“I know how Branwen spends her time with you, my lord.” He heard the smile in her voice. Above their heads a branch shook momentarily.
“Well, then, perhaps you know that the guards are Segward’s doing. My uncle Mark can have no reason to doubt you, or to doubt me either, for that matter. Everyone seems to know about me and Branwen. But if Segward can once plant the seed of suspicion in my uncle’s heart—”
“Suspicion of what?” Essylte said quickly, the tremor in her voice unfeigned.
“Please don’t distress yourself, my lady. That’s why I first suggested this meeting place. I’ve known for some time that Segward wants my uncle to believe we are lovers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The arrogance in her voice gave way immediately to shame. “I’m sorry, Tristan, I mean no insult to you. You’re my good friend. I hope you always will be. I meant that it’s ridiculous that Mark should believe such a thing. You’re being overcautious, surely. I don’t see why we can’t walk and talk in the sunlight together. Mark would never mind. Why should it be different with you than with Dinadan, or Prince Pernam, or a hundred others?”
Tristan sighed. “You don’t understand the nature of suspicion. It’s an evil seed. Once it takes root in the mind, it colors all thoughts, desires, beliefs. Nothing looks the same as it once did, although nothing has changed. It’s a dark veil that falls before your eyes. Once in place, it is there forever, impossible to remove of your own will, very often impossible even to see. It destroys trust, breeds jealousy and contempt. It takes a strong mind to recognize the harm it does, and put it away.”
“Markion is strong,” Essylte said softly. “And I know he loves me.”
“Men are most vulnerable to suspicion where they love. If he did not care for you, only his pride would be at risk.”
Essylte sighed unhappily. “But don’t we risk the very suspicion that you fear by meeting so secretly?” Her pale arms moved in the dark, gesturing to the small space that enclosed them both. “This looks like nothing so much as a tryst.”
“We are hiding from Segward, not Mark.” He paused. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow I go home to Lyonesse, and Segward can do as he pleases.”
“I shall miss you, Tristan. It’s lonely here when all the men are gone, and there’s only Branny to talk to. I miss your stories and your songs.” Again she spoke with the ring of truth.
“You have your son,” Tristan said gently.
She looked up at him, the pale oval of her face just discernible against the dark tree trunk. “Yes. And Markion wants another.”
He froze a moment. His own heartbeat thudded in his ears. “Another? So soon?”
“He had three sons before,” Essylte whispered, “and he outlived them. It is a dagger in his heart. He wants to be certain of an heir. He wants to found a line of kings. It is a noble ambition, after all. My father wants the same.”
Tristan nodded nervously. “But what are you telling me? That the royal nursery is already growing?”
“Not yet,” she said quickly, “but it must happen, sooner or later. I am telling you what to expect.”
“Well,” he managed, struggling to hide his relief, “bridges can’t be crossed until you come to them. I hope Mark does found a line of kings. He’s been a good steward to Cornwall, and if the Saxons would let him be, he could take his place beside Arthur as a great High King of Britain.”
“There are those,” Essylte said slowly, “who suspect you of resenting his kingship. They think you want his crown, because it belonged to your father before Markion.”
“You’ve been listening to Segward’s lies, my lady Queen. I’ve no desire to rule beyond the boundaries of Lyonesse. Ask my uncle Pernam, or ask Dinadan. When I dream, it is for music or for love, not for power. As far as kingdoms go, I will do everything I can to further Mark’s ambition. He has always been good to me.”
Essylte extended her hand; Tristan took it and raised her. “And you have done more than duty requires for him. How I wish he had you as his advisor, instead of Segward!”
Tristan bowed politely over her hand. “All things change with time. Be patient, my dear Ess—my lady, and maybe one day—how did you put it?—we can walk openly in the sun.”
Essylte squeezed his hand, made him a quick reverence, and departed. Tristan waited until she had disappeared inside the nursery doors, then went to the garden wall and, using the crevices and footholds he and Gerontius had used as boys to escape their nurses, climbed straight up the wall and slithered down the rope on the other side.
Markion balanced in the branches of the tree, tears flowing unchecked into his beard. Segward had made a fool of him again. He had heard it now from their very mouths. They were friends, no more—and why not? They were much of an age and united in their admiration of him. And I believed that jealous, two-faced snake! He shall not spend another day in my employ. I’ll send him packing, and invite Tristan to stay another week. I’ll make sure they are not watched. My beautiful Essylte, how could I have doubted her? If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll tear the veil of suspicion from my eyes and bury it forever.
22 CASTLE DORR
On a hot day in September Tristan and his company of soldiers cantered up the long, winding approach to Castle Dorr. The castle stood on a hilltop less than a league from the coast, surrounded on three sides by the eastern fringe of Morois Wood. Guard towers faced west to the heart of the forest and east to the sea. Built of gray, roughly quarried stone, the castle had a cold, forbidding aspect. Tristan remembered well the searching bite of the east wind that no tapestry yet woven could keep out. Still, he had passed some of the happiest days of his boyhood in Castle Dorr, and he looked around in satisfaction at the rich country they rode through: flocks of sheep dotting the open hillsides, orchards ripening toward harvest, hayfields alive with the steady susurration of swinging scythes, pens full of lowing cattle, dusty yards where chickens, goats, children, and dogs milled and played under the watchful eyes of village women. He could almost believe nothing had changed from the days when Meliodas had brought him to Dorria on his visits to Bruenor. Then, Dinadan had been but seven or eight years old, full of boyhood mischief, and now—now Dinadan was getting married. Tristan smiled wryly and set spurs to his horse.
Sir Bruenor himself met them at the gates. “Tristan! How glad I am to see you! You are welcome, my boy, and your men with you. It was good of you to leave your beloved Lyonesse for me. I trust the journey was an easy one?”
“Thank you, my lord, it was tranquillity itself. Good weather, dry roads, and the certain knowledge of good food, good wine, and good conversation at the end—who would not travel in such a circumstance? And I would not miss Dinadan’s wedding for any price—all my life I’ve waited to see him run when a woman calls.”
Bruenor laughed and slapped him on the back as the groom led his horse away. “Dinadan will certainly be glad to see you. He’s been suffering a bout of cold feet, I think.”
“With the wedding tomorrow? I can cure him of that, my lord. I’ll sing him a little ditty that reminds him of the joys of married life.” He winked. “The sailors’ favorite.”
Bruenor chuckled. “Speaking of music, I’d be proud if you’d sing to my guests, Tristan. And the girl herself, Lady Diarca, is afire to meet you. You’re one of her heroes, you know. Because you slew Marhalt and saved Cornwall.”
Tristan coughed gently. “Nowadays it’s considered a breach of manners to rejoice in the slaying of Welshmen.”
“Ha-ha! So it is indeed, ever since the bonfire! Just the same, it was a noble deed, and nobly done. She is right to admire you for it.”
Tristan accepted this praise with a modest bow as Bruenor led him through the outer courtyard and into a small garden.
“You should think of marriage yourself, Tristan. You’re only a year younger than Dinadan—just twenty, aren’t you? High time to be wed.” He grinned at the younger man. “And don’t tell me you haven’t met the right woman. Everyone knows you have.�
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Tristan paled. “They do?”
“Of course. Do you deny it?”
“No,” Tristan replied uncertainly. “No, I can’t deny it.”
“No one ever expected you to marry for political considerations, so go ahead and marry for love. Why wait?”
Tristan stared at him in confusion. “Well, sir, um, the lady is not free at the moment to wed me.”
“Not free!” Bruenor laughed aloud. “That is a weak excuse indeed for such a man as you! All you have to do is ask her, I’ll be bound. I don’t know a woman alive who wouldn’t trade a mistress’s service for a husband’s.” He turned away, laughing, and shouted for Dinadan. Tristan leaned against the wall, limp with relief.
Dinadan greeted him warmly. “Tris, thank God you’ve come. You’ve got to keep me steady, friend, I’m as edgy as a cat in a fire. Now that the day is nearly upon me— Is something amiss? You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”
Tristan laughed weakly. “Your father gave me the scare of my life. He didn’t mean to, he didn’t know it, but I damn near fainted right here in the garden.” He took Dinadan’s arm. “Come on, let’s share a wineskin. I’ve a powerful thirst.”
“Let’s go down to the sea, as we used to do as boys. Just for an hour or two—you remember the place. We’ll drink our troubles away and make life simple again.”
They followed a long descending trail to a deep bay ringed with sand and found again the small cave at the foot of low cliffs where, as boys, they had hidden so often from their duties. Dinadan took a swig from his wineskin and passed it to Tristan. “It’s smaller than I remember. I don’t think I’ve been here since we were last here together.”
“We used to look for pirates, remember? But we never saw any.”
“Now we look for Saxons. And we do see them from time to time. But they don’t land often in Dorria. The coast is too well defended.”
“Or they’re just scouting. There’s little point in taking Dorria before they’ve settled Dumnonia and the Summer Country. They’d be too easy to drive out.”
Dinadan grinned. “All right, all right. You’re a bucket of cold water on my vanity. I’m in charge of the shore defenses, you see. Pass me back that wineskin. Jesu! You drink like a fish!”
“You’ve got another. I saw it.”
“Lucky for me I do.”
“I told you I had a powerful thirst.” Tristan paused. “Nowadays it never leaves me.” Dinadan avoided his eyes, and Tristan squared his shoulders. “So what’s all this I hear about your getting cold feet?”
“Damn my father. He’s been talking to you already?”
“You can’t be seriously uncertain. You’ve loved her since before I went to Wales.”
“Maybe I’m worried about the kind of husband I will make. I don’t want to be like Mark, whose affection wanes and waxes with the strength of a woman’s beauty. And forgive me, Tris, but I don’t want to be like you, bound hand and foot by a cruel passion that won’t give you any peace. I suppose I’m wondering if there’s really a middle ground.”
“If I could marry her,” Tristan whispered, “it wouldn’t be a cruel passion. It would be heaven on earth. To spend the rest of my days in Lyonesse with the sweet Essylte? Christ, I burn for it.” He looked away quickly. “You either love or you don’t. There’s no middle ground between loving and not loving. Mark’s never loved anyone except himself. He’s the only one he makes sacrifices for.” He took his eyes off the sea and glanced at Dinadan. “You’ve loved her for years and you know it. What’s this really about?”
Dinadan shrugged. “We had an argument. Our first.”
“Saints preserve us all!” Tristan grinned. “Not an argument!”
“About you and Essylte.” Dinadan saw the smile die on Tristan’s lips. “She’s more on your side than I am. She thinks Essylte ought to run away to Lyonesse to join you, and let Mark annul the marriage.”
“And you?”
Dinadan drew a long breath. “I think you ought to give her up. You know that.”
Silence fell between them. Shoulder to shoulder, they stared out at the cloudless sky and the blue incoming tide, wave following wave in unending, steady rhythm.
“Well,” Tristan said at last in a flat voice, “you will be glad to learn that I have taken your advice. I have put her out of my life. I have sworn never to see her again.”
Dinadan took another pull at the wineskin and let the silence hang. Finally he said in a neutral voice, “When I last saw you at midsummer, you were delirious with joy at foiling Segward’s plan and fooling Mark. He all but gave you his blessing to bed her, as I recall.”
“There is very little joy in fooling Mark. The more often we succeed, the more we suffer for it. However easy it is to do, betrayal itself leaves its mark upon us both. To be apart is torture; to be together stains us with dishonor. There is no peace left for us. We must either stay apart and try to let time dull the bright edge of our affection, or cast caution to the winds and escape somewhere together. Essylte’s choice, like Diarca’s, was for the latter, even if it meant quick death. But now I have the child to think of, too. They will live only if Mark protects them. I made her stay with him.”
Dinadan clasped his arm. “You have done the right thing, Tristan. I knew you would. You always were courageous.”
Tristan forced a smile. “Say, rather, I wish to be. Every hour of every day my soul strains toward Tintagel and Essylte, locked in her prison. If you were with me, I’d be sure I would not waver in my resolve. As it is, you’ll have to come and visit from time to time and keep me steady on my course.”
“Stay on here, why don’t you, after the celebrations, when everyone else leaves? Stay on until winter, and we’ll drink together and remember the old days when women mattered less to us than swords and horses.”
Tristan laughed and slung his arm around Dinadan. “I doubt very much your bride would welcome my staying on. She may have other ideas about how you should spend your evenings.”
“She does indeed,” a cool voice said from above them. “Nevertheless, she endorses the invitation.” With a shower of pebbles a neat-footed moorland pony slithered down the steep path to the beach. The girl who sat astride him smiled at them both. She was dressed like a boy in tunic, leggings, and boots, but she was in no danger of being taken for one. Clear brown eyes looked out of a pretty face, and rich, dark hair fell in a thick braid over her shoulder. She threw Tristan a charming smile, and he smiled back at her.
“Diarca!” Dinadan wriggled out of the cave and rose hastily, dusting the sand off his clothes. “Diarca, meet my dearest friend in all the world. Tristan of Lyonesse.”
Her smile broadened as she cast Dinadan a look of affection. “I thought it might be. No one’s talked of anything but his arrival since he came in. But then you disappeared. I volunteered to fetch you both.” She slid off the pony and made a deep reverence before Tristan. “I am pleased to meet you, my lord. It is an honor I have long looked forward to.”
Tristan raised her and touched her fingers to his lips. It was impossible not to smile at her. She had the gift of lightheartedness, an eagerness to please and to be pleased, a spirit that saw the sun behind the clouds.
“Thank you. I am honored by your esteem. Dinadan has talked about you for years, and I am very pleased to meet at last the joy of his heart, the grace of his hopes, the light of his tomorrow. Words cannot do justice to your beauty or your charm. I begin to wonder that he ever leaves Dorria.”
She laughed and colored lightly. “My lord has a bard’s tongue, that would make a golden castle of a morning’s digging in the sand.”
“Diarca,” Dinadan interrupted, “if you heard what I said about horses and swords, I didn’t mean—”
She turned to him and smiled as she took his hand. “Of course you did. But you don’t need to apologize. Do you think that I haven’t wished myself back in my safe girlhood a thousand times this summer?”
Dinadan’s look lightened, and
he kissed her quickly. “You’re an angel.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re drunk, and it’s an hour before dinner. Shall I send for horses, or can you make it back afoot?”
“Tristan’s drunker than I am.”
She glanced at Tristan and smiled. “So he is. But he’s had more practice, I think.” She dipped them a quick curtsy. “I will leave you to your reminiscences, my lords. I only wanted to meet Sir Tristan before his public greeting in the hall. Women do get lost in a crowd.” She leaped upon her pony and turned his head back up the hill. “If I were you, I would start back soon. Sir Guvranyl wants to greet Sir Tristan before dinner.” She clucked to the pony; with a leap and a bound they were up the rocks and lost in the trees.
“Well!” Tristan exclaimed, slapping Dinadan on the back. “I salute you, Din. You never told me she was so—resourceful.”
“Willful and headstrong, her mother calls it.” Dinadan smiled. “You like her?”
“I do, indeed. That’s a woman a man can be a friend to.”
“She’s been my friend a long time. I guess I’m just wondering if that’s love.”
“You’ve spent too much time running about with me. Spend a year in her company and you’ll be in doubt no longer.” They started back up the long hill to the castle. “You didn’t tell me Guvranyl was coming. I haven’t sat down and talked to him in years. I remember he used to drill us on the beach not far from here. Is his chamber near mine? Have you put me with Mark’s company?”
“Hell, no. You’re next to me. And Guvranyl is Markion’s company. He’s the King’s proxy, that’s why he’s here.”
Tristan stopped in his tracks. “Mark didn’t come himself?”
“Sent to say he couldn’t—off fighting Saxons in Logris. If you ask me, the old soldier seems right pleased to be free of Markion.”
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