“Oh, no. The game’s up. Still, you haven’t told me why you stay in the Queen’s shadow when you could push her aside with a word and stand in the sun.”
“Could I?” Branwen smiled bitterly. “Like you, Segward, I wanted power. And even you don’t know how much power I had. He talked with me, you know, as he waited for sleep. He told me all his plans. And I advised him. He valued my advice as much as yours—more, at times.” She looked away, and her lips compressed in a tight line. “And he never realized, when he spoke to Essylte in daylight, that she had not the faintest comprehension of his meaning. He never could see beyond her skin, her eyes, her hair.”
Segward’s cold eyes gleamed. “If she was in your way, why didn’t you destroy her? Disfigure her? Dishonor her? Tell Mark the truth?”
“I was waiting—until I bore him a son.”
“Of course.”
“And now—” She cleared her throat as her voice grew tremulous. “Now I never will. What use has he for a bastard daughter? If he learns the truth, he will kill us both.”
“So,” Segward suggested in a soft voice, “we must be careful that he does not learn the truth, mustn’t we?”
Branwen looked at him steadily. “What do you want?”
“In exchange for your life, my pretty princess? What price to place upon your freedom? A very big price, certainly.”
“I can get you out of here.”
Segward smiled gently. “I am all but out already. Esme, bless her naive and honorable soul, got the naive and honorable King of Lyonesse to promise me a hearing before Markion. I trust my wits to win my freedom after that. No, no, I am thinking along the lines of something a priest once read me, about taking vengeance, about demanding a life for a life.”
“An eye for an eye,” Branwen whispered. She swallowed in a dry throat. “You want me to kill someone?”
Segward’s smile slid into a snarl. “Who has been the bane of my existence since Markion became High King? Who is the only man who can oust Mark from Cornwall? Who was brazen enough to seduce Esmerée behind my back, and foist his bastard on me?” His voice rose. “Who slipped out of every trap I set him? Who turned Markion against me? Who stuck me in this godforsaken hole? That fornicating hypocrite! Damn him! I won’t rest until I dance upon his grave!”
Branwen turned away. Tears slid down her pale cheeks as her eyes stared unseeing at the wall. “Tristan,” she whispered, clutching at her cloak with trembling fingers. “It is you, again. It has always been you. I can’t escape it. I have known it from the start.”
Esmerée curtsied to the floor. “Tristan, I am at your service.”
Tristan waved his chamberlain away and smiled as the door closed. “Esme, thank you for coming so promptly. I knew I could rely on you.” He took her hands in his and lifted them to his lips. “You know that Mark is here. In Lyonesse. That he is coming this evening to Lyon’s Head.”
She met his gaze steadily. “The castle is afire with rumors. I am glad to have this news confirmed.”
“I’ve spent all morning with men who have come from his camp. Things are moving swiftly now, and I may not have time to speak with you again. That’s why I sent for you.”
Her grip tightened on his hands. “Pernam says the soldiers want to make you High King in Markion’s place. They want you to kill him.”
“Some do.”
“Tristan—”
“No, Esme, I won’t. It’s not Mark’s crown I want, it’s his wife. We will see when he gets here what he’ll ask for in exchange.”
Esmerée’s eyes filled with tears. “You think Mark will negotiate? Tristan, when did he ever? He’s come to punish you, nothing more.”
“And to get his wife back.”
“Only to punish you,” she whispered. “He cannot want her now.”
“Yes,” Tristan said softly, “I count on that.”
Esmerée looked quickly away. “Fool’s dreams. My dear love, what are you thinking? What can you offer Markion in exchange for Essylte that he cannot take by force? Oh, Tristan, escape now, while there is still time! He will never let you live!”
Tristan walked to the chest where his swordbelt lay and solemnly buckled it about his hips. “If it comes to force, there’s not a swordsman in his army who can best me. He will have to kill me if he wants her.”
Esmerée smiled bitterly as tears slipped down her cheeks. “You young fool! All he has to do to best you is hold a dagger to Essylte’s throat. And he will if you do not crawl on your belly and beg his forgiveness.”
“Is that what you want me to do?”
“No. No. Of course not.” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “I don’t see any way around it, Tristan. He is your liege lord, your uncle, and High King of Britain. You cannot kill him; he cannot let you live. You must escape or die.”
“I have a plan,” he breathed. “This is the service I need of you. Go to Dinadan and tell him to have the boat made ready. It is all but done—they are only awaiting my final order. If we need to, we will flee from here tonight, Essylte, the child, and I.”
“Boat? What boat?”
“I thought you must have seen it. I sailed it all along your coast last summer. It’s faster than anything Mark can put to sea. I’ve had it readied for a sea voyage, as a last resort.”
Her eyes widened. “And you would trust Essylte and the child to such a craft?”
He nodded. “You’re no sailor, or I’d tell you why. It doesn’t matter, Esme. But I’ve no time now to get Dinadan alone, and this must be kept a secret. I spent most of last night explaining it to Essylte. She is ready, and she will have our son ready if the time comes. Just tell Dinadan to oversee the preparations of the boat himself. Can you do that and not be overheard?”
“Of course I can.” She took his face in her hands and gazed into his eyes. “So that is what you meant when you said you might not have time to speak to me again. You meant, ever again.”
“Yes.” He drew her into his arms. “Lovely Esmerée, you know I hold you in my heart and always will. If I leave—before I leave—I will rid you of your husband. I have had my scribe prepare a document that grants you all his lands. Pernam has it now. If I leave, I will see that Mark vouchsafes that promise. You and your daughters will have a place to live. I’ve given Pernam some things of mine for them, and gold for their dowries. They are a king’s granddaughters, after all.”
Esmerée pressed her face into his tunic, trembling with unvoiced sobs. He touched her hair lightly. “There is another service I would ask of you.”
“Anything,” she whispered.
“Attend Essylte. Since her break with Branwen she has had only house servants by her, and none of them is a confidant. She is frightened, Esme. For me, she puts on a brave face, but it is only skin deep. Stay with her until all this is settled. Give her what peace you can.”
Esmerée pulled away from him and lifted her face to his. “I shall comfort her as if she were my sister. Oh, Tristan, my dear friend.” She pulled his head down and kissed his lips. “My prayers go with you always, gentle Orpheus. Take her safely out of Hell if it is in your power. I wish you both safe passage to a better world.”
“In Heaven or in Hell, she will be with me. This Mark cannot alter. Alive or dead, we will be together.”
At dusk the lamplighters went out from Lyon’s Head to light the torches along the narrow, rocky causeway connecting the island fortress to the landward cliffs of Lyonesse. From her chamber window Branwen looked across the watery chasm at the gathered armies on the cliff. The darkening mass of men and horses quivered and writhed like a live thing, breathing torch flames, stuck all over with banners and spears. She shut her eyes to block out the image. So many men, all come against Tristan. Thanks to that narrow causeway, they could come at him only one at a time. But the reverse was also true: He could attack them only one at a time as well.
She turned from the window and lifted the candle stand from the table. Drawing a deep breath, she walked to th
e small chest in the corner of her chamber. Amid the intricate curling vines carved upon the lid was a wolf’s head, fangs bared. The Gray Wolf of Gwynedd. The chest had accompanied her all the way from Wales. It contained everything she owned. Essylte had three of them twice as large.
She lifted the lid and knelt down beside the chest, bringing her candle closer. At the bottom, tucked under her neatly folded clothing, was a small carved box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She opened it and drew out a soft leather bag tied at the neck with a golden cord. With slow, deliberate fingers she untied the knot and drew out three small linen bags, one crimson, one green, one black. She sat back on her heels and considered them carefully. The cold voice of remembrance whispered in her ear: Use them well. If you are as wise as I think you are, you will live a future that you choose. Segward. Mark. Esmerée. Tristan and Essylte. She closed her eyes and let her breath out slowly. Two large tears crept from under her lids and slid, one by one, down her wasted cheeks. After a moment she opened her eyes and tucked one of the bags in the breast of her gown.
Horns sounded at the gate. King Markion and twelve companions rode forward from the armies, stopped before the drawn swords of Tristan’s sentries and dismounted. Sir Grayell gave the signal, and the gates of Lyon’s Head swung open. Markion stared at the guards. No one met his eyes; no one saluted. He lifted his hand and led the twelve men through the gates in single file, across the causeway, through the open gates at the other end, and onto the island fortress of Lyon’s Head. A company of soldiers closed ranks around them, bearing torches, and lit their way through the curving streets and paved courtyards to the very doors of Tristan’s castle.
Once inside, Tristan’s seneschal led them to the great pillared hall, now lit by a hundred torches and filled with men. Markion searched the sea of faces as the crowd parted to let them through. A few of the soldiers bowed; some only inclined their heads. Most stood unmoving and looked away. With his head high and his face stiff with the effort of control, Markion walked across the room to the dais where Tristan waited for him.
Standing alone, dressed simply in dark cloth and boots, wearing no ornament but the slender crown of Lyonesse and no weapon but his father’s sword, Tristan reminded Markion so forcibly of Meliodas that the High King unthinkingly slowed his step. Tristan came down off the dais, and with every eye upon him, bent his knee to the ground and bowed his head.
“Welcome, my lord and uncle, to Lyonesse.”
Markion stared down at the dark head for a long moment. “I banished you, Tristan. You and that old goat Guvranyl. What are you doing here?”
Tristan rose. “You cannot banish me from Lyonesse. It is not yours to give or take away. It was my father’s gift.”
“I am your King,” Markion snarled softly. “Or have you forgotten the oath you made me?”
“I’ve not forgotten. I owe you service.”
“Wise man,” Markion snapped. “You’ve not enough men to defy me.”
“I have more than you think,” Tristan replied softly. “And some of them ride under your banner even now. Think twice, Uncle, before you try to oust me from my birthright.”
“Do you dare to threaten me?”
For answer, Tristan shrugged.
“What are you doing holed up in Lyonesse with my wife and my son? Why have you defied me?”
“I will see justice done.”
“Justice!” Markion looked around defiantly at the sea of hostile faces. He glanced behind him at his twelve cloaked companions. “Justice for whom? Who has been unjustly treated? Besides me?”
Tristan’s gaze turned so suddenly fierce that again Markion was brought up short. But the reply, when it came, was whisper soft. “Queen Essylte.”
Markion stiffened. For the first time he noticed the small group of women standing to one side. Essylte herself stood at the edge of the dais, hands folded demurely under the curve of her belly, the sweep of her sea-green gown accenting the color of her eyes, her bright hair braided in a halo around her face and bound with a royal band of silver across her brow. Although she stood perfectly still as she met his eyes, he had the impression of whirlwind movement, of fierce emotion, sharp as a knife thrust.
“I did not come here to talk about women,” Markion growled.
“In that case,” Tristan replied easily, “we have no argument between us. Put the Queen formally aside and I am yours to command.”
“You are mine to command in any event!” Markion flared. “I am your King! That woman is still my Queen. I have no intention of putting her away. But I want her gone from this hall while I speak with you.”
Tristan beckoned to Essylte, who came forward to stand at his side. “But she is what we have to speak about. Understand me, Mark. I did not bring her here from Tintagel to defy you or to grab your power or to start a war between us—”
“As if I would fight over a woman!”
“I brought her here for safekeeping. To protect her. From you.”
Markion barked a short laugh. “False words from a false heart! She is safe enough from me. I’ve told her so.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who can’t leave her alone. Give her to me, give me back my son, and prove to me you don’t want my crown.”
Tristan’s hand leaped unthinkingly to his sword hilt, but Essylte touched his arm quickly and he paused.
“Raise your sword against me, would you?” Markion cried. “Segward was right about you after all, Tristan of Lyonesse! You’re a traitor in your soul.” He flung back the edges of his crimson cloak and held his arms out. “See? No sword, no dagger. The High King of Britain comes naked into your stronghold.”
Tristan’s hand relaxed to his side. “You’re in no danger from me. Nor from my men.”
“You abduct my heir, you steal my wife, you turn half my men against me, and you expect me to believe you don’t want war?” He gestured to the sea of soldiers. “Why are they here, then? I know them all. They used to serve me. You’re just like your father—what you have is never enough!”
“I tell you, I don’t want war. I don’t covet your lands. I don’t covet the crown of Britain. Do these soldiers frighten you? I will send them away. I want only one thing from you, Markion—”
“Yes! Segward warned me! You want your birthright back!”
Utter silence followed. Markion’s face flamed as he realized what he had said.
“You admit it, then. You admit you stole my birthright when you stole my father’s crown.”
Markion’s glance flicked swiftly from side to side. “I admit nothing. A king is moved by necessity.”
Tristan drew a long breath and let it out slowly. His features hardened. “This king is moved by necessity as well. I will not return the Queen and her son. By your own hand you put them in jeopardy. I have saved them from it. Now they are mine to protect.”
“No, son.” A voice spoke behind Markion, and everyone turned. “They are mine.”
One of Markion’s companions stepped forward and dropped his cloak. Essylte gasped and sank to her knees. “Father!”
“So that’s who you were waiting for,” Tristan breathed. “Percival!”
29 TRISTAN’S LEAP
“I think,” Percival of Gwynedd said quietly, “it would be best to clear the hall.”
Tristan nodded and gave the order. Grudgingly, the crowd of men filed out until only a handful remained: Guvranyl, Dinadan, Pernam, Loholt the seneschal, Grayell and two of his lieutenants, and the men who had marched in with Markion. A few women huddled by the door next to the servants.
The two factions faced one another. Bruenor scowled at Dinadan, who would not meet his eyes. Percival stood between them with his arm around Essylte.
“Now, my lords, it is time for talk.” Percival dragged a chair from the dais, settled it among the rushes on the floor and sat Essylte upon it. “Let’s have no talk of banishment or treason. We are all honorable men. Let us discuss this matter with calm and decorum.” He looked at Tristan. “You said, my lord,
there was only one thing you wanted from Markion. What is it?”
Tristan swallowed. “My lord . . .”
“Well?”
Tristan spread his hands out helplessly. “Does my lord have to ask? I want your daughter.”
“Of all the—” Markion began, red-faced.
Percival held up a hand and silenced him. “You want my daughter, Essylte? Markion’s wife and High Queen of Britain? What gives you the right to ask for such a gift? Or to take it without her husband’s leave?”
“She is a daughter of your royal house, my lord, not a thief, not a traitor, and yet he treats her like mud beneath his boots. He treats his dogs with more compassion! He has shamed her publicly, he who should hold her honor dearer than his own.”
Percival’s face was grave. “I have heard you deny you want his crown. And yet you must know that Markion’s marriage to Essylte has brought him alliance with all Wales. If he gave her up to you, what do you think would happen to that alliance? Who would be High King of Britain, then?”
Color washed Tristan’s face. “My lord,” he said earnestly, “let him keep the crown. Let him marry a daughter of Strathclyde, of Lothian, of Elmet. Let him form what alliance he will. I tell you truth: I do not want to be High King.”
“Yet you would wed the High Queen. Like it or not, you would be Markion’s rival outright. He would have to kill you, or you him, before the land could be at peace. Britain would be split right down the middle. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. Britain would not be split if Wales—if you ally yourself with Markion for the kingdom’s sake. Nothing has to change.”
“Ahhh,” Percival said softly, glancing at Essylte. “Then she agrees to leave her son behind?”
Essylte shot a desperate look at Tristan. His face had gone white, his eyes enormous. Percival continued in his gentle voice. “Why do you think I am allied with Markion? Why do you think Powys, Dyfed, Northgallis, and Guent follow my lead? You have eyes, lad. Surely you can see. They have no love for Markion. They live for the day my grandson, a son of Gwynedd, becomes High King of Britain. He is the legacy I leave behind me. Take that from me, and I am your sworn enemy, not your ally.”
Prince of Dreams Page 42
