Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  Essylte lifted the child down, cradled him in the crook of her arm, and offered him her other breast. He accepted greedily, closing his eyes and making soft, contented noises as he sucked.

  “Great Mother!” Tristan whispered. “What joy!”

  “He brings me unimaginable joy,” Essylte said softly. “Every day is new.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Three months.”

  “As Queen, surely you are entitled to a wet nurse.”

  “What for? I’m not traveling. No one comes to visit. And I wanted—from the start, all I wanted was to hold him in my arms. I look at him, and I see your face.” Her voice began to tremble. “I wouldn’t give this up for anything. Only you—” Her eyes met his, alive, burning. “Only you have ever brought me pleasure so intense.”

  Tristan looked away, afire in every sinew. He had his answer now. She had given him the key, she had let him in again, yet his joy was bittersweet. He was no longer foremost in her thoughts. Here was a helpless infant whose need of her was greater than his own. Who would have dreamed love could have such consequences?

  “Who gave him my name? Did you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was Mark’s idea. I wouldn’t have dared. But it pleased me greatly, and he saw it.” She paused. “He likes to please me. . . . He is not a bad man.”

  “No. I never thought he was.”

  “There is another reason I sent away the wet nurse,” she continued in a level voice. “As long as I nurse the child, Mark will keep his distance. He wants nothing to do with babies. He could hardly bring himself to come for my lying-in. He came only because it was expected of him, because the birth had to be attested to and the child formally acknowledged.” A smile crept into her voice. “He saw me nursing once. I thought he was going to be ill. He will not come back to Tintagel until the baby’s weaned. You were right, you know. He wants a broodmare, not a companion.”

  “He’ll be back for your father’s visit, won’t he?”

  “My father?” She turned to him in surprise. “My father’s coming?”

  “That’s what the courier told us in Elmet. At midsummer. There’s to be a big celebration in Young Tristan’s honor. An attempt to draw more kingdoms into the alliance. Didn’t you even know?”

  “No.” She gazed off into the distance, the tenderness gone from her face. “No, he didn’t tell me. It’s just like him. Percival’s not my father anymore, in Mark’s eyes. Now he’s the High King’s kin.” She glanced down at the sucking baby, and her features softened. “It doesn’t matter. Celebration or no, I will nurse him and Mark won’t come near me.”

  “Is it—is it that bad?”

  She looked up at him briefly. There was more in her face than he could read. “You don’t understand. You can’t. You’re not a woman. I live a lie. It has changed me.” She shrugged and pulled the sleeping baby from her breast. “Anyway, I must nurse him until Branwen gets her health back.”

  “Is she really ill?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe you can find out. She’s not confined to bed, but she hardly stirs from her room. She has a wet nurse for Keridwen, poor little child.”

  “Essylte . . . is Keridwen Mark’s daughter?”

  She turned to face him. “Of course.”

  “Was Branwen happy to be bearing? Or upset?”

  Essylte regarded him curiously. “Content. Esmerée was here this winter to nurse Segward through a fever. She helped us both a great deal. She told us what to expect. And she brought her children with her.”

  Tristan hardly breathed. “Her children?”

  Essylte smiled. “Three little girls. Perfectly beautiful and well behaved. The youngest is the sweetest child I’ve ever known. Not yet four and already sings like a lark. Little Aimée.”

  “I—I—I am glad for your sake Esmerée was here.”

  “So am I. Branny was fine about it all until the birth. I was with her most of the time, to help her through it. I don’t know what happened. When it was all over, she just withdrew into herself. She wouldn’t even hold the baby in her arms. Why, I spend more time with Keridwen than she does. Someone must be a mother to her. See what you can do, Tristan. If Branny’s not back to normal by the time young Tristan’s weaned . . .” She began to tremble. Tristan took her hand and held it hard.

  “Then you have done it? You have kept your promise?”

  Her eyes widened. “Did you doubt me?”

  He flushed. “I thought Mark might have caught you unawares and forced you—”

  She straightened. “Mark never caught me unawares.” She sank back against the tree a little, holding tight to the baby. “I have become expert in deceit. I’m an excellent liar.”

  Tristan pressed her fingers to his lips. “I know it must be difficult. I bless you from the bottom of my soul.”

  “And you?” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Have you kept your promise? Branny told me it would be impossible for a man, that every time you survived a battle, young girls would be thrown into your bed as a token of gratitude. Is this true?”

  “Yes, my dear love, it is true. But I took none of them. I did not want them. I want only you.”

  Her face lit. “Oh, Tristan.”

  Dinadan coughed warningly. Tristan looked up to see Brenna through the doorway, pacing back and forth with an infant in her arms. Essylte handed the child to Tristan and began to lace up her gown.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she laughed. “He won’t break. Hold him tight. You won’t wake him. After a meal he’ll sleep through anything.”

  Tristan marveled at the light, warm weight he held. The boy’s face against his cheek was smoother than velvet. This undeniable life, this solid flesh, was the result of that last, wild night of love in the tower of Tintagel. He could not believe it, although he knew it was so. For the first time in a year, he felt like singing.

  Aware of eyes upon him, he looked up. Essylte was smiling at him. Her eyes were wet with tears.

  Kill him. . . . Kill him. . . . While he lives, your children will be girls, heir to nothing. . . . Die he must.

  Branwen groaned and turned her head on her pillow. Beads of sweat formed along her brow. Her damp hair, unbound and straggling, clung to her pallid cheek. Slowly she rose from the depths of sleep, fleeing from the witch whose burning eyes and hollow voice haunted her dreams. Always, always the same voice calling through the mists, the same refrain pounding in her ears: Kill him. . . . Kill him. . . . Die he must.

  Without warning, someone took her hand in a warm, strong grasp and led her firmly, step by step, back into the light. She opened her eyes. Tristan sat beside her, his hand in hers, his beautiful brown eyes studying her face. She shook herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  “Tristan?”

  He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. The last shreds of nightmare dissolved in the warmth that seemed to flow from him as from an open blaze. He reached out and brushed damp strands of hair from her face.

  “My pretty Branwen,” he said softly. “I never thought to see you ill.”

  She struggled to sit up. His strong hands slid under her arms and raised her with ease. She gazed at him, remembering all the times she had pictured him, all winter long, through interminable pregnancy, discomfort and cold, pictured him here, alone in her chamber, waiting only for her. And here he was, larger than life and more vivid than any daydream, his strength, his warmth, his passion, his physical beauty so near he was overpowering. She had no more resistance than a summer moth, hopelessly drawn to the flame that was its doom. She could not keep her eyes from his face. Slowly the heat of life returned to her and a rosy flush spread over her waxen skin. She managed a smile. The smile he flashed in return set her heart beating wildly.

  He brought her hand to his cheek. “That’s better. That’s the fighting spirit I remember. You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you, little Branwen?”

  How wonderful to hear his voice again, so vibrant, so melodic! T
he voice of a thousand daydreams. “Hard enough.”

  “I’m told you don’t sleep well.”

  She shivered. “I have bad dreams.”

  “Many women do, after bearing. They will fade.”

  She smiled. “And how do you know so much about bearing, my lord?”

  Tristan grinned. “Not on my own account, of course. But I have a friend who is wise in woman-lore.”

  “You mean Esmerée. . . . Tristan, I am your friend. I will keep your secrets.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be much of a secret.”

  Now it was her turn to squeeze his hand. “But it is. Even Essylte doesn’t know about Aimée.”

  “How did you know? Did she tell you?”

  “Of course not. But I watch and observe. One woman can always tell where another loves.”

  “You exaggerate. It was years ago. We are friends now, good friends. Nothing more. Ask Esmerée.”

  Branwen watched him look away, his fingers plucking at the wool of her blanket. She remembered only too well Esmerée’s face when she spoke of Tristan, and the affection in her voice. Was it possible he did not guess at his power over women? Those who loved him loved him unreservedly and long, as she herself knew as well as anyone. She closed her eyes to hide her thoughts from him. The woman he loved could never be his—she could be his, but he would never love her. She could not have invented a sadder tale.

  “Branwen,” he whispered. “You have gone quite pale. What dark thoughts disturb you?”

  She forced herself to smile. “Secrets, my lord.”

  Tristan drew a long breath. “You are a storehouse of secrets.”

  She pulled aside the blankets and reached for her woolen robe. Tristan wrapped it around her. “They are safely kept, my lord.” She made her way to the window, where the golden light of afternoon slowly faded into cool, dusky shadows. “Everything is going well. All of Cornwall thinks I’ve borne your child, and Essylte Mark’s.”

  Tristan followed her to the window. “I’ve seen your daughter. She’s a pretty little thing. She looks like you.”

  Tears crept to her eyes. “Don’t be kind. Don’t. She’s scrawny and ugly and underfed. I know it, and I’m helpless to prevent it. I’ve not an ounce of mother love in me. I don’t know where it went. I hope she dies. She’d be better off.”

  “Don’t say such a thing.” He drew her into his arms and held her tightly, stroking her tousled hair. With her face pressed against his chest she wept, shatteringly and beyond control, thinking not of the bony baby in the nursery, but of the man who held her in his arms, this man of daring and fearless deeds, whose strength and beauty were all she wanted, whose heart she could never have.

  At length Tristan lifted her and sat down with her on the bed, cradling her like a child. “Little Branwen, I take it on myself. I have asked too much of you. You have lived a lie and borne a child to a man you do not love. Shall I take the child away and have her tended elsewhere? No one will think it strange. My uncle Pernam runs a house of healing. He will love the girl if you cannot. He is Mark’s brother; it is even fitting.”

  Branwen lay still, her head against his chest, listening to the slow, strong beating of his heart. “No,” she whispered. “There is no need. Essylte loves the child. She is mother enough for both of them.” She looked up into his face. “Without Keri, what excuse would you have to visit the nursery at Tintagel? You would never see your son.” The light in his face was a dagger in her heart, but she smiled. “He is a beautiful boy, young Tristan. Strong and healthy. Everything a prince should be. I congratulate you.”

  “Thank you, Branwen.”

  She pulled herself up and slid out of his arms. “And you are wrong, you know, about Mark. I like him well enough. He’s no more than a big, selfish boy. He’s teachable. And he loves me.” She smiled bitterly. “He thinks he loves Essylte. He is charmed by her beauty and her pretty ways. But I’m the one he talks to and shares his problems with, alone in the dark. It’s me he really loves.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Tristan replied. “But isn’t that a nettle shirt that rubs on tender skin? To do so much, yet go so unacknowledged?”

  “If and when I bear a son, I’ll have acknowledgment enough.” She watched her words strike home, saw his newborn father-pride spark his anger, saw the flame of indignation at the thought that his son, the Prince of Cornwall, should be set aside and bastardized for a child of hers. And then she saw him sober, and swallow his resentment, and slowly nod.

  “If it happens, so it must be. I accept it.”

  She reached out to him in compassion, against her will, when the door opened and Guvranyl appeared on the threshold with Dinadan behind him.

  “Sir Guvranyl!” She clutched her robe tight to her body and made him a quick curtsy.

  Tristan rose from the rumpled bed. Guvranyl winked slyly at him; Dinadan stared in surprise. “My lords, is anything amiss?”

  “Nothing’s amiss,” Guvranyl assured him. “It’s time to eat, and no one could find you. We asked the Queen and she sent us here. We had a bet laid on. Dinadan bet we wouldn’t find you here; I bet we would.” He grinned at Dinadan. “That’s a silver coin you owe me, my young lord.”

  Wooden-faced, Dinadan pulled a coin from his pouch. “I seem,” he said slowly, “to have been wrong about a great many things.”

  Tristan sighed. “Appearances will be the death of me. Come on, Din, let’s go down together. I’ll try to explain it to you.”

  “The lady Branwen wishes to see you, my lord,” the page whispered at his elbow. Tristan nodded. Guvranyl and Dinadan were half asleep, stretched out in cushioned chairs by the fire, an empty wineskin on the floor between them. The Queen and her women had taken themselves off after dinner. Hours ago. But Tristan had been unable to drink wine with his companions and enjoy the talk of men. All he could think of, as he fidgeted in his chair, was the soft evening breeze that set the lamplight trembling, the whispering of the sea beyond the windows, the midnight fires burning in the heavens, the banked fire in his body. Beautiful Essylte was somewhere within these walls, listening as he was listening to the sea wind, watching the wheeling stars, waiting for the moment when he would find his way to her.

  He rose. “Sir Guvranyl.” Guvranyl waved a lazy hand and yawned.

  “Good night, Tristan.”

  “Dinadan.”

  “Humpf,” Dinadan grunted, and yawned.

  “In the morning, my lords.”

  He let the page lead him, although he knew the way. At the top of the stairs, Kellis barred the door.

  “Who goes there, in the King’s name?”

  “Tristan of Lyonesse. Good evening, Kellis.”

  “My lord Tristan. By all means, enter. The lady sent for you half an hour ago.”

  Tristan smiled. “Never keep a lady waiting.” He put his hand to the door and walked into the antechamber. Branwen stood at the narrow window, gowned and waiting. The door to her chamber was open. The curtain to the Queen’s chamber was closed. All this Kellis saw before he smiled and withdrew. “Lucky devil,” he whispered under his breath. “A talent of silver he doesn’t come out before dawn.”

  Tristan waited until the door had closed behind him. “Well, Branwen, you’re looking better. There’s color in your face.”

  “Your visit helped.” She made him a reverence and nodded toward the curtain. “I wish you joy, Tristan. Go on in. She’s waiting.”

  Branwen turned and walked into her room, shutting the door firmly. Tristan paused at the curtain. His heart pounded, his hand trembled on the silk. He had waited so long, he had desired this so much—and yet part of him wished to be away, anywhere else, killing Saxons in Rheged or Elmet, somewhere where red blood flowing could wash away the stain of his precious sin. He took a deep breath and parted the curtain.

  Triple lamps and candlesticks flooded the chamber with light. Essylte stood at the end of the big bed in her green gown, as cool and calm as he had seen her first that morning. The bed was
piled with furs and cushions, velvets and silks of scarlet, purple, and gold. Color, light, and warmth engulfed him. It was like walking into the heart of a fire.

  “Essylte.”

  She did not move, but followed him with eyes that betrayed no feeling. He walked up to her and took her by the waist. Still she stood, cold, dispassionate, a woman carved of stone. Around her brow she wore the gold circlet of her rank. Mark’s gift. He lifted it off her head and let it fall to the floor, where it rolled crookedly into a corner. A smile touched the corners of her mouth. He pulled the golden netting from her hair and took out, one by one, the pins that held her tresses. His fingers worked the braiding loose, and at last her glorious fire-gold curls fell into his hands. She closed her eyes when his lips touched her face and his hands slid beneath the laces of her gown. She held out against him to the limit of her strength, refusing to gasp, refusing to return his kisses, refusing even to touch him.

  “Vixen,” he murmured in her ear. “You are no ice queen. Why do you tease me so?”

  She trembled but kept her eyes fixed on the wall behind him. “Discipline. Control. It’s part of deceit. It’s what keeps me alive. I practice it daily.”

  He kissed her roughly and pulled her hard up against him. She knew it angered him to be reminded of Mark’s presence, of Mark’s rights, of the lie they all three lived in order to deceive Mark, but it angered her, too, that deceit should be a part of her daily life, when all Tristan had to do to avoid it was ride away from Tintagel in the open air. But although she was master of her voice and her expression, she could not control her body’s responses to Tristan’s touch. Heat rose to her face and her pulse quickened as his hands slid over the soft fabric of her gown. And, like any woman whose anger springs from hurt, she was defenseless against compassion.

  His grip slackened and he slid to his knees, pressing the palm of her hand against his cheek. “I’m sorry, Essylte. It’s my fault you live a lie. If I had been able to resist you that night at Guvranyl’s house, if I had done my duty to your father and to Mark, you would have no need to lie. I am ashamed I have forced this fate upon you.”