Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  “How is it,” he whispered as they lay entwined, waiting for their breathing to slow, “that you always know what I am thinking?”

  She pushed a strand of hair from his face. “Because I am you. And you are me. It’s a truth you know well enough when we are joined. Why do you forget it when we part?”

  “You are right,” he answered. “But it always amazes me.”

  “Tristan.” She hesitated. “Do you feel what I feel?”

  “That our fate is upon us? Yes.”

  “Will we die in the morning?”

  His hand slid from her breast to her belly and rested there. “You cannot die. You have a child to protect.”

  “If I cannot die, you cannot either, Tristan.” She raised herself on an elbow and strove to see him in the dark. “If we—if we are separated—if they force us—as long as one of us lives, the other must also. For as long as we both live there is hope that someday—”

  “Yes,” he breathed, pulling her close. “Someday!”

  “Tristan, if my father sides with Mark—I cannot withstand him. What shall we do?”

  “We’ll escape in the boat if it comes to that.”

  Her tears fell on his shoulder and she struggled to hold them back. “But they’ll come after us to get Young Tristan. Both of them. Unless I tell them the truth. Oh, Tristan! Mark’s words to me were like a knife in my heart. It is true I have lied and lied, when he has asked me again and again for the truth.”

  “If Mark learns the truth, he’ll kill the boy.”

  “Not with my father there. He’s still his grandson. He might side with you instead of Mark if he knew. I’ve thought of nothing else all night.”

  Tristan said nothing but gently stroked her hair. “And what about Branwen? She’s risked death to keep our secret dark.”

  “Only by accident. She never intended to miscarry.”

  “No, no, my heart. I mean, she poisoned Segward to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Branwen?” Essylte squeaked. Tristan clapped a hand over her mouth and they lay frozen, listening hard for any sound of movement from the door. At length they relaxed and Tristan withdrew his hand.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “It was Branwen who served the wine. Percival recognized her. So did I. So did Segward. That was why I wouldn’t let you taste it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you remember what she told us? Your mother gave her the means to kill me. And kill me she must, to be free of the Druid curse. Unless I wed her, what use am I to her anymore? So I thought she might have added something to the wine.” He wrinkled his nose. “My cup tasted bitter. But it must have been imagination, since no harm came of it.” He paused, frowning. “Or Branwen made it bitter deliberately so Segward would think she had poisoned me and his cup was safe.”

  “But Father said it couldn’t be the wine. Segward chose his cup himself.”

  “Your father was protecting Branwen.” This silenced Essylte. “Segward met his match in Branwen. She outsmarted him at the end. She knew which cup he would choose. Either that or she poisoned them both.”

  Essylte shuddered, and Tristan pulled her close and kissed her. He was startled to find he could see the dim outline of her face. “Love, it’s nearly dawn. I must go.”

  A tremor shook her, but she kept her voice calm. “How does your arm? Does it pain you?”

  He smiled. “Until you asked, I had forgotten all about it. Pernam came to me in my chamber and dressed it with a balm. It’s sore, but it will heal. I was lucky I twisted, or he’d have struck my chest.”

  Tears filled her eyes and slid slowly down her cheeks. “He is not fit to wipe your boots.”

  “He’s High King of Britain, with a thousand troops outside to prove it. We have—what? Five hundred? Six?”

  “But not all of his are loyal. You said so yourself.”

  Tristan brushed his lips against her hair. “I lied.”

  “Oh, Tristan!”

  He rose from bed and dressed. Essylte covered her mouth with her hands to keep from sobbing. The dark relented, and gradually the objects in her chamber took shape in the gray light. “Tristan, your arm is bleeding!”

  “No matter. It will serve me.”

  She flung herself out of bed and into his arms. “I will never see you again! My heart has been heavy with the fear all night.”

  “Nonsense,” he whispered. “I promise you, Essylte, I will see you again.” He kissed her slowly, memorizing the sweet taste of her. “I will kiss these lips again. I must. Nothing can part us. You said yourself, we are one.”

  A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Lady Essylte! Are you awake? Are you alone?”

  “Quick!” Tristan pushed her away. “Put on your nightdress and pretend you’re asleep. Keep them guessing, if you can. I need time!” He slithered out the window as Essylte dressed and huddled among the bed skins, shutting her eyes tight and fighting sobs.

  The door opened. “Aye. The Queen’s abed. Alone.”

  “Send for one of her women. King Markion’s orders. He’s on his way.”

  The door closed. Essylte gasped. Markion! She choked back a sob and fought to think. Why Markion? Why now?

  Before long she heard the shuffle of boots and the door pushed open again. Someone touched her shoulder with a gentle hand.

  “Essylte. Wake up, my dear.”

  “Esmerée!”

  “So. You were feigning sleep. Tell me quickly—has Tristan been here?”

  Essylte nodded, eyes brimming. Esmerée’s eyes darted quickly about the chamber. “However did he manage it? Well, no matter. King Markion is coming and you must be dressed.” She flung open the clothes chest. “Do you care which gown you wear?”

  Essylte shook her head. “Why is he coming? Is anything amiss?”

  Esmerée lifted a gown from the chest and shook it out. “I know nothing about it, my dear. I was awakened and told to attend you. But the guards seem to think the King is angry.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Hurry now. Arise and let me have that bedgown.”

  Essylte sat up slowly and swung her feet to the floor. “We must—we must make him wait—we must go as slowly as we can. Time is important.”

  Esmerée looked at her closely. “Why?”

  “Esme, he’s only just left.”

  Esmerée looked about in bewilderment. “How?” Essylte pointed to the window. “Not the window? Why, it’s straight down!”

  Essylte shuddered and Esmerée’s gaze returned to her. “What’s that on the shoulder of your bedgown? Essylte—it’s blood.”

  Essylte jumped up, and the two women stared in consternation at the bedsheets. They were smeared all over with fresh blood, even the pillows. Essylte’s hand flew to her mouth. Esmerée gripped her arm.

  “Are you bleeding? Is it the child?”

  Essylte shook her head. “No,” she quavered. “It’s Tristan’s.”

  “Dear God!” Esmerée pulled the bedgown off Essylte. Her smooth flesh was streaked and stained with light smears of blood. Esmerée grabbed the clay pitcher of water from the nightstand and emptied it over her.

  “Esme! What are you doing?”

  Frantically, Esmerée rubbed her body clean. “Stand still. Dry yourself with one of those skins. Help me with this gown—oh, my poor Essylte, Mark will have your life if he sees this!”

  Frightened into silence, Essylte obeyed. There was no way to clean the sheets, no place to hide them, no way to procure fresh ones. They covered the bed with skins and coverlets as best they could and hid the stained bedgown in the bottom of the chest. Essylte was sitting on the chest with Esmerée behind her, combing out her hair, when the door flew open and Markion strode in unannounced.

  He glared at her, hands on hips. Esmerée stopped her combing and curtsied, but Essylte made no move to rise. She stared back defiantly at Markion.

  “Where is he?” he breathed, scanning the room. “Where is my traitorous dog of a nephew?”

  “How
should I know?” Essylte asked coldly.

  “He is not in his chamber,” Markion growled, “nor has he been, this hour past.” He drew his sword. “I’ll find him. I’ll find him before I slit his throat!” He thrust the sword under the bed, once, twice, thrice.

  Essylte whimpered. Markion whirled. “Get off that chest! I’ll have it open!”

  Esmerée pulled Essylte to her side and Mark flung the chest open. He did not bother to search among the clothes, but plunged his sword straight down, again and again. “Damn him! I’ll split his brains when I find him!”

  The two women clung together. Essylte forced her voice to calm. “I want my father here.”

  “He’s coming,” Markion snarled. “I’ve sent for him. God knows why. I should know better than to trust a Welshman.”

  “You have no right to speak so!”

  Markion laughed aloud. “Do I not? We’ll see about that! He’s been here, hasn’t he? My fornicating nephew. I know he has.”

  Essylte returned his fierce gaze in silence. Markion spun furiously, his sword whistling in the air. “Tri-i-sta-a-an!” His bellow echoed off the stone walls, hollow and cold. Boots clattered down the corridor. Markion slashed at the bedcovers in his fury, flinging the furs around the room.

  “Markion!” Percival shouted from the doorway.

  Markion froze. Then he turned, breathing heavily, and pointed with a shaking finger to the bed. “Look at that. Look at that, my lord. That is your daughter’s bed.”

  Percival came forward slowly. The bed was a mess of slashed blanket, torn furs, and rumpled, bloodstained sheets. Percival turned to Essylte, who gazed blankly at him. “Is it the child? Speak, Essylte.” But Essylte said nothing.

  “It is not her blood. Nor the child’s.” Markion’s voice trembled with rage. “It is Tristan’s!” He faced Percival, his features distorted by his wrath. “He bleeds from my knife cut! O God! Not deep enough! Who else—who else in Lyon’s Head bears such a bleeding wound?”

  Percival took Essylte’s hands. “Tell me truth, daughter. The Kingdom depends on it. Was Tristan here with you?”

  Essylte said nothing. Esmerée slipped a trembling arm about her waist, but Essylte stood perfectly still.

  “Your silence will do the lad more harm than good,” Percival implored. “Speak, Essylte, if you value his life.”

  Essylte’s eyes brimmed with tears, but her tight-lipped expression did not change. Percival shut his eyes and dropped her hands. Then he turned to Markion.

  “My lord—”

  He stopped at the sound of booted feet pounding down the corridor. “My lord King!” A breathless face appeared in the doorway and a guard saluted hastily. “My lord, we’ve got him! He walked into the hall as cool as ice. And dripping wet. He said he’d been bathing in the sea.” The guard snickered. “In boots and leggings.”

  “Hold him!” Markion exploded. “Hold him fast! Kill him if he makes a move to flee!”

  “Aye, my lord.” The guard disappeared.

  Shaking violently, Essylte slumped against Esmerée’s shoulder.

  “Markion,” Percival said wearily, “let us all go back to the hall together. Do nothing hastily. More than your honor is at stake here. The future of Britain is in your hands, as well.”

  Markion signaled to the sentries at the door. “Take these women to the hall. Carry them if you have to.”

  Dawn broke over the eastern sea. Long rays of early light angled through the windows and pierced the cold gloom of the king’s hall. Twenty of Markion’s men held the doorways. Sir Grayell and the rest of Tristan’s guards stood in a tight knot, disarmed, surrounded by more of Markion’s troops. Markion stood on the dais with Percival, Essylte and her women, and Sir Bruenor. Tristan, still dripping, dressed only in leggings and boots, stood at the foot of the dais, held fast between two guards. The knife cut on his upper arm bled sluggishly, dripping from time to time on the rushes at his feet. Each of the guards held a dagger to his ribs.

  “Well.” Markion smiled down at Tristan, his voice rich with satisfaction. “I’ve caught you this time. You’ve played me for a fool one time too many, Tristan. I’ve got you now.”

  Tristan shook his wet hair from his face and smiled back. “Only with my consent. I yield, Uncle. For the moment. I’ve let you take my fortress. I gave Dinadan and Grayell orders to disarm my men and let fifty of your soldiers in. I’ve given you Lyon’s Head. Until noon. Then, if we have reached no solution, I will take it back. And we shall have our battle, after all. But for the moment, Lyon’s Head is yours. As a token of my good faith.”

  Markion’s expression turned from surprise to bitterness. “Oh, aye, you yield now that you have no choice. It will avail you nothing. I’ll kill you and take pleasure in doing it.”

  Tristan inclined his head. “Whatever serves your ends best, Uncle. But what will my death gain you?” He smiled lightly. “You’ll have a wife you can never turn your back on.” Markion colored quickly, and Essylte nodded. “She’d as soon stab you in your bed as lie with you. Do you want such a wife? Put her away. That’s all it takes to be rid of me. Put her away and let us go.”

  “Never.” Markion’s features hardened. “On my life, never. I would rather see you dead. Both of you.”

  “You will not harm my daughter.” Percival’s hand rested on his sword hilt as his arm slid around Essylte. “It’s your life if you do, and to hell with Britain—I promise you that.”

  “If you kill her,” Tristan continued calmly, “you destroy Britain and give up your dream of kingship. And any hope of a lasting legacy—except as a villain. Percival will not stand by and see his daughter slaughtered. If you touch her, you will be at war with Wales within the hour. And within the year, Britain will be in Saxon hands.”

  Markion glanced quickly at Percival, who returned his gaze with a stony glare.

  “And if you kill me, you will have to kill her to prevent her from killing you. You are safe from her only if I live.”

  “I can’t keep her and let you live!” Markion cried. “You will cuckold me again!”

  “Then let her go.”

  “And reward you for your betrayal? Never. I must kill you, Tristan. There is no other way.”

  “Give him to me.” A firm voice spoke from the doorway. Everyone turned.

  Branwen stepped out of the shadows and into the light. Her yellow gown, the yellow flowers wound in her braided hair, caught the morning sun and warmed, like a bud opening into bloom. She walked across the hall and stepped up onto the dais with all the dignity of a queen.

  She curtsied low before Percival. “Greetings, Father.”

  He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Branwen. My daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” Markion repeated stupidly. “She can’t be your daughter. She’s the Queen’s companion. A serving maid.”

  “Was the Queen’s companion,” Branwen corrected him gently.

  “Yes,” Percival said slowly, his expression a mixture of sorrow and admiration. “She is my daughter. I acknowledge it.”

  Everyone stared at Branwen as she made her reverence to Markion. “I am not trueborn, my lord King. I tell you myself what my father prefers not to mention. Yet I am not without power.” Her eyes flicked once to Tristan, who had gone pale. “I will marry your wandering nephew, my lord, if you will grant me leave. The kingdom will be intact. You will bind my father’s loyalty to you twice over. You can build your dynasty of kings. And I can promise you”—her eyes glinted metal-hard—“that I will keep Essylte out of his bed.”

  Markion’s lips slid slowly into a smile. “Well, well, this is something to consider. My lord Percival, will you give your blessing to such a match, knowing what a scoundrel my nephew is?”

  Essylte laid a beseeching hand on Percival’s sleeve, but Percival did not move. His eyes were on Branwen. “Why, Branwen? Do you say this because you wish to wound Essylte? Or to sacrifice yourself for the kingdom’s good? Or do you love this man?”

  “Oh, she has l
oved him long,” Markion said easily. “Everyone knows it. She has been in his bed a hundred times. She has borne him a daughter.”

  Branwen lowered her eyes modestly as Percival drew a long breath. “Is this so? Well, then—”

  “No!” Essylte’s shriek rent the sunlit morning. “It is not so!”

  “Essylte!” Tristan cried quickly.

  “Silence!” Markion roared. The dagger points pressed against Tristan’s ribs and he went still.

  Essylte shrugged off Esmerée’s restraining hand and stepped before Markion. “The girl-child is not his. She has never lain with him. It was a ruse only, to get him into my quarters. Tristan is my husband, Mark, as you never were!”

  “Be still, Essylte!” Branwen grabbed Essylte’s arm. Essylte thrust her away.

  “You are not my son’s father!” Essylte shrieked at Markion. “Tristan is!” Everyone gasped. “You are not the father of this child I carry! Tristan is! You are not my husband, Markion of Cornwall! Tristan is! I have loved him since I met him with a love stronger than the bond of life—I would kill you, and myself, before I would let you harm him. If you take his life, I will take yours. If you force him to marry Branwen, I will kill you or die in the attempt. But if you let him live . . .” Her voice quavered. “If you let him live unwed, then I will—I will submit to your will.” She squared her shoulders bravely. “But be warned: I will never bear you sons. I take my oath on it. If you do not put me away, your dream of a dynasty is dust and ashes.”

  The blood drained from Markion’s face. He stared at her in dumb confusion.

  “Royal brat!” Branwen wailed. “Oath breaker!”

  “I am beyond caring!” Essylte cried. “Last night he said he wanted the truth from me. Now he has it. See how pleased he is!”

  For a moment no one moved. Essylte stood before them all in her golden gown, her hair alight in the sun like a living flame. Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but the daggers bit into his flesh and stopped him.

  Markion was breathing heavily. Sweat formed in beads across his brow. “I am your husband,” he managed. “You married me.”