Tristan passed a tongue over dry lips. “I’m not an ambitious man, my lord Percival. Ask anyone who knows me. I’ve no wish to diminish Markion. Let your grandson be High King. Let Markion rule until his dying day. But let his mother raise the boy, and let her live with me.” He met Percival’s gaze directly. “I love her more than life, my lord. That is what drives me. Not ambition.”
“I knew it!” Markion cried, raising a fist in the air. “I knew it all along!”
Percival looked at him coldly and touched Essylte’s hair. “My daughter is precious to me. But she accepted Markion, without condition, and a man may treat his wife how he will. I cannot countenance your desire, Tristan, much as I understand it. I—”
“My lord!” Tristan cried. “He put her to the fire! At the winter solstice! In public!”
Percival stared at him blankly. “He what?”
“Did you not know? Did Markion not tell you that when he called you south against me? Did he fill your head with lies about my villainy and hide the truth of his? That is why I took her from Tintagel!”
The blood left Percival’s face. “Essylte, is this true?”
“Yes,” she said evenly, looking straight at Markion. “It is true. He himself held my hand in the flame until the flesh stank. Until the bishop wept.”
Percival took her hands and lifted them into the light. “But they are perfect. Unharmed. Unblemished.”
She looked up at him. “That’s Branny’s doing, Father. She gave me a salve to protect me when we discovered what the vicious brute meant to do.”
Color returned to Percival’s face. “Branwen!”
“A trick!” Markion cried excitedly. “It wasn’t a true test after all! She tricked me!”
“Damn you!” Percival roared, dropping Essylte’s hands and whirling on Markion. “How dare you treat my daughter so? I’ve killed men for less, and so have you. Is this how the High King of Britain treats his Queen? You burned her? As a test?”
“She’s not burned,” Markion retorted. “She tricked me. She’s told me lie upon lie for years. There’s no truth in her, my lord! All I wanted from her was truth.”
Essylte bowed her head and wept. Tristan stepped to her side and took her hands in his. She pressed her face into his tunic to hide her tears.
“Look at them!” Markion shrieked, pointing. “If they are not lovers, I am King of Rome!”
Percival turned and regarded them. “Essylte, my daughter,” he said softly.
She raised her face to him, eyes swimming. “I love him, Father, I love him more than life.”
“I told you! I told you!” Markion sputtered, beside himself. “Your bitch of a daughter has made a cuckold of me!”
Percival’s hand flew to his sword hilt and stopped, shaking. “Guard your tongue, Cornishman! My men lie between you and Britain. If I join forces with Tristan, you’ll be trapped between us. So speak my daughter fair. Without me, you’re just a prince of Cornwall.”
Markion gulped hastily. “But they’ve both been false from the beginning—your daughter and my nephew. Segward has known all about it for years. He warned me a thousand times. Where’s that fat peasant when I need him? He’s had them watched—he can tell you the truth of it.”
Percival hesitated, glancing from Tristan to Markion to Essylte and back again. “Where is Lord Segward?”
“At this minute, in my dungeon,” Tristan said slowly. “It was his idea to burn the Queen alive before her subjects. When she foiled his plans and defied the flames, Markion banished him to Lyonesse and I imprisoned him. I will send for him if you like, but do not expect to hear truth from his lips. He is not called ‘the Snake’ for nothing.”
Percival’s hand, still trembling, fell slowly to his side. “Nevertheless, I will hear what he has to say.”
Tristan nodded. Sir Grayell signaled to his lieutenants, who left just as the door opened to admit the wine bearers.
“Father,” Essylte whispered, holding hard to Tristan’s hands, “I am no adulteress! Segward the Snake will tell you so, but it is not true. I am clean of that sin.”
Percival frowned. “I am aware of Lord Segward’s motives. As now I am of yours. Let me listen to him. Then I will listen to you.”
Before long they heard the guards returning. Segward bowed low in the doorway, his small eyes flicking around the hall.
“My lords! What a mighty gathering is this!” His lips stretched in a smile, but the watchful expression in his eyes did not waver. “King Percival, I am honored to bask in your presence once again, and hope your journey south was an easy one. My lord Markion.” He knelt stiffly on the ground as he reached for Markion’s hand and kissed his ring. “Too long a time, my good lord, we have been parted. Ah, but your nephew is an unforgiving man! This long winter in the dungeon has frozen all my joints. I can hardly move. And I wonder, as I weep my way to sleep, whatever have I done to offend the good Sir Tristan? Kept my wife under lock and key, perhaps?”
Tristan said nothing but looked pointedly at Percival.
“Tell him,” Markion growled, raising him. “Tell him all you know about Tristan and my Queen.”
Segward’s smile broadened. “Oh, no, my lord! Not now, surely. It would take more than a night to tell it all. And here they both are, who would blush to hear told to others what they have so long kept a secret between themselves.”
Percival stiffened. “I’m afraid we must hear it, Lord Segward, if you can discipline yourself to be brief about it.”
Segward grinned as he bowed. “I am so afraid, my lord king, that the tale of Tristan and Essylte does not lend itself to brevity. But if you like, I shall begin.”
A cloaked servant stepped into their midst with a tray bearing six cups of wine. Essylte, blurry-eyed, waved the woman away, but Tristan reached for the two nearest cups and pushed one into Essylte’s hand. She accepted it meekly. Percival glanced at the servant in annoyance and then froze. Two cool hazel-gray eyes looked up at him from inside her hood. She glanced, once, down at a golden cup. He took it. She nodded, just a dip of the chin, as she turned away. Markion lifted the nearest cup without even looking at it, his eyes fixed on Tristan. Two cups remained on the tray as she approached Segward, one of carved horn, the other of beaten silver. Segward squinted at the face inside the hood and raised his eyebrows.
“I do like your spirit,” he murmured, too low for the others to hear. “But you have to get up early in the day to get the better of me. I suppose mine is the silver one?”
She lowered her eyes demurely. “Whatever my lord wills.”
“Who’s the other cup for?”
“For me, my lord.” Her eyes flicked momentarily to his. “I have a right to it.”
Segward grinned and grabbed the horn cup. “Go on, then. Take it.” Her hand shook as she took the silver cup and Segward smiled.
Percival raised his goblet. “Let us all drink together to Britain’s future.”
“To Britain!” Markion and Tristan echoed his cry and drank. Segward paused, his eyes fastened on Tristan’s face. Tristan’s eyes narrowed. His lips pursed. He shuddered and stared down in consternation at his winecup. With a silent chuckle, Segward raised his cup to the cloaked woman and downed his wine.
“The wine’s amiss,” Tristan warned, taking Essylte’s cup from her hand. “Don’t drink it.”
“Mine was all right,” Markion declared.
“And mine.” Percival pointed. “What’s the matter with Segward?”
Everyone turned. Segward staggered, clutching at his throat, his eyes bulging. He gagged once and fell to the floor. His limbs convulsed uncontrollably, heels drumming on stone. Froth formed on his lips as he stared wildly up at the cloaked woman with the silver cup. “Bitch!” he croaked. Urine spread in a dark stain across his leggings, and Segward lay still.
“My God!” Markion cried. “What ails the man?”
Tristan frowned. “He’s dead.”
Everyone crowded around. Someone shouted for the physici
an, others shouted for a litter, for water, for guards. In the confusion, the cloaked servant withdrew. Women pushed through the throng, led by Esmerée.
“He is mine to tend,” she said, dry-eyed. “Put him on the litter and follow me. I will prepare him.” The guards obeyed, and soon the hall emptied for the second time.
“What happened to him?” Markion wondered, standing over the soured straw. “I’ve never seen such a fit come upon him. Was he poisoned? Where’s the maid who gave him the wine?”
Percival, moving slowly like a man in sleep, lifted the horn cup from the floor and sniffed it. “There’s nothing here but dregs. It smells all right. He chose the cup with his own hand, Markion. I saw him. The maid never poisoned him. He probably fell ill from vapors in the dungeon.”
“Yes,” Tristan agreed coolly. “It’s always damp. What a pity.”
Markion shot him a swift look. “He’s been in the dungeon all winter, he said. But he didn’t take ill until he was about to reveal what he knew about you! Vapors be damned! You killed him.”
Tristan stared at him blankly. “I? How?”
“That girl—there was something familiar about her. She served your ends—she served you!”
“If I had wanted to kill Segward,” Tristan said evenly, “I could have done so anytime this winter. No one would have missed him. Not even you.”
“He knew the truth about you!” Markion cried. “You have been lying with my wife behind my back!” Markion’s fists bunched. Sir Bruenor laid a hand upon his arm, but Markion shrugged him off. “It’s been your plan from the beginning—I see it now. Too cowardly to challenge me outright for my crown, you bed my Queen—the two-faced little bitch—to plant your seed in my garden, to foist your ill-begotten brood upon me—”
Percival’s hand dropped to his sword hilt as Tristan’s blade whipped from its scabbard. Markion stopped in midsentence, the point of Tristan’s sword at his throat. The harsh slither of metal echoed around the hall as ten swords lifted in Markion’s defense. Tristan’s guards ran forward from the doors, drawing their weapons, and Sir Grayell and his men raised their naked blades at Tristan’s side.
“Be still about the Queen.” Tristan’s voice trembled. “If another slander passes your lips, uncle or no, King or no, I will kill you and take what comes to me. Do you hear me?”
Markion’s eyes slid left and right. “So this is how you treat the High King of Britain. I came unarmed into your stronghold as your guest. I might have known that a son of Meliodas would care more for a woman than for honor.”
At the mention of his father’s name, Tristan’s sword point pressed against Markion’s flesh. “You tread on dangerous ground, Uncle. More than one man in this room knows why my father died.”
Markion’s face flushed a deep, dusky red. “Lies! Slander! I was abed with a fever when Gaels attacked him. Do not lay his death at my door! Look to your own honor, Tristan, before you seek to tarnish mine.”
Tristan withdrew the sword, and Markion bent quickly, a hand to his boot. Essylte screamed. Tristan twisted away as the hand came up, blocking the knife thrust with the hilt of his sword. “Take that!” Markion bellowed, striking again. “You stinking traitor!”
Everyone shouted. Blades flashed openly. Percival fought desperately to get between the angry men. Without warning, a torch appeared, thrust between the sword blades, blinding the combatants. Everyone backed away a step.
“Gentlemen,” Pernam said gravely, “this is not a contest of champions. Put up. Put up.”
“You heard him!” Markion screamed. “He’s betrayed me!”
“Yes, and I heard you, too, brother, admit how you treated the wife who brought you your kingdom.”
“Tristan!” Essylte wailed. “Tristan’s wounded!”
Heads turned. A dagger protruded from the fleshy muscle of Tristan’s upper arm. Essylte lifted a hand to the hilt, but Tristan stopped her.
“No, heart, it’s little more than a scratch, but let Pernam do it. Knife wounds are child’s play to him.”
Pernam ripped a strip of cloth from his robe and bound Tristan’s arm as he pulled the dagger out. He hefted the blood-bright weapon in his hand. The handle was black enamel chased with silver in the shape of a boar.
“I know this dagger of old.” He looked up at Markion. “It is yours, brother. Do you deny it?”
“Certainly I do not,” Markion retorted. “He attacked me. He had his sword point at my throat! After I showed him I was unarmed. He invited me into Lyon’s Head and then attacked me—I, his sovereign lord. He deserves a slow, cruel death. He’s betrayed me. He’s betrayed Britain.”
Pernam’s eyebrows gently lifted. “Unarmed?”
“He didn’t know I had it! Yet he attacked me!”
“Perhaps,” Pernam replied softly, “he knows you well enough not to trust you. We’ve had enough argument for one night, I think. Let us go to our rest and let our tempers cool. I have a feeling the situation will be clearer in the morning.” He handed Markion the dagger. “Shall I send for torchbearers to light you on your way?”
“No need,” Markion growled. “We are not leaving the fortress. We’ll stay the night in Lyon’s Head. And I’ll keep my wife with me.”
“Never!” Essylte cried, backing away. “Father, don’t let him touch me! You have seen the kind of man he is! He would slay his own kinsman, who protects me. Tristan did not attack him—do you see a mark on the King? A drop of blood? But look!” She gestured toward Tristan’s bloody sleeve as her tears began to fall. “Look how my lord bleeds from his wound! I swear before God I will throw myself from the tower before I consent to be alone with Markion.”
Percival scowled at the High King. “Until I have the truth of it, let no one lie with the Queen.” He glanced sternly from uncle to nephew. “Not Tristan. Not Markion. Swear your oaths on it.”
Markion’s face was red with anger. “You can’t rely on words! He has no honor—he promises one thing and does another. He’d sell his very soul for a night in her arms.”
Percival’s lips thinned. “Very well. I’ll station one of my men outside her door, and another outside his. You do the same. In the morning we will sit down together, without weapons, and discover the truth.” He looked around doubtfully at all the angry faces. “If we can behave like civilized men.”
Clouds covered the stars and the moon had set. The sea heaved and thrashed against unseen rocks, a vast, seething presence unlit by a single reflected glimmer. The great fortress melted into the surrounding dark, more felt than seen by the dozing sentries on the battlements. High above their heads, pressed hard against the cold, unforgiving wall, a shadowy human form inched across the seaward rock face.
Tristan dared not look down. He focused every fiber of his concentration on finding the next toehold, the next finger grasp, the next outcrop of undressed rock that would support a man’s knee and grant him time to regain his breath. He recognized the foolhardiness of his endeavor. No one in his right mind would attempt it in daylight, never mind at night. But he also recognized that what drove him would not be silenced, could not be denied, was blind to reason and deaf to argument. There would be no peace for him in life if he did not reach her window.
Essylte knelt by the edge of her bed, hands clasped tight together. If he did not come, she would never see his face again. If he did not come, she would lose her wits by morning or she would die. What would death be like? Was it so greatly to be feared? Perhaps it was only a dark night wind that lifted the soul and swept it out to sea, light as a feather on an angel’s wing. If he did not come, she would weep until the stones crumbled into the sea in their grief at hearing her, until the stars drowned, until the earth spread wide her arms and the Great Goddess took her in.
In her womb the unborn baby kicked, and a tear slid down Essylte’s pale cheek. She could not wish for death without wishing for his death, too, this poor child of Tristan’s who had never looked upon the light of day. All the world’s pleasures would be denied
him, all its beauties and its joys, if she died tomorrow. Branwen was right. She was selfish to think only of herself. She would have to wait until she could leave her infant prince safely in other hands. Only then would she be free to welcome death, if Tristan was not with her, if he was exiled, or dead. She shivered at the thought and wondered if she could find the servant who had poisoned Segward. If only, if only the stupid girl had given that cup to Mark!
She rose quickly and strained to hear. For hours, the perfect silence of the moonless night had throbbed against her ears. But now—was that a scrape of boot on stone? Was that an indrawn breath? She turned and looked toward the window, an inky blotch in the black wall, invisible when she looked directly at it, visible only when she looked away. Something moved, something quivered in the dark. She reached out; a hand caught hold of her arm and pulled her hard into waiting arms.
“Tristan!” she breathed, alive again against his living flesh.
His finger pressed against her lips. “Hush, love. It is death if we are caught.”
“But you came to me!”
He laughed silently. “I had no choice.”
“Nor I.” She drew his face down and kissed his lips. “I am wild with waiting!”
His breath caught in his throat. She had shrugged off her nightdress, and her lovely body shone in the darkness, as if she had gathered light into her flesh and allowed it to shine from her breasts, her hips, her thighs. She knelt on the old bed, arms outstretched. “Come to me, Tristan.”
The ferocity of his desire frightened him, and he concentrated on moving slowly, on touching her fingers, her arms, her shoulders with consummate gentleness. “Silence,” he breathed into her hair, taking her body carefully into his arms, striving for control of the whirlwind conflagration that consumed him. “Absolute silence.”
Her lips pressed against his ear as she wrapped her arms about him and drew him down to her. “I am queen of the firestorm,” she whispered. “Let go, let go. Tonight we will burn alive, but no one will hear.”
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