Tristan drew Sir Bruenor aside and thanked him for his generous hospitality. At dawn the next morning, he planned to escort Queen Essylte back to Tintagel, and he begged leave to go.
Bruenor tried hard to focus on his face. “Of course I give you leave, of course I do. God, you look like Meliodas! I wish he were here. Sonofabitch’s whelp never touched wine, but when he did he could drink me under the table. Ha-ha! But what’s the hurry? Stay with us awhile, my boy. Queen’s welcome to stay, too. We’ll be celebrating all day long—there will be races, contests, songs—and you just got here yesterday!”
Tristan explained carefully that Essylte wished to leave as soon as possible, that neither she nor Markion had known, when he sent her to Dorria, that she was with child, but that he would be furious to learn she had risked traveling in her condition. It was best to get back without delay.
Bruenor grinned in delight. “Again? That randy old goat! Who would have thought he had it in him? Bless the girl, she may leave when she chooses. Yes, yes, by all means escort her yourself. Markion will thank you for it. I hope little Diarca will prove such a breeder of sons!”
They left at dawn, with a cool mist rising from the dewy grasses. A league east of the looming forest the road forked. Tristan sent his own men home along the south road, which ran through the lower reaches of Morois at its thinnest point, and then on down the peninsula to Lyonesse. Bleary-eyed and nursing headaches, they were only too willing to part from their sober commander and return home at their own pace. Tristan led Essylte and her twelve men straight into the forest.
He had ridden through Morois often enough, both in Meliodas’s train and in Markion’s. The road between Tintagel and Dorria was considered safe for travel, at least for a group of armed men. It was well worn and easy to follow, except in a mist. But in the heart of the forest even bright sunlight dimmed to dark, and an eerie stillness carpeted the land, so that no one, not even hardened soldiers, passed through without making signs against enchantment, or clutching amulets, or whispering prayers of protection. Here and there throughout the forest, tracks branched off the main road, some no more than deer trods, some clearly the work of men. No one Tristan knew had ever ridden down one of those tracks to see where it led. No one had ever dared even step off the road. Legend held the heart of Morois was haunted by Faerie folk. In the broad light of day no one believed in Faeries, but the heart of Morois Wood was another matter. Since his boyhood, when Tristan had first seen those branching forest tracks, they had beckoned to him, calling to him from their mystery, but he had never been in command of his movement, had never had the power to follow their call. Until now.
As they rode, Tristan scanned the forest for signs of life, but nothing moved in the dappled light and shadow. Shafts of bright September sun pierced the leafy canopy here and there, throwing the ragged undergrowth into sharp relief. But they traveled alone. Nothing moved, nothing watched, nothing threatened from the tangled verge. For the thousandth time Tristan racked his memory. He knew the place he sought, but he was not sure how late they would reach it. Thank God Essylte had agreed to the litter. It forced them to move slowly, and they would have to set up camp somewhere for the night.
In late afternoon the forest thickened around them and the men, still edgy from last night’s drinking, began to look nervously about. Tristan raised a hand and halted the procession. They had come to the place he sought. On the southern side of the road was a little clearing in a thin stand of pines. Ten minutes’ work in the underbrush would give a company of men space enough to set up a dozen tents. As it was, they hobbled the horses, tossed their bedrolls on the ground, and rigged a small pavilion for Essylte from skins and blankets and the litter cloths. The men felt better after they built a fire. They had all packed their saddlebags with leftovers from Bruenor’s generous table, and Tristan had brought three extra skins of wine. They cheered his foresight, and cheered again when he bade them finish it off to clear their headaches, and cheered him a third time when he volunteered to stand the first night watch. By the time the thin moon rose above the pines, they were all twelve fast asleep and snoring. Tristan lifted aside the skins of the pavilion and peeked inside. Essylte was ready, wrapped in her dark green cloak and hood. She had bundled together armfuls of gathered bracken, her saddle, and her litter cushions and tucked a blanket around them to form a long, lumpish bundle. Tristan nodded his approval. If it was merely glanced at, not inspected, it gave the impression of a sleeping body. He pointed to her candle. She blew it out and reached for his hand. Together, as silently as thieves, they crept over the carpet of pine needles and out onto the road.
It was so dark they could see nothing at first. They faced away from the fire until their eyes adjusted and they could see the lighter darkness of the road against the deeper black of the forest on either side. Side by side, holding tight to one another, they walked down the road into the heart of Morois Wood. As time passed they found they could see well enough to distinguish the trails that intersected the road at odd intervals.
“What if they wake up?” Essylte whispered. “They will come after us, surely. Shouldn’t we hide away well off the road?”
“Few men are brave enough to ride into the depths of Morois at night,” Tristan replied. “And none of them is in Markion’s service. Besides, they won’t know this is the way we’ve come. They’ll scour the forest within light of the fire, then wait for morning and look for tracks.”
“Will they track us this far?”
“I doubt it. The road is dry and hard. And even in daylight this part of the forest is always dark. They’ll be so frightened by the time they get here, they’ll hardly take their eyes from the trees. We have plenty of time to hide, my love. I’m only looking for the right path.”
“The right path? Where does it lead?”
“I mean, the one I’m looking for. It’s at the top of a low rise and heads due north, I think. Come on, it can’t be far.”
Another hour of walking brought them to the place Tristan remembered, and they left the road for a narrow track that ran straight through the undergrowth for a hundred paces, then snaked eastward and wound slowly uphill. Essylte clung to Tristan’s hand as they climbed, feeling their way. The forest here was alive with night sounds, the low call of owls, the distant throaty howl of a beast more formidable, the beat of wings, more felt than heard, erratic rustling in the undergrowth, and now and then a shriek, bitten off.
Essylte shivered. “Tristan, are we in danger?”
He squeezed her hand. “No, love.”
“Where are we going, then? Where does this path lead?”
She heard his soft laugh. “I’ve no idea.”
Her instinct was to panic—two people alone in the middle of Morois Wood, on a night so dark they could hardly see a step before their faces, and they didn’t know where they were or where they were going. But, oddly, she felt safe. The night seemed a blanket drawn down to hide them, the forest an old friend who pulled them to its bosom with the promise of protection. Surely the forest itself, so mysterious, so feared, would shield them from pursuers. She understood there would be pursuers. The knowledge did not trouble her at all. She did not care what happened to her, so long as she shared her fate with Tristan.
She smiled to herself as her breathing quickened. Ever since he had vowed not to see her again she had hungered night and day for the touch of Tristan’s hands. Her desire was a living pain that swelled with every step into the forest, more real, more compelling even than her fear.
The path ended abruptly in a circular clearing at the top of a hill. They stood hand in hand, awed by the beauty of the place. A thin slice of moon burned overhead, shedding silver shadows on the gray grasses. The night air moved around them, cool and free. A ring of stones marked the center of the clearing, and in the middle of the ring they could see the scorched earth that signaled a recent fire.
“It’s a sacred place,” Essylte breathed. “It must be. I can feel it.”
; Tristan nodded and bent to touch the ashes. “Aye. Look yonder, under the trees. Can you see the standing stones? This is a Druid grove.”
“Druids?” Essylte shuddered and looked quickly about. “Here?”
“Don’t be afraid, Essylte. Last night, the night of the new moon, there was a ceremony here. The earth is still warm. Modron, the three-in-one: Virgin, Mother, and Crone, unless I miss my guess. You have no need to fear; she is your protectress.”
“But I’m a Christian. I don’t worship the Mother.”
He smiled at her. “Then this is not a sacred place.”
But she knew it was. Something powerful presided in that clear, open space—not the familiar power she worshiped in the chapel at Tintagel, with its cross of beaten silver and its chalice of studded gold. Christ spoke to her of mercy and forgiveness, of beauty in squalor, of joy in submission and of life everlasting. This power was different, older, cruder. It made no promises. An ancient, hallowed stillness crept into her bones, a driving joy suffused the very air she breathed. Her feet were rooted to the earth. She had grown there, anchored in timelessness. But she was a fragile, hollow reed, void of content. Her body ached the ache of emptiness, of the fallow field. Her blood beat with the desire to blossom, to bloom, to bring forth life. A low moan escaped her. Her eyes widened as she recognized her yearning, and Tristan smiled.
“Standing there in your dark cloak with your bright hair, lit by a moonbeam with the night behind you, you are light and shadow, truth and mystery; a woman as fair as a star of the heavens, and as unknowable. You could be the Goddess Herself, my sweet Essylte.”
“I am only a woman,” she whispered. “But I am half myself without you.”
Tristan shifted his saddle pack off his shoulders and spread a blanket on the ground within the ring of stones. From his wineskin he poured a libation into the waiting earth, then took a long pull and offered it to Essylte.
“Drink.” She obeyed. He pushed the hood off her head and undid the clasp that held her cloak.
“Tristan!” she breathed. “Do you feel what I feel?”
“Do I not!” he whispered back. “My blood beats in my ears! Tonight I am emperor, conqueror, King Stag himself in earthly form.”
One by one, he loosed the braids that held her hair, until the bountiful curls fell into his hands. She pressed against his strong body, wild and alive, wondering whether this stirring need that drove her was his magic or the Mother’s.
“Oh, Tristan, at last we are free!”
He lifted her in his arms and knelt on the blanket. “Tonight we will worship the Good Goddess, the giver of life. Together.” A quick smile. “I wager the Mother will be pleased with our offering.”
She laughed. “But we are Christians—we don’t know the ritual.”
He bent over her and touched his lips to her face. “Christian or pagan, Druid or renegade prince, it is all the same. This ritual is as old as time.”
Essylte sang as they walked through the forest and plaited a crown for her hair from the hanging vines. In the hood of her cloak she had gathered pine nuts, acorns, and berries. The forest in October proved a generous host, ripening fruits for them, sending deer, fox, and rabbit across their path. Tristan had taught her how to set a rabbit snare. There was nothing easier, really. She wondered why no one taught girls this fundamental skill. Rabbit stew flavored with pine nuts was a nourishing and tasty dish, especially as it was the first one she had ever made with her own hands. And if they had missed onions and bread, neither of them had said so. Of course, they had only made stew when they stayed at the woodcutter’s empty cottage, where there was a cooking pot. Most of the time they stuck the meat on a barbed stick and roasted it over a fire. It was still nourishing but took time and energy to chew.
Twice, Tristan had killed a deer. He had fashioned a spear from a stripped sapling and bound his dagger to the end of it to make a killing weapon he could throw. More than once he had regretted not raiding the weapons room at Castle Dorr. A bow and a quiver of arrows would make a big difference now. But such weapons were difficult to hide, and he could not have carried them openly without raising a host of questions. Deer were nearly impossible to kill with a single spear strike. It was a primitive art, Tristan told her. No doubt their forefathers, who had peopled Cornwall in the wake of the giants who had fashioned the land, had mastered that art, but to a modern, civilized warrior used to more deadly weapons, it was an arduous and chancy way to hunt. Once he had been lucky, when a deer ran across their path at dusk. But the second time, when they were hungry, he had waited at a salt lick, sitting perfectly still for hours on end, until two young bucks appeared. The skins were not cured, of course. They had neither the tools nor the time. Tristan used them for carrying deer flesh or for sleeping on at night when they were out of meat. If they were rubbed with ashes from the fire, the smell was bearable.
There were certain advantages, Essylte thought, to a wanderer’s way of life. Her legs had grown strong with constant walking, her feet tough. She had lost flesh, she knew, because her gown, torn by brambles and in need of patching, hung loose about her, but her body was stronger, more agile, able to perform feats she had never dreamed possible for a woman. She had crossed streams by leaping from boulder to boulder, had crossed a chasm by swinging on a vine, had climbed trees for apples, for concealment, or purely for the pleasure of knowing she could do it. She had clawed her way up a cliff to hide in a cave the day they heard hunting dogs. She grinned. If her mother could see her now! This ragged, unkempt girl with tangled hair, lean and strong as any boy, was a far cry from the gowned and pampered Queen of Powys Guinblodwyn had envisioned! The thought of it made Essylte laugh in sheer delight.
She bathed in rushing streams and washed her hair with soaproot. She enjoyed standing naked in the cold water, with the warm sun on her back, and Tristan—always Tristan—there at her side, smiling at her, alive with delight, making her feel the most beautiful woman in all the world. She no longer feared the forest. She felt at home now in its branches and its bowers, its hills and hollows. The only thing she feared was being caught.
It had been a close thing at the woodcutter’s cottage. They had come across it at dusk, only days after their escape. Tristan had been reluctant to approach it—it meant some village or hamlet lay nearby, and it wouldn’t be empty long; this was the time of year for getting in wood for winter burning—but a storm was brewing, so they took shelter in the cottage. How wonderful it was to lie in a bed again, warmed by a leaping fire and Tristan’s arms around her, while outside the wind raged and the rain beat furiously down.
Nostalgia for the settled life had hit her like a blow. She begged Tristan to stay another day, and another. He indulged her against his better judgment. He held her, and whispered to her, and made sweet love to her to dry her tears. But on the morning of the third day he had taken her hand and led her firmly away. Smoke from their fires had surely been noticed in the village, and sooner or later someone would come by to investigate. How could they be certain no messenger from Castle Dorr had reached the village? Whether Tristan was regarded as victim or villain, the disappearance of the Queen of Cornwall, the High Queen of Britain, was a catastrophe large enough to be bruited about the entire land.
That very afternoon, from their hiding place in a pine tree, they had watched and listened as the woodcutter and four men from the village searched the woods below them. They were armed with axes, cudgels, and a sword, but thank the Good Goddess, they did not have dogs. They knew whom they sought. The tallest of them held one of her hair ribbons in his hand.
“Green, they said she were wearing, eh, Birn? A green gown and cloak? I wager this be hers, then.”
“Yes,” another had replied. “We’ll send to Dorr when we get back. Pray the bastards don’t take ’er into Black Hollow. She’ll never come out from there alive.”
“Then we’d best be quick about it,” the woodcutter had cut in gruffly, “if you want to search the woods from here to there a
nd be back by dark.”
Tristan had marked which way they went, and after they returned at dusk, hurrying in the failing light, he followed their trail. Black Hollow turned out to be no more than a bog with chancy footing. With the help of a long stick to probe the bubbling mud, he had led her safely through the marsh grasses, from tuft to tuft, until they reached firm ground on the other side. Thinking she was being clever, she had pulled out her remaining hair ribbon and tossed it into the thick, black ooze.
But that had made Tristan angry. “We don’t want them to think you’re dead,” he said. “That way, you can never go back.”
“Good!” she had returned defiantly. “Let Mark put aside the marriage and wed another. Then I am yours forever.”
Tristan’s eyes had flashed in the dark. “And what happens to our son?”
It was the only time in the whole six weeks they had mentioned the future. It was safer just to go on from day to day, hoping the future would never come. Sometimes at night, with the warmth of Tristan’s body against her own and his lips against her cheek, she wished for death. She knew she would never be happier than she was now. Whatever it was that lay ahead would be immeasurably worse, could not help but be worse, than wandering through Morois Wood with her lover at her side.
But Tristan himself was changing. It wasn’t the drawn look about his face or the leanness of his body that worried her. It was the look in his eyes. Except when he was loving her, which was still, as always, a joyful celebration of desire between them, he wore a haunted look. He put her in mind of a hound who had misbehaved; his eyes spoke of mute suffering, of shame, and even of regret. At first she thought his love had cooled, but the heat of his denial, and the proof that followed, convinced her she was wrong. Nor was he sorry he had rescued her from death. He would walk into the jaws of Hell for her, he told her, and she believed him. But he could not live from day to day, as she could. The past lay heavy on his shoulders, and the dreaded future just around the corner. He was waiting for the second shoe to drop.
Prince of Dreams Page 33
