Tristan and Iseult (8 page)

Tristan

I feel isolated, the darkness out to sea endless. Feasting, merriment, and Rufus lying in the fort below us forgotten for now. Mark makes no attempt to explain his decision. It is for me to press further.

‘What offer did you make him?’

‘Morholt will fight our greatest warrior. If he wins, he takes the tribute. He loses, he forfeits the tribute and leaves.’

‘Morholt is not afraid of us. What makes you believe he will fight, one man against another?’

‘You have not met him, Tristan?’

‘No.’

‘He is an arrogant man who also needs to prove himself a leader of men. They follow him now, but he will require their unwavering support to maintain a grip on his newfound kingdom.’

‘And if we kill him, what difference will it make?’

I rest my hands on the railing which separates the platform from a thirty foot drop. The wood beneath my fingers feels familiar, welcoming, despite the cold and gloom. Mark beside me. Talk of defending our lands and fighting the Irish. Home. Only now Rufus does not stand talking with us. And so I want reassurance before I commit my view on Mark’s offer.

‘It might not make a difference,’ he says. ‘There is always another to rise in a lord’s place. That is the way of things. With luck we will find ourselves in a position to make a treaty with the northern Irish kingdoms, and that could give us a good few years of peace. Then we will be able to concentrate on the Saxon front and provide Dumnonia with the support it needs.’

The mention of Dumnonia, and the last support sent — Rufus and me — brings sickness to my throat.

‘Peace with the Irish will not come,’ I say.

‘No, perhaps not peace, but some form of arrangement can be negotiated.’ Mark fixes his eyes upon me. There is a sadness, a weakness in them I could almost pity. ‘Time is running faster than me now. I remember sitting in council with all the kings of Briton. We attempted to unite ourselves against the Saxons and make a stand against the Irish. We failed in both because the kingdoms could not agree what should be done. They fought over the position of High King, and when that could not be decided upon they argued further on who would therefore lead us, how many spears each lord would provide, how much coin should be given to hire additional spears, who would provide the army with food ... what was fair. Is anything fairer now? We still squabble and bicker. We do not work together. It was fourteen years ago, Tristan. I can still feel the anger and frustration in the room after weeks of talk … the anger of men who knew we had to come to a decision, to work as one united Briton.’ He shakes his head as if he should not have spoken of such matters. ‘If I do not try to solidify our position now, ensure our resources are well distributed, what manner of a king does that make me?’

‘We should try,’ I confirm, once more feeling his reprimand. Ashamed of my doubt. Realising that he does not speak of, or make reference to Rufus. And what will happen now there is no heir to Kernow, even though as he says, time is running faster than him?

‘Indeed we should.’

Silence. 

‘Do you think it will be possible?’ I ask.

‘To make some form of peace?’

‘To fight Morholt, just one blade against another, and win?’

Mark claps a hand on my shoulder twice. ‘I have confidence,’ he says, and turns.

Looking at Mark as he walks away I wonder whether he made the decision to challenge Morholt before or after I told him of Rufus. It does not make a difference; Mark is right as ever. This will be the quickest and cleanest way to resolve the agreement that once held between Morholt’s people and ours. This way only my life is staked and not an army of men. Mark knows this. He will also know he gives me opportunity to regain his friendship and respect. To make amends.

It occurs to me now that Mark’s decision did indeed come after. That is why I am to fight the Irish Lord. To prove my worth as a man of Kernow, as the nephew of a great king. Or to perish at the hands of a more skilled warrior. To perish as did his son.

I re-enter the hall a while later. Those gathered look from the king seated at the top table to me, and back to their plates and the food I and the other warriors fight to protect. Mark does not acknowledge me. He speaks with his councillors and advisors. Buried in conversation. Planning our confrontation with Morholt.

‘Tristan?’ My mother looks at me through hopeful, watery eyes. I gather her frail body gently in my arms. Almost feel her breaking under the weight of news. ‘Mark has just announced that Rufus is dead,’ she says. Words distorted with distress.

I gaze over her shoulder at the people watching our embrace. Every part of me is numb. Her pain was brought by me. Not only did I fail to keep Rufus alive, but I am also the messenger. Bringing my mother nothing but grief.

She wipes her eyes, attempting to disguise the tears, to pretend she does not feel for the loss of little Rufus, the boy she brought up as her own after his own mother passed. How proud I am of her bravery, of the self-respect evident in the lift of her chin. The hard line of a mouth that scolded us both as children.

‘What will Mark do?’ she says. ‘I tried to speak with him as soon as he broke the news, but he will not talk to me. You have spoken with him. You must know what he plans now. What will happen? Who will become the next heir of Kernow?’

‘I do not know.’ My words are harsher than I intended. I grip her face in my hands and say, ‘I will speak with him further. He has much playing on his mind, Mother. Give him time.’

Time, I think. How we all need time.

Iseult

Acha and I sit shivering, looking out at the grey waves. My warmer clothes, which I sorely need right now, are lying in the trunk below, so Acha and I have to huddle close for warmth. Weaponry fills the decks. Piles of swords and shields and spears and armour. We are the only two women aboard and the men sailing the boat ignore us. I hear Morholt barking orders, see him looking out over the bow, but he has yet to speak with me. Why I have been instructed to accompany him, I have yet to discover.

‘Do you think I am to be some sort of gift to the Britons?’ I ask Acha.

In truth I am scared that I am being sent to Briton and will not come back to my beloved Ireland, the lands of my father and my family, the ground upon which I played in my childhood. The soil my people have worked for centuries. Trapped on this boat I miss it already.

‘He wants you for himself,’ she replies. ‘And even if he didn’t, your uncles would wage war on the south if he sent you to Briton.’

She seems certain; more certain than me. I feel guilty that she has to make this journey with me, even though I know she would have come willingly given the choice. I do not tell her that I took a knife into Morholt’s rooms with the intent of killing him. A deluge of fear mixed with a trickle of hatred runs through my body at the memory of his touch and the sensation of his body pressed so closely upon mine, of the sound of him retching. I am both afraid of him and yet powerless to refuse him. In my cowardice I pray that someone else can make my worries disappear.

Acha puts her worn hands around my shoulder and hugs me to her.

‘If we are left in Briton, do you think my uncles would come for us?’ I ask.

‘Oh, my child, they would come if you were taken to the easternmost edge of the old empire, they would. Do not fret.’

Acha lies. My uncles care for their own wealth and their own lands. They have been happy to allow Morholt to rule and I know that if called upon them my safety and happiness would be considered after their own interests.

‘Of course,’ I say, and smile the same smile I give my mother when I do not wish to listen to her talk of our family’s decline.

I watch our people standing on the shore as they grow ever smaller, and despite my mother’s temperament, I do not wish to be leaving her. She is one of the strongest people I know.

We sail for what seems like days
although the sky has yet to turn black and I know it is still morning. Still
Morholt does not speak with
me
. Part of me is grateful
not to have his attention, to pretend as always that I do not exist
, but
he has me on this boat for a reason, and I will know it soon enough
.

The boat rolls with the waves and clouds mass in a dark shadow overhead. Fine rain clings to the hairs on my arms, and within moments the skies erupt
in
anger and water bounces from the deck and the heads and shoulders of the men who work on. I let it trickle down my face
as I
sigh
because we are heading toward I place I do not know, to lands I have never seen, to meet savages I have never before met
. I want time to slow, and yet run faster.
Or maybe not pass at all.

Tristan

Mark and I land on the Isle of Samson. The sun is still low and the sea unusually calm. I wonder briefly which way the gods will sway. Do they favour us or the enemy? Have they ceased the rain and wind to watch us as we amuse them, mortal men playing out a game on the hard ground with tools that could no more kill a god than find us peace? How they must laugh at us.

Screeching birds disturb the quiet of this uninhabited stretch of earth. The larger islands surrounding us provide little cover. So far out from the mainland we are exposed. I do not like waiting here.

This is the first time I have stood on Samson’s Isle. There is little reason to come here, and it is of no use to pirates or smugglers with its lack of provision. The island is formed of two hills: one south, one north. We land on the north hill. A dozen men in all, though more wait on board ship. Eurig and the other nine warriors settle themselves on the coarse grass. Make a fire to stave off the cold.

‘How long will we wait for them?’ I ask Mark. He stands beside me, studiously fastening a clasp at the front of his great cloak to stop it billowing in the wind. I notice the armour beneath. He is prepared. He knows that even if I win this fight and kill Morholt, we will likely face the anger of his followers. 

‘Morholt agreed on today,’ Mark replies.

‘You think he will come?’

The king looks out across the waters to our right, searching for the Irish boat on the horizon. ‘The wind is in his favour so I can see no reason for him to delay. He wants this opportunity as much as we do, remember. I suspect our tribute is more important to him than it was to his predecessor. He needs to pay his warriors and it will have cost him dearly to command enough to gain the position he is in now. If, as I think he intends, he wishes to conquer more lands in Ireland, he needs gold.’

‘I had not thought of that. Is Oswyn to warn the northern Irish lords?’

Mark lets slip a victorious grin.

‘When it comes to the fight —’ I say.

‘There is no need to talk of it now.’ 

I let my impatience simmer for a moment. Mark seems not to notice. I know he is right, that there is little point in speaking of that which is to come. But I want to know in my mind how this confrontation will play itself out.

‘Did you speak with your mother?’ he asks. The tension between us eases. There is a care between him and his sister, but the bond is not a strong one. He would leave her to dry her own tears in the dark, night after night. He is unable to share precious moments. Moments that would bring them both a little comfort if only he would put an arm about her shoulders and reassure her of vengeance. He cannot admit, even to himself, the feelings of loss which I know haunt him. The same loss that haunts me now.

‘I have spoken with her,’ I say.

Mark begins to walk along the ridge of the hill. Eurig makes to follow him. ‘It is all right, Eurig,’ Mark says. ‘Stay here and keep a lookout for their boat. I am not going far.’

He continues on, talking, so I sense I am to follow.

‘Your mother feels too much for people, Tristan. She must be stronger if she wishes to overcome the great sadness which has found us.’

He is right. Death is something we must all accept. Men die in battle every day. Women in childbirth. Children of sickness that cannot be eased. We feel loss, but we move on, continue life and fight the next battle. Fight more carefully. Am I strong enough to put Rufus’ death behind me and make amends? I know I am. It is the guilt which consumes me, the unknown. The forgiveness I seek.

‘You are right, Mark. We must all be strong,’ I say. ‘But you know she cared for him as her own. She cared for him the moment the cord was cut from his mother. She treated him as if he were my brother, without exception.’

I expect a flinch of regret. The stir of a memory at the mention of his dead wife. I want him to show something, but there is nothing as he looks thoughtful and rubs the pommel of his sword.

‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘Perhaps it might be best if she were sent away for a while. She could go to the priory. There she can avoid the talk that pains her.’

I almost choke on my disbelief at his words. He does not understand the simple difference kind words from him would make to her. She need not be sent away. And Mark has never cared which way others pray, which gods they favour. He himself is disbelieving in their powers, swaying toward the Christian God. But to send my mother to a priory, with the Christian monks pressing upon her their pitiful beliefs?