Tristan and Iseult (18 page)

When it is over, he lies on top of me a moment, still and heavy. He strokes my hair from my face and kisses me once more.

My guilt has begun; I do not share the same feelings I think Mark has for me. And I wonder what will become of us.

Tristan

The following morning Cunedda assures me that his offer of marriage to his daughter is a genuine one. He owes Mark, and would bind his kingdom to Kernow above all others. He asks me to stay in Caerleon longer, but Eurig is to return home and I have no desire to journey alone.

We ride and I think of Iseult of the White Hands. Silver hair and smallest frame. She is my Iseult’s twin, too fair and too pure to live in Cunedda’s stinking hall. Could I save this Iseult, this other woman, from a worse match made by her father on another drunken night? Could I give this Iseult the life I would have given mine?

I clear the thoughts from my mind. Look at the road. Look at Eurig. He watches me.

‘You did not tell Cunedda you are now Mark’s heir?’ he says.

‘Should I?’

‘No. But he offers you positions that you could never accept as the future king of Kernow.’

My suspicion is roused. Does he speak of Iseult of the White Hands, and the marriage match, or fronting a Ceredigion defence against the Irish?

‘Cunedda speaks of what he wants. He is a plain man.’

‘He speaks too freely,’ says Eurig.

The sun blisters cold morning air. The roads are drier and firm beneath my horse’s hooves. Something has changed; the lie of the land, the rise of the hills, the babbling spring becks. I think of Iseult, and the husband she now has.

Our brief connection has ended. Their marriage now consummated. Emptiness takes hold.

I am tempted to turn back. To say to Eurig that I … That I what? That I do not feel I can return home? That my desire for Mark’s new wife is so intense I cannot master my feelings? Or do I lie and feign I am too ill to travel? What curse is this that I cannot face Mark and Iseult united? Should I not feel happy for Mark and indifferent to Iseult? I wish I did. I wish that she had never travelled the sea from Ireland. Never smiled at me.

I resign myself to facing them and feeling no emotion. I will embrace them both as family and live my own life. My thoughts darken. When I am king, when Mark is gone, would she be with me then?

I curse the gods. What foolish thoughts and selfish notion. In which kingdom is it right to wish your king and uncle, the man who has given you everything, dead. For that I hate myself.

As we near Kernow I realise every thought, every moment of the journey, I have thought of Iseult. The flowers I have seen I would pick for her. Early lambs bleat and I am reminded of her tenderness. My horse whinnies and I watch her soothe him. I see a stream and think of her kindness to my mother, and I witness dogs fight and think of her tending Mark’s wounds after fighting Morholt.

Will it stop?

Do I want it to end?

I crave to spend time with her. Even now, knowing she is Mark’s, I am eager to see her again. I will be the man I know I can be. I will call her friend.

Iseult

I sit on the shingle of the shore and look out toward Ireland. Blue skies and white clouds trail across the sky and the wind is calm as it pulls back my hair. Acha walks the beach behind me but I sit here and think of my mother. I might ask Mark if I can visit her soon.

Acha longs for Ireland, but she does not say. She walks the shore more than I do now and I see her looking, as if waiting for a ship that would take us home. I am a queen now, but Acha is still a servant and she does not find a place amongst the Britons easily. There is hatred amongst many, and the kingdoms here hate one another, and the religions hate one another too. I cannot confess to understanding the politics of which Mark speaks or his toleration of every god.

I hear someone shout and turn to see a figure on the horizon. Acha is some distance away by the sea, so I know it is not her. It must be Mark, I think, come to spend time with me on these shores; to take away the time I saved for myself. I do not wish to share this space, this shoreline. I am not inclined to sit and talk, but let my mind run free and travel the waves and back again. This is my space, my home, the shingle of my shores.

The figure is closer and I see that it is not Mark. The man is leaner, taller, and my heart is racing.

I am on my feet and half walking, half running, toward him and as his features become clear I see he is smiling.

‘Tristan, I did not know you had returned.’

I should not, but before I know it I have embraced him and he holds me for a heartbeat before pulling away and he looks at me as if trying to remember something.

‘I thought you might be here.’

‘I miss Ireland.’

‘Only Ireland?’ he grins.

‘I missed you a little too.’

And there it is, we are talking as if he has never been to Caerleon and I have not married Mark. I had been afraid it would stop, and we would not be the same two people, that the connection we had found would end. But it is there, as it was before, and I am relieved there is no awkwardness between us.

‘How are you finding life as the Queen of Kernow?’

I am not sure to which part his question refers. I think of my intimacy with Mark and blush. Even saying Mark’s name before Tristan seems wrong.

‘I am becoming accustomed to it,’ I say, guarded. ‘The Kernish are friendly enough. Did you find success in Caerleon? Mark says you hoped to secure an alliance.’

‘Is that all Mark said?’ He is grinning at me.

‘He said that he was hopeful you would succeed, as the king was in his debt.’

‘Cunedda is, yes. But he is also a very stubborn man. He did not agree to what Mark wanted. And there is little more to say.’

We walk for a while. Tristan does not speak of Caerleon further. He is keeping something from me, I can tell. What agreement did Mark desire? I think to ask him at the next opportunity.

I shield my eyes from the sun’s glare as we make the ascent back to the castle. I remember the first time I walked this slope, Tristan and Acha beside me, slipping and sliding in the mud, fearful of our fate. Tristan began to consume my thoughts then, I think. As he helped Acha. It was a month ago, yet I feel I have known him all my life, so familiar are we.

Tristan takes my elbow as we climb a difficult part of the path. And as I take my skirts and struggle with the shoes I have been given by Isabel, he takes my hand too.

Sword-born callouses brush gently on the soft skin of my palm. His fingers are strong and take my weight as we climb together.

We reach the top and he lets go my hand. We walk silently along the path back to the castle. The waves and the gulls and the sea breeze a pleasant music to our pace. And when we reach the castle we pause a moment, and with great effort I say:

‘I am glad to see you home. Shall we walk again tomorrow?’

‘I would like that.’

And with those parting words we go our separate ways.

Tristan

I wait on the rampart. Look inland toward the priory. I cannot see it from here, but my mother has gone again, this time with Mark, and I see the rustle of their horses through the woods as they leave.

Mark spoke to me again of his confining my mother there with the sisterhood. He says she desires it, but I know that she does not. She wants only a place to grieve for little Rufus.

Below me, the courtyard lies empty. I am early, but still I glance every now and then, eager to see Iseult and to walk with her on our shores. We have walked each day for three weeks. I know that each time we venture onto the beach and our feet crunch on the sand and stone, our time together becomes harder because I want her more. I am too comfortable in her company, becoming more dependent. Yet I do not decline her invitation. I can no more resist her than I can bring my cousin back.

‘Tristan!’

Her voice surprises me. She is early too. The sun has not yet moved to its highest point. Nor did I see her approach. I hurry down the steps from the rampart and she smiles in greeting, and the day becomes a little warmer.

Summer months approach. The ground finally firm and the grass growing faster than the sheep can eat.

‘It is a glorious day,’ Iseult says.

‘Not that the weather stopped you venturing to the shore yesterday.’

‘It is only water.’

Through the gates we walk and out onto the open road. Mark has asked me to go back to Dumnonia, this time with Eurig, and I am unsure how to tell Iseult I will be away a while. I have grown too fond of her company and I suspect, or hope, she has become fond of mine also. Perhaps it is good that we are forced to a little time apart, that the ache I feel to touch and hold her will be less.

‘Did Mark not want you to accompany him and my mother to the priory?’ I ask.

‘I told him that I do not believe in the Christian god. He seemed happy enough with that.’

Would she have gone with Mark, had she not preferred to spend the time walking with me? Is that what she meant? I think it, but I am not sure.

‘I am worried my mother goes there too often now.’

‘Mark presses her to stay with the sisterhood.’

It is as I suspected. Mark still wishes her to send her to the priory. Out of sight and mind. To live out her days with lonely women and pious priests.

‘I heard.’

‘Do you think she should?’ Iseult asks.

‘It is not my wish, no. Mark does not believe in their god, yet he gives much lenience to them. I think he would put faith in any priest or god that might relieve him of the grief he bears for Rufus. My mother being here, in the castle, reminds him too much. She wears her sorrow too openly for him.’

‘He does grieve for Rufus, in his own way, in private,’ she says.

I think of his confiding in her and immediate thought turns to the intimacies they share. Not a pleasant thought. I try to turn my mind from it, without success. I think of Iseult of the White hands. Could I stroll on her shores, as I do now, exchanging words, sharing company? At ease with one another? I still want my Iseult standing beside me, even now she is wed to Mark.

We walk back, seaweed tangled beneath our feet. Iseult’s hair glowing bright. I have never walked these shores so much. Grassy verges, rocks, paths; they are as familiar as the scars I earned adventuring as a child.

Almost at the castle and I steel myself to tell Iseult that Mark is sending me to the Saxon frontier, to Dumnonia, once more. Then Mark and my mother ride toward us. Mark bellows greeting and waves. My mother looks sicker still, as if plagued by a physical illness as well as grief.

Mark dismounts. A servant runs to take his horse’s reins.

‘You have walked the shores again, Iseult?’ he asks.

‘It is a beautiful day.’

He kisses her. I look away, awkward, unable to control the sickness which rises like bile in my throat. How many times must I witness their intimacy before I cease feeling emotion?

‘I would speak with you, Tristan.’

I follow Mark up the ramparts leaving Iseult and my mother in the courtyard. I dread what Mark is about to say, wondering first if he suspects my attachment and longing for Iseult. Is it obvious? Does he know I have walked with her each day? Or does he wish to speak of my mother being sent to live in the priory?

He pauses at the top of the rampart steps, only just out of earshot of my mother and Iseult, and the men patrolling the walls. I look down at the sea lapping the shore and the paths I trod with Iseult. What was once my home where I returned to escape the aftermath of battle and the torrent of emotion is fast becoming a place filled only with longing.

‘You will not be travelling to Dumnonia with Eurig,’ Mark says flatly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I will go with Oswyn instead. We have our treaty with the Irish so it is not essential I remain here. I think it better that my presence is known in Dumnonia, and Geraint could well be influenced more if I am to take command of the Kernish contingent of the defences. It is no reflection of your ability or anything else, only that it has been too long since I ventured beyond my own lands, and it is necessary for a king to be seen abroad sometimes. You will come to understand this.’

I wonder at his leaving Iseult so soon after their marriage. Is their bed a happy one? If I were him I would turn away every petitioner to spend my time with her. They are all I ever think of. Iseult, Mark. Mark and Iseult. Gods, the constant plaguing of my mind aches.

‘What of me?’

‘You will stay here in my place. You will be King of Kernow one day. It is time for you to take command of the people and be known as a man who can run his country as well as lead warrior bands.’

He takes Oswyn with him to save me the trouble he would cause. A shrewd decision. Then I think of staying here with Iseult instead and the torment I would know. The past weeks I had foreseen travelling to Dumnonia. Thought the sickness I felt seeing Mark and Iseult together eased, because I would not have to spend time near them. I craved that space, to breathe, to focus on the enemy and free my mind. Now I would not have that. Or am I secretly pleased at the uninterrupted company? It is hard to know.