Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Of course. If not a bedding, what are you after?”

  Tristan threw up his hands. “Sometimes, Din, you are like all the rest. You think with your manhood and not with your mind. What do I want of her? I want to look at her forever, to drink her in, every vibrant moment of her. I want to sing to her heart, to touch her soul. She feels my music the way I do; we share a language, we understand each other. I want—I want her companionship. Nothing more. But I want it every second.”

  Dinadan leaned forward into the pool of candlelight and scanned his face. “If you want nothing more, you’re not human. Very well, deceive yourself. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. But someday, Tristan, you might surprise yourself. Your feet, like mine, are made of clay.”

  Tristan rose. “I’m no longer free to lie with anyone I choose. I’m a king now, and what I do has consequences for my kingdom. This could never be some casual dalliance, not on her part, not on mine. And even to think of Esmerée as some—”

  “What?” cried Dinadan, jumping to his feet. “What did you call her? I thought you said her name was Esme.”

  “Uncle Pernam calls her Esme and so, sometimes, do I. Whatever is the matter, Din? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Dinadan paced swiftly back and forth, wringing his hands. “I hope I’m wrong, I hope I’m wrong. But I’m certain I’m not. It’s such an unusual name. God, Tristan, you have had another close brush with fate! Don’t you remember the scandal? Don’t you know who she is? She’s Segward’s wife.”

  “What?” Tristan’s mouth fell open, and he sat down heavily in the chair.

  “I remember her at Dorr,” Dinadan continued. “I was fourteen, fifteen. You must have stayed at Tintagel with Guvranyl when Markion came to Castle Dorr to hold council. She was there with Segward. I remember the whispers about her, how lovely she was, how close Segward kept her, how suspicious and jealous he acted. All the women hated her for her beauty; all the men wanted just to breathe the air she breathed. Man or woman, the entire court could talk of little else. Segward was wild about it. Even Markion admired her too much for Segward’s taste. One night Segward found a youth in her chamber and lost his wits, accusing him of rape and lechery, although the lady was well attended by her women and not yet abed. The very next morning they found the boy dead at breakfast. Someone had poisoned his gruel. Don’t you remember it? Everyone knew it was Segward. At first he tried to defend himself, but it was beyond him—the lad was just a page the women had sent to fetch them wine. Don’t you remember all the talk? Segward had to pay a heavy recompense to the boy’s family, for he’d been no common lad, his father had some standing at Markion’s court. It could have made trouble for all Cornwall, could have been a blood feud, but Markion settled it. Segward secreted his wife in some fastness and paid the blood price. Eventually it all blew over.” Dinadan quit his pacing and came to where Tristan sat, leaning his hands on the table. “Except that now we’ve found where he hid her. Tristan, if he so much as finds you’ve held her hand, he’ll kill you and worry later about Markion. That’s the kind of man he is. You know that. Vengeful, full of hate.”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “Vengeful, yes. But not direct. That incident with the page was a little blunt for him; he must have been desperate. I know him well, Dinadan. He’s Mark’s chief advisor. He does not kill outright, in the open air. That would expose him to retaliation. He manipulates men like players on a board. Someone else always does his killing.”

  Dinadan shuddered. “He’s a serpent in the grass. Beware of him. He’s got spies planted in her household, I’m sure of it. I pray you, do not speak to her again.”

  “Of course I will speak to her again. Good God, if everyone thought as you do, she would have no friends at all.”

  “I’ll wager he doesn’t allow her any. Except Pernam, who, for all he’s Markion’s brother, is no threat. But you! You are King of Lyonesse and a potential rival for Mark’s crown, however many times you deny it. Don’t put yourself in a position where either one of them wants to get rid of you.”

  “I will try not to,” Tristan said wearily. “I know it’s good advice. Segward will be here by week’s end. Should I greet him formally, perhaps, before I’ve received Markion and been anointed by the bishop? It would do him honor.”

  “For God’s sake, no! Lie low and keep to your sickbed. Let him think you’re at the edge of death. Whatever happens, he must not suspect you’ve laid eyes on his wife.”

  Esmerée brought Tristan two cakes on her next trip to Pernam’s Sanctuary, enough to last him through her husband’s visit. She stayed only a short time, and Pernam was with them both. She looked pale, Tristan thought, and did not smile much. He played for her the song he had made for her daughter, and she thanked him profusely, clasping his hand and drawing it to her breast. For the space of a lightning flash he saw in her eyes a sharp sorrow, a fathomless desire. Then she let him go, turning away, and gave her full attention to Pernam’s conversation.

  Tristan had little sleep during the next week. The cake proved efficacious. His wound bothered him little now, although it remained a red and ugly mark long after all his other scars had faded. He spent much of his time wrestling with Dinadan on Pernam’s beach. The land along the cliffs for leagues in both directions belonged to Pernam; he was in no danger of being overseen. With the sun and steady exercise and long swims out into deep water, Tristan grew brown and strong and healthy. And with the return of health came impatience with inaction. At long last he spoke eagerly of returning to Lyon’s Head, of sending for his uncle Markion, sending for the bishop, and getting on with the business of ruling his father’s lands.

  Dinadan was delighted. This was the fearless warrior prince he had met at Castle Dorr while they were still boys in training. This was the spirit of bravery and adventure that had won his admiration and his heart. This was the man who had killed the giant Marhalt.

  Six days passed and Esmerée did not come. The first of autumn’s storms assailed the coast, driving them all indoors to seek shelter from the rain and blowing spray. They shuttered the windows and lit fires against the seeking winds. Seven days passed. Eight. Nine. Pernam, calm-faced as always, took to walking out beyond the gate for an hour or so each day. Tristan lay awake half the night, tossing and imagining disasters, finally succumbing to the monotonous roar of crashing breakers.

  On the tenth day the storm broke. Tristan awoke late and looked out sleepily on wet grasses sparkling in the sun. The sky was bright blue, the whitewashed buildings brilliant, every color fiercely and unnaturally intense. He rose and splashed cold water on his face and hair. The beach would be a wreck of driftwood, weed, dead fish, and flotsam. Still, it had been three days since he had felt salt water on his skin. He was wondering if he could persuade Dinadan to go down with him when his friend stuck his head in the door and whispered, “Tristan!”

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s Esmerée, but I’m not sure.”

  Tristan was at his side at once. “What do you mean, not sure?”

  “Jarrad says at dawn the porter awakened Pernam. There was a servant at the gate with a wagon. Pernam went out and drove the wagon in, fast. He’s been in a cell ever since with Leth, Aran, and whoever was in the wagon.”

  “And you think it’s Esmerée? Is she sick?”

  “I recognized the servant. I didn’t see her, but Jarrad caught a glimpse. He says there was blood.”

  “Blood!”

  Dinadan grabbed his arm and held it fast. “She may have been beaten, Tris. He says it’s happened before.”

  “Beaten.” The word escaped him in a whisper. Quickly, Dinadan slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. “Let me go!” Tristan cried. “I’ll kill him if he’s touched her! I swear I’ll kill the bloody swine!”

  “Shut up, fool! He’s within his rights to do it, however base it is.”

  “If he’s touched her, I’ll have his life.”

  “On what grounds? She’s his wife. Come on,
Tristan, calm down. We don’t know the truth of it yet.”

  “Take me to her. I’ve got to see her.”

  “Not until you’re calmer.”

  Tristan dashed into the corner for his swordbelt, so long forgotten, and strapped it on. “Christ!” Dinadan cried. “Are you mad? He’s not here! They’d not have brought her if he were still in Lyonesse. Have some sense.”

  Tristan looked up and met his eyes, man to man. “I’ll find her myself.”

  Before Dinadan could move, Tristan was halfway down the corridor, shouting for Pernam. “Someday,” Dinadan whispered through clenched teeth, “that fool will run headlong into death.”

  Tristan flew around a corner and careened into Pernam. The older man gripped his arms and held hard, stilling panic in one rough shake.

  “Silence!”

  Tristan gasped, floundering, and looked up wildly at him. His uncle’s grip was iron and his face as cold as slate.

  “This is a house of healing. You will obey the rule of silence.”

  “But I—I—”

  “Silence!” Another rough shake. “Do you understand me? If you disobey me, I will discharge you now. You will be at Lyon’s Head by nightfall.”

  Tristan swallowed, and the fight went out of his limbs. Pernam loosed him.

  “Try to remember who you are.” Pernam’s face was bleak in the morning light, and sweat glistened on his brow.

  Tristan’s fury contracted into a cold, dull pulse of hatred. “Take me to her.”

  Pernam turned on his heel. “Come with me.”

  At the end of the corridor a door gave onto a low porch overlooking the orchard, the outbuildings, and the sea beyond. Pernam leaned against a porch pillar, drew a cloth from his robe, and mopped his brow. “Praise be to the Great Mother, giver of life and all things bountiful,” he murmured. “Praise the Good Goddess for the strength of women.” He turned to Tristan, who had opened his mouth to speak. “Tristan, you are King of Lyonesse. You are king of the land we stand on. Your word is law. This is an obligation that constrains your actions. You owe it to your people to be generous, fair, and kind. Under no circumstances, ever, may you be hasty or quick-tempered.”

  Tristan’s shoulders sagged. Finally he nodded.

  “Take off that ridiculous sword.”

  Tristan unbuckled the belt and laid the sword aside. Pernam sighed and narrowed his eyes at the distant horizon, the thin, shimmering line where the brilliant blue of the sky met the dark blue sea. “I may be a fool to let you stay after what has happened. And if you were not king, I would not do it.”

  “But I am king,” Tristan said slowly. “Take me to her.”

  Pernam shook his head, just a little movement from side to side. “Not until she allows it.”

  “But I—”

  “Think of her, you selfish boy. Think of her and not your foolish, half-grown pride. A good king puts his people’s needs before his own. Remember that.”

  Tristan exhaled and sat down on the still-wet timbers of the porch. “You are right again, Uncle, as usual. But I do so want to see her.”

  “What for?” Pernam asked softly. “To promise her protection? An empty promise. You cannot give it, even if you surround her house with guards. You cannot protect her from her husband.”

  “I can face him,” Tristan began desperately. “I can fight—”

  “What kind of king fights his own lords over something that cannot concern him? What kind of fool would you look? Your people would resent it. Who wants a king who pries into everyone’s house at night?”

  “She’s not everyone.”

  “Ah.” Pernam’s voice changed. “So what you really want is to offer her words of love. To insult her with an affection she may not return, on pain of death. To put her in the impossible position of denying her own sovereign or cutting her own throat. You would place her in the gravest jeopardy for the satisfaction of expressing what you feel.”

  “No, no,” Tristan protested, holding his head between his hands. “It’s not like that at all.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Tristan groped for an explanation. “I suppose I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened, I’m sorry if anything I said or did made it worse for her. Tell me, am I the reason he did this?”

  Pernam’s lips twisted in a thin smile. “No. It’s not you. It’s drink and suspicion and bad temper. Nearly every visit ends this way. He seizes upon some excuse to beat her. He likes the feel of her flesh beneath his hand.” Tristan writhed, and Pernam watched him sorrowfully. “Sometimes he’s jealous of the shepherd boy, the stable hand, the gardener, the stray sailor, the new servant, the innkeeper’s son—it hardly matters. He is easily angered in his cups.”

  “At Mark’s court he never drinks.”

  “Perhaps not openly. You may be sure that in the wee hours, when he feels alone and safe, he drinks. He can’t keep from it. In his soul of souls, he loathes himself.”

  “With reason.”

  Pernam sighed heavily. “Get away from here today with Dinadan. Come to me in the morning. You may see her then.”

  But it was three days more before Pernam would let him in. “She is angry you are still here,” his uncle told him. “She does not want you to see her.”

  “I will not leave until she consents.”

  “You have put her in a dilemma already, Tristan. She would leave to be with her children, but she does not want you to see her bruises.”

  “I will go and bring her children to her.”

  Pernam laughed bitterly. “Segward would know of it before nightfall and be here by morning. You do her no favors.”

  On the morning of the third day Pernam came to Tristan’s door at dawn and beckoned. Tristan splashed his face and hair with water, pulled on a clean tunic, grabbed his harp, and followed his uncle to Esmerée’s chamber.

  “Keep it short,” Pernam snapped, and left him. Drawing a deep breath and letting it slowly out, Tristan pushed open the door.

  She stood by the window in a gray gown, looking out at the gray light. Her hair fell in a dark torrent down her back. Tristan stood behind her, wanting to kneel, knowing it would only make her angry.

  “Esmerée.”

  “Why are you here?” she whispered. “I wanted you gone.”

  “How could I leave?”

  He wanted to touch her, to take her hand, but he feared that any man’s touch might be repugnant to her now.

  She turned slowly. Over her face she wore a white veil of mourning.

  “You cannot help me by staying, Tristan. You can only do me harm.”

  “Then I will go. Tomorrow. But first, I have things to say to you.”

  “No!” The veil began to tremble. “I don’t want to hear them.” He took the edges of the veil in his fingers and slowly raised it. “You are cruel, Tristan.”

  “I want to see your face,” he said gently. “Not because it is beautiful, but because it is yours.” Even though he had braced himself for bruises, he stifled a gasp at the deep blue wells around her eyes, the purple ridges of her cheekbones, the bulbous swelling of her lips. She faced him defiantly, turning her face a little to the light so he could see the yellow-edged, greenish splotches on her cheeks. At the base of her throat were round purple stains where the villain’s hands had been around her neck.

  “Are you happy?”

  “For this, he deserves death.”

  “No!” She grabbed his arm. “No. He has not killed me, or maimed me, or even permanently scarred me. He is careful never to leave a lasting mark. Everything you see will heal in time. He would do nothing to mar the value of his property. Sometimes”—her voice began to quaver—“I wish he would break my nose or tear my skin. Then perhaps he would not be so eager to come back.” She straightened and looked at Tristan sternly. “Do you see now why I wanted to keep this from you? You will want to revenge yourself upon him because you are young, and kind, and high-minded, but the right is on his side, Tristan, not on yours. And you ar
e his king. He must kneel to you and swear you service, and you must look him in the face and accept it. If you do not—” Here her voice broke, and she shook so hard he put an arm around her waist to steady her. “If you do not, he will set out to destroy you. If you so much as look at him with contempt, he will be certain we are lovers, and one night someone trusted, someone wholly unsuspected, will strike you in the back. For my sake, as well as your own, you must let him be and make your face a mask.”

  “I know. All this I know.” But her slender body, trembling on his arm and half leaning against him, thrilled him with a powerful excitement. As if she sensed it, she gently pushed him away.

  “So young you are, Tristan, and so innocent. Yet you must learn to practice deceit, and you have done nothing.”

  “Someday,” Tristan said quietly, “he will die. Not by my hand, perhaps, but because of me.”

  She frowned, but something in her eyes told him she was not angry. “Is that what you came to say to me?”

  He smiled. “No. Not that. What I want to say to you I cannot say in words. I have brought my harp.”

  Late that night Tristan lay sleepless on his pallet, staring at the shadows thrown by the full moon. There was an edge to the night air, a cold, salty hunger that signaled summer’s ending. It was time, it was beyond time, to be going home. The shaft of moonlight struck the stone floor, harsh and bright, everything in its path brought into brilliant focus, the shadows beyond black and unfathomable. He watched that bright shaft slide slowly toward him, hour after hour, wondering if for her time passed as slowly, with shadows as still, as dead.

  His ear caught the whisper of a movement. His eyes strained into the dark but saw nothing. Yet something, someone was there. He heard a step, lighter than a sigh, the gentle swish of cloth, and there in the moon’s brilliant wake a robed figure stood, barefoot and hooded.

  “Leth?” Tristan whispered, frowning at the delicately arched feet. “Aran?”

  The hood fell back. Dark hair spilled unbound around a woman’s face. In the unnatural light, she seemed carved of alabaster, pure, shining, unblemished.