“I didn’t get a good look at the knight, my lord. He was busy with the horses. But the prince is seventeen or so, and his sister is a beauty.”
“God preserve us from beautiful women!” Dinadan groaned, but Guvranyl smiled at the sudden warmth in the guard’s voice.
“Very well. I’ll receive them. Alert Merron to see to the rooms. Oh, and Morven, send for more wine.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When the door had closed, Dinadan scowled and adjusted his sword on his hip. “I wonder what on earth is keeping Prince Pernam? Ask these travelers if they’ve seen anyone on the road.”
“Aren’t you staying to greet them?”
Dinadan yawned. “Not me. I’m off to bed. Too much dicing and drinking. Too much boredom to be endured.”
“Don’t forget to check on the Queen before you go.”
Dinadan smiled bitterly. “Oh, aye, I obey all his orders. Be sure and tell him so. I’ll make damn sure there’s no one in her bed. Why he treats her as if she entertains the army in his absence, I’ll never know. Sheer orneriness. He only ever had one man to fear.”
With that, Dinadan closed the door and trudged away through the dimly lit halls toward the Queen’s stairs. The two sentries he passed were asleep at their posts. He shrugged and let them sleep. But as he turned the last corner he stopped abruptly, every sense alerted. The stairs were in darkness. The lamp had gone out, and the air was heavy with the pungent scent of a wick recently snuffed. His sword leaped into his hand.
“Who’s there, in the Queen’s name?”
He heard a soft noise from above him, the slip of steel against leather as another sword left its scabbard.
“Who goes there? Announce yourself!”
“Shhh.” The whisper sounded in his ear. He whirled, and a firm hand came down on his wrist. “Don’t wake the guard, Dinadan, my old friend. I need his sleep.”
Dinadan gasped aloud. “Tristan?”
An arm slid around his shoulders and hugged him tight. “Ah, God, you are the last man I expected to find here! Is this your punishment, then, for standing by me? Guard duty?”
“Tristan!” Tears sprang to Dinadan’s eyes as he hugged his friend. “You are alive! Thank God! We never knew for certain.”
“You didn’t believe the bard, then? She did.”
Dinadan sobered instantly. “Aye. She did indeed. But all bards are liars at heart, begging your pardon, Tris. I wanted proof.” As his eyes adjusted to the dark he made out the dim outline of Tristan’s head against the wall. “How did you know about the bard? How did you get here? Where have you been? It’s as much as your life is worth to set foot in Britain—did you bring an army?”
“No,” Tristan replied softly. “No army. I came with Prince Kaherdyn and his sister.”
“You’re Marcus Cunomorus!”
“Yes.”
“By God! You have some nerve, using Mark’s very name! And where did you find that Breton prince? Have you been all this time in Brittany?”
“In Lanascol. Prince Kaherdyn is my kinsman now. Lady Elen is my wife.”
Dinadan gasped. “Jesu! Then it’s true?”
“Yes and no.” Tristan gripped his arm. “I must see her, Din. I must see her now. Tonight. You have to cover for me.”
“Good God, Tris, you brought the woman here? Are you completely mad? You can’t expect to—”
“I must see her.”
“You can’t! Markion’s coming.”
“I know.”
“I won’t let him take the boys. Don’t worry. I’ve sent for Pernam.”
“You’re a good friend, Dinadan. Better than I deserve.”
“But you can’t see her. I can’t let you. I have standing orders from the Queen herself.”
Tristan paused, breathing audibly. “When did she give those orders? After the bard’s visit? Those orders came from the depth of the wound I gave her. Give me a chance to set things straight between us. She will thank you for it after.”
“Let it go, Tristan. It’s over. Let the poor woman heal. It will only make things worse to rake it all up again.”
“I must see her.”
Dinadan shook him by the shoulders. “Have all my sacrifices been in vain? Filas, Dynas, Regis, Branwen, Grayell, Guvranyl, and a hundred others who paid the price for backing you—was it for nothing? Tristan, I have a daughter I have never seen because of you.”
Tristan embraced him and pressed his lips to Dinadan’s cheek. Dinadan sighed wearily. “You’d kill me, if you had to, to get to her. I know you would. All right, I yield. If she doesn’t have my head for this, Markion will. Either way, I am a dead man.”
“Come with us, then. Come with us to Brittany. Bring Diarca and the child. We will all escape together.”
“On foot? We won’t get far.”
“Our ship lies off the coast of Lyonesse. It will wait a fortnight for us; that’s plenty of time to get to Dorria and back. Come with us.”
“You think Essylte will travel with your wife and her brother? Have you lost your senses?”
“She will when I tell her the truth of how things stand. But you’ve got to give me the chance. Stand here and guard the stair.”
Dinadan laughed lightly. “Oh, no, you can’t get in without me. I’ve the key to her chamber door.”
Tristan drew a sharp breath. “He locks her in?”
“That’s not the half of it. She’s his prize bitch, and nothing more. He whips her if she doesn’t mind.”
Tristan bit off a cry. “I’ll kill him the same day he sets foot in Tintagel! I swear by God I will!”
“Shut up.” Dinadan grabbed him and dragged him up the stairs. “If you value your worthless life, shut up and follow me.”
Together they crept up the stairs to the landing. No sentry stood there now, for a heavy lock and chain secured the door. “She’s abed,” Dinadan mumbled under his breath. “My orders are to check on her every night and see that she’s abed and alone.”
“Filthy sonofabitch’s whelp. I’ll give him the slow death he deserves.”
“He loves you, too. Remember that. Ah. Here we go.”
Dinadan pulled the chain from the door and pushed it open.
Iseulte stood at the window and gazed out at the western sea. “What a beautiful place Cornwall is. Every cliff looks out at the ends of the earth. In Lanascol we have nothing so dramatic. We look out upon a sea of trees.”
Guvranyl gestured to the servant to refill her winecup. “I’m sure it must be a very lovely place, my lady.” He turned to the russet-haired young prince who brooded by the unlit fire. “How does Less Britain? We’ve had no news for ages.”
“Everything’s quiet enough,” Kaherdyn grumbled.
“Are you on your way home, then?” Guvranyl prodded.
Kaherdyn flashed his sister a meaningful look. “Eventually, Sir Guvranyl. My sister had a hankering to see Cornwall first.”
Guvranyl frowned in evident disbelief.
“We came to Britain to bury my father,” Iseulte explained, turning her brilliant eyes upon him and rooting him where he stood. “He wished to die in Wales. Afterward, I made Kaherdyn bring me overland through Britain. I had never seen it—the Summer Country, Dumnonia, Cornwall, Lyonesse . . .”
“Um, er . . .” Guvranyl coughed discreetly. “It’s odd I had no warning of your approach. You must have passed through Caerleon. The commander there is a Cornishman. Sir Bruenor would have sent me notice.”
“We took a ferry across the Severn,” Kaherdyn said quickly, “and so missed the fortress. Our guide said he knew of a shorter way.”
“Ah, then Sir Marcus has been to Britain before? Where is he? I should like to meet him and know whom he’s fought for.”
“Indeed,” Iseulte said absently, turning away, “I believe he is a Briton born. He will join us here directly. I beg your patience on his behalf.”
Guvranyl bowed low, enchanted by her beauty, her grace, her remarkable eyes. “Granted.” He tu
rned back to Kaherdyn. “If you traveled through the Summer Country, you must have stopped at Camelot.”
“Er, no. We heard rumors of fighting thereabouts, and I did not wish to endanger my sister.”
“You were misinformed, my young lord. King Markion is away at the wars, but they are east, much farther east. It’s a pity you didn’t see the place. You have missed one of the greatest sights in Britain.”
“Well.” Kaherdyn squirmed. “Another time, perhaps.”
Guvranyl looked at him curiously. They made a strange pair, the brilliant woman who looked at everything with an intense interest he could feel across the room, and the sulking young man who refused to look at anything, who clearly wished to be anywhere else on earth than where he was. What could have brought them to Tintagel, if they had missed such unavoidable crossroads as Caerleon and Camelot?
“Sir Guvranyl!” The door swung open to admit a guard, breathless with excitement. “Prince Pernam!”
Pernam swept into the room close behind him, his hood thrown back, his gray eyes flashing. “Guvranyl! Alert the Queen! Markion is upon the moor!”
Iseulte gasped aloud. Pernam turned, startled, and saw her and Kaherdyn. He inclined his head. “My apologies, lady, for the sudden intrusion. I did not know Sir Guvranyl had guests.”
Iseulte could hardly breathe. “Markion, did you say? The High King himself? Is coming here?”
“Yes. Not swiftly—there’s a long procession of torches coming across the moor. He’ll make a ceremonial entrance.” He turned to Guvranyl. “That gives us time. Esmerée is even now waking the boys. Where’s Dinadan?”
“Abed, my lord. Shall I send for him and wake the Queen?”
“No!” The words burst from Iseulte’s lips. Everyone stared at her. She lifted a pale face to Pernam. “I beg you, sir, I beg you not to disturb the Queen.”
“But the High King will want to see her,” Pernam said gently.
Iseulte gulped. “Even so, let it wait until the last moment. Please. I have no right to ask it, but—please.”
Pernam lifted a hand to her chin and gazed into her eyes. “What concerns you so? You have honest eyes, but you are hiding something. Give me truth, lady. Who are you?”
“My name,” Iseulte breathed, “is Elen of Lanascol. But I am known as—Iseulte of the White Hands.”
Pernam looked blankly at her, but Guvranyl drew breath sharply. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” He looked around wildly. “Marcus Cunomorus! Where is he?”
Pernam frowned. “Have you lost your wits? I’ve just told you. He’s upon the moor.”
“No, no! Not Markion. The knight who rode in with these gentle folk. He’s down at the stables somewhere.”
“No, he’s not.” They all turned to the door.
“Dinadan!” Pernam cried in relief. “Awaken the Queen. Markion will be here within the hour.”
But Dinadan gazed in open wonder at Iseulte and walked toward her like a man in sleep, heedless of the excitement around him. He lifted her hand to his lips and bowed low. “Lady Elen. Wife of—Marcus.”
“You must be Sir Dinadan. He has told me much about you.”
“He has told me absolutely nothing about you,” Dinadan responded gravely. “He should never have brought you to Tintagel.”
Iseulte smiled quickly. “I know why he is here, my lord. Do not fear for me. My eyes are open.”
“No one can be that generous.”
“That’s what I told her,” Kaherdyn added sullenly from his corner.
“Some things cannot be prevented.” Iseulte glanced at Pernam, whose eyes widened with apprehension. “If there is any hope that we may someday have a life together, I had to bring him here. There wasn’t any choice.”
“I take it,” Pernam said evenly, “that Marcus Cunomorus is my nephew’s idea of a disguise?”
Iseulte looked bewildered. “Prince Pernam is Markion’s brother,” Dinadan supplied. “Tristan’s uncle.”
Iseulte made a reverence to Pernam. “Then we are kin, my lord. Tristan is my husband.”
“Dear Lord.” Guvranyl’s legs buckled, and he landed heavily on a bench. “Dear Lord, preserve us all. Do you mean to tell me Tristan is here? In Tintagel? Where, for God’s sweet sake?”
“Where do you think?” Dinadan’s lips lifted in a bitter smile. “I found him on her stairs when I left this chamber nigh on an hour ago.”
“And you let him in.” Guvranyl made it a statement. He shook his head slowly. “No good will come of it. We are dead men all. If you value our lives, get back there and warn them of Markion’s approach. He’ll kill them both if he finds them and he’ll be here any minute.”
“Markion? Here?” Dinadan jumped like a man coming to his senses. But as he reached the door he froze, then whirled around, white-faced. “Too late.”
“The King!” a guard cried, and Markion himself strode into the room, followed by his torchbearers, his warrior-companions, and a train of servants.
“Too late for what, Dinadan? Ah! What’s this? A feast? A celebration? With guests?” He nodded to Iseulte and Kaherdyn, who made him reverences, and frowned at Pernam. “What are you doing here, brother? Come to rescue my wife’s bastards? Too late, indeed!”
Guvranyl rose shakily to his feet. “My lord King. Welcome to Tintagel. This is Prince Kaherdyn of Lanascol, and his sister, Lady Elen. They have stopped the night with us on their way to—on their way to . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“On our way home to Less Britain,” Kaherdyn said firmly. “We had no idea you and your company were expected, my lord, and we have no wish to be in the way. If you will give us leave, we will take ourselves off to bed and leave you to your homecoming.”
Markion’s eye ran over Iseulte with appreciation. “Must you go so soon, Prince Kaherdyn? We don’t get many visitors at Tintagel. I would be honored if you and your handsome sister would grace us with your company a while longer. I must see to my wife; afterward I would be glad to sit and talk with you both over a skin of wine.”
Kaherdyn had opened his mouth to decline when Iseulte smiled at Markion and curtsied low. “The honor is all ours, my lord King. Must you see to your wife so soon? Surely you are entitled to rest from your journey first.”
Markion’s smile broadened. “Well, well. Perhaps it can wait a little.”
Kaherdyn gaped.
“I will see that their chambers have been prepared,” Dinadan said nervously, backing toward the door.
Markion eyed him sharply. “You stay here. That’s a job for the seneschal. Hasn’t it been done?” He turned on Guvranyl. “Eh, Guvranyl? What’s this I hear? Neglecting your duties? Spending too much time with the wineskin again? Have their beds and horses been seen to?”
Guvranyl blinked in confusion. “Beds, certainly, my lord. Horses, I don’t recall—yes, Marcus Cunomorus saw to the horses.” Guvranyl gulped suddenly as Markion reddened.
“Who? Is this a jest?”
“No, brother,” Pernam said calmly. “Marcus is the man who traveled south with Prince Kaherdyn and his sister as their escort. There is no jest.”
“Well, then, where is he?” Markion snapped.
No one moved. Markion stared at them all, first in anger, then in astonishment, then in consternation. He walked slowly to Kaherdyn, to Iseulte, to shaking Guvranyl, to close-lipped Pernam, to white-faced Dinadan. None of them could meet his eye. “You’re afraid,” he announced, watching their faces. “You’re all afraid. Why? Of what? Of me?” He smiled, but no one smiled with him. “No one who deals honestly with me need fear me. Ask Dinadan, here. I’m only cruel to traitors and—” he stopped as Dinadan flinched. Markion’s face hardened. “Marcus Cunomorus.” He whipped around and glared at Kaherdyn. “Less Britain!” His lips lifted in a snarl. “He’s here! Isn’t he? That fornicating bastard son of a pagan whore! Where is he? Speak!”
No one spoke. Markion whirled and pointed to his men. “You, you, and you. Draw your swords and stand by the doors. No one leav
es. No one. Kill the first one who tries.”
“My lord!” Iseulte fell to her knees and raised her hands to him. “He is my husband. I beg you, do not harm him!”
“Your husband!” Markion sneered. “Then you should have kept him at home in your bed, lady. His life is forfeit here.”
“I beg you, my lord! Show him mercy. He came—he only came to say farewell.”
Markion was already at the door. He turned back once more. “That’s what he told you, is it? Then you haven’t known him long.” Iseulte’s eyes filled with tears and Markion grunted. “If he’s anywhere else in Tintagel but in her chamber, I’ll let him live until morning. But if he’s with her—so help me God—if he’s with her, he’ll die a slow death tonight!” Then he turned on his heel and was gone.
The double-flamed lamp cast a soft glow across the Queen’s bed, across her red-gold curls sprawled over the pillow, aglow in the lamplight, across her face, pale and shuttered in sleep, half turned away. Tristan crept noiselessly to her side, slipped off his cloak, unbuckled his swordbelt, dropped them softly on a chair, and knelt down at her side. He hardly dared breathe. Every long-dead fiber of his body reawakened at her nearness, every forgotten impulse rekindled, every long-vanquished hope was reborn within his breast. He lifted a hand and touched her hair, a harper’s touch, a sigh across the strings. “Sweet Essylte.”
She stirred dreamily and settled deeper into the pillows. Her lips moved in a whisper. “I saw him again. In my dreams. He came back to me.”
He bent his head closer to her lips, her scent filling his head. “Who has come, love?” His lips brushed hers, a gossamer caress. “What lucky lover meets you in your golden dreams?”
Her eyes flew open. “Dinadan!”
He frowned. “Dinadan?”
In a flash she rolled away from him and pushed herself up, breathing hard. She stared at him wildly, unbelieving, her hair in a riotous jumble, the breast of her gown rising and falling in a quick, unsteady rhythm as she fought for breath.
“Essylte . . .”
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes welled with tears. Before he had time to draw another breath she drew back her arm and struck him hard across his face.
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