by Smith, JD
We eat. Every morsel taking an age to chew and swallow as our people mutter and gesture and cast guarded looks to our leader. Morholt eats and drinks relentlessly. His cheeks bulge as he chews and mead mixes with every mouthful. The man beside him tries to talk with him, but Morholt does not reply and his face grows ever more discoloured and dangerous.
Finally he stands before our people. His eyes rove the room, looking for something … someone.
‘Iseult.’
Slowly, uncertainly, I lift my head and look across to our lord, the man who will become our king; who is already our king in all but name. Time looks unkindly upon his face and his head is unsteady with drink. His eyes are fixed on me.
‘My Lord,’ I say. At least I think I say it, for I do not hear my own words.
‘Play, Iseult.’
‘Play?’
‘The harp, Iseult,’ he says, his voice monotone and daunting. ‘Play the harp. I like to hear it. I like to hear you of all our fair women playing it. You ease my thoughts.’
Beneath the table Acha grips my leg in concern before I push back my chair and stand. A few places to my right, my mother glares in irritation as if I do not move fast enough.
‘My Lord,’ I say. ‘What do you wish me to play?’
But Morholt has sat down once more and is now talking with his men, his mood apparently lifted by the prospect of music, and my voice is lost in the mist of chatter.
I play and our people become steadily drunk and Morholt’s mood appears ever lighter. Briton is forgotten, his displeasure soaked in drink and hidden behind merriment. I relax, the music drifts from my fingertips and distracts my mind.
As the fires die and the night grows cold, our people wander to their rooms or sleep where they lie. Morholt sits slumped over the table. Cups are scattered all about. Dogs find the courage to steal from the table as their masters sleep. My mother has long since retired and I am thankful she has, for her mood has not lightened as our lord’s has.
Acha approaches me as I continue to play.
‘It is time to sleep, child,’ she says.
Her voice is loud in the quiet hall and I worry it will wake Morholt. I am equally afraid to cease plucking the strings for the silence that might also cause him to stir.
‘Iseult,’ she says, taking my arm.
We leave the hall and I follow her to our rooms. She pulls off my dress and helps me into a light shift; I do the same for her. Then we cuddle together in the bed for warmth.
I feel safe for the moment. For tonight.
Chapter 7
Tristan
‘The day for this life has past!’
The Saxon cannot understand Geraint’s roar, just as we cannot understand their howling tongue. I am tired and my limbs are both fire and death. I move slowly, careful with my energy. Striking to kill as I finish the last of this battle. Gods give me the strength to continue, for the fear no longer drives me forward.
I stumble upon the bodies of the fallen: Saxon, Dumnonian, Kernish …
They are everywhere and part of me wants to look for the faces of the brothers that we will have lost. Concentrate. It will keep me alive.
The war cry of my people leaves my lips. I almost lose the grip on my sword as I let the weight of it crash into another bastard enemy. I hear the groans of the dying and smell the blood of a hundred men in the air. A haze of red floats before my eyes. Air burns my throat and lungs and my head feels light.
To my right Geraint hammers blows upon the enemy. A frenzy of cuts and slashes. I look for the next man to meet my blade. I see few Saxon. Relief soaks me as I realise we are winning and the last of the Saxon are trying to turn from us into the two lines left at their fore, or falling to the ground.
Muttering a prayer of thanks to the gods, I stumble across to where Rufus squats beside a tree, retching. We have not eaten so nothing comes up. He is pale and as I take his arm to help him to his feet he is shaking so hard I grip him tight to steady him. All about us the remains of the Dumnonian warband howl and shriek their victory. But it is no triumph. I see our men scattered on the ground, slain, their families’ prospects and safety draining away like the blood that seeps into this cold, wet earth.
‘Rufus. Look sharp. You are being watched.’
Rufus wipes his mouth on his arm. I take his sword from him and stoop down, tear grass. Wipe the blade clean. Rufus has killed again, we all have: lives taken so that one day we may live in some ideal of peace that will likely never be known.
The sword clean, I hand it back to Rufus and he sheaths it.
‘How many of our own are lost?’ he asks.
‘The Dumnonian loss is more than ours. And the enemy loss is higher still.’
Not one Saxon remains standing. Some of them writhe on the ground, but our warriors have not the compassion to end their misery.
‘Get moving,’ I hear one commander call, referring to the men looting the dead.
We would not want to be here when a larger Saxon force arrives. I wish everyone would hurry. I am tired, weak, thirsty, and I want nothing more than to return to camp and sleep.
‘Come on,’ I say to Rufus, but he is examining a gash on his thigh.
I stoop down and pull his hand away. The wound is crying red streaks down his leg.
‘A scratch,’ I say. ‘We will clean it when we are back.’
We walk back to the camp without uttering a word. Gaps linger in our lines as if we save spaces for the brothers we have lost. I avoid my fellows’ eyes; sure that every man is grateful that we make our way back to camp instead of waiting for the boatman to take us to the Otherworld.
Rufus limps from the cut to his leg. He keeps a brave face and makes no complaint, no sound of any kind.
We arrive back and I peel off my armour. Dried blood cracks. The stench of sweat and leather is pungent. I beckon Rufus down to the stream where we wade into the cold water. I see there are grazes on my arms and legs and my face is stinging, too.
‘I will be as scarred as your father by this time next year,’ I say to Rufus.
Rufus smiles but says nothing. It is the sort of smile that holds no joy.
Later we eat. Quickly. Wanting only to see our beds and savour the knowledge of being in battle and surviving.
‘We beat them,’ Rufus says, as we lay side by side that night.
Other men murmur in their sleep, betraying their fears of battle when in the day they know nothing of weakness. I stare into the darkness and whistle a long sigh. We survived once more but how much longer will it last? Another fight, two perhaps?
‘We will crush them until not a single Saxon remains on this island,’ I say.
How empty those words are. Every time we face these bastards the odds become lower. The Saxon increase in number as their ships land on the east coast, yet our numbers diminish with every battle, the only men left either infants or the crippled.
‘We must write to my father in the morning,’ he says. ‘Tell him of our progress.’
I lean on my arm to face him. His immediate shock of battle has gone, replaced with excitement at yet another victory. He is riding on the alternate waves of fear and elation.
‘You write to him, Rufus. Tell him from me that he has every reason to be proud of his son.’
Rufus nods. ‘When I am king, I will rule as well as my father.’
I smile at the earnestness in his voice. So many men are corrupted by power. Our cousin, Oswyn, is one such man. But Rufus is not.
‘Mark is a great man and a better king, Rufus. Do him justice and you will know respect.’
We lie in silence a while. I hear other men snoring or talking. Some men cannot sleep after battle, the haunting of the dead keeping them awake. I am one such man.
‘What I would give for a woman,’ Rufus says. ‘A beautiful woman to take my mind off Saxon scum.’
‘Do not think about women whilst sleeping next to me.’
‘I shall face the other way.’ Rufus grins.
&n
bsp; ‘Still not sure I am happy with that arrangement. You talk in your sleep.’
‘I do not!’
‘Yes you do. I know the name of every woman you ever rutted!’
‘Even I do not know that!’
Rufus soon drifts into slumber. I lie awake for a while listening to his shallow breathing and worry about what will come. Rufus may one day become a leader of men, but he has never shown that strength of character yet. He shies away from confrontation, lets other men dictate what is right and make decisions for him; looks to others for guidance. But little Rufus is his father’s son, I am sure. He can be the leader we need when his father passes. And with luck that will be a long time from now.
I wake. Pull the blanket up around my shoulders to stave the chill of night. It is still dark and I hear owls. Beside me, Rufus groans and I realise it was he that woke me.
‘Rufus!’
I nudge him.
He moans.
‘Rufus, the camp stirs.’
He looks as I feel. Tired and wasted. Eyes thin slits above blue rings. Bruising on his cheeks, yellow and fresh. I feel the draw of brotherhood.
‘I could sleep all day and another night,’ he says.
‘There will be time for that. Our army stirs and we need to move. The Saxon will send a force twice as large when they discover what we have done. They are like the tide.’
‘We will never go home, will we?’ He rubs his face as though washing.
‘Of course we will go home. Kernow is but two days away.’
‘No, Tristan. That was not what I meant.’
‘Then what?’
‘The Saxon, they will always come, and we will never escape them. We will never be enough to win. A frontier will always exist and warriors will forever need to defend it.’
His words strike me. I pause a moment. Partly because they are true, and partly because I have never heard him speak with such clarity. He is right. We will never be free of threat. Not unless we scourge Briton of every last Saxon.
It seems impossible.
‘Concentrate on the little fight,’ I say, ‘and the battle will take care of itself.’
I am right that the enemy would come.
We collect our dead the following morning. The scouts have returned, telling us the Saxon are a couple of hours east; a force larger than we have seen before. This time we will not survive if we face them.
But this time Rufus and I will not have to.
Chapter 8
Iseult
I wake in a dark room and the night is so cold my breath is a cloud of white. Acha argues in the doorway. I slide from the bed and cross to her to find one of Morholt’s men with his booted foot forcing the door open.
‘What is it, Acha?’
‘Nothing, child. Go back to your bed.’
‘She is to come with me,’ the man says. Acha is tall, but he is taller still, stooping to see under the lintel. Hair and beard surround his head and face so that all I can see are fractious eyes.
‘No.’ Acha blocks the doorway and I am sheltered behind her.
The man reaches past Acha, locks his grip on my arm and pulls me down the hallway with him. My heart thuds. I do not know where he is taking me. Behind me, Acha runs to keep up; sobs for him to stop.
We come to a halt outside a door. The man brushes Acha away.
‘Go back to your room,’ he barks.
‘I will stay here,’ Acha protests.
Tears begin to run down her cheeks. I feel nothing. I do not know what is happening. I am a rabbit in danger: startled.
Another man — one of Morholt’s favoured warriors — approaches and drags Acha away. Now there is just me and the man who came for me.
He taps on the door and he does not wait for a response, but enters.
‘The Queen’s daughter, my Lord.’
I am ushered into the room and the door closes behind me and my lord and I are alone.
Morholt.
He paces. Lumbering steps across the wooden floors. He reaches for a cup and sloshes mead on the floor and I know the evening’s drink has yet to fade.
He walks across to me.
‘You play the harp well.’ He speaks as though the matter irrelevant, a mere courtesy he deigns to display.
I do not move. I let his breath roll over my face, clinging to my skin, as he says: ‘We are to be husband and wife, Iseult.’
My stomach twists and knots and my legs are weak beneath me. I am afraid, of him and what will happen in this room this night.
‘As you desire, my Lord.’
‘Desire?’ He says the word as though it offends him, the very idea of desire ridiculous. ‘I do not desire you. You arouse no desire in me. You are the daughter of my predecessor — a man who would let the northern kings govern him as he sat on a throne gifted only by his brothers’ will and nothing more. He could have been their dog and had more freedom to rule as he wished. I need strong sons, sons combining my blood with the blood of your family, that is all.’ He slurs the mention of my father with detestation. He, too, desired only power, and I think how strangely alike their desires are.
‘I see the way you look at me, Iseult. You loathe me because you fear me, but it makes no difference. We will be a powerful match, your family ruling the north of Ireland and I with equal strength the south. We will never face invasion as the Britons do. They are so weak they are almost overrun with vermin.’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
Anger flares in his eyes at my continued compliance. I aim to please him, so that he might treat me with kindness, perhaps even respect, but I appear to antagonise him even more.
‘The priest that would have performed the ceremony is dead. Our marriage will have to wait until I return from Briton once more and we have another in his place,’ he says, ‘but you will be my wife.’
I close my eyes. I do not care why it must wait. For now his words are a chill cloth upon my dread.
‘I have spoken with your mother.’ He takes my arm and presses his body against mine. ‘She tells me you are ripe. That now is the time to create an heir that will secure my claim to the title of king more surely than anything else. No one need know it was conceived prior to a legitimate union.’
I think he will press his lips upon mine. He does not.
He turns his face away from me as he pushes his body against mine and his hair clings to my cheek. It smells of blood and death and the greasy odour of men I will come to recognise. Cold hands, coarse and unkind, cause me to utter a small cry. He does not seem to notice my discomfort; that I try to wriggle from his grasp. He pushes me toward the bed and I let him. I lie down. Tears roll from the corners of my eyes and into my hair. There is a moment of silence and I think perhaps he has gone. Then I hear the contents of his stomach slop into a pan on the floor.
When he has finished, he collapses onto the bed beside me. I wait, knowing he will want to finish what he began. He does not move so I stay silent, hopeful that he is asleep and I can somehow escape this room. I wait, not daring to move for fear of waking him.
A grunt.
He rolls nearer and I scorn myself for not having left sooner as acid and mead linger between us.
‘When I return from Briton,’ he repeats, ‘then we will wed.’
‘You have only just returned from Briton,’ I say, for our warriors rarely go back across the waters so soon.
‘The Bloodshields will leave on the next tide.’ His beard, flecked with yellow beads, brushes my chin. His eyes are closed. ‘The Britons refuse to pay tribute.’
‘The tribute that secures their safety from all of the Irish kings and lords?’ I murmur. There are many tributes paid between our tribes and those of foreign lands. Much coin exchanged for reasons some can no longer remember.
He turns away from me.
‘Women do not understand the oaths and promises and agreements of men.’
It is as if he forgets what occupied his thoughts moments before. The conversation eases m
e and I am curious to know more of the tribute our neighbours across the sea refuse to pay. But I am more eager to delay what I know is inevitable.
‘My father and my uncles struck the deal,’ I say, ‘that the tribes of Ireland would not raid those on the coast of Briton if they paid us tribute. I know what was once agreed.’
Morholt snorts.
‘Your father was a fool to devote time to telling a daughter so much of what passes between him and his enemies. He would have better spent the time siring a son.’
‘Do they refuse to pay because my father is dead?’
‘Why else would they refuse?’ he says angrily, his eyes still closed, his brow furrowed. ‘They do not believe I can guarantee their safety now he is gone. They say your uncles and the other tribes of Ireland will not take heed of my word and the agreement would not be upheld. They would rather pay the tribute to them than to me.’
‘What will you do?’ I whisper.
Nothing. Then: ‘To whom?’ His words are murmured and I suspect he drifts into slumber. His breathing heavy between words.
‘What will you do,’ I say again, ‘to those who refuse to pay you tribute … to the Britons?’
I wait for an answer but none comes. His breathing deepens, rhythmic and peaceful, and I realise I am trembling.
I wonder if I should leave now and risk his displeasure should he remember my being here. Or stay until he wakes …
Chapter 9
Tristan
The cut on Rufus’ leg begins to fester. The physician prods and pokes and applies poultices of varying colours. I am told they will absorb the infection. Draw it from his leg, clean and calm the wound. The smell reminds me of rotten eggs. Rufus winces as the old man presses in, but makes no complaint.
‘I have seen the magic of medicine many times,’ I say to Rufus. ‘My mother once cut herself with a knife and your father’s physician worked wonders.’