Tristan and Iseult (5 page)

‘What is it, Acha?’

‘Nothing, child. Go back to your bed.’

‘She is to come with me,’ the man says. Acha is tall, but he is taller still, stooping to see under the lintel. Hair and beard surround his head and face so that all I can see are fractious eyes.

‘No.’ Acha blocks the doorway and I am sheltered behind her.

The man reaches past Acha, locks his grip on my arm and pulls me down the hallway with him. My heart thuds. I do not know where he is taking me. Behind me, Acha runs to keep up; sobs for him to stop.

We come to a halt outside a door. The man brushes Acha away.

‘Go back to your room,’ he barks.

‘I will stay here,’ Acha protests.

Tears begin to run down her cheeks. I feel nothing. I do not know what is happening. I am a rabbit in danger: startled.

Another man — one of Morholt’s favoured warriors — approaches and drags Acha away. Now there is just me and the man who came for me.

He taps on the door and he does not wait for a response, but enters.

‘The Queen’s daughter, my Lord.’

I am ushered into the room and the door closes behind me and my lord and I are alone.

Morholt
.

He paces. Lumbering steps across the wooden floors. He reaches for a cup and sloshes mead on the floor and I know the evening’s drink has yet to fade.

He walks across to me.

‘You play the harp well.’ He speaks as though the matter irrelevant, a mere courtesy he deigns to display.

I do not move. I let his breath roll over my face, clinging to my skin, as he says: ‘We are to be husband and wife, Iseult.’

My stomach twists and knots and my legs are weak beneath me. I am afraid, of him and what will happen in this room this night.

‘As you desire, my Lord.’

‘
Desire
?’ He says the word as though it offends him, the very idea of desire ridiculous. ‘I do not
desire
you. You arouse no desire in me. You are the daughter of my predecessor — a man who would let the northern kings govern him as he sat on a throne gifted only by his brothers’ will and nothing more. He could have been their dog and had more freedom to rule as he wished. I need strong sons, sons combining my blood with the blood of your family, that is all.’ He slurs the mention of my father with detestation. He, too, desired only power, and I think how strangely alike their desires are.

‘I see the way you look at me, Iseult. You loathe me because you fear me, but it makes no difference. We will be a powerful match, your family ruling the north of Ireland and I with equal strength the south. We will never face invasion as the Britons do. They are so weak they are almost overrun with vermin.’

‘Of course, my Lord.’

Anger flares in his eyes at my continued compliance. I aim to please him, so that he might treat me with kindness, perhaps even respect, but I appear to antagonise him even more.

‘The priest that would have performed the ceremony is dead. Our marriage will have to wait until I return from Briton once more and we have another in his place,’ he says, ‘but you
will
be my wife.’

I close my eyes. I do not care why it must wait. For now his words are a chill cloth upon my dread.

‘I have spoken with your mother.’ He takes my arm and presses his body against mine. ‘She tells me you are ripe. That now is the time to create an heir that will secure my claim to the title of king more surely than anything else. No one need know it was conceived prior to a legitimate union.’

I think he will press his lips upon mine. He does not.

He turns his face away from me as he pushes his body against mine and his hair clings to my cheek. It smells of blood and death and the greasy odour of men I will come to recognise. Cold hands, coarse and unkind, cause me to utter a small cry. He does not seem to notice my discomfort; that I try to wriggle from his grasp. He pushes me toward the bed and I let him. I lie down. Tears roll from the corners of my eyes and into my hair. There is a moment of silence and I think perhaps he has gone. Then I hear the contents of his stomach slop into a pan on the floor.

When he has finished, he collapses onto the bed beside me. I wait, knowing he will want to finish what he began. He does not move so I stay silent, hopeful that he is asleep and I can somehow escape this room. I wait, not daring to move for fear of waking him.

A grunt.

He rolls nearer and I scorn myself for not having left sooner as acid and mead linger between us.

‘When I return from Briton,’ he repeats, ‘then we will wed.’

‘You have only just returned from Briton,’ I say, for our warriors rarely go back across the waters so soon.

‘The Bloodshields will leave on the next tide.’ His beard, flecked with yellow beads, brushes my chin. His eyes are closed. ‘The Britons refuse to pay tribute.’

‘The tribute that secures their safety from all of the Irish kings and lords?’ I murmur. There are many tributes paid between our tribes and those of foreign lands. Much coin exchanged for reasons some can no longer remember.

He turns away from me.

‘Women do not understand the oaths and promises and agreements of men.’

It is as if he forgets what occupied his thoughts moments before. The conversation eases me and I am curious to know more of the tribute our neighbours across the sea refuse to pay. But I am more eager to delay what I know is inevitable.

‘My father and my uncles struck the deal,’ I say, ‘that the tribes of Ireland would not raid those on the coast of Briton if they paid us tribute. I know what was once agreed.’

Morholt snorts.

‘Your father was a fool to devote time to telling a daughter so much of what passes between him and his enemies. He would have better spent the time siring a son.’

‘Do they refuse to pay because my father is dead?’

‘Why else would they refuse?’ he says angrily, his eyes still closed, his brow furrowed. ‘They do not believe I can guarantee their safety now he is gone. They say your uncles and the other tribes of Ireland will not take heed of my word and the agreement would not be upheld. They would rather pay the tribute to them than to me.’

‘What will you do?’ I whisper.

Nothing. Then: ‘To whom?’ His words are murmured and I suspect he drifts into slumber. His breathing heavy between words.

‘What will you do,’ I say again, ‘to those who refuse to pay you tribute … to the Britons?’

I wait for an answer but none comes. His breathing deepens, rhythmic and peaceful, and I realise I am trembling.

I wonder if I should leave now and risk his displeasure should he remember my being here. Or stay until he wakes …

Tristan

The cut on Rufus’ leg begins to fester. The physician prods and pokes and applies poultices of varying colours. I am told they will absorb the infection. Draw it from his leg, clean and calm the wound. The smell reminds me of rotten eggs. Rufus winces as the old man presses in, but makes no complaint.

‘I have seen the magic of medicine many times,’ I say to Rufus. ‘My mother once cut herself with a knife and your father’s physician worked wonders.’

‘My mother was surrounded by them in childbirth,’ Rufus replies through clenched teeth. ‘And yet she died.’

‘She was trying to give birth to a baby the size of a cow. It is no wonder!’

‘Do not speak of her like that,’ Rufus says, and I know he is worried. Such talk would usually make him laugh.

‘All right,’ I say, and hold up my hands in surrender. ‘No more cow jests.’

‘I will have an impressive scar,’ he says with a pained smile.

‘The women will be fawning over you,’ I reply with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘To them you will be known as King Rufus the Brave, with the heroic battle scar on his thigh. They will be crawling over one another to have your bastard offspring. And to the men you will be known as Little Rufus, the warrior with the big fat scar on his leg because he could not move away from a Saxon blade fast enough. I congratulate you, well done!’

Rufus howls with laughter and pain. I laugh too. The physician mutters at the pair of us to keep quiet and for Rufus to stay still until he has finished.

‘Will he survive?’ I ask the physician.

I glance across to Rufus as I speak. He sleeps now. Fitful and sweating out the infection which tries to take hold. I have yet to send word to his father. I want to ensure Rufus is recovering and that I have positive news before I write that despatch.

‘The infection is not too serious.’ He nods slowly. An old man from the northern lands, he speaks with a strange accent compared to us southern Britons.

‘He will survive?’

‘He should live.’

‘Then I owe you thanks.’

‘Do not thank me so soon. We may yet have to remove the leg.’

I close my eyes as the old man turns to grind and mix more of his healing compounds. I have known men lose a hand and still be able to strap a shield to their arm and hold a sword in the other, and stand in a shield wall with their fellow warriors. But never a leg.

‘You know who he is?’ My words part warning, part desperation. ‘His father will reward you if you save his limb. Rufus is to be King of Kernow one day. The people will think the gods show disfavour if a cripple leads them; if he becomes king at all …’

The old man looks at me with misty eyes, as though he sees all my thoughts and worries.

‘It makes no difference to me,’ he says. ‘King or no king, I cannot change the will of any god, only help your friend along their path.’

The gods, I think. The Christian, the pagan: how they like to watch us suffer. How they like us to amuse them in their kingdoms as they feast on the courses of our mortal lives.

‘Then help the gods,’ I say. ‘Do what you can for him.’

The next day I ride out with King Geraint to observe the enemy. The bastards stretch the entire eastern frontier. Remains of hasty camps are everywhere; raided villages, merchants telling of sightings. Merchants who trade with the enemy.

The sun is low in a pink sky and the shepherds will savour the day to follow. They shall see their herds more clearly without the mist. Beside me, Geraint rides stiffly. He is not so old, but a hard blow to his chest during the battle, and more than one broken rib, causes him discomfort.

‘Do you think Mark will send more men if I ask him?’ he says.

I realise now why he asked me to ride out with him. I thought it might be to speak of Rufus. Instead he still presses for more men from his neighbouring kingdom.

‘I cannot say, my Lord. We are few enough as it is. Mark has already sent many men to aid Dumnonia’s frontier.’

‘He has, and I thank him for that. Also remember that I pay for his spearmen and his service. But Mark holds a good many more warriors. He can spare them, I know it.’

I ignore the claim that he pays Mark for his spears, for I know he does not. Geraint wants a number; a surety of how many men can come to his aid. It is not my place to make such promises. I also know that Mark could not promise him more. He is tied to guarding our sea-face, and we have problems enough of our own.

The horses start to whinny. Fog begins to draw in as the sky grows dull and the day cold.

‘We should head back to camp, my Lord.’

‘The spears, Tristan ap Mark — how many does Kernow have?’

I pull my horse round with impatience.

‘With respect, he has given you
all
he can spare
.
Mark has warriors, it is true, but many of those are seamen off our coast. The rest of our spears keep peace in our country. Yet more defend northern frontiers. He cannot give you what he does not have. If the Irish take Kernow, you will have more than just the Saxon to contend with.’

‘Damn it, Nephew of Mark. If Dumnonia falls, Kernow falls too. Or has Mark forgotten what our kingdoms face?’

I bite my tongue at his unfair words. I am here and I fight as I have been asked to, as I have trained to. He should address Rufus or Mark with these requests, not me. Nevertheless I feel myself pulled into the politics of this king.

‘You have allies in the north,’ I say. ‘You will have sent despatches. What do they say?’

Geraint pats his horse. The beast is becoming ever more fractious.

‘We have not heard from most of the lords as yet. Those who have replied say all their men are occupied at their own frontiers. They do not understand. We are small and yet we are hit so much harder.’

‘Yet their frontiers are larger,’ I say.

The day is short. We begin to pick our way back to the camp before darkness falls once more. Geraint holds on to his side as we cross an uneven patch of ground. He grunts in pain.

‘I concede, their frontier is larger, but that does not help us.’

I do not wish to speak of it any longer. There is nothing I can do — nor anything Mark can do — to aid further.

‘What of Mark’s son?’ I ask.