Tristan and Iseult

by Smith, JD

  Chapter 24

  Iseult

  My stomach swims with nervousness on this boat with strangers. But even so I feel safer than I have felt since my father’s death. Does the King of Kernow realise what he has done for me? I am compelled to thank him, and promise myself I will make my gratitude known, that I will do my utmost to see him rewarded for his actions as hot tears threaten to tumble.

  Looking across the sea to our destination I feel the eyes of the Britons upon me. My cheeks grow warm and I resolve to continue looking out and pretend I do not notice. My curiosity is strengthened by my pull toward these people, and eventually I turn to see the young warrior, Tristan, looking at me and smiling. It is reassuring and I feel myself relax as any uncertainty ebbs away. I smile back.

  We reach the mainland and I see the monstrous building of stone that must be the Kernish stronghold. It rises from the rocks, daunting and fierce. Lord Morholt called these people savages and I supposed them to live in squalor, but I see they do not. I make sense of it now. These people on their island are falling to invaders just as Morholt fell in the fight between him and King Mark; they are people and they are not so different from us.

  King Mark orders the men off the boat and we trudge towards the castle. Acha slips on the mud and before I have chance to double back to help her, Tristan curls his arms beneath hers and hauls her up.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ he warns, ‘we have had rain for weeks.’

  ‘As have we,’ I say as I wait for them. ‘Rain enough to drown a thousand men.’

  I realise the stupidity of my words, speaking of drowning men and the implication that I might imply I wish it of those who killed my lord. I want to tell him that is not what I meant, to correct myself, but I find the feeling of stupidity increases.

  ‘You look half drowned yourself,’ he replies.

  For a moment I am taken aback, before I realise he jests. We both chuckle. These Britons, it seems, are an easy people with whom to speak.

  Acha pulls her arm from Tristan’s grasp and plods on. As the laughter ends I hear the sky hum, promising rain. I think of walking along the shore in Ireland, savouring the feel of water on my face and the freshness of the air, and by contrast the comfort of a warm blanket when I returned home. I think of it, though I do not yearn for it as I had. Curiosity of this place and its people interest me in a way I never thought they could.

  I take hold of my skirts and increase my pace up the embankment. Acha is on one side, murmuring curses at the physicality of the walk, and Tristan strides easily on my other side.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘What is your place? You are important amongst the Kernish people?’

  ‘I am a warrior.’

  I grin. ‘That is a little obvious.’

  Tristan glances at me but it seems my jests are not as well received.

  ‘You and King Mark, you appear close.’

  ‘I am Mark’s nephew.’

  It makes sense now, why he and the king are at ease with one another. Then he says with a wry smile, ‘Perhaps I do look like a warrior, but you do not look like a princess.’

  I laugh, long and without restraint; forgetting everything. Tristan looks a little unsure and I regain myself.

  ‘My mother always said I looked like any one of the girls in our tribe. Even so, I have never been called a princess amongst our people. A woman of the blood, the daughter of a king, the errant girl who walks the beach at night and would rather live in the wild than with my people, or simply Iseult. But never once a princess.’

  ‘If you looked more like one, they might.’

  ‘With my hair coiled and my skirts not so dirty?’

  ‘You’ll not have clean skirts walking in Briton.’

  I lift my chin and look at him and say: ‘Holding my head a little higher than the common people? As if I desire to be liked and respected as a superior when I have no wish to be either?’ They are all points my mother has made many times, always wanting me to act more as she does, more like a future queen.

  Tristan’s face is unreadable and I think perhaps I have gone too far, that our exchange has become too serious. Perhaps I offend him.

  ‘None of those things,’ he says.

  ‘And so what does one look like, warrior of Kernow?’

  ‘A lot less beautiful.’

  Chapter 25

  Tristan

  My compliment is light. A gesture to ease the girl. I expect her to laugh, but she does not. The evening is gloomy, yet I know she is embarrassed by my words. I am not. I realise I speak true. She is something … unexpected.

  Her wide eyes no longer meet mine. They flicker ahead and to her maid. Reflecting the last light, her discomfort. She is right, her hair is not coiled, hanging loose and tangled. It is an unkempt, uncaring presence. I take in her appearance. A bright face. Eyes unsure and observant. An expression of intrigue adopted when at ease. And I know she is more beautiful still for her banter. Her humour. Her ability to both charm and offend in a few words. The smile I cannot help but share.

  The enemy.

  I should ask of her family. The uncles whom Oswyn speaks with as I walk beside their niece. The niece of kings as I am nephew of a king.

  I go to speak, but cannot order my words.

  ‘It is hard, to lose your lord,’ I say at last.

  ‘To lose a lord or be a captive?’ she asks.

  ‘Both.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You know as much of our people as I know of yours. I was told you are savages.’

  ‘And what do you find?’

  A playful smirk.

  ‘Why do you want to know what I find hard?’

  ‘It is a pleasant way of asking your position. Whether you were wed to Morholt. What your value is. If your uncles would see fit to pay a ransom for you, or negotiate a new treaty. In what situation your people find themselves now their lord is dead. All things you will be asked when we reach Tintagel, whether you wish to be asked or not.’

  She looks scornful as she replies. ‘Your king does not know what he has saved me from. However I am treated by your people, it will be nothing to being the wife of Morholt. I had longed for his death.’

  Kill him.

  ‘And to my uncles I mean little. I once thought they cared for their blood-bonds, that if my mother and I called upon them, they would see Morholt as a traitor. But he raided and he ruled and caused them no trouble. I thought that all our people hated Morholt, for his cruelty and because he killed my father, but we are — we were — much wealthier under his rule. And so I realise now I was the only person to mourn my father. Even my mother is more concerned with her own position and interest to spare a thought for him.’

  ‘Are you sure Morholt would not have been seen as a traitor if your uncles knew he had killed their brother?’

  She shrugs. ‘My mother does not believe so.’

  ‘Mark has sent men to speak with them,’ I say. ‘Before he and Morholt agreed to fight. To see if they would curb your lord and honour the terms of our treaty.’

  She nods and looks at our castle scraping the heavens. What does she think? That we should have paid the tribute because we could? Because we do not live in squalor as she presumed? Even in her hatred of Morholt, does she think her people entitled to the tribute we once paid? Who am I to need the satisfaction of that knowledge; to know what she thinks of us? She is a child of the Irish and she will return to them.

  Mark casts a casual glance over his shoulder. He will no doubt wonder how forthcoming the girl is. What kind of a peace might be found. Not knowing that the girl, if she speaks the truth, is worth less than a piece of Saxon scum.

  ‘What will happen to us?’ she asks.

  I see her maid look intently at me. I falter. It is not my choice what happens, perhaps not even Mark’s. It will depend on the Irish kings and their decision. Do I say more empty words, more worthless assurance to her as I did my friend?

  ‘I have no w
ay of knowing.’ I watch her as I speak. She already knows I can give her no answers. That there are no answers to be had. We live in a world where the only surety is that promises are made and broken.

  The day is almost snuffed out. My eyes strain against the dark. We are picking up pace and the castle is close. The girl Iseult is quiet beside me. I can think of nothing to say either. It matters not. It is an easy silence; as familiar as scouting the Dumnonian frontier with Rufus.

  We reach the castle. My mother runs across the courtyard to greet us. She takes the wad of cloth from Mark’s cheek and I hear her gasp. She presses the cloth back and kisses his other cheek. Then she falls into a clumsy embrace with me. She is shaking. I feel the damp of her cloak and know she has stood on the ramparts waiting for our return.

  ‘Calm, mother. There is no damage done.’

  She whimpers and gabbles into my shoulder. ‘Do not leave again, Tristan. I cannot bear it. Please do not leave again, my son.’

  I stroke her wet, braided hair and hold her tightly. When she is ready, I let her go. She gives a small sigh then turns to the two Irish women.

  ‘Welcome to our home,’ she says as brightly as she can. ‘My name is Isabel.’ She does not know them. There has been no introduction, but that is the way of my mother.

  The two women dip into a curtsy.

  ‘No need for that, my child,’ my mother says. ‘Come inside and we shall find you food and warm, dry clothes and chambers. They will be with us for a while, Mark?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Come then.’

  I know by the way my mother puts her arm on Iseult’s shoulder that she has adopted herself a daughter. She is a mother to all lost souls, and I think how alike the two women might be.

  Chapter 26

  Iseult

  Acha and I are given separate rooms and yet we stay in the same bed on our first night with the Kernish. I know as I lie on the soft mattress that I am no longer afraid. I wonder if my mother worries for me. Whether she knows more than I did of the Britons across the sea and trusts I am safe and well.

  I think of King Mark and his bravery, facing Morholt and the wound he has suffered. I do not know what will happen to Acha and me, whether we will be returned to Ireland. But I think no harm will come to us in this castle on the coast of a land I had once thought savage. It was our men who were savage; I see that now, the great castle stood proud and strong against the sea-storms raging, holding wealth my people desired. I wonder who will command the men of my homeland now Morholt is gone, and whether his men returned to the island to take his body home. No woman will taste the stench of his breath or his rage, no man will feel his blade tear them in two, and for that I am thankful.

  And I think of the young nephew, of Tristan. I think of the way he caught Acha as she fell and his jests, and of his wanting to prove himself against Morholt. He is a troubled man, I know. I sense his mind does not rest easy nor does sleep come to him. I think of his eyes staring at me as our lords fought and his thoughts no longer interest me. I find myself instead searching my own memory for the colour of those eyes that watched me. My mind lingers on the way he held his mother and stroked her hair, offering her a comfort I remember my father giving me. I imagine his firm embrace, the sudden safety I find myself in tenfold, and I am there in his arms as I drift into undisturbed slumber.

  I wake to sunshine pouring through the thin windows of our room and I wonder if the gods favour me this day, if the fine weather is an omen to precede a new life here in Kernow.

  Acha is already awake and dressed. She is folding and sorting and hanging.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘A gift, from the king’s sister.’

  I crawl sleepily from the bed and stand beside Acha to inspect the gifts we have been given. The dresses are beautiful. Isabel’s own? I am not sure. To whomever they belong I am grateful to have something to wear, for my own clothes are soiled and torn and wet from the day before and many days of sleeping beside the sea.

  ‘We should be careful of the gifts we accept,’ Acha says as I step into a gown she holds for me. ‘We are not guests here, we are prisoners.’

  ‘We are not treated as prisoners, Acha.’

  ‘That may change.’ Her mouth is stern and pinched so that her lips wrinkle as if sucking something bitter. How wrong she is.

  We are escorted through the castle and to a room where a small fire burns in a hearth, despite the spring day. There is a table and a dozen or more chairs, and I sit as close to the fire as I can, for my bones are still damp-cold. Acha stands waiting. She does not feel as comfortable as I, not knowing why we have been called to wait in this room.

  A few moments pass and the king himself enters. I stand quickly and curtsey, and he ushers me to sit, that there is no need for such formalities. He sits close to the fire so that there is barely an arm’s reach between us, and I look at the wound on his face. Small, neat stitches tie the cut together, and I wonder whose precise hand it was that tended him last night. I am responsible, I feel, for he saved me, even though he would have fought Morholt whether I was present or not.

  ‘My Lord, I must thank you —’

  ‘Finding chambers fit for a king’s daughter is not worthy of gratitude. You have my sister to thank for the clothes she has found for you. My late wife would approve, I think, that her gowns were put to use.’

  I see sadness glimmering in green eyes and I will a tear so that I can wipe it away as I pressed cloth to his wound, and feel suddenly conscious of the fabric which skims so perfectly my body. He is watching me, or perhaps he sees his dead wife sat before him. I want to speak but I am unsure what to say, to feel.

  ‘I will thank her then, when I see her next.’

  The king appears to stir from a trance.

  ‘I must understand your situation in Ireland.’ He glances to Acha. ‘It is important we know what we face and how amenable your uncles in the north of Ireland might be to another treaty. My nephew already discusses terms with them, but they will not yet know of Morholt’s death. They did not support him, I think?’

  King Mark desires peace. His voice, the softness edged with hope and desperation tells me so. He wants to spare his people the raiding Morholt subjected them to, and I cannot blame him. He must know, too, that I can offer him little. My knowledge does not extend to the desires our northern kings may have. They did not come south when my father was killed. They offered my mother and me neither hope nor protection.

  ‘I am afraid, Lord King, that I can offer you no insight. Lord Morholt was a man whose greed preceded all else. I had thought my uncles would protect us, but we have heard nothing since my father’s death.’

  ‘Iseult …’ He seems unsure of himself. A man, I know already, who is always sure of everything; as the sun rising and setting and the winter that will see the weakest of his kingdom perish. ‘… you were married to Lord Morholt?’

  ‘I was not.’

  King Mark nods, and I look at his hair, almost black and combed back from his high forehead. His cheeks are sunken, as if slumped in a chair after a day’s work in the fields. His hands rest gently on his knee.

  ‘I will wait for my nephew, Oswyn, to return from your uncles in the north before taking any further course of action. I fear you must suffer our damp halls and Kernish food a little longer. You have everything you need?’

  ‘You have already been more than kind.’

  ‘You are no prisoner here, Iseult. Either of you,’ he says, looking to Acha. ‘You are free to come and go as you please.’

  Free to come and go as I please, he says, and I feel tears forming a hazy film over my eyes and my throat tightens. Does he know, this man, this king, what he gives to me? A freedom I thought I would never have. I cannot speak.

  King Mark does not wait for my response. I may cause him discomfort, I think, and he stands and leaves the room without another word. And I am left alone with Acha. She comes to me and holds me as she knows the relief I feel, that at lea
st, for now, I am safe in this castle of our enemy. Our enemy. I laugh into Acha’s shoulder at that. She pulls away from me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We are being treated as queens in our enemy’s castle and lands,’ I say.

  I see a rare moment of relief spread over her face also and I know in that moment no matter what happens from this time forward, we will stay in Kernow.

  And never return to Ireland.

  Chapter 27

  Tristan

  Mark waits and so do I. Mark because he wants an end to the Irish feud, to know what news Oswyn will bring with his return. I wait because the presence of the Irish girl unnerves me, causes a sense of dread.

  She sits in the great hall each night. Her smile brings merriment to those around her. Her hair shines silver, no longer tangled with mud and seaweed and salt-damp. I see her cheeks rose under the gaze of our men. When I watch her too long my heart grows heavy and I think of Rufus; drifting out to sea, flames defying the water upon which they dance. Iseult’s laughter has replaced his. Her light makes others forget. But my heart is torn. Her innocence can never bring Rufus back across the lake with the Ferryman. He is waiting now in the feasting hall. I see him. Laughing just as Iseult does now, joking with the men, causing the cheeks of the women to warm.

  I sit, thinking of Rufus and Iseult with barely a thought for my future reign over Kernow. I wonder how serious Mark is. Was his decision spurred by fear of defeat when fighting Morholt? I see the men, they look at me differently. I am no longer simply the King’s nephew. One day I will sit where Mark sits now, and know I accepted the throne only because I want to save our kingdom from Oswyn’s rule.

  Mark smiles. The only time I have seen the sorrow of losing Rufus lift since I gave him the news. Iseult stands and walks to the harp in the corner of the room. She has told Mark she plays, and when she sits and her hands touch the strings I hear music to rival the larks’ voice in the forests as I silently wait for deer or Saxon enemy.