by Smith, JD
It occurs to me now that Mark’s decision did indeed come after. That is why I am to fight the Irish Lord. To prove my worth as a man of Kernow, as the nephew of a great king. Or to perish at the hands of a more skilled warrior. To perish as did his son.
I re-enter the hall a while later. Those gathered look from the king seated at the top table to me, and back to their plates and the food I and the other warriors fight to protect. Mark does not acknowledge me. He speaks with his councillors and advisors. Buried in conversation. Planning our confrontation with Morholt.
‘Tristan?’ My mother looks at me through hopeful, watery eyes. I gather her frail body gently in my arms. Almost feel her breaking under the weight of news. ‘Mark has just announced that Rufus is dead,’ she says. Words distorted with distress.
I gaze over her shoulder at the people watching our embrace. Every part of me is numb. Her pain was brought by me. Not only did I fail to keep Rufus alive, but I am also the messenger. Bringing my mother nothing but grief.
She wipes her eyes, attempting to disguise the tears, to pretend she does not feel for the loss of little Rufus, the boy she brought up as her own after his own mother passed. How proud I am of her bravery, of the self-respect evident in the lift of her chin. The hard line of a mouth that scolded us both as children.
‘What will Mark do?’ she says. ‘I tried to speak with him as soon as he broke the news, but he will not talk to me. You have spoken with him. You must know what he plans now. What will happen? Who will become the next heir of Kernow?’
‘I do not know.’ My words are harsher than I intended. I grip her face in my hands and say, ‘I will speak with him further. He has much playing on his mind, Mother. Give him time.’
Time, I think. How we all need time.
Chapter 14
Iseult
Acha and I sit shivering, looking out at the grey waves. My warmer clothes, which I sorely need right now, are lying in the trunk below, so Acha and I have to huddle close for warmth. Weaponry fills the decks. Piles of swords and shields and spears and armour. We are the only two women aboard and the men sailing the boat ignore us. I hear Morholt barking orders, see him looking out over the bow, but he has yet to speak with me. Why I have been instructed to accompany him, I have yet to discover.
‘Do you think I am to be some sort of gift to the Britons?’ I ask Acha.
In truth I am scared that I am being sent to Briton and will not come back to my beloved Ireland, the lands of my father and my family, the ground upon which I played in my childhood. The soil my people have worked for centuries. Trapped on this boat I miss it already.
‘He wants you for himself,’ she replies. ‘And even if he didn’t, your uncles would wage war on the south if he sent you to Briton.’
She seems certain; more certain than me. I feel guilty that she has to make this journey with me, even though I know she would have come willingly given the choice. I do not tell her that I took a knife into Morholt’s rooms with the intent of killing him. A deluge of fear mixed with a trickle of hatred runs through my body at the memory of his touch and the sensation of his body pressed so closely upon mine, of the sound of him retching. I am both afraid of him and yet powerless to refuse him. In my cowardice I pray that someone else can make my worries disappear.
Acha puts her worn hands around my shoulder and hugs me to her.
‘If we are left in Briton, do you think my uncles would come for us?’ I ask.
‘Oh, my child, they would come if you were taken to the easternmost edge of the old empire, they would. Do not fret.’
Acha lies. My uncles care for their own wealth and their own lands. They have been happy to allow Morholt to rule and I know that if called upon them my safety and happiness would be considered after their own interests.
‘Of course,’ I say, and smile the same smile I give my mother when I do not wish to listen to her talk of our family’s decline.
I watch our people standing on the shore as they grow ever smaller, and despite my mother’s temperament, I do not wish to be leaving her. She is one of the strongest people I know.
We sail for what seems like days although the sky has yet to turn black and I know it is still morning. Still Morholt does not speak with me. Part of me is grateful not to have his attention, to pretend as always that I do not exist, but he has me on this boat for a reason, and I will know it soon enough.
The boat rolls with the waves and clouds mass in a dark shadow overhead. Fine rain clings to the hairs on my arms, and within moments the skies erupt in anger and water bounces from the deck and the heads and shoulders of the men who work on. I let it trickle down my face as I sigh because we are heading toward I place I do not know, to lands I have never seen, to meet savages I have never before met. I want time to slow, and yet run faster. Or maybe not pass at all.
Chapter 15
Tristan
Mark and I land on the Isle of Samson. The sun is still low and the sea unusually calm. I wonder briefly which way the gods will sway. Do they favour us or the enemy? Have they ceased the rain and wind to watch us as we amuse them, mortal men playing out a game on the hard ground with tools that could no more kill a god than find us peace? How they must laugh at us.
Screeching birds disturb the quiet of this uninhabited stretch of earth. The larger islands surrounding us provide little cover. So far out from the mainland we are exposed. I do not like waiting here.
This is the first time I have stood on Samson’s Isle. There is little reason to come here, and it is of no use to pirates or smugglers with its lack of provision. The island is formed of two hills: one south, one north. We land on the north hill. A dozen men in all, though more wait on board ship. Eurig and the other nine warriors settle themselves on the coarse grass. Make a fire to stave off the cold.
‘How long will we wait for them?’ I ask Mark. He stands beside me, studiously fastening a clasp at the front of his great cloak to stop it billowing in the wind. I notice the armour beneath. He is prepared. He knows that even if I win this fight and kill Morholt, we will likely face the anger of his followers.
‘Morholt agreed on today,’ Mark replies.
‘You think he will come?’
The king looks out across the waters to our right, searching for the Irish boat on the horizon. ‘The wind is in his favour so I can see no reason for him to delay. He wants this opportunity as much as we do, remember. I suspect our tribute is more important to him than it was to his predecessor. He needs to pay his warriors and it will have cost him dearly to command enough to gain the position he is in now. If, as I think he intends, he wishes to conquer more lands in Ireland, he needs gold.’
‘I had not thought of that. Is Oswyn to warn the northern Irish lords?’
Mark lets slip a victorious grin.
‘When it comes to the fight —’ I say.
‘There is no need to talk of it now.’
I let my impatience simmer for a moment. Mark seems not to notice. I know he is right, that there is little point in speaking of that which is to come. But I want to know in my mind how this confrontation will play itself out.
‘Did you speak with your mother?’ he asks. The tension between us eases. There is a care between him and his sister, but the bond is not a strong one. He would leave her to dry her own tears in the dark, night after night. He is unable to share precious moments. Moments that would bring them both a little comfort if only he would put an arm about her shoulders and reassure her of vengeance. He cannot admit, even to himself, the feelings of loss which I know haunt him. The same loss that haunts me now.
‘I have spoken with her,’ I say.
Mark begins to walk along the ridge of the hill. Eurig makes to follow him. ‘It is all right, Eurig,’ Mark says. ‘Stay here and keep a lookout for their boat. I am not going far.’
He continues on, talking, so I sense I am to follow.
‘Your mother feels too much for people, Tristan. She must be stronger if she wishes to ove
rcome the great sadness which has found us.’
He is right. Death is something we must all accept. Men die in battle every day. Women in childbirth. Children of sickness that cannot be eased. We feel loss, but we move on, continue life and fight the next battle. Fight more carefully. Am I strong enough to put Rufus’ death behind me and make amends? I know I am. It is the guilt which consumes me, the unknown. The forgiveness I seek.
‘You are right, Mark. We must all be strong,’ I say. ‘But you know she cared for him as her own. She cared for him the moment the cord was cut from his mother. She treated him as if he were my brother, without exception.’
I expect a flinch of regret. The stir of a memory at the mention of his dead wife. I want him to show something, but there is nothing as he looks thoughtful and rubs the pommel of his sword.
‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘Perhaps it might be best if she were sent away for a while. She could go to the priory. There she can avoid the talk that pains her.’
I almost choke on my disbelief at his words. He does not understand the simple difference kind words from him would make to her. She need not be sent away. And Mark has never cared which way others pray, which gods they favour. He himself is disbelieving in their powers, swaying toward the Christian God. But to send my mother to a priory, with the Christian monks pressing upon her their pitiful beliefs?
I stop. Look at Mark, my king, as if the monks have addled his mind whilst I fought in Dumnonia.
‘She believes in the old gods.’ I hear the scorn in my voice, knowing that my uncle will have heard it too. ‘She needs us. Her family. She needs to be close.’
Mark nods slowly. ‘I have always watched over her, Tristan. I do only what I think is best.’
‘Then let her stay in Travena, at Tintagel, with people that she knows. It is her home.’
‘Damn it, Tristan, you can be impertinent when it suits you. Your mother needs to be cared for properly. You know she has not spoken to me with a civil tongue since I sent you and Rufus to Dumnonia?’
‘You sent her son and nephew to war. We went willingly. We were both eager to see an end to the Saxon invasion. We did our duty to you and to the people of Kernow. But what did you expect from her?’
‘I expected her to stand by my decision,’ he replies, his voice calm but cold. ‘If the king’s own kin will not stand by his decisions, then he has little hope of his men doing his bidding.’
‘Your warriors are loyal to you. They always have been, and it is not because you pay them,’ I reply, stung on behalf of us all. ‘You are respected by both your family and your subjects because you are a king. A king that shows them victory and keeps them safe. In war, when have you ever been questioned? When has anyone gone against your command?’
In a low voice he says, ‘Never. Not yet. But the day will come.’
Mark shields his eyes against the wind and looks out on the sea with distaste. I do the same. At first I see nothing. Then, where the clouds dip to meet the sea, the dark blur of a boat forms.
‘The Irish?’ I say.
‘I should think so.’
Eurig bellows from behind us. I turn and shout: ‘We see them!’
‘I do not wish to argue with you, Tristan. Let us walk further. It will take them a while to reach the island and there is something I need to discuss with you before they do.’
Curious, I wait for him to say more.
‘You have been wondering what I will do now I have no heir?’
‘I think we all have.’
He smiles. A sad smile, as if aware that the people of his kingdom care more for the knowledge of who their next king will be than for his son.
‘Oswyn would be the natural choice,’ he says, not even mentioning his bastard born. ‘There is much to commend him.’
He speaks the name of my cousin as a question. Does he want my approval, knowing that Oswyn and I have never been close? That I could never follow or acknowledge a selfish man as my king?
‘You have many warlords in your service, men who would see the chance of becoming successor as an honour. Who would do whatever it took to prove themselves worthy. It is up to you which one you choose.’
Mark listens as I speak, nodding his head slowly. ‘I need someone who knows the people of Kernow. I always thought Rufus would fill that role well. He was a caring boy, much like your mother. Too caring, perhaps. He did not display the skills of a warrior, or at least he never appeared to use them. I have struggled for some time to envisage him leading men, and I am aware that others have thought the same. His death, although unfortunate, has saved me from having to make the hard decision of appointing a successor in his place whilst he lived. I have thought on it for some months, and I need someone who is not afraid to make decisions, even ones that would prove unpopular with the people of Kernow, if they were the right decisions. I need someone strong and determined to follow me. Someone who can scourge Briton of the Saxons and keep the Irish at bay when I am gone. What do you say, Tristan?’
I am not listening to Mark fully, thinking instead on his words that he would have replaced Rufus regardless. His own son. A decision a king would have to make. But to be grateful for his death because it avoids the shame that others might witness his admittance of siring a son that the gods chose not to make fit for his father’s role, it is a pitiful thought.
Mark is looking at me, awaiting my response with searching eyes.
‘I agree. You need someone strong. Oswyn is a strong warrior and I believe he would lead warbands against our enemies as well as he has ever done.’
Mark gives a small laugh. ‘You misunderstand, Tristan. I am asking you to take the title of king after me. Will you?’
Realisation dawns. Uncomfortable with my stupidity, I look to the ground then out to sea. The Irish are nearer. Much nearer. Fighting Morholt is not only a chance to make amends for Rufus’ death. I am to prove myself worthy of succession.
‘On one condition,’ I say.
‘What is that?’
‘Forgive me.’
‘Forgive you for what?’
‘Rufus. I should have done more to protect him.’
Mark pulls a hand through his beard. He looks almost angry.
‘Rufus is dead, Tristan. It was not your sword that struck him down and you did not send him to the frontier so incapable of defending himself, lacking the skill to fight as you and my other warriors can fight. I did. Nothing now can change that. Forgiveness is not something you ever need ask of me.’
Chapter 16
Iseult
The ragged sea pulls us towards the shore. What am I in all of this? I wonder. Morholt intends to send his most feared warrior to fight for the tribute he wants. Am I therefore not a bargain or token or gesture between their people and ours? Will I return with Morholt to my beloved Ireland?
There are six men and Acha and myself in one boat, and eight men in another. Morholt is wearing all of his armour and holds a shield painted with the blood of our enemy. We are heading toward their land now; to the kin of the men whose blood coats our warriors’ shields.
‘Morholt, look, they are here,’ one of our men says.
At the opposite end of the small island the mast of a ship waves above the low hill like a giant with a rag.
‘They will have the tribute with them,’ Lord Morholt grunts.
‘You will kill them even if they do?’ the man asks.
‘If we kill them they will not send tribute next year, nor the year after.’ I half imagine I see him glance to me as he speaks. ‘Use your head, you fool.’
‘They should pay a price for their insolence,’ the man persists.
‘No! The King of Kernow will be on the island himself. Massacre them after they pay tribute and there is no guarantee the next ruler of this forsaken sliver of Briton will be any more amenable than this one. This is the better way. At least this king seems to honour his word. We will win, and he will not break his honour. Our greatest warrior will face the greatest of the K
ernish men if they continue to resist us. If they offer tribute, we take it.’
The other man looks as if he would argue with our lord, but he turns away and watches the island.
‘You are about to meet a king of Briton,’ Morholt says to me. He sneers and I see his teeth, stained with age, and in my mind relive the moment in his chambers when his breath rolled across my face.
The sea is bobbing our boat up and down and up and down and I feel my stomach turn with each movement. I sit silent, attempting to steady myself and stop my head from whirling. Once I know I won’t spill my stomach over the side of the boat I look up at Morholt. He is amused by me. To him I am both his future queen and his plaything.
‘Which king, my Lord?’ I ask, wanting only to break the look he gives me.
Morholt makes a guttural sound and rests his foot on the side of the boat. ‘The King of Kernow. Your father should have pressed him harder, as I do now. The tribute he negotiated was barely enough to make the journey between our land and theirs worthwhile.’ He leans toward me. ‘Your father does not have the chance to press anyone harder now.’
I want to spit at Morholt for his slight against my father, spoken with purposeful cruelty and intention to torment. My father’s choices were for our benefit; for the prosperity of us all. Our new lord is not the same man. I am looking into the eyes of my father’s killer. A man who murdered his king not only for his lands and position, his wealth and power, but because he enjoys disturbing the balance. He longs to create chaos.
So I say nothing, my lips tight against retort. My words would only prove something worthy of ridicule to him or earn me a blow.
‘Kernow’s neighbours yield easily to my rule,’ he says, watching me as if seeking my feelings. ‘They are more sensible men than those of Kernow. This king, though ... this king does not like to play our game. He refuses to give up what he knows he eventually must.’
He is no longer speaking to me, but to himself. The men in our boat growl their agreement.