Tristan took the harp and pulled it onto his lap, adjusting the string shoes and tuning it carefully. “You ask much, hermit. My voice has been still a long time.” He closed his eyes and exhaled, listening with his spirit to the inner stirrings of his soul. His fingers moved against the strings, tentatively at first and then, as the inner springs of feeling began to flow, with the familiar assurance of a lover’s touch. Music floated free; chords and notes fell sweetly into the silence, beguiling the heart in liquid song. Tristan bent over the harp, remembering Dinadan’s wedding at Castle Dorr, with the bright sun shining from a cloudless sky and food stacked high on groaning tables, and the harp sang of it. He thought of the dark night in the forest when he and Essylte, hand in hand, had crept from their escort into the fastness of Morois, and the harp sang of it. He saw in his mind’s eye the starlit hilltop within its circle of standing stones, the rain of moonlight, the blossoming of desire as Essylte succumbed to the Mother’s call, melting against his body like a second skin, and the harp told the story. The days they had spent wandering, in laughter and joy, in fear and worry, in cold discomfort and in the blessed warmth of their embraces, all passed before his memory and the harp rejoiced. He pictured Markion and his army, urged on by Segward, scouring the edges of Morois with raised swords, crying out for Tristan’s blood. The harp trembled, raising the hair on his neck. He thought of precious Essylte, her innate sweetness, her wonderful laughter, her quick teasing, her trembling fear, her tenderness, her girlish anger, her hot bloom of passion beneath his hands, and the harp sang it all, movingly, sweetly, sadly. Finally, Tristan envisioned the future that he dreaded, death or exile for himself, wretched imprisonment in the cold rock of Tintagel for the beautiful Essylte, with no lover but the greedy Markion, and no one at all to share her soul. The harp wept.
Tristan’s fingers stopped moving. The last vibrations circled around the hut and faded to nothing. The hermit rose and came to where Tristan sat slumped over the instrument. Slowly, he bowed from the waist.
“Tristan of Lyonesse, my name is Ogrin. I offer you the use of my humble house for as long as you like to stay. The ancestors have honored you. They have blessed you with the ancient gift of Speaking Without Tongue, as I—” He paused, and something like a smile creased his lined face. “I have the gift of Seeing Without Eyes.”
Tristan looked up uncertainly, blinking at the firelight as if he had just entered the room. “Oh, how the harp hurts me. . . . What did you say, Ogrin? Blessed? If I am blessed, why is my heart so heavy? Why can’t I sleep? Why do I dream about wolves when I do?”
“The Queen and her child lie on your conscience.”
Tristan brushed tears from his eyes. “The Queen, yes. But not the child, thank God. He is safe in Tintagel.”
Ogrin paused. “I speak of the child she carries in her.”
Tristan’s head whipped up. “She is with child? How do you know?”
“Don’t believe me, then,” Ogrin returned sourly. “If you’d listened with your bard’s ears to the rhythm of life around you, you’d have known it two months ago.”
“Two months!” Tristan turned to Essylte and gently touched her face. “Sweet child, the Mother did indeed bless you. Why didn’t you tell me? Once I was in tune with the beat of life, the storm winds and the sea’s song. But I have been deaf a long time now.”
Ogrin raised a hand over his head and spoke quickly in a tongue Tristan did not understand, a guttural chanting that wound into his mind and closed his thoughts, dragged at his eyes, pulled him to the earth. He yawned and curled up next to Essylte on the pallet.
“Sleep comes upon you,” Ogrin sang in a low voice. “No dreams disturb your rest. No worry for the morrow. The Queen’s child shall be safe—” Ogrin paused. “Although his face you shall never see. Peace will find you, my friend, when your lover lies beside you and the ivy twines thrice around the hazel.”
Tristan, pillowed on Essylte’s breast and already sinking toward sleep, did not hear him.
25 TRIALS OF THE QUEEN
Essylte sat outside the hut in a warm pool of sun, stitching a length of russet fabric, her red-gold curls falling in a thick curtain around her face. She coughed once and clutched her chest, but then relaxed. It was a dry cough and the hollow pain that had racked her body in every coughing spell for the last three weeks had at last diminished to no more than a catch between her ribs. She looked up quickly, feeling Tristan’s anxious eyes on her. He stood by the woodpile, ax in hand. She smiled and waved. He nodded, hefted the ax, and went back to work.
She watched him a moment, admiring the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he bent, straightened, swung, and bent again. He moved fluidly, as graceful as a dancer. Desire stirred, and she smiled to herself. Wanting him was as easy as drawing breath. She pressed one hand against her belly and fancied she could already detect the hard, growing presence of her child. Tristan had sworn last night that he could feel it, that he could hear the pulsation of its life within her life. It was the first time since her illness he had come to her bed. She sighed and closed her eyes, remembering with a warm flush of pleasure his gentleness and power. He knew her body better than she did herself. He knew how to blow upon the sparks of her desire, fan them to flame, then bank them and stoke them at his will, using lips and words and hands, until she was well nigh wild with wanting. It was that wildness he waited for. Then, with the world trembling on knife-edge, his dark shadow swooped over her, filling her vision. She felt again the strength of his arms around her, carrying her in glorious flight to those precious, fire-struck moments when the world dissolved and released them, free, a single spirit in the soaring light.
She opened her eyes and found Tristan watching her, the ax slipped from his fingers, a light sweat filming his brow.
“Hem, hmmm.” Ogrin, come from the bake house with a basket of new bread, stepped between them. “Not safe alone.” Essylte smiled and bent over her needle, sewing to the steady thunk thunk of Tristan’s ax.
When the sun swung behind the pines, the air grew chill. Ogrin called them in to dinner as dusk settled early in the woods. They ate together while the blaze warmed the hut. A month of Ogrin’s cooking had put flesh back on Essylte’s bones and a bloom back in her cheeks. In return, Tristan had cut enough wood to last the hermit through three winters and had gathered enough wild hay to feed his donkey until the snowmelt. And if the hermit turned his head away when the heat between them grew beyond their power to control, so they ignored his strange rituals with snakeskins, bird beaks, knives, and animal innards at the stone cairn by the hidden spring.
“His people were Druids,” Tristan had explained. “But he is the last of his family. Among his own kind he is highborn, learned in the folk wisdom of his clan, a seer, a judge among men. How he reached his present state, he won’t say, but it’s possible that there just isn’t anyone left.”
“Isn’t he the Hermit of Morois you once told me all the people feared?”
“People fear what they don’t know.”
“You said he ate men for breakfast. He’d be hurt if he heard that.”
Tristan had grinned. “Hurt? Contemptuous, maybe, at what he considers to be the startling ignorance of modern men. We’re a fly-by-night race of beings, in his opinion, always at war with one another. He fully intends to outlast us all.”
Essylte shook her head as Ogrin ladled more of the rich stew into her bowl. “Oh, Ogrin, I can’t eat another mouthful. I’m full to bursting.”
The lines in the hermit’s face relaxed into a smile. “One for you. One for him.” He pointed to her belly.
“Him?” she asked quickly. “Are you certain?”
Ogrin nodded. “Him.”
Tristan slid an arm around her waist. “Mother of my sons,” he whispered in her ear, “try to eat a little more. We want him to be strong.”
As she ate, Ogrin brewed his strong tisane and Tristan plucked at his harp, picking out a new melody, finding the chords to enfold it and bri
ng it to life.
“How lovely that is,” Essylte murmured.
“It’s for you, my love. It’s ‘The Lay of Essylte.’ One day it will be sung all over Britain.”
She smiled at him. “My mother once told me in jest she would marry me off to a bard.”
Tristan winked. “She should have had more faith in the power of her own foretelling.”
As he played, her hands rested against her belly and she thought of the baby there, so fragile and so innocent, a son of Tristan born into a world ruled by Markion. It wasn’t fair to deceive him about his father. More than that, it was wrong. She shivered, and Tristan broke off his song.
“What is it, love?”
“Tristan, must we leave? Is it necessary?”
Tristan forced a smile. “Ogrin’s a hermit, my dear. He can hardly keep up that game while we’re here.”
“Was it necessary to negotiate with Mark? Wasn’t it possible we could just sneak away?”
“No, sweet, it wasn’t. Not once he put two and two together. I had hoped the Saxons would keep him busy and our disappearance would be brief, but as things worked out,” he shrugged and Essylte dropped her eyes, “his concern for his honor outweighs his concern for Britain. I hate to think what the Saxons are doing while Mark’s army scours the moors for me.”
“He must regard you now as his foremost enemy. How do we know that he won’t kill you?”
Tristan grunted. “That’s what we’re negotiating for. If Mark wants you back, he must promise to forgive us and harm neither of us. Those are the terms of your return.”
“He will never agree to it. Never.”
“Guv thinks he will. Reports from Logris are dire and growing worse. If he doesn’t return soon, he will lose those rich lands to the Saxons, and what will his kingship be worth then? If he beats them back and proves his power, he might win the respect of the northern lords. If he wants to be a King like Arthur, he must have their backing. But Logris is on fire. He doesn’t have much time.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Guvranyl told Ogrin at their last meeting outside the village. He was there in Mark’s camp when the courier brought the news. Guv’s reliable. He was loyal to my father, and he’s loyal to my father’s son.”
“How do you know they won’t follow Guvranyl to Ogrin, and Ogrin to us?”
The hermit’s face turned to her, his black eyes contemptuous.
“Don’t worry about Ogrin. He has powers you don’t suspect. No one can see him unless he wishes to be seen. He can’t be followed.”
“And when he brings Guvranyl here tomorrow?” She shivered, and Tristan drew her closer. “Guvranyl has no such powers.”
“Ogrin will draw a veil across this valley, so whoever tries to follow will be lost within a mist. Or some such trick.” Tristan winked at Ogrin. The hermit ignored him and went back to stirring his tea. “Don’t worry, sweet. Guvranyl wouldn’t be coming if negotiations hadn’t reached the last stage. We’ll be safe. We won’t be killed. Ogrin’s seen it in the flames.”
“I don’t believe in such nonsense,” Essylte whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “If Mark hates you enough, he will break his word once we’re in his power. He will never let us go to Lyonesse.”
“If he tries it,” Tristan whispered, “his own army will rise against him. He will have no choice.”
“I wish I were as certain as you are.”
Tristan drew her shift off her shoulder and brushed his lips against her skin. “I will never leave you. Never.” The hard knot of anxiety began to melt within her breast. She sighed with pleasure as his fingers worked the laces of her gown and his hands slid under the fabric. She glanced swiftly at Ogrin. He had already turned his back and pulled his hood close around his face.
“Tristan!” Guvranyl slid off his gray gelding, his arms thrown open in welcome. “By God, I thought I’d never see you again!” He embraced Tristan warmly, pounding him on the back. “You look good, lad. In fine fettle. How’ve you kept so fit?”
“Oh,” Tristan replied lightly, “wandering around Morois.”
Guvranyl laughed and wiped a tear from his eye. “I never thought you’d last a week in this damned enchanted forest. You’ve given old Markion a devil of a time!” He sobered as his gaze fell on Essylte. His eyes widened. “Is this the Queen?” He bent his knee to the ground. “Queen Essylte. Royal lady, I hardly knew you, you are so changed.”
Standing at Tristan’s side in her patched green gown with her hair unbound around her shoulders, Essylte extended her hand and raised him. “How changed, Sir Guvranyl? Is it the gown? Or the hair? The informality of the setting?”
“No, no, my lady. None of those. It’s hard to put a finger on it. You look different, stronger, more finely drawn. Even more beautiful. A regal woman. You’re not the young girl I knew as Markion’s wife.”
“You have put your finger on it,” Essylte said softly. “For I am not, nor ever was, Markion’s wife.”
Guvranyl frowned, and Tristan slung an arm around his shoulders. “Come, Guv, and I’ll explain it to you. But it’s a long story. You must swear faith with me first.”
Inside the hut the men sat before the fire and Essylte served them tea and meal cakes.
“Bring me up to date on the state of things,” Tristan began. “When did you last see Mark?”
“Yesterday,” Guvranyl reported. “He and his men are camped upon the moor at the edge of the forest.”
“Have they tried to follow you?”
“Oh, yes,” Guvranyl grunted. “They’ve tried. But I always find them sitting on the roadside in a stupor when I’m making my way back. I don’t know what it is that knocks them from their horses and steals their wits. But whatever it is, it’s useful.”
Tristan winked at Essylte. “How was Markion when you saw him? Will he come to terms?”
“He has done, I think, as much as he is able. He’s mad as a hornet, but he’s in a corner and he knows it. Bring her out and he’ll agree to take her back to wife. As for you, he’ll guarantee you safe conduct through his lands to anywhere you want, excepting only Lyonesse.”
“Tristan!” Essylte knelt at his side.
He waved away her protest. “Does he promise not to harm Essylte—ever?”
Guvranyl nodded. “For the rest of his life he will protect her and hold her harmless, if you will give her back.”
“No!” Essylte cried, clutching Tristan’s arm.
“How long is my safe conduct good for?”
“One year. After that, he will hunt you down. And if you set foot in Britain, he will kill you.”
“Or I him.”
Guvranyl shrugged. “What will you do?”
“Does Segward know the terms? Does he agree?”
Guvranyl grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Nothing will please Segward but your death and the Queen’s disgrace. But Mark has agreed to the terms in spite of Segward.”
“Oh, Tristan! You can’t do it!” Tears sprang to Essylte’s eyes. “Remember your promise to me.”
He turned to her. “I remember,” he said softly, clasping her hands. “And I will keep my promise.”
Guvranyl’s eyes flicked from one of them to the other, but his face gave nothing away. Tristan looked at Guvranyl directly. “Does he trust you, Guv?”
“He does. I have never given him cause to doubt me.”
“If you wish to continue to serve him, you had better stand outside while I speak to the Queen. If you can break faith with him and serve me, I will tell you the truth of how things stand.”
Guvranyl rose from his stool, bent his knee to the ground and inclined his head. “You are the only man who can save Cornwall, Tristan. I have known you from a boy; I have had the training of you. There is not a dishonorable bone in your body. I forswear my oath to Markion and I swear my faith to you.”
“Thank you, Guv,” Tristan said gravely. “But do not yet resign from Mark’s service. Not until I give
you leave. He would kill you before he would let you go, and I need you living.”
Guvranyl nodded slowly. “What are you planning, Tristan?”
Tristan loosed one of his hands from Essylte’s grasp and drew Guvranyl toward him. “Listen,” he said, “and I will tell you.”
On a gray day in mid-December, Markion sat upon his bay stallion and stared at the rutted road leading into the Morois Wood. Behind him, rank upon rank, stood the men of Cornwall, ten companies at attention. Snow drifted lazily from leaden skies. Horses stamped impatiently on frosted ground. The jangle of bits and swish of tails played a steady accompaniment to Segward’s fierce whispers.
“He’s turned Guvranyl against you, my lord King, that’s certain. He’ll never come out on his own. He’s loved her since he saw her first in Wales. Ask Percival if he did not bed her then! What can she look like, after three months in Morois? He’s afraid of what you’ll do to him when you see her. It’s a thin ploy, a plot, a—”
“Silence!” the King snapped. “Whose idea was it to send him to Wales? If you speak again without my leave, Segward, I will strip you naked and flay the flesh from your back.” Segward flushed and sullenly withdrew.
Bruenor and Dinadan, mounted on Markion’s right, waited, stiffening in the cold, as Markion’s anger grew with every minute that passed. Finally a gray horse appeared on the road. Snow swirled around it, thickening.
Markion leaned forward in the saddle. “Is that Guvranyl?”
“Yes, my lord,” Sir Bruenor answered, at his elbow. “And there’s someone coming behind him. On foot.”
Everyone strained to see. Gradually two figures appeared out of the darkness of Morois, walking together behind the horse. A man and woman, royally clad, walking serenely, as if the armed force they approached was their own escort.
“By God!” Dinadan whispered. “If it isn’t Tristan!”
As they neared the army the snow stopped and a weak sun pushed out. Markion stared. Essylte wore a russet gown, trimmed with fox, and new boots of soft worked leather. Her dark green cloak of good Welsh wool he thought he remembered, but now it was lined with rabbit pelts and trimmed in gold. Her hair under the warm hood was braided about her face, the way he liked it best. In spite of his anger, his heart lifted at the sight of her, and he nearly smiled. She was even lovelier than he remembered—too thin, perhaps, but with fine bones, translucent skin, and glowing eyes lit from within, an astonishing, ethereal beauty that was new. In all his life, he had never seen anyone like her.
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