Tristan and Iseult

by Smith, JD

  I am lost in my thoughts and do not realise that with my arm wrapped around her waist my thumb strokes her stomach with a longing of years rather than days. I notice only when she places her hand over mine.

  I help my mother down from her horse. I do not think she has seen the intimacy which has passed between us, and does not comment upon it. She kisses my cheek, then Iseult’s, and leaves, her expression heavy with sorrow and troublesome thoughts. I am torn between staying with Iseult and ensuring my mother is well. I choose to stay.

  Now Iseult and I are alone again.

  We are stood in the castle courtyard. The sun has disappeared. We are illuminated only by the echo of the day and it lights Iseult’s hair so that if you breathed it might fly like a dandelion gone to seed. Should I take her hand in mine, I wonder. I want to, but I am unsure. I do not wish to make promises I cannot keep, or utter words of assurance for fear of shattering the dream. I must speak first with Mark.

  ‘It is late. I must ready for dinner,’ Iseult says.

  ‘You can find your rooms?’

  ‘I can.’

  I nod and turn to leave.

  ‘Tristan, wait.’

  She looks confused. Lost, even. Am I the cause?

  I step closer, put my hands upon her shoulders and kiss her forehead.

  She smiles at me and I leave her then. She does not say my name again nor halt my departure. I had thought to wait until tomorrow before seeking Mark, but I am compelled to talk with him this night.

  I walk the halls determined. The thought of waiting until after we have eaten to gain audience with Mark is unbearable. I know that he can give little assurance, even if he agreed to my proposal, but I am compelled to speak with him anyway.

  ‘Tristan!’

  Eurig runs to catch up with me.

  ‘What is it, friend?’

  ‘Oswyn has returned from Ireland,’ he says. ‘Mark asked me to find you.’

  I double back and we make our way to the council chambers.

  ‘What news does Oswyn bring?’

  ‘The kings of Ireland know of Lord Morholt’s fate. They are open to a new truce. That is as much as I know.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  ‘You would not think it to look at Oswyn’s face. I must warn you, Tristan, he knows of your being Mark’s heir. Tread carefully, your cousin is not a man you want to make an enemy of.’

  It is the first mention of my becoming heir that Eurig has made.

  ‘He will be an enemy either way. We have never agreed on anything.’

  ‘True. But you should not antagonise him.’

  ‘Me?’ I half laugh and Eurig smiles.

  ‘You have not made mention of Mark’s decision. You are always a man of opinion, Eurig, yet you do not have one now?’

  Eurig weighs me. Then says: ‘It was I who told Mark to make you heir. Rufus could never have been king, we both know that.’

  ‘You spoke with him of this before Rufus died?’ My voice has risen.

  ‘You asked my opinion, Tristan, and I have told you. I thought Kernow would do better under your rule than any other man after Mark.’

  My anger slips away. I shake my head.

  ‘I am grateful for your confidence, Eurig.’

  I open the door to the council chambers and look upon my cousin for the first time since the balance of power shifted. Many claim Oswyn and me to be twins. We are the same height, our long, rectangular faces angled with symmetry. We are the same but for our hair: his is dirty and yellow, mine is dark like Mark’s.

  He looks at me as I look at myself when I think of Rufus’ death, with disgust and anger.

  ‘Safe journey?’ I ask Oswyn.

  ‘Tedious. Talks with the Irish always are. I hear our cousin Rufus died fighting at your side.’

  I resist the urge to draw my sword and instead ask Mark:

  ‘What say the Irish?’

  Mark appears positive in his expression and almost joyous. Surely the Irish cannot have proposed a treaty so amenable as to lighten his mood? Then I glance at Oswyn and know from the humour laced with his hatred that he plots against me already.

  ‘The Irish kings learned of Morholt’s fate whilst Oswyn was at their court. It seems he was a common enemy, allowed to rule for a short time only because the northern Irish had yet to muster a force to quash him. Now that Morholt is dead, the northern kings will send a force to either encompass Morholt’s remaining supporters, or defeat them. One of Donnchadh’s brothers will move their army and rule the southern kingdoms.’

  ‘What of the treaty?’ I ask.

  It is Oswyn who answers, his voice taunting. ‘The old treaty and tribute will stand. As a gesture of goodwill, the Irish kings offer the hand of Donnchadh’s daughter to Mark, Kernow’s king.’

  His emphasis on the final word is unmistakeable, but I barely take note. The daughter of which Oswyn refers is Iseult. My head feels light. Sickness overwhelms. I need Mark to understand that if she is to marry a man of Kernow, it must be me.

  ‘Mark, might I speak with you?’ I find my voice is not as loud and sure as I intend, but he hears me. I note Oswyn takes a care to watch me.

  ‘Of course.’ He turns to Oswyn and grips his shoulders. ‘You are a good man. I am proud of you. I have named Tristan heir to my throne after me, but I think no less of you. No man could better serve.’

  Eurig serves better, I think, and it pains me to realise he is still in the room listening to the words Mark speaks, knowing as he must that he is as equal in loyalty and skill as Mark’s other nephew.

  Oswyn and Eurig leave the room. Mark and I are alone. As I attempt to form words, Mark speaks for me.

  ‘I know what you are thinking. She is Irish and I never expected a daughter of Ireland to become a queen of Kernow, but I feel it is a good solution; a benefit to the future. Might I be open with you, Tristan? This could be our chance to secure the peace I have longed for my whole life. Peace with the Irish, at least. But it’s not just peace with our enemies I crave, it is my own.’ He pauses. ‘I find the nights cold and my years are advancing more quickly than I had ever imagined. It is a long time since Rufus’ mother died.

  ‘I fear I burden you. I have named you heir and could yet take that away from you. Iseult has little choice, of course, on the fate her uncles have chosen for her, and I would never force her to a marriage she wholly refused, but I would like to think there is some affection between us, if only a certain respect.

  His words are a sour wine I am forced to drink. With each one I come closer to drowning. I cannot speak. My throat is tight and I do not believe my own hearing.

  ‘Mark —’ I begin.

  ‘I know. Her years are very young. There is perhaps twenty five between us. But I have been given a great opportunity, Tristan. A second chance. I have lost my only son and I sit at the head of the feasting table beside a seat that was once reserved for Rufus. Now Iseult sits in his place. I did not realise how much I missed him. There is a chance I could father another child, perhaps even another heir.’

  I pull a chair out from the table and sit. Put my head in my hands. Mark continues.

  ‘My life is shortening every day. When, if, I have another son, I would still need you to protect him and rule Kernow until he came of age.’

  ‘You speak as if he is already born.’

  The words stick in my throat. Mark is full of hope for a future filled with peace and a wife and children. He longs for what I took from him. For another little Rufus. How can I ask him to give that up? What makes my longing more worthy than his happiness? He is a man more deserving than any I know and yet he has asked for little more than respect from his subjects and his enemies. He has given me everything, and I have given him nothing in return.

  ‘It is not just about children, Tristan, though she is young enough to bear many.’

  ‘I understand. When will you tell her?’

  ‘After we have eaten.’

  I embrace Mark briefly and leave. />
  The sea is dark with no horizon. Clouds shelter the moon. I think of the years I have walked along this shore and wonder how many times Iseult walked her own shores beyond tonight’s unseen horizon. The distance is little, and yet she is now in Kernow and the distance is further still. How long since I slept in the damp beside Rufus? How long since I last lay with a woman? I try to grasp a joyful memory but they are lost to me now. I am resigned, suddenly, to return to Dumnonia and fight again for Geraint. I know my sword. I understand it and it sings for me.

  Chapter 30

  Iseult

  Acha brushes my hair, gentle but firm, and I am distant as my thoughts roam their own lands. Lands of Tristan and me and the horse we rode. I think what it would be like to kiss him and I think of his touch and his hand upon my body. He is tender and strong. And I am weak in his presence. Not weak as I was with Morholt, unable to free myself from his rule, but unable to part my mind from thoughts of the man who will be heir to Kernow. A man so different from my Lord Morholt or of any man he led.

  ‘The king’s nephew has returned from Ireland,’ Acha says. She is leaning close to me, her voice low, as if she is not meant to know, and I wonder how she discovered this news.

  ‘What have my uncles said? Do you know? Are we to return to Ireland?’

  ‘Too many questions,’ Acha says.

  I take from her answer she knows nothing more.

  A fire pours heat into our small room. I grow sleepy and after a while Acha stops brushing and looks through the gowns Tristan’s mother has given me. There are shades of red the colour of roses, fabrics of silvery moon, and blue as pale as the sky. I choose gold for the warmth it reflects.

  Acha slips the gown over my head and I hope that it is a favourite of Tristan’s. That his memories of King Mark’s wife wearing the same are not tarnished. I wonder how his wife died and remember the sorrow in his eyes. I cannot remember seeing a man as alone as he.

  We arrive in the great hall, Acha and I. People crowd every corner and I think perhaps they have come because of Oswyn’s return. I look for Tristan, eager to see his face and assure myself the afternoon I spent with him was not a dream, but I do not find him.

  Was it real? I begin to doubt everything that has happened these past hours when a voice behind me says: ‘You look beautiful, Iseult.’

  The king smiles gently. He looks happier and I think he is glad to see his nephew safely home. He takes my arm and threads a way through the crowd as I struggle to match his stride. Acha follows behind.

  At the far end of the hall five tables groan beneath the weight of food and drink. The king leads us to the biggest and he first gestures for me to sit, then Acha beside me. King Mark sits on my other side and still I look for sign of Tristan. Acha scowls at me as though I have been out all night, asleep by the sea. Does she know what overwhelms my thoughts?

  King Mark gestures for a man to come and sit beside him. He dutifully does. I think for a moment it is Tristan, but his hair is the wrong colour and his eyes are harder and his walk is stiff and unfriendly.

  ‘Oswyn, this is Iseult of Ireland,’ the king says.

  I stand for the king’s nephew and he takes my hand and presses his lips upon it.

  ‘A fair hand,’ he says. His mouth twitches and his eyes sparkle with amusement. Does he jest at my expense?

  I say nothing and take my seat. I think the courtesy he has bestowed is one of duty to his uncle and that without the king’s presence he may not have acknowledged me at all. I do not like him and I am a little afraid of him. He sits beside King Mark and helps himself to food without a word.

  ‘Please eat, Iseult,’ the king says.

  I want to ask him what my own uncles have said, but he has turned to his nephew. I hear him ask why Tristan is not present but I do not hear the reply. Has Tristan already asked him if there is a way for me to stay in Kernow?

  Beside me, Acha is eating as if she has starved for three weeks. She is enjoying the plentiful food and good wine.

  ‘Five kinds of meat,’ she says, her mouth half full.

  I smile at the simple pleasure.

  I see Tristan then, through the crowd. He looks cold and tired and I try to catch his eye but he does not see me. My heart is skipping and turning and my breath comes quickly. He walks around the edge of the hall towards us, but does not look at me, and then he stoops to speak in his uncle’s ear. I see Oswyn’s face, cruel and watchful. He is no friend of Tristan, and I see why the king has chosen Tristan as his heir and not this man who would sour wine with his look.

  Tristan sits down beside Oswyn, as far from me as possible. I feel my face begin to crease and crumble as I wonder what change there has been since we stood in the courtyard. My forehead burns from his lips and I hold that thought close because I know it was real.

  King Mark leans a little closer to me.

  ‘How do you like Kernow?’

  Relief. I feel a great surge of it. Tristan has spoken with him of my staying here.

  ‘Very well.’ I am keen for him to know of my desire to stay and add: ‘I think I should miss the people and the generosity we have been shown if I were to return home.’

  Home. I wonder if it is here now. I would like that. To walk the shores that Tristan walks and share the moments I have until now known in solitude.

  ‘I need to speak with you, Iseult. Alone.’

  The king stands and gestures for me to follow him. I glance to Tristan, try to catch his eye, but he does not look up from his plate.

  We sit down once more in the council chambers that we had sat in when I first came to Tintagel. The king appears awkward as if he does not know how to phrase what he is about to say and I wish that Tristan were here. I do not feel as comfortable alone with King Mark as I did with Tristan.

  ‘As you know,’ he says, ‘my nephew, Oswyn, has returned from Ireland. He has spoken with your uncles, and they are as eager as I am to reinstate the treaty that was put in place by your father. Their decision is both wise and beneficial to everyone, I am sure you will agree. They will send a force to southern Ireland to see an end to any of Morholt’s forces which remain. Your family will therefore be safe.’

  Relief fills my heart as I think of my mother. Her position as a woman of the blood will once more be held high and she will likely find a good match amongst my uncles’ men. I am happy, I realise, at the prospect of her smiling again. Laughing again. Finding a joy in life that she has not known for such a long time.

  ‘There is more. Your uncles have proposed that we bind our kingdoms with blood. They have suggested a match to secure the peace we so nearly lost when your father died. I will not force this upon you. But I do not think you would be unhappy. They propose that you and I marry and forge more than just a treaty between our peoples. They suggest an alliance.’

  I frown. I know I must, for I do not understand the words he has spoken.

  ‘Marry?’

  I do not mean to speak aloud but I have.

  ‘It must be a surprise, I know,’ the king replies, ‘but you have enjoyed your time here? My company, the people, the castle, the sea? You would be as free as you are now, to come and go as you please, to visit your homeland when you choose. What are your thoughts?’

  Eyes that betrayed awkwardness now show the smallest amount of impatience. I cannot form an answer. I think of Tristan. Did he not speak with him, did he not plead for me to stay here so that I might be with him, and not the king? What passed between them since this afternoon? I think of the king’s bed, and not Tristan’s, and the world begins to spin and I try to breathe but cannot.

  He stands, touches his cheek as if remembering my touch as I tended his wound.

  ‘I will give you time to think on it,’ he says.

  There is anger in his voice but mostly longing and I feel sadness for not having pleased him.

  ‘Might I speak with Tristan?’

  I do not know what good it would do, and whether I should have asked, but I cannot give an
swer to this proposal before speaking with him.

  The king falters, but composes himself just as quickly.

  ‘I will send him to you.’

  As I wait, I wonder what I will say and how this will play out.

  Chapter 31

  Tristan

  I do not touch my plate, the food spread upon the table, the goblet filled with wine. My stomach churns and my face burns with shame. I did not look at her, meet her eye. I pretended this afternoon did not happen. That we were not close for a few moments, free of obligation and loyalties.

  She is Irish, I tell myself.

  An Irish girl that Mark would marry.

  What will she say to him? Does she this moment accept the proposal put forth by her uncles? Was this afternoon real?

  I cannot think straight. The room has grown dark, the noise unbearable. Tables of men and women speak of rumour and reunion. Servants and slaves rush back and forth. Warriors become merry on drink.

  I stand to leave.

  ‘When the kings of Ireland proposed that Mark marry the daughter of Donnchadh, I did not think she would be so beautiful.’

  Oswyn leans back in his chair, a cup in his hand, smiling up at me.

  I do not speak. I have no wish to exchange words with my cousin.

  ‘I admit I am tempted by the thought of her sitting on my cock too.’

  My anger fired, I breathe deeply. Walk away, I tell myself, but I cannot.

  ‘Take a care, Oswyn. Mark would not wish to hear your speak of her in such a way.’

  He leans forward in his chair.

  ‘You are smitten with the little Irish girl.’ He laughs. ‘A woman desired by many. I hear she was betrothed to Morholt before Mark killed him. She has you lusting after her. Now Mark wants to marry her.’

  ‘Mark marries her for the sake of peace,’ I say.

  Oswyn shrugs, still smiling. ‘If that is what you believe. One day you may inherit her as you will the throne of Kernow.’