“My lord King Markion!” Guvranyl reined his horse to a halt and saluted. “In accordance with the terms discussed between us and agreed to, I bring you your nephew, Tristan of Lyonesse, and Essylte, your Queen, whom he has rescued from death, and who carries in her your second son.”
A low murmur raced through the troops like wind through a hayfield. Markion snorted. “A likely story.”
Bruenor coughed. “Indeed, my lord, it may be true. At my son’s wedding Sir Tristan told me of the High Queen’s pregnancy. And that was before, they er, disappeared.”
Markion frowned. But Essylte faced him boldly and did not drop her gaze. “Is this true, Essylte?”
She made him a low reverence. “As I am your obedient servant, my lord,” she replied coolly.
Markion bit his lip, aware that more was going on than he understood. “Bring her a horse,” he commanded. A trooper led forward a black mare, and Tristan lifted her up into the saddle. At Markion’s signal she rode up to his side. He searched her face but could make nothing of her contained expression. “I welcome you back, Essylte.”
“I thank you, my lord.”
“Have you fared well?”
“I have been ill, my lord. But I am recovered.”
“Where were you?”
“At a hermit’s house, my lord. Well tended.”
“Were you all of the time with my nephew Tristan?”
She turned on him her blue-green eyes and her lips lifted in a small smile. “All of the time, my lord.”
The King’s face hardened. “Put him on a horse,” he snapped. But as Tristan mounted, Markion turned to the captain of his guard. “You, Melcor, take the reins. Two men on either side and three behind. I’ll take no chances.”
Guvranyl’s face darkened. “You promised him safe conduct. You gave your word!”
Markion smiled thinly. “He’ll be safe enough. A royal escort befitting my royal nephew.” He laughed as he whirled his stallion, grabbed the bridle of Essylte’s mare, and gave the order to march.
Markion led Essylte to her chamber with a firm grip on her arm. Outside her door the sentries snapped to attention but their eyes slid sideways, watching. Markion pushed Essylte before him and closed the door firmly behind his back.
“Well, lady, you are home at last.”
She faced him, trembling visibly, but held herself erect. “Thanks to your graciousness, my lord, and to your nephew’s courage.”
Markion’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Ah, yes, it always comes back to my nephew, doesn’t it? The time has come to be honest with me, Essylte of Gwynedd. What is there between you and Tristan? Are the rumors true?”
“Of what does my lord accuse me?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. You’re as aware of the talk as anyone else. I’ve promised to spare your life, but I want the truth. You’ve been gone three months and now you are with child. By your own lips you’ve been all the time with Tristan.” He approached her, pulled off her cloak, and pressed his hand against her hard belly. “Is this my son or Tristan’s?”
Essylte stilled a shudder. “My lord accuses me of adultery, then?” She raised her face to his, so near, and called tears into her eyes. “I swear by Almighty God I am no adulteress. Every minute since my marriage I have kept faith with my husband, the bravest and strongest of men.” She lifted a hand to his tangled hair and pushed it back from his brow.
Markion’s features softened and he grunted, pulling her hard up against his body and kissing her fiercely. “I’d give anything to believe you,” he growled, pulling away. “Why do you shake so, if not from fear?”
“My lord, I am weak from the journey and from—my ordeal.”
“Ordeal, was it? You didn’t look so when you walked at Tristan’s side.”
Essylte’s eyes flashed. “My lord sees what he wants to see!”
Markion laughed. “I like your spirit. Well, I will learn the truth from you before I leave. I’m tired of words—yours, Segward’s, Tristan’s. I’ll have the truth out of you for everyone to see. Then I’ll know.” His hands cupped her breasts and slid to her waist, her hips, her thighs. “You tempt me, lady, almost past bearing, but before I lie with you again, I’ll be certain of your virtue. Until then, this chamber is your prison. You will not pass beyond its walls.” His hands fell to his side. He turned on his heel and strode out the door, leaving her standing by the bed.
Essylte grabbed the bedpost for support. A prisoner! He had promised Guvranyl not to harm her, he had promised to take her back to wife, but had he promised freedom? At the moment, she hardly cared. Her relief that he had not forced her outweighed her fear. For a long moment she had thought he meant to insist upon his right. Just the touch of his hands on her gown revolted her. Genuine tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “Tristan,” she whispered, “how much better it was in Ogrin’s hut!”
The curtain parted. Branwen stood on the threshold, neatly dressed in a gray gown, her hair pulled back from her face and covered by a kerchief, her hands folded below the gentle swell of her belly and her gray eyes lowered submissively. “My lady. May I come in?”
Essylte bit her lip. “What do you want?”
Branwen knelt at her feet. “If I’ve offended you, Essylte, I beg you will forgive me. All this time I’ve—I’ve feared for your life. I realized what you meant to do, but—it was dangerous, and I thought it was my fault you decided to risk everything that way. I was afraid you would die in Morois and it would be my fault.”
Essylte fell to her knees and embraced her. “Oh, Branny, don’t say such things! It’s true I’ve doubted you, but I never held it against you. It’s not your fault, and I wasn’t in any danger. Tristan kept me safe, dear. He was with me all along.”
“You should have told me you were going. I could have helped you.”
“It turned out well enough. I thought you might try to stop me.”
“But why?” Branwen’s eyes met hers. “I want what you want, Essylte.”
Essylte hesitated. “Why did you wait so long to tell me of your pregnancy? If you’d told me sooner, we could have planned it differently. As it was, I had no time. I had to act at once.”
Branwen blinked. “I was trying to decide whether or not to keep it.”
Essylte stared at her in silence. “You would kill the King’s child?” she whispered.
Branwen nodded. “If bearing it would put you—us—in jeopardy. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know when Mark planned to return to Tintagel. When I heard he’d be coming at Christmas, I took the poison, but—” Her voice quavered. “It didn’t work. I was too far along. That’s when I told you. The next thing I knew—you were gone.”
“Oh, Branny!” Essylte breathed. “You took poison?”
“When I heard you had disappeared, I knew why, of course, but it was too dangerous, Essylte! Too easy for Mark to figure out. If I had come with you, I could have arranged it all at Castle Dorr. I have potions. It would have been easy. And safe.”
“But it would have put Sir Bruenor and Dinadan in jeopardy if Mark ever counted back upon his fingers.” Essylte shivered. “Did you hear what he said to me just now?”
Branwen nodded. “I was listening behind the curtain.”
“He doesn’t believe me, and he says I am a prisoner. What does he have planned, I wonder? He said he would learn the truth.”
“I don’t know now, but I will before long. Those of the house servants who are not in Segward’s employ are in mine. Before nightfall, I will know.”
“And where is Tristan?”
Branwen’s eyes widened. “Did he not come back with you?”
“Not freely. He was brought back with the kind of escort a prisoner warrants. I don’t know where he is now, or what Mark is doing to him.”
“By nightfall, I will know that, too.” Branwen squeezed Essylte’s hand. “Don’t worry. Mark can’t afford to harm Tristan. Half of Cornwall would leave his service if he did.” She hesitated. “Will you tell me
what happened in Morois? Did you manage to get with child?”
Essylte smiled briefly. “Oh, yes. And without potions. I’m nearly three months gone.”
“Three months! Then why did you stay so long in Morois? Were you lost?”
“Lost? We did not care where we were. It was a time of freedom and utter happiness in solitude—so remote now it all seems like a dream.” Her voice faded as her focus drifted away. “I would give anything, even this child, to be able to do it again.”
Branwen regarded her gravely. “In three months of solitude you must have talked about the future. What does Tristan plan?”
“When he can, he will take me and Young Tristan—and you, of course, Branny, and little Keridwen—to Lyonesse. No more lies, no more deceptions. We are done with that now. We will go to Lyonesse. Sir Guvranyl thinks the army will rise for Tristan.”
Branwen walked to the window where the west wind whistled through the shutters. She stood still a long moment, letting the cold sea breeze dry the sweat on her brow. “Does he, indeed?” Her hands slid protectively over her little belly. “So the time has come to tell the truth? We are to make our stand against the King?” She closed her eyes, as if to listen to the beat of life within her. The time was coming when she must decide between them, Markion and Tristan. But she would not be ready until the spring, until this child was born. Tristan was forcing her hand—intentionally, perhaps?—and if she could not stall him, she must be ready sooner than she wished to take the final step, make the final choice, from which there was no return. She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. Would she have the courage for it when the time came?
Three days later Markion held a Council meeting with a group of handpicked nobles and the Bishop of Dorria in attendance. They met to decide the fate of Tristan of Lyonesse and Sir Guvranyl, Tristan’s accomplice in the abduction and ravishing of the Queen. Branwen and Essylte waited in the Queen’s apartment for news of the decision. Essylte paced back and forth the length of her bedchamber in open agitation. Branwen sat at the antechamber window, as still as a cat, watching a gray December fog creep toward her over a gray December sea. One of Mark’s chamberlains shared a bed with one of her own maids, and the girl would get news of the decision to Branwen before the men even left the Council chamber, before anyone else in Tintagel could know, before Segward could get word to his informers, before Dinadan could get free of his father and sneak into the women’s quarters, and long, long before Markion would deign to officially notify his wife.
Time passed, the day dragged on, the fog drew nearer until all but the immediate coast was lost to sight. Essylte lay curled on her bed, exhausted with pacing, giving vent alternately to panicked rage or silent tears. Branwen remained by the window, a thick shawl drawn tight across her shoulders, until the sea fog wrapped the coast in its impenetrable embrace and began to lick the stones of the fortress wall. Then she sighed, pulled the shutters closed, and rose.
A swift, light tapping came at the outer door.
“Who comes?”
“Regan, my lady. I’ve brought a flagon of mead for the Queen, with the King’s compliments.”
Recognizing her maid’s voice, Branwen opened the door. Five guards stood on the landing outside Essylte’s door, but as she had anticipated, they would not prevent a serving maid from bringing a gift from Markion to his wife. She shut the door firmly behind Regan and dropped the bar silently across it.
“What news?”
Essylte pushed past the curtain, her eyes puffed with weeping. Regan made her a quick reverence and put down the heavy cup of mead. She turned to Branwen.
“Council’s about to break up, my lady, but Treffor came out to me early, as instructed—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Essylte cried, twisting her hands together. “Give us the ending first! Is Mark going to kill him?”
“Don’t mind the Queen,” Branwen said smoothly to the wide-eyed girl. “Her journey through Morois was a hardship that has turned her wits. It happens to everyone who stays in the forest three nights running. Now, Regan, tell me the decision first, and afterward how they came by it. As much as you know.”
The girl nodded nervously. “Exile. Banishment. For life. For both of them.”
Essylte sank against the wall and covered her face with her hands. Regan shot a quick glance at her.
“Keep your eyes on me,” Branwen said evenly. “Go on.”
“The Council—Treffor said the Council voted death for Sir Tristan, but King Markion commuted the sentence to exile. Because he had brought the Queen back. Because he is the only son of the King’s brother Meliodas, and the last left but one of Constantine’s line.”
Branwen’s lips twisted. “Poor Segward. Will Sir Tristan be allowed to keep Lyonesse?”
Regan shook her head. “He and Sir Guvranyl have a month to get out of Britain. After that, they will be hunted down and killed if they set foot anywhere on British soil. Including Lyonesse.”
A wounded sound, part groan, part sob, came from Essylte. Branwen put a hand on Regan’s shoulder, turned her around and steered her to the door.
“I must tend to my lady now. Come to me at bedtime. I would like to hear everything else you have to say.”
Regan clutched her arm, glancing swiftly at the huddled agony crouched against the wall. “Please, mistress, there is only this: Once Sir Tristan and Sir Guvranyl are sent away, the King will put my lady the Queen to trial as well.”
There was no reaction from Essylte. Branwen said quickly, “What kind of trial?”
Regan shuddered. “I don’t know. It’s not decided yet. But Treffor said the tests they talked about to prove her guilt were the kind of things—” She swallowed audibly. “The kind of things no one could survive, even in innocence.”
Branwen’s lips thinned. “Was Lord Segward at this meeting?”
“Oh, yes, my lady. More, he met privately with the King and the Bishop of Dorria before the Council meeting.”
Branwen nodded, her face tight, and gave the girl a copper coin from her pouch. “Well done, Regan. Let Treffor discover as soon as he may what Markion has in mind, and he shall have that silver torque he’s been longing for.”
When the girl had gone, Branwen replaced the bar against the door and turned to stand with her back against it. Her knees shook so hard she did not trust herself to stand. Essylte had sunk into a lump of colored cloth on the antechamber floor, her sobs ragged and hoarse.
“For God’s sake, Essylte,” Branwen said roughly, “control your grief. He will live. Tristan will live. You’ve got something much bigger to worry about now.”
A mailed fist beat upon the chamber door.
“I have come for the Queen!” a stern voice demanded.
Branwen hid the jar of salve and took the empty flask from Essylte’s hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, “the charms will work. The potion will protect you from pain. Be brave, now. And remember what you have to do. Look for the pilgrim in an old brown cloak patched with green. That’s Tristan. Guvranyl will be beside him, with the swords. If anything happens, stay with them. Their horses are hidden on the beach. With Dinadan.”
White-faced, Essylte stood still as stone. “If it comes to that, I am already dead. He will kill us all, the children first.”
“Don’t think such thoughts, Essylte. Concentrate, please, on the task before you. We have done nothing but plan for this trial for five interminable days. We cannot fail now.”
“Tristan and Guvranyl should have left Britain when Mark first banished them. It is death to them if they are discovered.”
“They will not be discovered if you remember what to do, and do it,” Branwen retorted. “Now, think! Don’t dwell upon your fear. This is a public testing, and you are High Queen of Britain. There’s not a man in that crowd whose heart won’t melt when he lays eyes on you.” Branwen regarded her shrewdly. “Why is it that fear and pain make you more beautiful and me plainer? Never mind, it’s a blessing, really. It’s l
ike being handed an extra shield. Are you ready? Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.” She reached for the latch and swung open the door. “The High Queen is ready, my lord.”
Two guards stood outside on the landing. They bowed low at the sight of the Queen. Dressed in a plain bleached shift, wrapped in a white wool cloak lined with white rabbit pelts, her red-gold curls tumbling unbound around her shoulders, and the silver crown of Britain across her brow, Essylte stepped forward and placed her hand upon the foremost soldier’s arm. “Let us go.”
They walked solemnly down the stairs, through the corridors of Tintagel, and out into the frigid stillness of the courtyard, where a company of troops fell in behind them. The procession snaked across the causeway where the winter wind bit at them, danced and swirled around them, making the torches smoke and the men pull their cloaks tighter. The Queen paced on, oblivious to the cold, toward the great crowd on the cliff and the bonfire that awaited. The guards they passed crossed themselves and made the sign against enchantment behind their backs.
The great gathering of onlookers hushed as they approached, and parted to make a path for them: soldiers, servants, beggars, farmers, goatherds, shepherds, whole families from the villages round about, pilgrims, priests, wise women with amulets about their necks and fingers weaving spells, children staring openmouthed. A sea of faces turned toward her, curious, unbelieving, full of pity, full of morbid excitement, even full of lust. She looked at none of them, but put all her concentration into walking, one foot before the other, keeping herself upright and calm.
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