Tristan and Iseult (12 page)

‘True.’

‘We do not yet know the politics of Morholt’s rule. Or how much ground Oswyn will succeed in gaining. We should play our pieces carefully.’

Mark murmurs inaudibly. ‘You are right. They come with us to Tintagel.’

I could weep for the blood in my veins. Blood that brought me here, blood that could see me safely home.

Tristan

The old woman looks fearful, and the girl appears concerned for Mark. She cries out for his death then wipes the blood from his cheek as I have seen his sister wipe away the sweat of fever. The girl is tender. Caring. She shows a natural concern, not a nicety born of fear. I was confused by the women’s presence before. Now I am more so.

Walking back to the boat the women are ahead with our men. Mark and I drop behind at his indication.

‘Morholt could have killed you,’ I say, seeking something more of an explanation.

‘He could have killed anyone who chose to fight him,’ Mark replies. He still holds the wad of cloth to his face to stem the flow of blood.

‘It should have been me. I wanted to face him.’

‘Why should it?’ Mark’s voice is sharp. ‘Because you felt you had something to atone for? If I had fallen to his sword, you would be king, but if you were killed, Kernow would remain without a successor. The people of Ireland will know he fell to a king of Briton, and we will have their respect. They will fear us now, if only a little. It was the obvious choice, Tristan. Do not allow guilt to overcome your judgement. The right decision is not always the one you wish to make.’

‘There is still Oswyn. Even if I became king, he would be my natural successor until I produced an heir of my own. And we would have the respect of the Irish lords no matter who had fought Morholt.’ My argument is a feeble one. I know Mark better than he thinks. I can feel a sense of satisfaction roll off him. Having spent his whole reign longing for peace, he has won the fight that matters.

 ‘Oswyn is not my choice. And you will have sons soon enough. I do not wish to talk more of this. What I want to discuss is the girl.’

The girl, the daughter of an Irish king, glances back at us. She appears concerned. And so she ought to be.

‘What of her?’

‘Donnchadh died a few months past. I have heard rumour he was poisoned. If this is true, and Morholt had a part in it, then it may be we are in a better position with the northern Irish lords than I had hoped.’

‘Now he is dead.’

‘Yes. An alliance may well present itself. What the girl is worth remains to be seen. When her father was alive, she would have been prized greatly by her people. But now?’

‘Our position is strengthened with Morholt’s death. Not because we have the girl,’ I say, realising the truth. Damn it. Why is nothing in this life simple?

‘Without knowing the exact politics of her people, we cannot be sure.’

I feel uneasy about the whole situation. The problems we face taking her back to Tintagel, and the supposition on the part of the Irish lords prove problematic, and yet …

‘Will you send her home?’

Mark pauses. ‘Home? No, not yet. We have no idea what we would be giving up. We need to speak with her first, see what she can tell us of Ireland’s powers.’

‘And what she was doing here.’

‘Doubtless Morholt had his reasons, however senseless.’

Yes, he will have had his reasons. Whatever they were, he is dead now.

I smell the rain, wet grass, the salt breeze, and reflect upon our victory. Yet my spirit is as damp as it was this morning. I still feel the presence of Rufus, though I sense the empty space created by his absence.

Mark draws air through his teeth. ‘It is always better when you survive a fight without injury,’ he says. He looks at the blood on the cloth then presses it back to his face.

‘Was the girl right? Do you think your cheekbone broken?’

‘Likely, yes. Nothing to cause any worry. It is just a scratch.’

My legs suddenly feel as if they cannot support me. My stomach swims. I recall speaking those same words to Rufus, believing them to be true, knowing now they were not.

‘What troubles you, Tristan?’

‘Nothing.’

The journey home is quiet. No laughter, whooping or chatter. No basking in the death of the Irish lord. Just the rain hammering on the deck. The women sit in shamed silence. The girl as straight-backed as anyone can be when they are a captive travelling to a foreign land.

Sea winds drag the boat along the coast. Colour fades from the horizon, the water and the faces of those around me as night falls. Tintagel Castle becomes clear in the distance. I conjure an image of our halls to stave off the cold. I look at the girl, this Iseult of Ireland, and wonder how she will find my homeland and our people. She turns her head slightly as if sensing my gaze but I do not look away. Everything tells me she is the enemy, born to a race that raided our coast for a hundred years and more. And I find I resent myself for giving concern to what she might think of me and mine.

She turns fully and rests her eyes upon me and smiles. An expression filled with warmth. And to my surprise I return her smile.

Iseult

My stomach swims with nervousness on this boat with strangers. But even so I feel safer than I have felt since my father’s death. Does the King of Kernow realise what he has done for me? I am compelled to thank him, and promise myself I will make my gratitude known, that I will do my utmost to see him rewarded for his actions as hot tears threaten to tumble.

Looking across the sea to our destination I feel the eyes of the Britons upon me. My cheeks grow warm and I resolve to continue looking out and pretend I do not notice. My curiosity is strengthened by my pull toward these people, and eventually I turn to see the young warrior, Tristan, looking at me and smiling. It is reassuring and I feel myself relax as any uncertainty ebbs away. I smile back.

We reach the mainland and I see the monstrous building of stone that must be the Kernish stronghold. It rises from the rocks, daunting and fierce. Lord Morholt called these people savages and I supposed them to live in squalor, but I see they do not. I make sense of it now. These people on their island are falling to invaders just as Morholt fell in the fight between him and King Mark; they are people and they are not so different from us.

King Mark orders the men off the boat and we trudge towards the castle. Acha slips on the mud and before I have chance to double back to help her, Tristan curls his arms beneath hers and hauls her up.

‘Watch yourself,’ he warns, ‘we have had rain for weeks.’

‘As have we,’ I say as I wait for them. ‘Rain enough to drown a thousand men.’

I realise the stupidity of my words, speaking of drowning men and the implication that I might imply I wish it of those who killed my lord. I want to tell him that is not what I meant, to correct myself, but I find the feeling of stupidity increases.

‘You look half drowned yourself,’ he replies.

For a moment I am taken aback, before I realise he jests. We both chuckle. These Britons, it seems, are an easy people with whom to speak.

Acha pulls her arm from Tristan’s grasp and plods on. As the laughter ends I hear the sky hum, promising rain. I think of walking along the shore in Ireland, savouring the feel of water on my face and the freshness of the air, and by contrast the comfort of a warm blanket when I returned home. I think of it, though I do not yearn for it as I had. Curiosity of this place and its people interest me in a way I never thought they could.

I take hold of my skirts and increase my pace up the embankment. Acha is on one side, murmuring curses at the physicality of the walk, and Tristan strides easily on my other side.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘Who?’

‘What is your place? You are important amongst the Kernish people?’

‘I am a warrior.’

I grin. ‘That is a little obvious.’

Tristan glances at me but it seems my jests are not as well received.

‘You and King Mark, you appear close.’

‘I am Mark’s nephew.’

It makes sense now, why he and the king are at ease with one another. Then he says with a wry smile, ‘Perhaps I do look like a warrior, but you do not look like a princess.’

I laugh, long and without restraint; forgetting everything. Tristan looks a little unsure and I regain myself.

‘My mother always said I looked like any one of the girls in our tribe. Even so, I have never been called a princess amongst our people. A woman of the blood, the daughter of a king, the errant girl who walks the beach at night and would rather live in the wild than with my people, or simply Iseult. But never once a princess.’

‘If you looked more like one, they might.’

‘With my hair coiled and my skirts not so dirty?’

‘You’ll not have clean skirts walking in Briton.’

I lift my chin and look at him and say: ‘Holding my head a little higher than the common people? As if I desire to be liked and respected as a superior when I have no wish to be either?’ They are all points my mother has made many times, always wanting me to act more as she does, more like a future queen.

Tristan’s face is unreadable and I think perhaps I have gone too far, that our exchange has become too serious. Perhaps I offend him.

‘None of those things,’ he says.

‘And so what does one look like, warrior of Kernow?’

‘A lot less beautiful.’

Tristan

My compliment is light. A gesture to ease the girl. I expect her to laugh, but she does not. The evening is gloomy, yet I know she is embarrassed by my words. I am not. I realise I speak true. She is something … unexpected.

Her wide eyes no longer meet mine. They flicker ahead and to her maid. Reflecting the last light, her discomfort. She is right, her hair is not coiled, hanging loose and tangled. It is an unkempt, uncaring presence. I take in her appearance. A bright face. Eyes unsure and observant. An expression of intrigue adopted when at ease. And I know she is more beautiful still for her banter. Her humour. Her ability to both charm and offend in a few words. The smile I cannot help but share.

The enemy.

I should ask of her family. The uncles whom Oswyn speaks with as I walk beside their niece. The niece of kings as I am nephew of a king.

I go to speak, but cannot order my words.

‘It is hard, to lose your lord,’ I say at last.

‘To lose a lord or be a captive?’ she asks.

‘Both.’

She shakes her head. ‘You know as much of our people as I know of yours. I was told you are savages.’

‘And what do you find?’

A playful smirk.

‘Why do you want to know what I find hard?’

‘It is a pleasant way of asking your position. Whether you were wed to Morholt. What your value is. If your uncles would see fit to pay a ransom for you, or negotiate a new treaty. In what situation your people find themselves now their lord is dead. All things you will be asked when we reach Tintagel, whether you wish to be asked or not.’

She looks scornful as she replies. ‘Your king does not know what he has saved me from. However I am treated by your people, it will be nothing to being the wife of Morholt. I had longed for his death.’

Kill him.

‘And to my uncles I mean little. I once thought they cared for their blood-bonds, that if my mother and I called upon them, they would see Morholt as a traitor. But he raided and he ruled and caused them no trouble. I thought that all our people hated Morholt, for his cruelty and because he killed my father, but we are — we were — much wealthier under his rule. And so I realise now I was the only person to mourn my father. Even my mother is more concerned with her own position and interest to spare a thought for him.’

‘Are you sure Morholt would not have been seen as a traitor if your uncles knew he had killed their brother?’

She shrugs. ‘My mother does not believe so.’

‘Mark has sent men to speak with them,’ I say. ‘Before he and Morholt agreed to fight. To see if they would curb your lord and honour the terms of our treaty.’

She nods and looks at our castle scraping the heavens. What does she think? That we should have paid the tribute because we could? Because we do not live in squalor as she presumed? Even in her hatred of Morholt, does she think her people entitled to the tribute we once paid? Who am I to need the satisfaction of that knowledge; to know what she thinks of us? She is a child of the Irish and she will return to them.

Mark casts a casual glance over his shoulder. He will no doubt wonder how forthcoming the girl is. What kind of a peace might be found. Not knowing that the girl, if she speaks the truth, is worth less than a piece of Saxon scum.

‘What will happen to us?’ she asks.