by Smith, JD
‘Mark’s decision,’ I spit back.
‘Not all of Mark’s decisions are wise. If you lose your life in battle as easily as Rufus lost his, my succession is safe.’
‘I would kill you now if I did not think Mark had suffered enough.’
‘Strong words, cousin.’
I am about to retort once more when Mark appears. He is troubled, his brow creased, his gaze far away. He looks up and catches my eye, must have heard mine and Oswyn’s words, but makes no comment. He rests a hand on my shoulder, distracted.
‘Iseult would speak with you, Tristan.’
Chapter 32
Iseult
Before I can order my thoughts, Tristan appears in the doorway, his expression neutral, unreadable. Surely Mark has told him of my uncles’ proposal of marriage?
‘Do you know?’ I ask.
Tristan takes a step forward, hesitates.
‘I owe Mark everything. I cannot ask him to give up his chance of happiness for mine.’
The words are hard, rehearsed. Tristan stands proud and strong and uncaring, as if my proximity might burn him and I feel tears in my eyes. What change has occurred in him that he can be so different?
‘You … you said you would speak with the king?’
‘He told me that he would ask you to marry him before I had chance.’
‘But I wanted to stay here for you, not for him.’ My throat is tight. I stand up and take a step toward him, and he takes a step back and looks to the floor.
‘Tristan? Is that not what you wanted? Did I misunderstand? Was I so wrong?’
‘It cannot be.’
‘Your king would understand!’ I half scream, half plead.
‘No, Iseult. No.’ He is shaking his head, as if warding off his own emotion.
Hot tears of frustration roll down my cheeks. I want him to stop this indifference and cruelty, and be the man I rode with this afternoon. More tears come. I long for the jesting and the banter and the affection. I crave the Tristan I know to surface. For nothing to stand between us and for life to be simple.
Tristan breaks. His mask flakes away and beneath he is as distraught as I. He comes to me and brushes away my tears and kisses my forehead.
‘Gods know what you have done to me, Iseult.’
He is himself again, the man I know, the one I spent the day with. I am thankful for his return and I am smiling.
‘I am indebted to Mark is so many ways. He deserves happiness and there is no other way for me to provide that for him. It is selfish of me to want you for myself.’
I am crying and I am tired. I want him to hold me but I know he will not return my embrace. I look into his grey eyes and find nothing but resignation.
‘And if I refuse to marry the king?’
Tristan looks to the floor and sighs.
‘You could not marry me, even if I spoke with Mark. It is your uncles’ bidding, to gift you to Kernow’s king. They would see it as an affront to their wishes if they saw Mark pass their gift to another man. You must have their permission. Without it, we could see war again, so you marry Mark or return to Ireland.’
‘I have little choice then,’ I say, and tears splash down the dress of the king’s late wife. Was his idea to dress me in these clothes, knowing that I would take her place?
‘You are beautiful and kind and Mark is the best man I know. I could not wish for a better match for either of you.’
‘And what of you, Tristan? What of your future?’
‘Mark still attempts to unite the kingdoms of Briton, more so now he is at peace with the Irish once more. Eurig travels to Cunedda’s kingdom in the morning. I will go with him.’
My whole body burns with misery and longing and frustration and helplessness. I want him to stay but I do not speak it. His mind is set and I do not wish to make this harder for either of us. I let him leave and brush my tears away and resign myself to my fate.
Chapter 31
Tristan
The air is warmer and the birds sing of spring. We ride along an old Roman road north, patched and worn and ill-repaired. Our horses stumble and snort complaint, and after a while I veer off the road and continue on the grassy verge.
Eurig rides beside me. Silent since Tintagel and I have not made the effort to speak. He guesses my mood and my reason for leaving I am sure. I could not stay and see Mark and Iseult wed. The thought of her name turns my stomach, and I breathe deep the fresh, north air and will myself not to think it again. Already I know the decision to leave was the right one. If Eurig knows my feelings, it would not have been long before Mark realised them too.
I saw my mother before I left. She clung to me as though I would not return. She knows too the hurt I feel, the lies I told her, that I travelled with Eurig because I could not bear to stay in Kernow with Rufus gone.
‘You are fond of Iseult?’
‘As are you.’
I saw her trying to form words that do not admit her suspicions.
‘Mark is strong,’ she said to me.
‘He is,’ I replied.
‘I do not blame you for what happened to Rufus. And neither does Mark. You must accept this. I have not seen you happy once since you returned from Dumnonia, except when you were with her.’
She saw more than she acknowledged on the day we rode to the priory. Were my feelings so obvious? Did she see the glow of a summer’s day as I spoke with Iseult? Or witness our hands touching?
I feel tired. And bitter. Knowing, as Eurig and I ride north, Mark will be preparing for his marriage. I pray that his happiness is greater than mine would have been.
We cross the border into Ceredigion. Cunedda’s kingdom. We have ridden for three days. The skies have turned grey and the air is wetter than in Kernow. Spring seems more distant here. There are no proper roads and the milestones are hard to make out. I hear dogs barking in the distance.
‘How far to the coast?’ Eurig asks.
‘Not far. A couple of miles, perhaps.’
‘And from Cunedda’s hall?’
‘We will be there by nightfall.’
It has been a long time since I was last in Ceredigion. It has not changed. There is still the feel of disrepair and a loss of heart in the people who wander about their business.
The horses trudge on. My cloak is wet. We were in Dumnonia so long, sleeping on the cold mud and sodden grass that I had forgotten the warmth of Tintagel. Now I miss it again.
‘What is it we hope to gain from this journey?’ I ask. I had not spoken fully with Mark, not expecting to be making this trip.
‘Now the Bloodshields are all but defeated, Mark wants to try and unite the kingdoms of Briton and the kingdoms of Ireland.’
I almost laugh. Never have the kingdoms of Briton been united. What chance is there to unite them and those of Ireland?
‘That is optimistic,’ I say.
‘Impossible,’ Eurig replies. ‘Cunedda has no care for the Irish. But Mark has become infatuated with the Irish girl. He thinks that his marriage to her will make anything possible.’
The mention of Iseult stabs deep in my belly. I find Eurig’s observation of Mark’s infatuation surprising. Is Mark infatuated? I try to recall his words and remember only a mild interest on his part, driven by the peace he could secure and the son she might carry.
‘He can begin again,’ I mumble.
‘She will not bring him peace. Mark is blinded by her.’
Am I too blinded? Is every man save Eurig taken with her, captivated by her? Mark is an idealist, but he is a rational man.
We reach Caerleon whilst the sun is still high. The journey has been fast, just the two of us. Cunedda’s hall is an old Roman fort and I wonder at Roman roads being in such disrepair, filled with holes and crumbling away. In Kernow Mark ensures their maintenance, with our trade and our warriors dependent.
We are received well and fed and our horses tended. I have fought for Cunedda in the past; fought in his place as he sat in his tent and feasted.
His men are supportive of him, but his arrogance played a hand in the disintegration of Mark’s last attempt at a united Briton.
When Cunedda finally sees fit to grant audience, Eurig and I are shown into his hall. The floor is covered in dirty, stinking rushes, and a dog pisses against a pillar. I breathe through my mouth as we approach Cunedda of the White Hands. He is sat upon a dais, a round, fat belly resting upon his knees, a chicken leg in one hand and greasy beard framing his mouth. On his tunic a white painted hand.
‘Tristan of Kernow. It has been many years since you last brought your sword to my halls.’
Too few, I think.
‘You look well, Cunedda.’
I see him wince at the informality, but I have no time for this man. His alliance with Kernow would mean little. Mark would be better seeking audience with Demetia or Powys.
‘What is it you seek?’ he asks.
It is Eurig who replies.
‘The Bloodshields are no more. Mark defeated Morholt on our shores a little under a month ago. The northern Irish lords have offered a new treaty with Kernow, and Mark asks you seek the same peace so that we might stand as one against the Saxon.
Cunedda’s face creases and his eyes widen.
‘Peace?’ he spits. ‘Peace? Mark can lie with them if he chooses, but I am not making fucking peace with the Irish. I would rather dine with the Saxon than crawl to the bastards. Fucking Irish. They are never off my fucking shores. Half my fishing boats have to patrol the sea to stop them raiding my people. Half! That’s half the fucking people of Ceredigion hungry and nothing to trade. And then I have Powys and Gwent expecting my warriors to defend their lands against the Saxon. My people are starving and they ask this of me! Are the Saxon my concern? Are they? The Saxon do not broach my borders or my shores, they are not my fucking problem. Would Powys build me more ships to defend Ceredigion against the Irish? I think not.’
Not one man in the room is moved by Cunedda’s rage. Eurig looks impassive. He knew as I did the answer we should expect.
‘The King of Kernow implores you to reconsider,’ Eurig says. ‘Peace is less costly than war.’
‘Paying tribute?’ Cunedda barks a laugh. ‘I will never pay tribute. Whilst I take breath and my cock is stiff, I will not give them a single coin.’
‘The Saxon push closer to your kingdom every year,’ Eurig says. ‘It will not be long before they reach your borders, and then you will have the Irish on your shores and the Saxon digging a hole in the heart of your lands.’
‘They will not get this far. My priority is the Irish. If Mark truly wants peace, I will make it with him. Tell him he can have one of my daughters to bind our kingdoms, but I will not bow to the fucking Irish.’
‘Mark is to be married as we speak,’ Eurig says, and I note that he does not disclose that he will be wed to an Irish girl.
‘Then why is he harassing me? Should he not be rutting the bitch? I would piss on Mark’s name if I did not owe him for his spears.’
Cunedda speaks of the spearmen Mark sent to aid him and Powys when Luitcoyt attempted to invade two years ago.
‘He gave you spears,’ Eurig says. ‘He did not sell them to you.’
‘Maybe not, but he expects me to agree to a truce with the Irish. I would rather piss on them.’
Cunedda will not be turned to Mark’s thinking. Eurig does not hold hope of success and does not push as far as Mark would. It would have been better had Mark himself seen that Cunedda could never be turned. Cunedda does not hold grudge with us, and we feast in his stinking hall that night. For all the dirt and muck the hall holds, the food is good and the mead plentiful.
‘I have said before and I say again, Tristan ap Mark, I would have you front my defences,’ Cunedda says.
‘Against the Irish or the Saxon?’
‘Both. Either. Pick a man to fight beside and I pick you. Always did.’
I see the irony even if he does not. Little Rufus fought beside me last.
‘You know I will not.’
‘Still loyal?’
I almost tell him I am heir to Kernow’s throne now, but something holds me back.
‘Come, Tristan. We have known one another a long time. You used to hate the fucking Irish as much I do.’ He leans toward me. Almost loses balance. Mead sloshes on the table and runs through Cunedda’s beard. ‘Come north and defend my lands. I’ll give you one of my daughters and land and spears.’
‘Mark’s spears,’ I remind him.
‘Aye, Mark’s bloody spears. Your countrymen. They would follow you better than a Ceredigion lord.’
Eurig taps my shoulder. Gives me a withering look.
‘I go to bed. We leave at sunrise tomorrow.’
‘I will follow soon,’ I say.
‘Well, what say you?’ Cunedda presses. Drink rolls on his breath but I know him serious. ‘You can have that one.’
He points across the room and for a heartbeat I see Iseult. Silver hair a halo. Her heart-shaped face.
‘Her name is Iseult.’
I am confused now. My mind rolling and exhausted. What trickery is this, to show me a girl who looks the same as the one I met in Kernow? To name her the same?
‘Iseult?’
‘The second youngest of my four daughters.’
‘Her name is Iseult?’
Cunedda studies me through his drunken haze. He is concentrating.
‘Iseult of the White Hands.’
I stare at her a while, try to see the difference. She holds herself proud, her eyes a little narrower, but they are the only differences I see.
Cunedda slaps my shoulder.
‘Sleep on it.’
Chapter 32
Iseult
I stand in the room which will now be mine. Mine and my lord, my king, my husband’s. I will not sleep beside Acha again. The room is much larger than the chamber in which Acha and I slept before. Each wall is hung with tapestries denoting the battles the king has fought and many are peaceful scenes of farming and fishing and one is of a child in a cradle. Rufus, I think. The boy to whom I would have been stepmother; the reason I am now married to King Mark and not to Tristan.
The king enters the room and I feel a draft of cold air before he shuts the door behind him. I sense his nervousness, the way he avoids my eye and does not immediately come to me. He is a good and kind and thoughtful man, and I tell myself that I am fortunate to have found a husband who is not at all like my Lord Morholt.
He takes off his tunic and then his shirt. In the light of the fire I see his arms and chest and back are scarred from battle. The lines are pale and old compared to the gash on his cheek, now a closed red line. The times a sword has pierced his flesh I cannot count.
He comes to me. Slow, uneasy. It has been a long time since a woman slept in his chambers I think.
My panic rises as he touches my hair, my neck, the side of my face, his fingers careful and unsure. He closes his eyes as he kisses me on my lips, so unfamiliar a sensation and I am wondering if Tristan would kiss me like this.
I banish Tristan from my head, my mind, my thoughts. I cannot think of him, for if I do I know that I will turn mad. I must think of the king and him alone.
‘I have thought of you much,’ he murmurs, and begins to unfasten the buttons of my dress and I am awkward and nervous and he is fumbling and nervous too, and for a heartbeat I think I am going to laugh for this grown man is as afraid as I am and it is not his first time.
‘Let me,’ I say.
He seems relieved as my gown falls to the floor and I blush at my own nakedness.
He leads me to the bed and pulls back the blankets and I lie down. He smells of freshly tilled earth and honey. I am less nervous now, of his gaze upon my body and what is to come. Tristan’s face fleets in my thoughts over and over and each time I push it away.
The king kisses me again and I do not know how, or do not want to respond. I do my best, and he seems pleased with that, and he is suddenly naked now too and movi
ng between my legs and I am afraid and wishing that Tristan was here instead, for I know that with him I would be nervous, but I would also be excited.
There is difficulty, at first. I lie on my back and he fumbles and I am wincing although the pain is not so bad. I want to please him, but for the first time since being in Kernow I want to go home to Ireland.
I begin to cry.
The king does not notice at first, his eyes closed and his face full of concentration. When he has finished and pulls away and opens his eyes, he sees my tears and his expression is one of horror.
‘What have I done? Are you hurt?’
I wipe my tears and the king moves away and pulls the blankets over me as if this will cure whatever is wrong.
‘You have not done anything,’ I say. ‘Forgive me.’
His expression softens and he lies down beside me, his back to the fire, arm across my stomach.
‘You are not hurt?’
‘I do not think so.’
I wonder if I would have enjoyed it, as he seems to have done, with his warm glow and sense of satisfaction.
He does not speak again and after a while falls asleep.
I watch him, the rise and fall of his chest, his dark beard twitching, listening to his inward and outward breath and the crackling fire. I was always going to be married for my blood and my position and here I am and I stay awake for hours and hours, until the fire has died and I hear the morning cry of the birds beyond the window.
I must fall asleep, and when I wake in the morning the king is gazing at me.
‘Are you happy, Iseult?’
It is a question I have dreaded. To be asked to quantify the feeling and to know that this man’s happiness is hinged on mine. I think of my Lord Morholt and it makes the lie a little easier.
‘I am, my King.’
He smiles. ‘You can call me Mark, you know.’ He kisses me. ‘The title is nothing, and besides, you are my queen now.’ He kisses me again. I realise suddenly that his kisses are an advance but I am unsure how to respond.