At the center of the crowd a great bonfire blazed. Essylte could feel its heat even from where she walked. Three men stood silhouetted against its ferocious light: Markion, Segward, and Donal, the Bishop of Dorria. Against her will she began to tremble. Her foot caught on a tuft of dead moor grass and she nearly stumbled. The crowd gasped; the guard caught her arm. Coolly, she thanked him for it.
The stumble brought her back to herself and she remembered Branwen’s words. She searched the crowd for the cloak she sought, but there were so many, the day was cold, and the people poor; so many were patched, it was difficult to tell the colors against the raging light. And then she saw it. It was a ragged cloak, unevenly patched, and its wearer had yet to turn around, but she would recognize that back anywhere. As she got closer the cloak half turned. She saw a hideous face, discolored like a leper’s, with warts on the chin and a misshapen nose. The face lifted and a pair of warm brown eyes met hers. She caught her breath and looked away.
“Don’t look, my lady,” the guard murmured gently. “Such ugliness ought not to be allowed in the Queen’s presence.”
Was this the same guard who had hammered on her door with such malignant authority? She began to see the truth of Branwen’s words. The leper’s cloak brushed her foot. “I can’t abide it,” she whispered as her eyes rolled back into her head, and she fell. Tristan caught her. For the first time since they had walked out of Morois they were face-to-face. Her eyes fluttered open, and she breathed in his warm, familiar scent. For the briefest moment she relaxed in his embrace. Then the guard bent down and grabbed her as the crowd cried out in horror.
“Away with you, filthy leper! Unhand the Queen!” The guard pulled Essylte to her feet as the leper and his companion disappeared into the crowd. The guard held tightly to her arm. “I beg your pardon, my lady. If you feel faint, lean on me.”
“He touched me,” Essylte quavered.
The guard’s voice was heavy with pity. “Trust in God, my lady Queen, and all will be well.”
A small dais had been built before the bonfire. Markion, Segward, and the bishop stood beside it. The guard led her to Markion and bowed. But Markion made no move of greeting. He did not even look at her.
Segward stepped forward with an unctuous smile. “This way, my lady Queen.” He reached for her hand but she turned her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me, Snake. I will go up of my own accord.”
She climbed the three steps to the dais and faced the crowd. A wild cheer arose as the people stomped and waved in greeting, in adoration, in compassion and support. She made them a low reverence, and the din doubled. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Markion’s commanders standing nearby, grave and disapproving. Sir Bruenor, foremost among them, had a look of constrained horror on his face. Dinadan was not there. She gazed out past the crowd toward the moor. He was with Tristan and Guvranyl, somewhere.
The bishop raised his arms, and slowly the people quieted to hear him.
“Markion, High King of Britain, has called us all together to bear witness to the trial of his Queen, Essylte of Gwynedd, whom he accuses of adultery with his nephew, Tristan of Lyonesse.”
A few people stomped and clapped, but a loud hiss issued from the general throng. Essylte bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“To this end”—the bishop glanced nervously at the King and raised his voice—“I am bidden to subject the Queen to trial by fire, as our ancestors did of old, to test the purity of her soul. Thus will the Almighty God who made us all reveal to us either the unblemished virtue or the tainted wickedness of her soul.”
“I object!” a voice cried. Essylte saw Sir Bruenor step forward and face Markion. “My lord King, it ill becomes you to treat the Queen so. You have her back. You promised Sir Tristan, in front of us all, that if he brought her to you, you would keep her from harm and restore her to her honor. You have done neither. And while we sit here in Cornwall putting the Queen to trial, she who is not your enemy but your sworn companion, the Saxons are rampaging across Britain, burning towns and villages, laying waste the land! I beg you, my lord, let the Queen go! Whatever her sins, they are behind her, and are between her and God. Lead us out to fight the heathen Saxons and drive them from our land! In such pursuit lies glory. In this,” he said with a grimace, extending his arm toward the bonfire, “in this lies only shame and degradation.”
The commanders raised a cheer, and behind them, the troops. The people took it up, crying, out, “The Queen! The Queen!”
Segward leaned forward and spoke frantically in Markion’s ear. The King’s face hardened.
“Sir Bruenor, I have heard you, and I mark well your words. If the Queen proves her innocence, I will fulfill my promise. But do not ask the High King of Britain to take a wanton to his bed. If she proves worthy of me, I will take her back. But if she is evil, she must die. And as Lord Segward reminds me, it was on her way back from your own fortress that the Queen went missing. Were I in your boots, my lord, I would be more careful of my tongue.”
Sir Bruenor flushed with anger. “I speak the truth, Markion, and every man here knows it!”
Markion looked at him coldly and turned to the bishop. “Go ahead,” he snapped. “Get on with it. Put her to the fire.”
Essylte raised her eyes to heaven and prayed silently. The weak December sun filtered gold through pewter clouds. Behind her the fire roared and scorched her back, even through the cloak.
The bishop cleared his throat uncertainly and lifted up his arm. “In the name of most Holy God, I sanctify this blaze as the Lord’s holy fire—”
Essylte smiled to herself. The bonfire was lit every year on the winter solstice in honor of a service older than the Christian God’s. She thought of the Divine Mother and the new life that grew inside her. She wondered if the bishop knew he was blaspheming.
“—a refining fire,” the bishop intoned, “to separate the pure from the dross, to purify the iniquities of sinners. I will come near to you to judgment, saith the Lord, and I will be swift witness against the sorcerers, and against the adulterers, and against false swearers. Lo, this is the Refiner’s fire, which shall purify the children of the earth.”
The bishop turned, picked up an unlit torch, and lighted it from the bonfire. Then he climbed the dais and stood next to Essylte. She looked at him in some surprise. He sweated furiously, and the hand that held the torch shook visibly. “Essylte, Queen of Britain, the Lord sees your heart. The Lord hears your words. Answer this question truthfully, as you value your life. Have you ever betrayed your husband’s trust? Have you ever, on pain of burning, lain with any man but him?”
Calmly, Essylte raised her voice into the waiting silence and said clearly, “No, my lord bishop, I have not.”
A great sigh swept the crowd. Markion stepped forward. “You are too easy, Bishop!” he barked. “Ask her again, and name me!”
“Essylte, Queen of Britain! Have you ever, on pain of burning, lain with any man but Markion?”
Essylte straightened. Over the crowd of people silence hung heavy as a weight. “My lord Markion,” she said, looking at him, “my lords all, my people of Cornwall and of Britain: This I swear. Since I left my father’s house, no man has ever held me in his arms but Markion—” She paused and pointed vaguely into the crowd. “—and that man there, that leper, who caught me when I fell.”
The crowd cheered.
“Liar!” Segward cried.
“Go on!” Markion growled. “Test her!”
The bishop turned to Essylte. She could smell his fear. She could see the driving excitement in his eyes. “Queen Essylte,” he began, “I beg your forgiveness for what I must now do—”
She smiled gently at him. “I forgive you, Father. I do not fear the fire of God.” She loosed her cloak and let it fall. The people gasped. She wore only a plain linen shift, and the unbound hair of a maiden. The heat of the fire brought a flush of warmth to her face. But the crowd, huddled together in the winter cold, whispered, “Miracle�
� and “Innocent.”
“Go ahead, Father,” she repeated, seeing Markion’s frightened stare. “Test me.”
The bishop held the torch between them. “Essylte of Gwynedd, pass your hand through the flame. Slowly.”
She drew a long breath and let it out easily. Raising her arm, she passed her right hand slowly through the flame, letting it rest for a moment in the fire until the people wept and cried for her to stop. Her flesh sizzled and smoked, but all she felt was a tingling sensation up her arm. The bishop yanked her hand from the flame and gasped aloud.
“My lords,” he squealed excitedly, “she is unmarked! It is a miracle!”
“Let me see!” Markion snarled. The bishop held her wrist and showed him both sides of her white, unblemished hand. “Do the other one!”
“But my lord!”
“Do it! Now!”
Essylte met Markion’s eyes. “You are beneath my contempt,” she said levelly, and put her left hand into the flame. Markion took her arm and held it there, while the crowd began to hiss and jeer. At last, his nose wrinkling at the smell, he pulled it forth. It was unmarked. He touched his hand to her palm and jerked his fingers away. He blinked and stared first at the bishop, then at Essylte, the whites of his eyes showing.
The people cheered and pushed forward to the foot of the dais. Segward slipped silently away.
“Essylte,” Markion said uncertainly, “I beg your pardon. I was so sure—but I see I have listened to poisoned tongues. Will you, could you ever, find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Essylte pointed to her cloak, and Markion stooped to retrieve it for her and lay it carefully about her shoulders. “That depends,” she said stiffly, “on several things. But this I require of you, Markion of Cornwall, if I am to stay here and not take my sons home to Gwynedd—”
He paled and nodded obediently. “Anything. Name it!”
“You will stay away from my bed until I send for you. You will ask my leave before you lay a finger on me.”
Markion opened his mouth to protest, saw the dark looks on the faces of the bishop and his commanders, and nodded. “Be it so, lady. I swear I never meant you harm.”
Essylte shuddered, drawing her cloak closer about her as her arms began to burn. “You have wished me in my grave. And publicly at that. Do not lie to me anymore, Markion. And I will not lie to you.”
She stepped down from the dais and strode through the crowd, which parted eagerly and reached out to touch her cloak. An hour, Branwen had told her, that’s all she had. She hurried as fast as she dared toward the causeway. An hour to get back and reapply the salve to keep the blisters down. Her hands would be unusable for three days. But by that time, God and the Mother willing, Markion and all his men would be back in Logris. And Tristan could come out of hiding.
PART V
26 KING’S RANSOM
“So this is Lyonesse.”
Essylte sat on horseback beside Tristan and surveyed the rich and thriving land spread out before her. Guvranyl and Dinadan followed in their wake with fifty troops and a litter for Branwen and the children. Essylte preferred to ride at Tristan’s side, since the weather held fair. The three-day trip from Tintagel had been easy going, mild for the time of year and with dry ground for the horses. They had passed through moor, forest, bog, and meadow as easily as on a summer day, and now stood on the narrow neck of land that connected the kingdom of Lyonesse to Cornwall and to Britain.
Essylte lifted her chin as wind fluttered the edges of her hood. It was a southwest wind and unexpectedly warm. “How green the land is! Compared to what we’ve come through, it’s like a different country. Or does spring come early in Lyonesse?”
Tristan smiled. “Some call it an enchanted land. I’d be the last to argue.” He gestured to the long, narrow neck of land on which they stood, the sea visible on both east and west horizons. “Every year, it seems, this strip gets narrower. Either the sea is rising or Lyonesse is sinking. It’s true the sea wind is warmer here than in the rest of Britain. And the sea, too. I swim in it year-round.”
“That’s because you’re crazy.” Dinadan rode up to Tristan’s side and smiled at Essylte. “He swims and sails in all weather. You can’t get him out of the water. His mother was a mermaiden.”
Essylte laughed. “I knew there was something different about him the minute I set eyes on him.”
Dinadan sobered. “Tristan, it’ll be dusk in an hour. Do you want to camp or push on to Lyon’s Head?”
“The moon rises early and full tonight. Let’s push on. How are Branwen and the children?”
Dinadan shifted in the saddle. “Branwen would rather get behind a thick stone wall with an army at her back. She keeps watching the horizon behind us.”
“She needn’t. Markion’s in Logris. By the time he gets word of our escape, he will be ten days getting back. Filas, Regis, Dynas, and the companies they lead will break from his army to join us. That leaves him less than three-quarters of his force. He can’t bring all his men south or he’ll lose Logris forever. Tell Branwen not to worry. At least, not yet.”
“I’ve been through the numbers and so has she. She’s still unsettled.” Dinadan paused. “And so am I.”
“Then let’s push on. I’ll send a courier ahead to let them know we’re coming. And one to my uncle Pernam to bid him attend us at Lyon’s Head.” Tristan paused. “Where is Segward?”
Essylte shrugged. “No one knows. Not with Markion, that’s certain. He left Tintagel the night of the bonfire and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Then he must be at home.” Tristan signaled to his captain. “Grayell, we ride for Lyon’s Head directly, and I want couriers sent ahead. And I want you to lead a company of men to Segward’s house and arrest him. Take him to Lyon’s Head, in chains if he doesn’t come quietly enough to suit you. Escort his lady and his children with all the dignity they are due. They will be my guests.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Grayell’s mouth. “Yes, my lord. With pleasure.”
Tristan gazed at the fertile land around him, which his father, Meliodas, had called “the land of promise.” He had been in love with the daughter of a bard when he said so, and it must have seemed to him that his future—as King of Lyonesse, King of Cornwall, and heir to the High King of Britain—held nothing but promise. But that promise had never been fulfilled. He had lost his young wife in childbirth only a year after their marriage, and in his grief had never taken another. He had kept his young son by him ever afterward, wherever his travels took him, as a token of the companionship he could not do without. Twelve years later he had lost his life to Irish raiders, and both his kingdoms to his brother Markion. Now, poised on the edge of an act that would settle so many fates, Tristan wondered if this land of promise, this green and fertile Lyonesse, had something better or worse in store for him.
“The time of reckoning is upon us,” he said slowly. “And upon Segward. We will all be judged by what we do in Lyonesse.”
“What will you do?” Essylte asked. “Kill him?”
“That depends upon Segward. And, I suppose, upon Esmerée. But I will see justice done.”
When the orders were given and the couriers sent, they moved off at a brisk pace into Lyonesse. Essylte gazed in admiration at the country they rode through, orchards and meadows, woodland and rolling pasture, well-tilled land, well-tended roads, gentle hills cupping fertile valleys in a protective embrace. Even deep in winter’s sleep it was a rich and enticing land. She noted the fortifications standing everywhere along the shore, ready to light their signal fires at a moment’s notice to warn of Saxon longboats. A land so rich in gifts must be costly to defend. How different it was from stony Wales! Yet for the first time since she had left Gwynedd, she felt at home. It was a land of light and song compared to Cornwall. Even the seabirds wheeling overhead seemed less shrill than those that circled so endlessly above Tintagel. And the moon! Lifting like a giant’s lantern above the eastern sea, the moon looked twice its norma
l size, a huge bronze globe hung on the horizon, almost close enough to touch.
Well past nightfall they came to a set of double gates set in rock at the edge of a cliff. Below them the winter sea sucked and thudded against cruel rocks. Above and beyond the gates loomed a shadow darker than the night sky, a giant standing stone thrust from the sea, pierced here and there by the light of flaming torches. Guards at the gate saluted, exchanged passwords, and swung the great gates open. Half a league away Essylte saw the fortress on its rocky promontory, and in between, only the sighing sea. “Tristan, how do we get across?”
He smiled. “Follow me.”
They started forward across an unbelievably thin, dark ribbon of rock, so narrow that in places two could not ride abreast. She dared not look down, but clutched her mare’s mane and kept her eyes on Tristan’s back until the road widened, a second pair of gates passed overhead, and she was in a torchlit courtyard full of people calling greetings to Tristan and bowing in her direction. She slid off the mare into Tristan’s arms.
“Welcome to Lyon’s Head, my lovely Queen,” he whispered into her hair. “We are home.”
Later, they stood together on the parapet outside Tristan’s chamber. Overhead, the moon sailed brilliant in a starry sky. Below, the restless sea lapped at the fortress foundations. Essylte breathed in slowly and exhaled on a sigh.
“This is happiness,” she murmured. “This is where I belong. Between the stars and the sea, on the edge of land. Not at the center of things, as my father wanted, but at the edge. Here. With you.” His hand came down upon her shoulder. “The wind is so warm. Standing here in this light robe, with my arms bare, I’m not cold at all. It’s so strange. It’s like magic.”
“The west wind always blows soft, even in winter. But it’s cold enough when it swings north and east.”
His hands slid down her arms and across her hips, coming to rest on the firm swell of her belly. She leaned back against him. “I used to wonder, when I sat in my mother’s workroom boiling her horrible herbs, what it was I wanted to do when I was grown.” She spread out her arms toward the sea. “I have found the answer here.” She smiled as his lips touched her neck. “What more could I ever ask for, except to be safe forever?”
Prince of Dreams Page 38
