Tristan and Iseult (9 page)

I stop. Look at Mark, my king, as if the monks have addled his mind whilst I fought in Dumnonia.

‘She believes in the old gods.’ I hear the scorn in my voice, knowing that my uncle will have heard it too. ‘She needs us. Her family. She needs to be close.’

Mark nods slowly. ‘I have always watched over her, Tristan. I do only what I think is best.’

‘Then let her stay in Travena, at Tintagel, with people that she knows. It is her home.’

‘Damn it, Tristan, you can be impertinent when it suits you. Your mother needs to be cared for properly. You know she has not spoken to me with a civil tongue since I sent you and Rufus to Dumnonia?’

‘You sent her son and nephew to war. We went willingly. We were both eager to see an end to the Saxon invasion. We did our duty to you and to the people of Kernow. But what did you expect from
her
?’

‘I expected her to stand by my decision,’ he replies, his voice calm but cold. ‘If the king’s own kin will not stand by his decisions, then he has little hope of his men doing his bidding.’

‘Your warriors are loyal to you. They always have been, and it is not because you pay them,’ I reply, stung on behalf of us all. ‘You are respected by both your family and your subjects because you are a king. A king that shows them victory and keeps them safe. In war, when have you ever been questioned? When has anyone gone against your command?’

In a low voice he says, ‘Never. Not yet. But the day will come.’

Mark shields his eyes against the wind and looks out on the sea with distaste. I do the same. At first I see nothing. Then, where the clouds dip to meet the sea, the dark blur of a boat forms.

‘The Irish?’ I say.

‘I should think so.’

Eurig bellows from behind us. I turn and shout: ‘We see them!’

‘I do not wish to argue with you, Tristan. Let us walk further. It will take them a while to reach the island and there is something I need to discuss with you before they do.’

Curious, I wait for him to say more.

‘You have been wondering what I will do now I have no heir?’

‘I think we all have.’

He smiles. A sad smile, as if aware that the people of his kingdom care more for the knowledge of who their next king will be than for his son.

‘Oswyn would be the natural choice,’ he says, not even mentioning his bastard born. ‘There is much to commend him.’

He speaks the name of my cousin as a question. Does he want my approval, knowing that Oswyn and I have never been close? That I could never follow or acknowledge a selfish man as my king?

‘You have many warlords in your service, men who would see the chance of becoming successor as an honour. Who would do whatever it took to prove themselves worthy. It is up to you which one you choose.’

Mark listens as I speak, nodding his head slowly. ‘I need someone who knows the people of Kernow. I always thought Rufus would fill that role well. He was a caring boy, much like your mother. Too caring, perhaps. He did not display the skills of a warrior, or at least he never appeared to use them. I have struggled for some time to envisage him leading men, and I am aware that others have thought the same. His death, although unfortunate, has saved me from having to make the hard decision of appointing a successor in his place whilst he lived. I have thought on it for some months, and I need someone who is not afraid to make decisions, even ones that would prove unpopular with the people of Kernow, if they were the right decisions. I need someone strong and determined to follow me. Someone who can scourge Briton of the Saxons and keep the Irish at bay when I am gone. What do you say, Tristan?’

I am not listening to Mark fully, thinking instead on his words that he would have replaced Rufus regardless. His own son. A decision a king would have to make. But to be grateful for his death because it avoids the shame that others might witness his admittance of siring a son that the gods chose not to make fit for his father’s role, it is a pitiful thought.

Mark is looking at me, awaiting my response with searching eyes.

‘I agree. You need someone strong. Oswyn is a strong warrior and I believe he would lead warbands against our enemies as well as he has ever done.’

Mark gives a small laugh. ‘You misunderstand, Tristan. I am asking
you
to take the title of king after me. Will you?’

Realisation dawns. Uncomfortable with my stupidity, I look to the ground then out to sea. The Irish are nearer. Much nearer. Fighting Morholt is not only a chance to make amends for Rufus’ death. I am to prove myself worthy of succession.

‘On one condition,’ I say.

‘What is that?’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Forgive you for what?’

‘Rufus. I should have done more to protect him.’

Mark pulls a hand through his beard. He looks almost angry.

‘Rufus is dead, Tristan. It was not your sword that struck him down and you did not send him to the frontier so incapable of defending himself, lacking the skill to fight as you and my other warriors can fight. I did. Nothing now can change that. Forgiveness is not something you ever need ask of me.’

Iseult

The ragged sea pulls us towards the shore. What am I in all of this? I wonder. Morholt intends to send his most feared warrior to fight for the tribute he wants. Am I therefore not a bargain or token or gesture between their people and ours? Will I return with Morholt to my beloved Ireland?

There are six men and Acha and myself in one boat, and eight men in another. Morholt is wearing all of his armour and holds a shield painted with the blood of our enemy. We are heading toward their land now; to the kin of the men whose blood coats our warriors’ shields.

‘Morholt, look, they are here,’ one of our men says.

At the opposite end of the small island the mast of a ship waves above the low hill like a giant with a rag.

‘They will have the tribute with them,’ Lord Morholt grunts.

‘You will kill them even if they do?’ the man asks.

‘If we kill them they will not send tribute next year, nor the year after.’ I half imagine I see him glance to me as he speaks. ‘Use your head, you fool.’

‘They should pay a price for their insolence,’ the man persists. 

‘No! The King of Kernow will be on the island himself. Massacre them after they pay tribute and there is no guarantee the next ruler of this forsaken sliver of Briton will be any more amenable than this one. This is the better way. At least this king seems to honour his word. We will win, and he will not break his honour. Our greatest warrior will face the greatest of the Kernish men if they continue to resist us. If they offer tribute, we take it.’

The other man looks as if he would argue with our lord, but he turns away and watches the island.

‘You are about to meet a king of Briton,’ Morholt says to me. He sneers and I see his teeth, stained with age, and in my mind relive the moment in his chambers when his breath rolled across my face.

The sea is bobbing our boat up and down and up and down and I feel my stomach turn with each movement. I sit silent, attempting to steady myself and stop my head from whirling. Once I know I won’t spill my stomach over the side of the boat I look up at Morholt. He is amused by me. To him I am both his future queen and his plaything.

‘Which king, my Lord?’ I ask, wanting only to break the look he gives me.

Morholt makes a guttural sound and rests his foot on the side of the boat. ‘The King of Kernow. Your father should have pressed him harder, as I do now. The tribute he negotiated was barely enough to make the journey between our land and theirs worthwhile.’ He leans toward me. ‘Your father does not have the chance to press anyone harder now.’

I want to spit at Morholt for his slight against my father, spoken with purposeful cruelty and intention to torment. My father’s choices were for our benefit; for the prosperity of us all. Our new lord is not the same man. I am looking into the eyes of my father’s killer. A man who murdered his king not only for his lands and position, his wealth and power, but because he enjoys disturbing the balance. He longs to create chaos.

So I say nothing, my lips tight against retort. My words would only prove something worthy of ridicule to him or earn me a blow.

‘Kernow’s neighbours yield easily to my rule,’ he says, watching me as if seeking my feelings. ‘They are more sensible men than those of Kernow. This king, though ... this king does not like to play our game. He refuses to give up what he knows he eventually must.’

He is no longer speaking to me, but to himself. The men in our boat growl their agreement.

‘I am sure they will kneel to you before we leave this island,’ I reply. There is a small satisfaction in my words, answering him as a servant, with restraint, when he and I both know I wish I had a sword like a man to rid the world of his evil soul.

Our small boat grinds on the sea bed as the first sun breaks through the grey sky and pools of light form on the ground. Morholt and his men slip into the murky water and drag the boat onto the land. 

‘They will do more than kneel,’ Morholt says as I clamber from the vessel. ‘Kernow will learn to fear us as the other tribes of Briton fear us, when it is their greatest warrior’s blood I paint on my shields.’

I glance to his shield and the thick, dark crust upon its surface.

Morholt.

A man who likes watching others suffer. A warlord enjoying the sport of gods.

The warriors of my beloved Ireland fasten their sword belts and pull on their helmets. How any man can be more fearsome or more skilled in slicing away the lives of others, I cannot imagine. They are my kin, and yet I do not feel a part of this group of people standing on the shore of a country I find so unfamiliar. 

Green swirls of water catch at my feet. My sea. The same nature that clings to my own shoreline and beckons me home. And yet the wind and waves sound hollow and detached. The sun shines, but it is a stark and unkind light that filters between clouds. Untrodden grass grows coarse between stones and rocks. A lonely and cruel nature resides here. My people were right; only savages could live in such a desolate place.

Acha says nothing as I loose my grip on the crook of her arm and use both of mine to balance a path to the grassy slope a few paces away. We scrabble up the banking and fall behind as the men bound to the top. We follow the curve of the land, skirting the crevices where it has fallen to the sea, making for where we saw the other boat’s mast above the hills.

‘My lord?’ I am slightly breathless and my head feels light from the ascent, but it is only a moment before brisk air fills my body.

Morholt does not answer me, pacing quickly ahead. Uninterested in anything I would say.

‘Lord Morholt?’ I run a few paces to close the gap between us. ‘Why am I here?’

‘We are here to claim what is rightfully ours.’ It is as if he believes this country and the riches it contains are his, that they belong to him without question.

‘And me? Why am
I
here?’

‘What is the purpose of victory if there is no woman to witness it and tell of her man’s greatness?’

I walk on, following this man, our lord, my future king, and despise him for his vanity. What man requires witness of death? Surely the very fact that he has killed another leader of men should be enough?

‘See,’ Acha says. ‘There is no malice in his bringing you here, is there Iseult? And we will both return home as soon as this is over.’

Home. My lands and my sea and my wind. The elements that Morholt, even if he is godlike, cannot control. That is why I feel at peace with them, because they are beyond the choices of men.

Tristan

By default — the absence of another son — I am the heir to Kernow’s throne.

I have power now. More than I anticipated acquiring in my life. I had wanted a warband, the ability to pay men from my own purse, lead them in defence of our country. Now? What now? It is as though a title which is not yet mine has changed me as the seasons change the land, yet with no certainty that summer will come again. Could I be a better king than Oswyn or any of the warlords of Kernow? For the good of our people, for all of my beliefs, I think I could. Yet it is not what I wanted. I am not that man. 

Many think there is little difference between warlords and kings. Kings are often forged by accomplishment in battle, and I have seen success in my short years; it is why Mark sent me to the frontier. But few men find the following kingship commands. Fewer still desire the strain of the politics associated with the title. I know, even now, I am one of the latter.

‘Will you, Tristan?’ Mark asks. ‘I need to know now whether this is a position you are certain you are willing to accept. I will ask these men to bear witness to my choice of successor.’

‘I can be whatever you need me to be. But Oswyn will not look kindly upon it.’ My reluctance is clear. Would I rather have Oswyn rule than do so myself?

‘I realise that, yes. It is one reason I am grateful he is in Ireland as we speak. If your position and rank is established before he returns, it will ease the new order of things.’