon the flames, and the celebration rapidly turned into a feast, with singing, dancing, and dicing that would last well into the night.
Essylte and her women returned early to Tintagel with the baby. Tristan stayed by the bonfire long into the night, drinking with Markion, talking to Percival, trading jests with the visiting lords. It was well past midnight before he could escape unnoticed into the castle. He strode through the deserted corridors to the stair below the women’s quarters. Three guards stood outside Essylte’s door.
“What’s this, Brychan? Pwyll? Kellis? Is anything amiss? Do you anticipate an attack upon my lady’s quarters?”
Brychan grinned. “Indeed, my lord, I believe Lord Segward does. And you might be the very one he anticipates.”
Tristan stopped halfway up the stairs. “Me? You are jesting!”
“Oh, no, my lord. Our orders were quite specific.”
Tristan laughed and came up to them. “Well, then, I might have saved myself the climb and got drunk with the others out on the moor.” He elbowed Brychan discreetly. “But I’ve a longing to taste a woman’s lips, and hold a soft body in my bed. Would you deny me my pretty Branwen?”
Brychan shook his head. “Surely there must be a thousand maidens, my lord, who would lie with you for the asking.”
Tristan laughed lightly. “You think so, do you? You are a credulous fellow indeed. I am not such a butterfly, Brychan. I am more like a tree. Where my seed falls, I take root. And stay.”
Brychan grinned. “More like a blackthorn, my lord, if you’ll forgive me. Sharp, and dangerous to the unwary.”
“Nay, Brychan, more like ivy. I persist, especially when unwelcome. The less I’m tended, the wilder I become. I will have my way in the end; I will cover what I will.”
Brychan threw up his hands. “You’re too many for me, my lord! You may have your sport, and I’ll not keep you from it. But by King Markion’s orders, she must come to you. Shall I send her?”
“And deny me the pleasure of whisking her away? Certainly not. I pray you, scratch upon the door and announce me.”
“But my lord—”
“I won’t go in, if that’s my uncle’s order. Although I can’t see what it gains him. Bid her open the door and come out to me.”
Brychan did as he was commanded and Branwen opened the door. Essylte stood behind her, still in the golden gown of the presentation, her riotous curls, recently unbound, falling about her shoulders in a tumult of vivid color. She glared at him and the smile died on his lips.
Branwen curtsied low. “My lord,” she murmured. “We are glad to see you safely come from Lyonesse.”
“And I—I am glad to see you, too, Branwen. You’ve got your life back in your cheeks.”
Branwen flushed. “I am recovered, my lord, thank you.”
Tristan glanced quickly at Essylte and offered Branwen his arm. “Come spend an hour with me, pretty Branwen. Let me sing you a song.”
The guards chuckled and winked at one another. Branwen hesitated, glancing discreetly toward the queen’s chamber. Tristan shook his head lightly.
“I’d have been here before now, sweet Branwen, but my uncle and King Percival kept me long in talk and drink. They are making a night of it, as the air is so fine. I’m afraid my lady Queen will have hours to wait for her King. I’m sure she can spare you for a little while.”
Branwen curtsied obediently and took his arm. “Very good, my lord. If it’s not for long.”
Tristan smiled knowingly at the guards. “Don’t worry, little vixen. It doesn’t take long.”
Under the cover of the guards’ laughter Tristan led Branwen down the stairs. “Take no offense, Branwen. But I know these men—if I touch the right strings, they will play my tune.”
“Indeed,” Branwen returned coolly. “My lord is a master musician, as everyone knows.”
When they were safe inside Tristan’s chamber, he lit a single candle and closed the shutters on the windows. The room was simply furnished, with a stout oak bed, a pallet hastily made up against the other wall, and a table with a single candlestand and a shallow bowl of water. Dinadan’s bedroll had been thrown on the pallet, but he was not there.
Tristan gestured toward the bed. “As there is no chair, the bed will have to do.”
Branwen looked angrily around the room. “This is the meanest chamber in Tintagel! No doubt Lord Segward chose it for you himself. I will have chairs and lamps and hangings brought in here tomorrow.”
Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Will you, indeed? Do you have such power here?”
Branwen smiled and sat down on his bed. “This is a women’s fortress, my lord. Men are seldom here. And among the women, I am second only to Essylte.”
Tristan bowed. “How have you both been, Branwen? How are the children?”
“You have seen your son. As healthy a child as ever drew breath in Cornwall. Keridwen lives and thrives, although she is a small, weak thing and probably always will be. Mark has made Essylte quit nursing, and Brenna has hardly enough milk for two.”
She spoke lightly, but Tristan fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Has he—”
“Not yet. Tonight is to be the first time since her lying-in. That’s why she’s so frightened. Tonight we begin again the old charade.”
“She didn’t look frightened to me. She was ready to eat me alive.”
“Oh, yes,” Branwen agreed. “She is furious enough with you.”
“But why, in God’s name? What have I done?”
“She saw you walk in with Lady Esmerée. She saw you smile at her. She saw her hand upon your arm, she saw her glances, your parting kiss.”
Tristan colored. “Esme is my friend. I owe her a great deal. She has borne much on my behalf.”
“I know what she has borne, my lord. But there is no reasoning with a jealous woman.”
Tristan exhaled in relief. “Jealous! The little fool. Give me five minutes with her alone and I will teach her to doubt my love.”
“In her heart she knows it. She has not gone a night without weeping since you left. And I ought not to tell you this, but she has cursed the vow you made.”
Tristan looked away. “Does she? So do I. I would give my kingdom, I think, for another night with her.”
“It won’t be possible this time. Segward watches your every move. That’s why I asked Mark to send for Lady Esmerée. She is adroit at watching him, and we might be able to find out what he’s up to.”
“You asked Mark?”
“Yes,” Branwen said evenly. “Of course, he thought it was Essylte. He will do almost anything to please her.”
“It will be difficult. There are guards on every chamber, the grounds are thick with guests. And you, Tristan, you won’t be allowed to relieve yourself in private.”
“But I must see her!” Tristan grabbed her hands. “There must be somewhere—the beach, the woods, on a horse, in a boat—it must be possible. I cannot come all this way and not speak with her alone.”
“Well . . .” Branwen hesitated, looking down at their clasped hands. “There is one place. Men will not go there, but it’s natural that you should.”
“Where? Where!”
“The nursery.”
“Of course.” In his joy, Tristan bent and kissed her. “Sweet Branwen! I should have thought of it myself. We will go to see our children, and no one can think ill of us for that.”
“Indeed. But there is danger, my lord, if you stay too long. Even there, you will certainly be watched.”
“How soon can it be arranged?”
“I will send you word, or come myself, when it looks safe.”
“Bless you.” He went to the door. Reluctantly, Branwen took his arm again. “I will await your signal,” he said. “Here, let me ruffle your hair a little. The guards will look for it.” She closed her eyes as his hands touched her hair. When she opened them, he was looking at her gravely. “Do you hate me for this deception? For the lies you must tell on my behalf?”
“No, my lord. I don’t hate you.”
“You’re a brave girl, Branwen.”
“I’m a woman now, my lord,” she whispered. “When you bid me good night at my door, you must kiss me. A real kiss.” She smiled up at him. “The guards will look for it.”
Every minute of the next day took years to pass. It seemed to Tristan that the world was watching him wherever he went, whatever he did. Dinadan slept in his chamber and ate at his side, Pernam and Percival sought him out for private speech, half the lords of Logris approached him to offer him marriage to their daughters and thereby secure his fighting arm against the Saxons. Markion himself was often near, and Segward, it seemed, lurked behind every door.
Finally, when the heat of the day was past and the sea breeze blew cool across the moors, Markion got up a hunting party and half the lords went with him. Tristan declined the invitation and waited in his chamber, pacing nervously. Just when he thought he could bear the waiting no longer, someone knocked softly on the door. He whipped it open.
Branwen curtsied low. “My lord.”
“It’s about time. I am half mad with waiting. What kept you?”
“Markion spent most of the day with Essylte,” she replied evenly. “She is not in the best of tempers.”
“Take me to her. At once.”
Branwen’s eyes flashed. She turned on her heel and led him through the corridors to the nursery. No one paid much attention to them. The few who did hid indulgent smiles. “Remember,” Branwen warned outside the nursery door, “you’re here to see my daughter.”
As they entered the long, cool room with cradles at one end and toy chests at the other, the nurse, Brenna, rose from her low chair with a baby in her arms and made them a low reverence.
“My lord Tristan. Mistress Branwen. She’s just been fed. Hungry today, she was. Would you like to hold her, my lord?”
Tristan accepted the sleeping bundle. “May I take her outside?”
“Not in the sun, my lord. There’s a bench beneath the apple tree. Queen Essylte is there now. That’s the best place, and cooler, too.”
“Thank you, Brenna.”
Tristan walked slowly across the lawn toward the tree. Essylte held her baby sitting in her lap, supporting him with her hands, tickling him and making faces at him, her glowing hair bound tight around her head under a jeweled net. Young Tristan laughed and giggled, waving his arms in excitement. As Tristan approached the child caught sight of him, raised a fist in the air, and gurgled.
Tristan laughed. “He knows me!”
Essylte did not look up. “You are a stranger to him.”
Branwen moved to Essylte’s side, screening her from Brenna’s inquiring gaze at the nursery door.
“I am not. He waved at me.”
Essylte shrugged, coolly avoiding his gaze. “He waves at everyone.”
Tristan sat down on the bench beside her, tucking Keridwen in the crook of one arm and slipping the other unseen around Essylte’s waist.
“Let me go. I did not give you leave to touch me. I did not give you leave to sit.”
Tristan pulled her closer and touched his lips to her neck. “That it should come to leave-giving between you and me,” he breathed into her ear. “My sweet love, it has been a thousand years since I saw you last.”
Her lower lip began to tremble. “You have passed the time agreeably enough, I don’t doubt, in the company of the beautiful Esmerée.”
Tristan’s lips slid along the line of her jaw and kissed the edge of her mouth. Branwen coughed discreetly. “Esmerée is a bright star in the firmament of beauty. But you, Essylte, my only love, you are the sun. You are heaven and earth to me. You know that. Don’t torture me with phantom jealousies. You will drive me to indiscretion—shall I kiss your feet right here in the orchard? I will do it—only say the word.”
She turned to him suddenly, her resistance gone, her blue-green eyes enormous with tears.
“Oh, Tristan!” she whispered. “It’s not you, it’s Mark. I—I feel unclean. He has kissed me and held me—he found me alone in the tower and he trapped me—his lips have touched me, and his hands—as if I were a serving wench! He all but lay with me, right there on the tower stairs—if Merron had not come by, I would be this minute in the sea!” A tear slipped down her cheek and the baby began to whimper. “I can’t bear it, Tristan, I can’t bear it. Take me away from here.”
Tristan extended a finger to his son, who wrapped a chubby fist around it, instantly delighted, and drew it to his mouth. Essylte leaned her head on Tristan’s shoulder. Branwen bent over her, pretending to adjust her net, while Tristan kissed her lips, drawing her grief out of her.
“I want nothing more,” he whispered. “And one day, I will. But it must be planned carefully, or it will result in all our deaths. Yours, mine, Branwen’s, young Tristan’s. You were right, you know. When I take you away, it must be done with Mark’s consent.”
“But when can I see you alone? Only you can make me feel clean again.”
Tristan cast a swift look at Branwen. She frowned lightly. “This is the only place, my lord.”
Tristan nodded. “Very well, then it will be here. Attend me now, Essylte. Come here again this evening. An hour before midnight. Use any pretext you like—it’s the only place to take the air in solitude. Come out here and wait for me by the apple tree.”
“Here? With Brenna watching? Will it be safe? How will you get in?”
“Leave that part of it to me. She will see no one but you. When you hear the nightingale’s song twice repeated, go to the lower edge of the garden. See that ancient apple tree, all gnarled and bent? I will be under it, waiting for you. Its sheltering boughs will give us privacy, at least for a while. No one but you will know I’m there.”
Essylte brightened and sat up. She leaned forward and placed her lips against his cheek. “Bless you, Tristan. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
He took her hand. On her finger she wore his ring, the golden Eagle of Lyonesse soaring against a blue enamel sky. He raised her hand to his lips. “I forgive you anything.”
“It’s time to go,” Branwen urged. “Brenna is coming out the door.”
“Ow!” Tristan exclaimed sharply, pulling his hand out of the baby’s grip. “He bit me!”
Essylte laughed outright, her eyes shining up at him. “Don’t take it to heart so. He bites everyone.”
21 THE APPLE TREE
“Where are you going?” Di
nadan asked. “You ate nothing at dinner and now you’re calling for your horse. What’s afoot?”
“I’m riding down to the Lyonesse encampment. To see the men.”
“At this hour?” Dinadan pulled him into a nook in the courtyard wall. “You’re a pitiful liar, Tristan. You always were. What’s in that sack?”
“Provisions.”
“For what?”
“Look, Din, you’re better off not knowing. Don’t make me tell you.”
“It’s Essylte, isn’t it?” Dinadan whispered. “You can’t be going to see her.”
“This is Tintagel. Mark’s men are everywhere. This escapade will mean my death if I’m caught, and yours if you know about it. So I’m not going to tell you.”
“What’s in the sack?”
“A rope and a hook.”
Dinadan let his breath out slowly. “Her window is at the top of the castle. With a sheer drop to the sea below. I don’t see why you’re worried about Mark.”
Tristan smiled. “I’m not climbing to her window.”
“What, then?”
“An old trick remembered from my boyhood. That’s all I’ll say. If you want to help me, tell anyone who misses me I’ve gone to see my men. And I am, first.”
A groom led Tristan’s horse into the courtyard. Dinadan clasped Tristan’s arm. “If I can’t stop you, then I wish you success.”
Tristan cantered down the footpath the locals euphemistically called the coast road until he reached the Lyonesse encampment. Most of the men were drinking around a fire or dicing in the tents. He had a few words with the commander, then turned back toward Tintagel. Just before he came in view of the postern gate he dismounted and led his horse onto a narrow track that wound steeply down the cliff. Slipping and sliding, they descended to the beach, where Tristan tied the horse to a thwarted tree and threw his cloak over the animal’s flanks. It was a warm night with a calm sea, but the breeze blew cool. Grabbing the sack, he ran along the shingle to the very roots of the castle walls.
Markion seldom posted sentries on the western walls, except for the lookout on the tower who scanned the sea for Irish raiders or Saxon longboats. As boys, Tristan and Gerontius had prided themselves on finding a way to sneak inside the impregnable Tintagel. At low tide they could make their way past the roiling currents to the base of the great rock. The footholds in the rock face were just where they had been ten years before, only smoother, and so were the footholds in the more friable fortress wall above. Within minutes Tristan was on the battlement and running silently along the outer wall, ducking past narrow windows until he came to a high stone wall between two towers. Opening the sack, he tied the rope to the hook, held his breath, and heaved the hook over the wall. It caught fast. The rags he had wrapped about the prongs muffled the clang of impact, but he waited and counted to ten. No one came, no one called out. He swarmed up the rope, threw a leg across the wall, and dropped twenty feet to soft grass with a solid thud.
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