Pernam exhaled slowly. “Wise woman,” he breathed.
Tristan scowled. “Idiocy, to my mind. I’ve agreed to let Mark decide his fate. So now we are all waiting for Markion.”
Pernam nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “And what will happen when he comes? Have you asked yourself that? Can you put yourself in his place and look ahead?”
“What do you mean?”
“How can he let you take his wife without appearing to suffer great insult at your hands? Do you think he will listen calmly to your pleadings and just hand her over? You can’t be such a fool. He will want something for her, something more valuable in the world’s eyes than any woman, so that he will have gained in the exchange.” Pernam’s voice grew strained. “Think, Tristan. What have you got that would be worth his while to get?”
Tristan glared seaward. “No,” he said. “No.”
Pernam shouldered his basket again as the fog rolled in over the seawall. “In Mark’s eyes, the only thing you’ve got worth having is Lyonesse. That’s why he banished you. He hoped he could get it by declaration and not have to raise a sword against Cornwall’s champion. No doubt that’s still what he’s after.”
“Lyonesse is mine.”
Pernam nodded and turned away. “So is the woman. But for how long?”
27 OATH UNBROKEN, VOW UNKEPT
Wrapped in a thick wool robe with a shawl about her shoulders, Essylte pressed her face hard against the shutters and strained to peek through the cracks. “Did I ever say it was warm here?” She shivered as the wind whistled past her cheek. “Why, it’s colder here than it is at home!”
“What do you expect at winter’s end?” Branwen muttered, hunched over her spindle.
“Come, Essylte, sit by the fire. It’s warmer here.” Esmerée rose from her stool by the brazier and made room for Essylte, but Essylte only shook her head and paced back and forth before the window.
“No, no, Esme, you sit there. You’re the one with the cough. I’m healthy as a horse.” She laughed and ran her hands over the curve of her belly, noticeable now even under the voluminous robe. “And nearly as heavy. This one’s going to be bigger than young Tristan. A fighter, I think. He kicks at me day and night.”
Branwen said nothing, but her hand stole under her robe to rest on her own bulging belly. Esmerée cast her a worried glance, caught Branwen’s defensive eye, and went quickly back to her needlework.
“Tristan rests his head on him at night,” Essylte continued, unheeding. “He loves to listen to his movement and sing to him of the great deeds he will one day do.” She smiled to herself and turned, her unbound hair shimmering about her shoulders. “How eager he is to see this boy born! Did I tell you he wants to be with me this time? Can you imagine it? Me, the midwife, and Tristan of Lyonesse!” She laughed, and her laughter rang like silver bells in the cold stillness of the room.
Esmerée smiled up at her. “You are lucky, Essylte, to bear children with such ease. It is more difficult for some.”
But Essylte missed her warning glance at Branwen and continued in her merry voice. “I let him tend the children in the nursery—he is so fond of them all, even yours, Esme. Young Tristan took his first steps yesterday, did you hear? Holding on to Tristan’s fingers. Tristan was so pleased he ordered a celebration, and we all had raisin cake together. Young Tristan got more of it on his cheeks than in his mouth!” She laughed. “It is such joy, being all day with Tristan. Part of me wishes it would never end. But the other part—”
“Essylte, hush a moment, do.” Esmerée reached out and placed a hand on Branwen’s knee. “How do you feel this afternoon, my dear? Any better at all?”
Branwen shrugged her thin shoulders and went on with her spinning. Essylte came away from the window and laid her pretty hand against Branwen’s head.
“Branny hates pregnancy,” she said lightly, stroking the mousy hair. “But her children are beautiful. You will count it worth your while in the end, Branny.”
Esmerée frowned. Branwen’s skin looked yellow next to Essylte’s rosy flesh. Her cheekbones stood out from her face, and her eyes were sunk in hollows. “Let me send Pernam to you,” Esmerée whispered, leaning toward the girl. “He can ease your pain without hurting your child. He’s a wizard with medicines.”
Branwen shook her head stubbornly. “I’m fine. I don’t want any medicines. It’s as Essylte says. I’m not fond of pregnancy, but I’ll survive. Only six weeks now.”
“Six weeks!” Essylte sighed heavily. “Oh, let this awful waiting be over before six weeks have passed. Let me stand in the light and call Tristan my husband in the eyes of God.” She went back to the window and peered through the cracks. “Whatever is keeping Markion? I can see all the way to the foothills, but no sign of him yet. You don’t suppose he’d come by sea, do you?”
“Certainly not,” Esmerée replied firmly. “He’ll come overland with his army if he comes at all. You’ll hear the lookout’s warning before you see so much as a banner out that window.”
Essylte turned. “If he comes at all? What do you mean?”
“Only that it’s three months since the solstice and we’ve seen nothing of him. He’s off fighting Saxons. That’s all I meant. He’ll come for Tristan as soon as things are calm in Britain.”
“He’ll come when it suits him,” Branwen muttered.
Esmerée looked at them both and put down her stitching. “He will come for his son, whatever he decides to do with his wife. Have you thought of that? He will want his heir back.”
Essylte shivered. “He won’t take young Tristan. I’ll tell him the truth before I’ll let that happen.”
Branwen’s head shot up. “You will do no such thing! I have your oath, and Tristan’s, that you will tell him nothing without my leave.”
Essylte paled. “Whatever do you mean, Branny?”
The spindle fell to the floor and Esmerée stooped to pick it up. Branwen trembled from head to foot. “You promised in Guvranyl’s house, the morning after—you promised me you would not reveal without my permission that it was I who lay with him.”
Essylte swallowed and nodded slowly. “Yes. All right. We will not tell him that. But since Morois, he already knows that Tristan is my lover. We will just admit that—it has been so longer than he thought.”
Branwen closed her eyes and swayed on the stool. “Not yet. Not the truth about the children. Not yet.”
“All right. All right, Branny. Be calm, now. I’ll do as you wish a while longer. Don’t excite yourself.”
Esmerée, reaching for the spindle, happened to nudge the edge of Branwen’s robe. She gasped. The rushes on the floor beneath her skirts dripped dark red. “Branwen!” Half rising, she caught the senseless girl just as she slid from her stool.
There on the floor, hidden before by the fall of Branwen’s robe, was a great, glistening pool of blood.
All night the east wind howled around the fortress. Snow sifted through shutter cracks and spilled onto the cold stone floor. Heavy tapestries shivered on the walls as gusts whistled by. Everywhere in the castle people huddled together for warmth, under blankets, under skins, hard by a flame. Near the great log fire in the King’s hall men gathered around Tristan, as they always did, but conversation was subdued. Tristan sat in his carved chair with the Queen upon his lap, her face buried in his cloak. Her violent weeping had subsided. Now she lay in his arms like a dead thing, pale and still, while he stared moodily into the leaping flames.
After a solemn meal and a flagon of ale, most of the men drifted away. As the night wore on, only Dinadan and Guvranyl remained, feeding the fire themselves, keeping the wine warmed and the cups filled. They talked fitfully of horses, weapons, and battles, averting their eyes as Tristan kissed Essylte’s tear-ravaged face and murmured into her ear.
“Don’t let her die,” Essylte whimpered, hooking her arm about Tristan’s neck and pressing her lips to his throat. “She’s my dearest friend. Don’t let her die.”
He str
oked the long fall of her hair and pulled her closer. “If she can be saved, Pernam will save her.”
“But if he can’t?”
“Hush, Essylte. It does no good to fear it. It will come, or it will not.”
“Oh, God!” She hiccoughed once. “I have such a dire foreboding! Sing to me, Tristan. Sing me a song to drive this fear away.”
He cradled her in his arms and crooned her a lullaby. Soon her breathing slowed and she sank swiftly into an exhausted sleep. Dinadan pushed a cup of hot wine into Tristan’s hand.
“Drink, Tris. You’ve had nothing for hours. You must be half frozen.”
Tristan drained the cup and thanked him. “Listen,” he said, cocking his head. “The storm has passed its peak. It’s dying. Tomorrow the weather will break and the sun will shine.”
Guvranyl grunted. “It’s as strong as it ever was. Don’t you hear that wind?”
Tristan smiled lightly. “Nevertheless, the worst is passed. I know storms. Ask Dinadan.”
“Aye,” Dinadan groaned. “Believe him. He listens to storms the way most men listen to bards. He can judge a storm to a hairsbreadth.”
“Well,” Guvranyl conceded, “I’ll be glad to see the end of this one.”
“Not I,” Tristan said slowly. They both gaped at him. Tristan gathered the sleeping Essylte closer in his arms and sighed. “When the wind dies, the weather will turn. Within a fortnight the seas will open.”
Guvranyl frowned. “Saxons?”
Tristan shook his head. “Mark.”
“Markion doesn’t need to wait until the seas are open,” Dinadan objected. “It’s a straight ride down from Cornwall.”
“If he were willing to come alone, he’d have come by now,” Tristan replied, still stroking Essylte’s unbound hair. “He’s waiting for his allies.”
“What allies?”
Before Tristan could answer, the door pushed open and Pernam entered, his hands, face, and hair wet from a recent washing. Tristan stiffened and Essylte awoke. “Prince Pernam!”
Dinadan and Guvranyl made room on the bench and pushed a cup of wine into the healer’s hand. Pernam accepted the hot drink and sat wearily next to Tristan.
Essylte laid a pleading hand upon his arm. “Please—please—tell me she is alive.”
Pernam smiled kindly and took her hand in his. “I am happy to be able to do it. Branwen lives, my lady. It was a close thing, but we were able to stop the bleeding in time. She is very weak. I’ve sent to the kitchens, Tristan, to have marrow broth warmed for her. I didn’t think you would object.”
“Of course not.” New tears spilled down Essylte’s pale cheeks. Tristan pulled her head to his shoulder and looked at Pernam. “And the child?”
Pernam shook his head. “It died days ago. Even so, it fought against leaving her body. Poor, brave Branwen. Nothing to show for such a night of agony. She is rid of it now, but it nearly cost her her life.”
“A son?” Tristan asked, and Essylte looked up, blurry-eyed.
“No. A daughter.” Pernam stared into the fire, his expression carefully neutral. “She should have no more children. The next one will kill her, almost certainly.”
Tristan said nothing. Essylte leaned toward Pernam eagerly. “May I see her? May I stay with her until morning? Lady Esmerée must be weary with nursing. I would be happy to take her place.”
Pernam’s eyes widened in surprise. He inclined his head. “My lady is very gracious to make the offer. I’m sure both Esmerée and Branwen would be most grateful for your attention. But you yourself, my lady Queen, look a little fatigued. Branwen has asked to see you, but it is not necessary that you stay.”
Essylte smiled. “Branny doesn’t care what I look like. I’m all right now that I know she will live. For a moment I—” She looked around at the men with a hunted expression. “I’m all alone here, except for Tristan. Branwen has been my companion since I was four years old. She’s like a sister to me.” She slid off Tristan’s lap and took his hand. “Come, Tristan. We’ll go see Branwen and make sure she takes her broth.”
Branwen lay on a pallet under four thick wool blankets. Three braziers warmed the room to sweating point, and Esmerée, who rose to greet them, looked flushed with heat. Most traces of blood had been washed from the room, and Esmerée herself had clearly bathed and changed her robe. Essylte hugged her and thanked her warmly. At Pernam’s nod, she withdrew gratefully to bed. Pernam spoke with Branwen, took her wrist in his hand, touched her forehead and her neck, then gave Tristan and Essylte permission to approach.
Tristan could not conceal his shock at the change in the girl. So wan, so wasted, she looked as if she had lost half her spirit as well as half her bulk. Essylte slid to the floor beside her and pressed Branwen’s thin hand to her lips.
“Branny! Oh, Branny! Thank God you did not succumb with the poor little child. I will stay and nurse you until dawning. I don’t want to be parted from you.”
Branwen’s mouth twitched in an attempt to smile. “And Tristan?”
Essylte glanced up at him and smiled. “He can wait. This time you come first. Do you remember the last time I nursed an invalid? I cured him of his sickness and his wounds, only to fall ill myself from love.”
Branwen’s eyes, dark in the shadows, gazed up at Tristan. “I remember.”
“Well, I love you already, Branny. I need you. You will face the future with me, a new future, without Mark in it. We shall grow old and happy together.”
“I doubt that,” Branwen whispered, her eyes still on Tristan. “Your mother cursed me, Essylte.”
“What?”
“Her curse has followed me like an arrow homing all these years. It nearly killed me. I must end it somehow.”
“Branny, what are you talking about?”
Branwen sighed a shallow sigh and closed her eyes. “In a week’s time I will be strong enough. In a week I will tell you. You and Tristan.”
Essylte looked up at Tristan. “What is she talking about, do you know?”
“No. I know nothing about a curse.”
Pernam stepped to the bedside and raised Essylte. “No more tonight. If you wish to nurse her, come to me after you’ve had rest and breakfast. I will tend her now. She must be still.” He looked down at Branwen. “May the Mother guard her spirit. She is asleep.”
By morning the storm had tailed away to breezes, and as Tristan had predicted, the weather turned. The west wind blew again, mild and fair, melted the snow and sent green shoots bursting from the mud. Branwen gained in strength day by day, until by week’s end she could stand on the parapet in the sun for an hour at a time. The gowns she had worn before her pregnancy hung on her like someone else’s clothes, but her cheeks were fuller, and the hollows above her collarbones less deep. Essylte delighted in her progress and spent hours each day at her side. There was no more mention of curses between them. Essylte had almost forgotten it when, on the evening of the sixth day, Branwen spoke.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “at midday, I will come to Tristan’s chamber. Let you both be there.”
“She is so serious,” Essylte told Tristan as they lay abed that night. “But I don’t know what she wants or fears. It’s odd, isn’t it? All these years she’s never said anything about a curse. Do you think—I’ve heard that people who undergo horrible pain can lose their wits—”
“Hush,” Tristan said, pulling her closer. “Branwen’s wits have always served her very well. I don’t think she’s mad. I think she has a plan.”
“A plan for what?”
“Ah, sweet, that I don’t know. But it strikes me that, since I’ve known you both, Branwen has never been without a plan.”
The following day dawned cool and brisk, but out of the wind it was warm enough to sun without a cloak. Essylte rose early, but Tristan rose earlier, leading a party of his men to hunt in the hills. They returned near midday with two bucks and a young boar. Tired of cabbage, fish, and mutton jerky, the soldiers raised a cheer. Tristan slid into the se
a to bathe, then hurried to his chamber. He found Essylte there before him, waiting on the parapet in a blue-green gown with her hair coiled neatly on her head and a slender golden torque around her throat.
“What’s this? Dressed for a royal audience? It’s only Branwen.”
“Then why did you bathe and soap your hair?”
Tristan grinned. “I was filthy with boar’s blood. We found a young male enjoying a good roll in the spring mud. We also got a good look north of the hills. No sign of Mark.”
“Let me help you dress, Tristan. She’ll be here soon. I don’t want anyone but I looking on your nakedness.” She came toward him, and he took her in his arms.
“You are spring itself, Essylte. With your sea eyes, your milk skin, your glorious curves”—he placed his hand upon the swell of her gown—“and this strong, energetic life growing within you, how could a man look at you and not want you?”
“Not now, Tristan. If Branwen finds us in each other’s arms, she will be cross.”
“Why should she? God in heaven, all the world knows of our love, and Branwen knows its strength better than most. Let her wait an hour.” He kissed her hungrily.
“Wasn’t it you who said,” she managed between kisses, “that waiting intensifies the pleasure? Let us wait an hour, until she is gone.”
A tap came at the door. Tristan released her, and Essylte tossed him a robe. “Quick! A robe, at least.”
Tristan pulled it over his head. “Enter!”
A page peeked around the door. “The Lady Branwen,” he announced, and disappeared.
“The Lady Branwen?” Tristan’s eyebrows lifted.
Branwen walked in. She wore a gown of pale yellow, taken in to fit her slenderness. Her light brown hair, half coiled and braided, half hanging loose like a maiden’s down her back, was dressed with ribbons and held with two pearl clips. Bracelets of etched gold adorned her wrists. She moved slowly, but there was dignity in her step. Weak as she was, she gave the impression not of frailty, but of strength. Both Tristan and Essylte stared openly at her.
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