Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

“It’s Welsh,” Segward said, covering a yawn. “It means ‘the fair.’ I told you she was beautiful.”

  Markion grinned. “All women are beautiful at fifteen.” He nodded good night, turned on his heel, and was gone.

  7 ESSYLTE

  “She’s such a bothersome old witch! I wish she’d just leave me alone!” With a toss of her bountiful curls Essylte mounted the last step and motioned Branwen to come up beside her. “Remember, if she says anything about Palomydes, cough like the steam is getting to you, and we’ll come away.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “All right. Here I go.” The latch lifted at the touch of her hand, and the heavy door swung silently inward on oiled hinges. Together they walked into the damp heat of the queen’s workroom. A tall window in the south wall, fogged with steam from the cauldron, let in a long, gray shaft of winter light. The queen herself stood at the mixing table measuring dark-colored powders from a collection of stoppered bottles at her elbow. Knowing better than to speak before they were addressed, the girls watched in silence as she deftly mixed the powders and funneled them into a blue-dyed linen bag. With neat, quick hands the bottles were replaced, the counter cleaned, the bag set in its place upon a shelf. The queen turned.

  “Ah. Essylte. You’ve come at last.” Faint lines tugged at the corners of her mouth and eyes, but Guinblodwyn of Gwynedd was still renowned for beauty. Such red lips, such coal-black hair, such an alabaster complexion were unmatched in all of Wales. She carried herself as if she knew admirers were watching.

  Essylte made her reverence. “You sent for me, Mother?”

  “An hour past. Where were you?”

  “At lessons.”

  The queen’s eyes narrowed, but she let the lie pass. She knew the tutor Paulus had been drunk since midday and that Essylte herself had brought him the wine. In the back of her mind Guinblodwyn was annoyed at such pointless deception, such lack of subtlety from a daughter of her blood. “No matter. It gave me a chance to finish my mixing. Next is the paste for ague.” She pointed to a sheaf of dried herbs on the chopping block. “Why don’t you start with those, both of you—save the seeds, mind, in the black jar, and throw the greens into the cauldron.”

  Branwen moved to obey, but Essylte demurred. “Do I have to, Mother? I hate mixing herbs and making drugs and powders—it’s all right for Branwen, she likes it, but the smell of it makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose at the sharp, steamy herb scent. It was one of her earliest memories. All her life, it seemed, she had been made to come here, forced to feign an interest, obliged to learn this petty domestic witchcraft, and all her life she had loathed it.

  “Foolish words from an empty head.” The queen rinsed her hands in a glazed bowl with a gilded lip. She did not look at Essylte. “When you are queen and it falls to you to keep your husband healthy, and all his companions, and their wives and children—what will you do then?”

  “Pooh. I will have others do it. Branny shall come with me, and she’ll heal whoever is ill.”

  Branwen looked up, startled. The queen noted it. “Foolish girl. Never give power into another’s hands.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t like it. Not all queens take that on themselves. Grandmother doesn’t.”

  “Your grandmother Anet has other skills. She is a fine weaver, an artist of the first class. Her tapestries hang all over Britain.” Guinblodwyn raised her head and looked directly at her daughter. “And you, Essylte? What is it you will do to distinguish yourself among your people? What do you offer back to the gods who gave you life?”

  Essylte frowned. There it was again, the reference to pagan gods. Yet she was supposed to be a Christian queen. Everyone knew that for Percival’s sake she had learned Christian teaching, and before Essylte was born had been baptized into the True Faith. But lately Essylte sensed her mother’s Christian piety peeling off, like skin exposed too long to the sun, revealing an older, deeper self. Essylte shuddered. She preferred not to think about Guinblodwyn’s side of the family.

  “Well, Essylte?”

  “I can sing.”

  The queen’s lips twisted. “Excellent. I shall betroth you to a bard.” She pointed to the table where Branwen was already at work. Reluctantly, Essylte joined her.

  Guinblodwyn studied the girls. Not for the first time, she marked the likeness between these children of such different birth—the same height, the same slender build, near the same age, well featured, with the same wide forehead and the same firm chin. But there similarity ended. Like her peasant mother, Branwen’s coloring was decidedly common—light brown hair, hazel-gray eyes, freckled skin. She faded into every background.

  But Essylte! Young Essylte stood out among her peers, even among her family, like a swan among geese. Just to look at her, glowing like a rare jewel in the drab winter light, stung her mother with both pride and pain. Where had such coloring come from? Everyone in her own line, and most of Percival’s, was dark. Yet Essylte’s hair was a red-gold flame, alive and alight, rampant with curls. Her blue-green eyes, widely set and shadowed by incongruously dark lashes, changed their hue as often as the sea, and like the sea, shone deep, intense and clear. Her skin, which should have been marred with freckles, was so fair, so smooth, so flawless, so utterly without blemish, it had long been compared to Guinblodwyn’s own. In a year or two, Guinblodwyn knew without a doubt, her daughter would outshine her. How could the child be so unconscious of her beauty? How could she show so little interest in such a powerful weapon?

  “It is time, Essylte, you gave a thought to marriage. You must know your father and I have discussed it. Within the year, most probably, you will be betrothed.”

  Essylte shivered. “To whom?”

  “To a fine man who will do you honor: Palomydes, Prince of Powys.”

  “Oh, no, Mother! I can’t stand him!” Essylte shot a quick look at Branwen, who dropped the herbs into the cauldron. A thin curl of pungent steam rose from the roiling water. Branwen coughed. The queen looked at her daughter in irritation.

  “A weak ploy, Essylte. Where is your subtlety? You will both stay.”

  Branwen curtsied. The queen came around the table and stood before her daughter. “What you can stand doesn’t matter in the least. You will go where you are sent. But it will be easier for you if you consent.”

  Tears filled Essylte’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear Palomydes.”

  “Tell me why not.”

  “He—he smells.”

  “Powys is a wide land. Granach, the king, is failing. You will be queen there within a year or two. Surely for the promise of such power you can endure a man’s scent.”

  “Not Palomydes! I hate the very sight of him. I would rather be abducted by the Irish and taken across the sea than lie with him!”

  The queen’s face darkened. “Nonsense. Don’t be a fool. There is more to being queen than lying with the king. You will have power if you are strong enough to take it.”

  Essylte shrugged. Guinblodwyn drew a deep breath. “Now listen to me, Essylte, and listen well. I called you up here to let you know your future, and give you time to accustom yourself to it. Palomydes has courted you for six months. Half a year is a long time for such a prince to await an answer. Not only is he the heir of Powys and a good warrior with an honorable reputation, but he is in love with you. I might even say he is besotted. He will treat you well. Add to that, he is Welsh. You need not leave your homeland. You could easily do much worse, and are not likely to do better.”

  “I will never marry Palomydes.”

  The queen’s nostrils flared. “If I accept his suit on your behalf, you will wed him whether you like it or not.”

  “What does Father say? He would not betroth me against my will.”

  At the mention of Percival, Guinblodwyn stiffened. Branwen tugged gently at Essylte’s sleeve. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the queen pointed to a stool. “Sit down. There.” Branwen tugged again. Essylte sat.

  Slowly, the queen began to pace around the
spacious chamber. “Your father is perfectly willing to betroth you against your will. He is even now negotiating a match that will shame you in the eyes of all your countrymen.”

  “I know.”

  The queen whirled. “You know?”

  Essylte gulped. “He is closeted every day with that ugly little foreigner. I know they’re talking about me. Everybody says so. They say the foreign devil is driving a hard bargain.”

  To Essylte’s amazement, the queen lifted a trembling hand to her brow and closed her eyes. “Great Mother, give me patience! It is impossible for such ignorant souls to know so much.” She opened her eyes. Essylte quailed at the light in them. “And do you know who that ugly little monster is?”

  “No, madam.”

  The queen spat the words out, one by one. “He—is—a—Cornishman!”

  Essylte tilted her head to one side. “What prince does he serve?”

  “It does not matter!” the queen cried, twisting her hands together. “Absolutely nothing could matter less. You are not going to Cornwall. I will not allow it. I will see you dead first.”

  “I will die before I marry Palomydes!” Essylte retorted, jumping from the stool. “And what makes you think Father is negotiating against my will? He asked me—he asked me—if I would go to Cornwall. He explained the importance of it to me—he thinks I am old enough to be consulted. You think I’m ignorant and helpless and will go wherever you send me. Well, I won’t! I’m smart enough to know there’s only one prince left in Cornwall, and that’s the king. Markion, his name is. The High King of Britain.”

  The queen gasped. “Don’t call him that! By rights, it is your father’s title. He should be High King.”

  “And you High Queen? I know. I’ve heard the tale about a thousand times. At least Father had the grace to accept the Welsh defeat.”

  The queen shook so badly she leaned against her table for support. “Are you mad?” she gasped. “You can’t mean you will take his part in this. Marhalt was my brother!”

  “Uncle Marhalt,” Essylte said firmly, shaking off Branwen’s tugging hand, “lost the fight. You can’t change that. And now, because you can’t be High Queen, you don’t want me to, either. Is it because I would outrank you?”

  “You are a child,” Guinblodwyn whispered, staring at her. “You don’t know what you are saying. The King of Cornwall is old enough to be your father. He is a selfish, vain, mean-tempered man.”

  “And Palomydes isn’t?”

  Branwen pulled at Essylte’s arm. Slowly the queen straightened and her features hardened. “I will hear no more. You will do as I say. The Cornish envoy will not live to seal his bargain with Gwynedd. Come spring, we will be at war with Cornwall. And you will be wed to Palomydes.”

  “Never!”

  The queen raised a white hand above her head and slowly brought it down. Essylte found herself sitting on the stool.

  “I can make you do exactly as I wish,” the queen said evenly.

  “Oh, God!” Essylte cried, clenching her fists as tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so tired of all your witch’s tricks! You can’t run everything. Why can’t you let me be?”

  “I have found a place for you where you will be honored and cared for, cherished even, and given a measure of power and respect. I have done the best for you that I can do. Be content with that.”

  “I won’t!” Essylte wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m no more to you than a prize cow, to be sold at market for the best price. Well, I don’t care what you have arranged. I won’t so much as speak to Palomydes. His family has been intertwined with yours for generations; it’s not even exchanging masters. You would still be ruling my life.”

  The queen’s red lips thinned into a smile. “You need ruling. You are hardly safe out alone.”

  Essylte rose, bracing herself against the witch’s power. “I will die first.”

  The queen laughed. “You will not die. You will lie with Palomydes and bear him sons.”

  “I will tell Father you mean to kill the Cornish envoy.”

  The smile faded. Forcefully, Branwen pulled Essylte back onto the stool.

  “Do that,” the cool voice responded, “and I will tell Palomydes you have accepted him. As your betrothed, he has a right to your bed. He is a strong man; he will not be denied what is due him. You will not marry that filthy Cornishman.”

  Essylte leaped up, crying, “You would not! You would not! How could you? As God is my judge, I am not your slave! I don’t care who has offered for me—I would marry a dog to get out of Wales! Away from you!” Sobs choked her as she struggled blindly for the door. “I will tell Father I wish to go—I will tell him to accept the envoy’s offer—I will tell him about you and Palomydes—he will protect me! He has always loved me! And he hates you!”

  “Essylte! I forbid you to go.” The queen raised her hand above her head. Essylte’s limbs grew heavy. Desperately she reached for the door as her vision faded. A small hand slipped into her own and with a firm grip led her from the room and down the stair. Branwen’s gentle voice urged her to hurry. Behind them the queen’s wail rose in the long, sharp crescendo of a Druid curse.

  “Branny! Oh, Branny, why does she hate me so?”

  Essylte lay prostrate across the bed while Branwen stroked her hair.

  “That is easy, my lady. You are lovelier than she ever was, even in her youth, and her beauty is her pride.”

  “But even when I was little she wasn’t kind to me. I never could please her, no matter how hard I tried.”

  “She always knew you would outshine her. She knew it from your birth. She looked into her crystal and saw what was to be.”

  Essylte shuddered. “I hate witchery. It serves her right, to have her whole life twisted by reaching for such power.”

  “Power is life to her.” Branwen held a lock of Essylte’s glowing hair across her palm and watched it as if she expected it to speak. “If you are High Queen of Britain, she must kneel to you. That is a thought she can barely live with. She has come a long way from her father’s small subkingdom in Guent. She is queen of all Gwynedd. But High Queen of Britain! Imagine how she longs for that plum! And it was so nearly in her grasp. She did everything she could to arrange that it should fall to her, but instead it falls to you. No wonder she is angry.”

  Essylte raised her head. “What do you mean, she arranged it? She may have put Uncle Peredur up to the plan, but she could do nothing about the fight itself.”

  Branwen smiled, half to herself, and let the red-gold hair slip from her fingers. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “What do you mean? Branny, what do you know?”

  Branwen shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing certain. Nothing I can prove. And besides, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Nothing I can tell Father about?”

  “Oh, no. And you ought not to taunt her about losing the king’s love. From time to time, I think that is something she regrets.”

  “She ought to regret it. She ought to be ashamed everyone knows it. Father has at least a dozen bastards that he cares for, and more than likely a dozen more he doesn’t know about. Percival’s bastards, people call them behind his back. I’ve heard them. Ceredig’s one himself, did you know? Think of that—my own half brother, a house servant! It’s all Mother’s fault. Her cruelty and her witchery drove Father away.”

  Branwen looked down at Essylte’s tear-marked face and said nothing.

  “I don’t know how you can spend hours in her workroom over those horrid pots. It would drive me mad. Sometimes I think I must be mad already, to stay here.”

  “I like herb lore. It’s interesting. And useful.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe, and I wonder if she has poisoned the very air of Gwynedd. How does Father bear it? Oh, Branny, I shall hate to part with Father, but if I don’t escape from Mother, I know I’ll die!”

  “You will escape. You’ll go to Cornwall. Lord Segward said so.”

  “Lor
d Segward?” Essylte sat up slowly. “You know the envoy’s name?”

  “From Ceredig, who waits upon them.”

  “He has heard them speaking? Oh, tell me what you know!”

  Branwen glanced swiftly at the door and lowered her voice. “Only this, that what you told the queen was truth. Lord Segward serves King Markion, who has offered for you.”

  Essylte went still. “But why me? He must know that all Wales loathes him.”

  “That is the reason. He wants to heal that wound his nephew gave us. And for the same reason, King Percival listens to him. They both want a united Britain. They dream of the kind of alliance King Arthur had.”

  Essylte shrugged. “I don’t believe half those old tales, anyway. Britain was never that united. Welshmen and Cornishmen and Lothians all drinking under one roof? These are fables.”

  “Fable or not, the dream is compelling. This is why King Percival considers the offer, and why he keeps it quiet the man is even here. No one knows outside Gwynedd; few know outside the castle. If the soldiers knew, there might be trouble. That’s why they negotiate in secret. But Percival is at least listening.” Branwen’s eyes rested on Essylte’s tousled hair. “Your son might be the next High King of Britain.”

  Essylte shook her head. “Pray don’t talk to me about childbearing. I don’t want any children.”

  “Even if it’s Markion you marry? He will put you away if you do not bear. He is old enough to be your father, and his son was killed last autumn. He won’t want to wait long to get another heir.”

  Essylte leaned forward and kissed Branwen’s cheek. “You must come with me, Branny. I can’t part with you, I really can’t.” She squeezed Branwen’s hands and held them in her own. “You’re the only one I can talk to, the only friend I’ve ever had. You’ll come with me, won’t you, wherever it is I go?”

  Branwen lowered her eyes. “I—I serve the king, your father.”

  “Father can have no reason to oppose it. Why on earth should he care where you go?”

  An ugly blush spread from the girl’s throat to engulf her face. “Your mother needs my assistance in her workroom.”