Tristan and Iseult

by Smith, JD

  ‘My mother was surrounded by them in childbirth,’ Rufus replies through clenched teeth. ‘And yet she died.’

  ‘She was trying to give birth to a baby the size of a cow. It is no wonder!’

  ‘Do not speak of her like that,’ Rufus says, and I know he is worried. Such talk would usually make him laugh.

  ‘All right,’ I say, and hold up my hands in surrender. ‘No more cow jests.’

  ‘I will have an impressive scar,’ he says with a pained smile.

  ‘The women will be fawning over you,’ I reply with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘To them you will be known as King Rufus the Brave, with the heroic battle scar on his thigh. They will be crawling over one another to have your bastard offspring. And to the men you will be known as Little Rufus, the warrior with the big fat scar on his leg because he could not move away from a Saxon blade fast enough. I congratulate you, well done!’

  Rufus howls with laughter and pain. I laugh too. The physician mutters at the pair of us to keep quiet and for Rufus to stay still until he has finished.

  ‘Will he survive?’ I ask the physician.

  I glance across to Rufus as I speak. He sleeps now. Fitful and sweating out the infection which tries to take hold. I have yet to send word to his father. I want to ensure Rufus is recovering and that I have positive news before I write that despatch.

  ‘The infection is not too serious.’ He nods slowly. An old man from the northern lands, he speaks with a strange accent compared to us southern Britons.

  ‘He will survive?’

  ‘He should live.’

  ‘Then I owe you thanks.’

  ‘Do not thank me so soon. We may yet have to remove the leg.’

  I close my eyes as the old man turns to grind and mix more of his healing compounds. I have known men lose a hand and still be able to strap a shield to their arm and hold a sword in the other, and stand in a shield wall with their fellow warriors. But never a leg.

  ‘You know who he is?’ My words part warning, part desperation. ‘His father will reward you if you save his limb. Rufus is to be King of Kernow one day. The people will think the gods show disfavour if a cripple leads them; if he becomes king at all …’

  The old man looks at me with misty eyes, as though he sees all my thoughts and worries.

  ‘It makes no difference to me,’ he says. ‘King or no king, I cannot change the will of any god, only help your friend along their path.’

  The gods, I think. The Christian, the pagan: how they like to watch us suffer. How they like us to amuse them in their kingdoms as they feast on the courses of our mortal lives.

  ‘Then help the gods,’ I say. ‘Do what you can for him.’

  The next day I ride out with King Geraint to observe the enemy. The bastards stretch the entire eastern frontier. Remains of hasty camps are everywhere; raided villages, merchants telling of sightings. Merchants who trade with the enemy.

  The sun is low in a pink sky and the shepherds will savour the day to follow. They shall see their herds more clearly without the mist. Beside me, Geraint rides stiffly. He is not so old, but a hard blow to his chest during the battle, and more than one broken rib, causes him discomfort.

  ‘Do you think Mark will send more men if I ask him?’ he says.

  I realise now why he asked me to ride out with him. I thought it might be to speak of Rufus. Instead he still presses for more men from his neighbouring kingdom.

  ‘I cannot say, my Lord. We are few enough as it is. Mark has already sent many men to aid Dumnonia’s frontier.’

  ‘He has, and I thank him for that. Also remember that I pay for his spearmen and his service. But Mark holds a good many more warriors. He can spare them, I know it.’

  I ignore the claim that he pays Mark for his spears, for I know he does not. Geraint wants a number; a surety of how many men can come to his aid. It is not my place to make such promises. I also know that Mark could not promise him more. He is tied to guarding our sea-face, and we have problems enough of our own.

  The horses start to whinny. Fog begins to draw in as the sky grows dull and the day cold.

  ‘We should head back to camp, my Lord.’

  ‘The spears, Tristan ap Mark — how many does Kernow have?’

  I pull my horse round with impatience.

  ‘With respect, he has given you all he can spare. Mark has warriors, it is true, but many of those are seamen off our coast. The rest of our spears keep peace in our country. Yet more defend northern frontiers. He cannot give you what he does not have. If the Irish take Kernow, you will have more than just the Saxon to contend with.’

  ‘Damn it, Nephew of Mark. If Dumnonia falls, Kernow falls too. Or has Mark forgotten what our kingdoms face?’

  I bite my tongue at his unfair words. I am here and I fight as I have been asked to, as I have trained to. He should address Rufus or Mark with these requests, not me. Nevertheless I feel myself pulled into the politics of this king.

  ‘You have allies in the north,’ I say. ‘You will have sent despatches. What do they say?’

  Geraint pats his horse. The beast is becoming ever more fractious.

  ‘We have not heard from most of the lords as yet. Those who have replied say all their men are occupied at their own frontiers. They do not understand. We are small and yet we are hit so much harder.’

  ‘Yet their frontiers are larger,’ I say.

  The day is short. We begin to pick our way back to the camp before darkness falls once more. Geraint holds on to his side as we cross an uneven patch of ground. He grunts in pain.

  ‘I concede, their frontier is larger, but that does not help us.’

  I do not wish to speak of it any longer. There is nothing I can do — nor anything Mark can do — to aid further.

  ‘What of Mark’s son?’ I ask.

  A flicker of regret passes over Geraint’s face.

  ‘I will arrange an escort to take him back to Kernow. If your king had come himself, instead of sending his son, this would not have happened.’

  ‘I will travel back with Rufus,’ I say, ignoring him. ‘I need to report back to Mark.’

  Geraint scowls. ‘And what do you intend to report?’

  ‘The truth, my Lord: that we have been successful so far, but that the Saxon grow in number. I will ask him if he can spare more men, but I can promise nothing.’

  That night I return to Rufus’ tent. He is sleeping and so I bunk down beside him, pull a woollen blanket over myself. His skin looks pale and clammy and hair clings to his forehead in wet rings. I try not to worry. Instead I wonder what Mark will say when I tell him King Geraint presses for yet more spears. I wonder too how our own frontier holds.

  ‘Tristan?’

  Rufus’ eyes are closed but he is moving his head as if trying to sense where I am.

  ‘You need rest. Go back to sleep,’ I snap.

  ‘It is so cold,’ he murmurs.

  ‘I know.’ I pull another blanket over him. ‘That should be warmer. This is going to be a hard winter.’

  He drifts back to sleep. I lie awake as I always do. If sleep could take hold, the hours would slide by easily. Yet I am awake in the depth of night and they stutter and stall as I lie here next to Rufus, as if time does not move at all. I am alone as others are captured by slumber; the only living being in a camp of men who sleep like the dead.

  Too many thoughts seethe through my mind: haunting flashes of battle, death strokes grazing my armour, screaming, crying, cursing, wailing … the relief at the end when there were no enemy left and I knew those standing would live another day.

  I am anxious to return to Kernow. Mark knows nothing of his son’s injury, and even though the Dumnonian physician seems knowledgeable, I would rather Rufus was cared for by our own people. I curse myself over and over for not keeping him as safe as I should have done. He was lucky to survive so many encounters without injury; all those who still remain are. But it matters not. The gods, who revel in chaos, choose our paths fo
r their own amusement and there is nothing we can do to change it. No persuasion or sacrifice can bend their will. No prayers or worship will change their course. Rufus’ path is already laid out before him.

  Dawn shows itself, and the night seems a long time gone; a week or more. The darkness fades, the light regains its rightful place, and I know I was alone for all of those dark hours.

  It is morning and Rufus is dead.

  Chapter 10

  Iseult

  I pad barefoot to the doorway and open it with my breath held for fear of making a sound. There is no one waiting outside, and I take one last look at Morholt lying on the bed, the yellow contents of his stomach splattered on the floor and sour breath filling the room.

  I want to cry as I rush back to my rooms. Acha sleeps in our bed, turning and whimpering and I cross to a large cabinet on the far wall and run my hands over the doors and in the dark find the key that will open it.

  The door swings open and my gowns therein shimmer; the smell of stale fabric floating toward me. I draw it deep into my lungs and stoop down. Part the cloth. Find what I am looking for.

  Acha stirs.

  I close the cabinet and move quickly to her side and stroke her hair from her face and say: ‘Hush now, Acha. Hush now. It is all right. I am all right. Nothing has happened. Sleep ...’ I wait a moment to ensure she has drifted back into undisturbed slumber, then leave.

  As I walk back to Morholt’s rooms, my head is light and my limbs do not feel like my own. I know I must return there even though I do not want to, even though I wish I could slide beneath the sheets next to Acha and sleep all night and wake in the morning and for none of this to have happened.

  But it cannot be. I must return to Morholt.

  When I enter his room nothing has changed. He lies on his back with his head tilted to one side. I move to look closely at his face. Dark shadows around his eyes flutter and spittle drips from the corner of his mouth and onto the sheets.

  I think of spending night after night in this room with him, alone, knowing there is no escape, and from the folds of my gown I withdraw the short knife.

  When my father died, his friend opposed Morholt as leader of our tribe. Feidhelm was a man of honour and pride and had served my father well. Morholt had him pegged out over a rock so that he faced the gods and sliced his belly open. The dogs ate most of him, and the rest was left for the birds. He refused to scream even though pain contorted in his face. Our people were told that is what happens to those who do not follow his rule.

  My father came to me just before he died. He must have known his men were rebelling against him, and that Morholt wanted his position and his claim to the title of king. He stood in my room and pressed the blade into my hand as I sat on the bed. All he said to me was: ‘There are some things in this life we can stop. Others we cannot. Power is dangerous and can only be acquired by taking it from another.’

  He left, and two days later he was found dead in his rooms with nothing to suggest the cause.

  The blade was a gift from his father. He meant for me to keep it for its value, not its use. I think he wanted me to hide it so that I could keep something of his after he passed, and that Morholt would never find it. If he knew Morholt was going to kill him …

  Now I stand before Morholt, the blade clutched in my hand. I am looking at his throat where his beard is tangled and matted and I wonder how I am to pull the knife across it with so much hair and jewels in the way. I have seen men killed. Sometimes they die easily as their blood and life pours from them. Other times they struggle to remain in this world. I know which Morholt will do.

  I jump at a faint noise outside, but no other sound stirs and I realise it was nothing.

  Lifting my skirts I climb onto the bed and place the knife on the sheets and straddle him. I lean forward to pick up the blade and as I do so his eyes open.

  He groans, my stomach lurches, and I pull a nervous smile onto my face as I look down at him.

  ‘Iseult?’

  Unsure what to do, I lean forward as though to kiss him, his rotting breath strong, and at the last moment slide the dagger between the sheets. I am not brave enough or strong enough or sure enough to slice away his life now he has woken. He will overpower me, I am sure. And I am afraid he will find the dagger and know my intention, and have me whipped.

  Morholt pushes me from him before our lips touch, rolling me back onto the bed. He sits up, lets out a long growling yawn, and staggers across the room. He relieves himself in a bucket in the corner. With my eyes on his back, I fumble for the dagger, to conceal it in my skirts, but the folds of the sheets are a labyrinth in that moment and I cannot find it.

  ‘You are less attractive, Iseult, when you are compliant.’ The splashing in the bucket ceases, and he turns to face me. ‘You have no fire in you. You succumb to me as you succumb to your mother.’

  He nods in the direction of the door for me to leave. The dagger … I pause for a heartbeat, but he is watching me, so I hurry across the room as he takes up my position on the bed.

  ‘Or perhaps,’ he says, ‘you have more fire in you than I first gave credit for.’

  I stop. Dread overcomes me and I cannot breathe. I am facing the door and I feel myself grow cold. Footsteps behind me, then the cold of my own dagger presses against my throat.

  Morholt whispers in my ear: ‘Your father’s?’

  Unable to nod for fear of cutting myself, I say, ‘It is, my Lord.’

  ‘I remember it. Did you intend to kill me, Iseult?’

  ‘I did.’

  He laughs at that and drops the knife from my neck. ‘Take it.’

  I turn and see that he offers me the handle of the dagger. I grip the long bone handle. He lets go and spreads his arms wide.

  ‘Kill me,’ he says, laughing. ‘You want to kill me, so do it.’

  When I do not move, his jovial coaxing turns to anger.

  ‘I did not think so. I would have you killed if I did not want to whelp my sons on you. Your mother should have raised you to know more of the duty you owe your master. And do you know who that master is?’

  My face is now covered in his spittle and I feel my hands trembling. Every part of me wants to push the dagger forward, deep into his belly, and watch his life fade away. I hate him for my father’s death, for his greed, for his treatment of others, but most of all I cannot bear the thought of his naked body pressed upon mine.

  ‘You are, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘I am. I command the warriors. I have the strength of men to rule southern Ireland. And soon I will have a son with the blood of kings of old. Do you understand, you stupid, infantile creature? You are your father’s daughter, and that means only one thing to me: your blood is valued more highly than anyone else, and your fertile womb higher still.’

  I nod.

  ‘Keep the dagger,’ he says, smiling. ‘It will make you more interesting as a wife.’

  Chapter 11

  Tristan

  I recall how I clasped Rufus’ hand more tightly on the pommel of his sword and leant my forehead on our adjoined hands for a brief moment. How bitterness and frustration escaped my lips in a groaning sigh. His face was white and cold. Serene, I thought, in the early morning haze the new day drags.

  Now he takes passage with the ferryman. To claim his rightful place in the feasting hall of kings.

  We pass markers telling the distance to home. I take little notice as the roads bend and wind their way through forests of oak. A dozen men travel with me in uneasy silence. They are hit hard by our loss and the uncertainty of what will come.

  We are in Kernow now, I think. Dips and curves in the ground are familiar. At the head of our company a cart rumbles along the old Roman road. Therein Rufus’ body lies wrapped in linen, his sword heavy upon his chest. A box of coins from Geraint to Mark rests beside him. Geraint claims it is a gift. In reality it is compensation for the life of Mark’s son. For the heir to Kernow’s throne.

  I pond
er on what will come now Rufus is dead, how our paths in this life will change, anything to take my mind from picturing the look upon Mark’s face when he discovers the fate of his son. Mark has a bastard child whom he may put forward as future ruler. Then there is my elder cousin, Oswyn, who rightfully has claim. But Mark’s bastard is a sick whelp only twelve years of age who cannot be parted from his mother long enough to learn anything useful. And Oswyn cares more for his own wealth than he does for a kingdom’s prospects. In truth I know not what Mark will do.

  The nearer we come to home, the more I steel myself for the moment I break the news. Like a coward I thought of sending a messenger ahead. Yet I did not. Mark is like a father to me, and I have not honoured the trust he placed in me. I did not keep his son safe. And I am sick at the prospect that he may not forgive me.

  It has been months since I last felt the fresh sea air and heard the crash of waves on our coast. Chill wind bites hard and the never-ending wet fog shields our view of the land so it is doubtful we will see it this day. Feet, fingers and faces are numb as we trudge on. Racing the light. Pushing hard for home.

  My body is tiring and I contemplate making camp. But as the last of the sun illuminates the fog and trickles across the beaten ground, horsemen pull out of the darkness ahead. Shimmering black beasts in the distance.

  ‘We are home,’ I murmur, recognising Mark’s own men.

  Elation and resignation pull me apart.

  ‘Tristan.’ The first man to dismount nods his head. Leading his horse, he moves closer.

  Our party comes to a halt. Rain begins to drum on the ground.

  ‘Eurig,’ I say, and embrace the man before me, ‘it is good to see you.’

  ‘Gods, you are right about that.’ He pulls away with a glance to the sky. ‘What are you doing home so soon?’

  Eurig is a little older than me. Not a favourite of Mark’s with his quick wit and opinionated habits, but a favourite of mine. No man is truly honest save Eurig. He is a man who would spare his last coin for a dead enemy to pay the ferryman, when others would rather take out Saxon eyes with the tip of a knife so they cannot see their fellow men in the feasting halls in which we will all one day gather. In which Rufus waits now.