They climbed in silence for a while. “My father employed him before Markion did,” Tristan said finally. “There was friendship between them. I believe Guvranyl’s still loyal to his memory. He’s that kind of soldier. Old-fashioned. True. Men aren’t made from that mold nowadays.”
“Markion’s not the only one to send a proxy. Prince Pernam sent one as well—remember Jarrad? Apparently there’s some sort of plague among his boys that Pernam must stay and tend to, but whether he sent Jarrad here to serve as proxy or to save him from infection, I couldn’t say.”
“Probably both. Have you spoken to Jarrad? Is Pernam himself afflicted with the plague?”
“No, no, apparently not. But he misses the help of Esmerée. In the past, when so many have fallen ill together, she has helped him with the nursing. But now, since Segward is banished to Lyonesse and keeps her so close at home, he dare not send for her. It would only make things worse. Segward would beat her just because she was wanted elsewhere.”
Tristan shut his eyes tight. “The day is coming when the earth will open and swallow his black-hearted soul. I can feel it in my bones.” He opened his eyes and smiled bleakly at Dinadan. “Either that, or I shall kill him myself.”
“You promised Esmerée you wouldn’t.”
“That is the only reason he is still alive.”
The feast that night lasted long past moonrise. Young Hebert, a Breton bard, gave them lay after lay until his voice grew hoarse. When the company clamored to hear Tristan, Hebert graciously offered him his harp. Tristan gave them the tale of Diarmaid and Grainne, an ancient favorite about lasting love in the days when the world was young, and gods walked among men. Not an eye was dry as he finished. Hebert went down on one knee.
“Nay, Hebert,” Tristan said quickly, raising him, “do not kneel to me. I have only a smattering of training. I have none of your technique and nothing of your memory. If I move them, it is because they love me. I can sing of love well enough, but mine is a poor skill beside yours. I thank you for the loan of your harp; she has a true voice.”
Hebert smiled. “My lord, you underestimate your gifts. A bard is nothing without passion behind the words. You have hold of the central secret—and the gods have blessed you with a voice.”
“Cursed me, more like, with a voice and no one to sing to.” Tristan sank onto the bench between Dinadan and Guvranyl as Bruenor signaled the wine bearers for another round.
Guvranyl embraced him, and Tristan was astonished to find his beard was wet. “Wherever did you learn such music? I never heard anything so beautiful in all my life, and I know I never gave you time or leave to learn it.”
Tristan smiled and hugged the old man, feeling the lean bones, the stringy muscles of age beneath the fine cloth of his robe. “You’d be surprised, Guv, at the things I learned when you weren’t looking.”
The old soldier’s eyes misted. “I miss the sound of music. Your father Meliodas always had the finest bards in Britain come to Lyonesse, and paid them well. The army went without new saddles and once without new swords, so Meliodas could have his music. I thought it was foolishness then. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Surely Markion has bards in Camelot? It’s been a tradition since Arthur’s day, to host the best bards in the land.”
Guvranyl shook his head. “Markion has no ear for music. Camelot was once a civilized place—none more so—but now it’s just a collection of fighting men. Dinner is meat, wine, dogs, drunkenness, fighting, and sleep. I am glad to know that in Dorria and Lyonesse the light of civilized life has not gone out.”
“Why, Guv!” Tristan cried. “Have you changed so? You disdain the company of fighting men? An odd sentiment for a master-at-arms.”
Guvranyl drained his winecup. The gaze he fixed on Tristan did not waver. “Times have changed. Markion is not Meliodas. Tristan, we are losing Britain. It is even possible—if we take no steps—that in my lifetime we will lose Cornwall.”
Tristan stared at him. He took Guvranyl’s arm and felt how it trembled. “Easy does it, Guv. No more wine.”
Guvranyl’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “Wine or no, it’s true. This heir of his changes nothing. At the rate Mark is losing men, that babe will never live to see his birthright.” The smile broadened. “Or should I say, your birthright. It’s you who should be King of Cornwall, Tristan, and High King of Britain. If you were leading those blockhead Logris lords, we could put the fear of Almighty God into those pagan Saxon bastards!”
“Hush, you old fool. You’re speaking treason.”
“Am I?” Guvranyl shrugged. “Then so is half of Mark’s army.” The soldier’s eyes flickered and his voice went low. “The time is coming, Tristan, when you could take it from him. No one would stop you. Let him lose one more major battle, or do one more mean thing—”
“Guvranyl, I beg you to be quiet. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve served my uncle Markion for nigh on eight years, and you’re the most loyal man I know.”
Guvranyl rose, staggered, and leaned against Tristan. Unsteady as he was, his speech was perfectly clear. “I serve Cornwall. Markion will bring us all to ruin. He should never have been King. Meliodas only took the shore patrol that day because Markion feigned illness. It was Markion’s duty, but he always was deathly afraid of Gaels.” He hiccoughed once, straightened, and walked in a straight line out the door.
“My God, Tristan, what are you gaping at?” Dinadan elbowed him in the ribs. “Your jaw is on the floor.”
Tristan turned to him, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I’ve just learned—if I understood him aright—that it was Markion’s fault my father died.”
Dinadan sobered instantly. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“And he sent me to Wales. I didn’t believe, then, that he meant me harm. But now—he must have hoped the Welsh would do to me what the Gaels did to my father.”
“Of course he did. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
“But why, Dinadan? He knows I don’t want his throne. Why should he fear me so?”
“Because so many others want it for you.”
A distant trumpet sounded. Heads turned toward the door. A few moments later a page entered, knelt at Bruenor’s side, and whispered a message in his ear. Bruenor leaped to his feet.
“Noble guests!” he cried. “Here is a most welcome surprise! I have the honor to announce the arrival at Castle Dorr of our young Queen, Essylte of Gwynedd.”
The guards snapped to attention as a hooded figure in a dark green cloak swept into the room and made a graceful reverence to Sir Bruenor. In the stunned silence, her pretty voice reached to the back of the hall.
“My dear lord Bruenor, I pray you will forgive so sudden an intrusion into your company. I should have sent ahead to let you know. I have come to represent my husband at the marriage of your noble son, Sir Dinadan. The High King is away at the wars or he would have come himself.”
Sir Bruenor smiled down at her in some confusion. “I thank you, my lady Queen, for such a thoughtful gesture. You are always welcome at Castle Dorr, for any reason. But—er—Markion already sent his excuses with Sir Guvranyl, who serves as his proxy.”
The hooded figure went very still. “Sir Guvranyl is here?”
“Aye, my lady. He arrived three days ago.”
Essylte pushed her hood back. Her hair was braided tight against her head and bound with a net of tiny pearls. Across her brow she wore a thin silver circlet, symbol of her sovereignty. Sir Bruenor bowed.
Essylte looked calmly up at him. “How odd. He has sent two of us, then, for the same purpose.”
“No matter, no matter,” Bruenor returned easily. “You are welcome at Dorr and always will be. You’ve been traveling late, my lady. Have you eaten? Let me send to see if the kitchens are still open.”
“We pressed on as fast as we dared to get through Morois before dark. As for me, I am not hungry. But I would appreciate some provision for my men.”
�
��At once. I will see to it.” Bruenor nodded to his seneschal, who slipped discreetly out the door. “You are welcome to join us, Queen Essylte, but as you see”—he gestured toward the benches and tables—“we are all men here, getting as drunk as we can as fast as we can, to celebrate Din’s last night unwed. Lady Diarca and her women retired some time ago.”
Essylte turned and briefly surveyed the men. Everyone knelt. Tristan trembled as her glance touched him and passed over. No more than a moment’s contact, the briefest recognition, mild as the breath of May, yet his soul lit and his body fired to life.
“My lord, I thank you for the invitation, but I am tired from the journey. As soon as a bed can be prepared I will go to it.”
Dinadan stepped forward. “My lady Queen, I would be honored to escort you. Diarca has taken charge of the women’s rooms and can find a space for you, I’m sure. She has long wanted to meet you. You can bide with her while a chamber is prepared.”
Essylte made him a reverence. “Thank you, Prince Dinadan. That suits me well.”
“Excellent—” Bruenor began, but stopped as Tristan came forward.
“And I.” Tristan found himself standing at her side without knowing he had moved. “I will come with you.” All eyes turned toward him.
Essylte smiled. “Very well, my lord. Markion’s honored nephew is always welcome.”
She lowered her eyes discreetly and took Dinadan’s arm. Unable to speak, unable to prevent himself from following, Tristan tagged along in silence until they reached the women’s quarters. Diarca greeted Essylte warmly and with affection. They sat together on a cushioned couch and chatted amicably while servants hurried to make tea and warm wine for the men. There was plenty of room for her and any companions she had brought with her, Diarca assured Essylte.
“I have brought no companions with me,” Essylte said quietly, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “I came at the last moment and my companion is ill. I didn’t like to leave her, but it was necessary.”
She never turned to him or spoke to him, she never so much as cast a glance his way, but Tristan knew her message was for him.
“Do you mean Branwen?” Dinadan asked. “Is it serious? I thought she had recovered from her childbed.”
“She has,” Essylte responded. “In a month’s time she will feel better, but just now she is too ill to travel.”
Diarca nodded knowingly, but Tristan was at sea. What on earth was she telling him? Whatever ailed Branwen? What was he supposed to do about it?
Diarca rose and took Dinadan’s hand. “Come with me, my love.” She beckoned to the old nurse who attended her. “Come, Lenore. I must have speech with Dinadan and you’d best attend us.” The nurse cast a quizzical glance at Tristan and Essylte. Diarca shook her head lightly. “They are old friends,” she whispered. “There is nothing to fear.”
Out in the corridor Dinadan bent down to her. “Are you mad, leaving them alone together?”
“Of course not. But she has come all this way, through Morois in one day, to tell him something. I must give her the chance to tell him or she’ll never sleep.” She shivered. “Could you feel the fire in that room, Din? I know now what you mean. They will consume one another if they continue as they are.”
“He had sworn,” Dinadan said slowly, “never to see her again.”
“But she came to him. He could not prevent that.”
“God,” Dinadan breathed, “must weep to see them.”
Essylte stood at Diarca’s window, hands clasped tight, and stared out over the dark forest she had just ridden through. Tristan watched her from across the room.
“What is wrong, Essylte? Have you come all this way to tell me Branwen’s ill? Should I go to Tintagel to see her? What do you want me to do?”
Essylte drew a deep breath. Lamplight glittered off the silver circlet on her brow, trembling as she trembled. “She’s ill only in the mornings. She’s with child.”
Tristan frowned to hide his relief. Relief was clearly not the right response. “Indeed?”
Essylte turned toward him. “So I have come to beg you to break your vow. My life, and Young Tristan’s life, depend upon it.”
He could see the tumult of emotion breaking through the hard edges of her control, but his wits were useless. He could not guess the cause of her despair. “Break my vow? But—”
“Tristan!” The cry was wrenched from her. She ran across the room and flung herself at his feet, her hot tears splashing over his hands. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see what is ahead?”
He raised her and took her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t, sweet. Calm yourself, Essylte, and tell me what’s amiss. I promise you I will protect you.” He led her to the couch and sat her down. She struggled to collect herself, and at last, looking down at their hands clasped together, she spoke.
“Last summer—Midsummer’s Eve—you remember. Young Tristan was presented. And afterward—that night—Mark lay with Branwen. He lay with her every night for a fortnight, and she conceived.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“She is nearly two months gone. Two months!”
She began to tremble, and he pulled her closer. “My dearest love, why does it frighten you so? Why does it mean all our deaths?”
She pushed away and faced him. “Can’t you count, Tristan? Everyone at Tintagel has ten fingers. Just because Segward’s gone doesn’t mean his spies aren’t there.”
“So? Next spring Branwen will bear a child. Everyone will think it’s mine. Why do you worry?”
“May God restore your wits! What happens when Markion comes home at Christmas? What happens when he sees Branny with a swollen belly and me without? He will know which of us is in his bed. I—I—I will have to lie with him.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. The hand that gripped his was ice. “I will die first.”
He kissed her wet cheeks, and then her lips, and drew her onto his lap. “I see. So what must we do? Keep Mark away until Branwen bears?”
“Longer. She gets weary and low after bearing. He cannot come to Tintagel until she is able to lie with him again. A year, at least. And—I fear she will not want to lie with him anymore.”
“Why? Has she said this to you?”
“Not outright. But I think this child she carries is important, even decisive in some way.”
“I doubt very much I can keep Mark away for an entire year.”
She looked up at him, green eyes swimming. “Lie with me, Tristan. I am begging you. If I conceive now, I can fool him at Christmas about the size of my belly. And I can keep him from coming back until well after Branny is healed. You took the vow for my sake—now you must break it for my sake.”
Tristan shut his eyes. “But I swore it upon my love for you,” he whispered. “It is not such an easy vow to break.”
Essylte leaped to her feet. “Cruel heart! Would you deny me? When it means my life? Oh! You are tired of me already! Is that it? You have been all summer in Lyonesse with Esmerée, and you—”
Tristan grabbed her hand and pulled her hard onto the couch, pinning her against the cushions as his lips sought hers. “Stop. Stop now. You break my heart, I will hear no more of it. Not want you? O God! Do you think I am made of stone?” His hands slid over her gown. “There is not a bone in my body that does not want you. Every fiber of my flesh aches for your touch. Did you really come all the way from Tintagel for this?”
Half laughing, half sobbing, she hung on his neck. “I dared not go to Lyonesse—on what excuse? This was the perfect place, the perfect time. No one will suspect. Everyone knows Dinadan is my friend.”
Tristan bowed his head against her breast as her hands slipped under his tunic. “No. Sweet. No. I mean, not here. Not now. Diarca’s only gone for a moment. Let me think. My darling girl, be still a moment.” He pushed himself upright and straightened his tunic. “There is only one way to do it. As soon as the feasting is over, I will escort you back to Tintagel. I’ll send my own me
n home to Lyonesse. How much of an escort did you bring?”
“Twelve.”
“Good.” He paused. “How much time do you need? I mean, er, how long will it take?” He colored lightly at Essylte’s puzzled frown. “I know it takes longer for some women than for others. Last time,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, “it needed only a single bedding. I need to plan for the time. How long should we be together?”
She slipped off her silver circlet and placed it around his head. “Give us a fortnight, and all will be well. If God smiles on us.”
“A fortnight might be difficult, unless your men are fools.”
“They’re Markion’s men, my dearest. Not mine. What do you plan to do?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. It’s better you do not know. Secret some extra waterskins among your belongings, and beg a day’s rations from the kitchens. Ask for a litter, not a horse. If Bruenor questions you, which he won’t, tell him you are with child.”
She sucked in her breath and looked up at him uncertainly. He took her hands and held them. “Essylte. Are you certain this is what you want? Let me go to Tintagel and get our son, and take you both to Lyonesse. The time may be ripe to test Mark’s resolve.”
“No, no!” she breathed. “I’m not ready to die yet, Tristan. If we can keep going just a little longer—who knows? Maybe the Saxons will kill him in battle and he’ll die a hero’s death. That would solve everything.”
She smiled up at him, but Tristan flinched. “What has Markion done to us that we should wish him an early death? What if our wish is granted? Will we be happy then?”
Essylte covered her face with her hands. “Are we damned, then? What have we ever done but love each other?”
Tristan swallowed. “What indeed?”
23 LOST IN MOROIS
The Bishop of Dorria married Dinadan and Diarca at midmorning. The day was warm and dry, and the wedding feast spilled out the doors of the hall into the garden and even beyond the courtyard onto the cleared hillside. There was food enough for an army, and wine enough to put every man in a stupor. Hebert was in perfect voice. Men sang and danced and ate and drank until the afternoon was well advanced. Of them all, only Tristan and Essylte drank nothing, and barely touched their food. At dusk the women led the bride away. An hour later, staggering on his feet, supported by his companions, Dinadan was led away to join her. In the feasting hall the drinking went on and on. Men slid senseless from their seats and lay snoring where they fell. Those who were left crowed in victory and called for another round of wine.
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