by Smith, JD
hold it back. Fear rides within me. Not anticipation
or excitement, longing or desire. Just fear of the words I am willing not to follow.
‘Because I cannot stay here with you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my voice uneven. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Nothing. I want nothing from, nor would I ever ask anything of you.’ He pauses. ‘I know I must be hurting you, because I am hurting every day. I never meant for this. I knew before we rode to the priory together my feelings. I want to spend every fragment of every day with you, walking the beach, looking out to sea, but you must know that it is hard to be close and yet never close enough. I live on the outskirts of your life, afraid of seeing you with Mark. Please, Iseult, you must understand it is a shadow of a life for me. We cannot pretend any longer that there is nothing between us.’
‘Why Ceredigion?’
‘I am to marry.’
There is silence for a long time as I inhale his words. Become sick on them. Feel the jolt as they hit the pit of my stomach and I cannot breathe. I look into his face and sense he is waiting for me to reply, but I have nothing to say. Nothing that will make my own pain dissipate, nor stop my heart from crying.
‘My apologies,’ he says.
His words sound strange, rehearsed. Is this the way he feels, or is it just pretence? What happened to the walks we shared and the laughter we had? How has it suddenly disappeared?
‘There is no need for an apology,’ I say.
‘There is. There is so much to apologise for. I am sorry that I did not speak up to Mark and tell him how I felt. But I could not. After Mark forgave me Rufus’ death … He needs you more than I do, Iseult.’
I want to cry, but I hurt too much for tears to come. I want him to make things better. To take back what he has said. How could he, I think. Making me want him, turning his back because of his guilt, forcing me to feel a marriage to Mark was my only choice. I am angry with him, with myself, with Mark and with everything in this world. I am saved from Morholt but still I am not free.
‘Every day is hard,’ Tristan continues, the creases of his face echoing his words. ‘I am trying to make it easier for us both. I am trying not to spend the rest of my life a bitter man, taunted by your presence.’
‘Taunted?’ the word catches in my throat. ‘But my bitterness will never cease, will it?’
‘No, it will not. Not if you keep it close.’
‘Have I a choice?’ I say, and recoil at my own, venomous tone.
Tristan grips my hand and squeezes.
‘I cannot spend my whole life wishing I was with you. The gods know I want things to be different, but we both know that cannot be. They are laughing at us, you know. We must amuse them greatly.’ He laughs a little. ‘Now I am trying to make something of my life. I am trying to start afresh, from nothing, and learn how to be content with someone other than you.’
They are the hardest words I have ever had to hear. Tears are running freely down my face. I am ashamed of them, embarrassed at my feelings, knowing he will care for another in the way he cares for me.
‘I will never stop wanting you, Iseult. To me you will always be something extraordinary. Something special. You have a piece of me that can never be taken back. You will own it for the rest of your life and beyond, if you want it.’
My throat is tight and I cannot speak. I look at the ground, wanting it to swallow me whole and suffocate the flames.
Finally, I manage a little nod.
He wraps me in his arms and holds me tight. Tighter. Then lets go.
I grip his hand again and he kisses it.
‘And when you return, you will be married,’ I say, forcing a light tone into a constricted voice.
Tristan glances to the ground.
‘I will not return, Iseult. I forfeit the succession to the Kernish throne.’
His grey eyes meet mine. I am unable to speak. The bottom of my world drops away and there is nothing to catch my fall.
‘And will you fight my uncles for King Cunedda?’ I ask, more spiteful than I ever thought I could be.
Tristan closes his eyes. ‘I do not know, Iseult. Perhaps. The Saxon, the Irish. Does it matter?
‘Mark would never let you leave his side,’ I say. Then realise the futility; the selfishness. ‘But ... you have already spoken with Mark?’ I continue, angry with him, with myself, with it all.
‘Yes.’
I nod. As if it all makes sense. Feeling like I already knew this. That I was waiting for it to be spoken.
‘When do you leave?’ I ask, not really wanting the answer.
‘A week from now.’
‘Will I ever see you again?’
‘I do not know what will happen. I am sorry, but I cannot promise what I do not yet know.’
I pull my hand from his, the world turning and turning and I cannot see. I cannot breathe. I want it to stop. I want to plead with him not to go, but what right do I have to ask him to stay? I can give him nothing. I can never be his. But the hurt is unbearable and I do not know how to make it all go away.
‘Forgive me,’ I say, and turn to leave.
My heart beats faster than a running hare. So fast it is almost a blur. My legs are weak and I am unsure I can walk back to the keep, but somehow I manage. Up the grassy slope. Away from the man I care for above all else. Away from the man I cannot imagine leaving.
‘Iseult!’
He calls my name and the wind plucks it from the air and carries it toward me. Each syllable a distinct imprint of his voice in my mind.
I do not turn back.
My vision is obscured and I am sobbing.
Chapter 37
Tristan
Iseult and I barely speak. She does not seek me out, and neither do I approach her. Our heated words and the tears I caused compound my guilt. I have been selfish. Forced Iseult into a marriage with Mark because I could not bear to see his grief and feel the guilt I should have felt. Instead I wound Iseult. What made me believe her pain would be less than mine? Did I realise her marrying Mark would feel so utterly despairing?
Now I intend to leave.
It is best, I tell myself: to leave and let them start their lives afresh.
Mark comes to my rooms as I pack, sits on the edge of my bed. The lines of his brow are deeper as he watches me.
‘Is there any point to my persuading you to stay?’
‘I am grateful for everything you have done for me. But my mind is made up. This is my path.’
Mark exhales, heavy and tired.
‘All right. You will report to me often, let me know the situation in Cunedda’s kingdom?’
‘Of course.’
He stands, our conversation at an end. He embraces me. Awkward. A shirt still in my hand.
‘Take care, Tristan.’
Once I have finished packing I seek Iseult. There are things I must say, though I am not sure what. To wish her well, to say something of a goodbye? Whatever is spoken, I would rather it was out of Mark’s hearing.
I find her with my mother, working on a tapestry in the tower. Another passage of time Mark will forever enshrine to the walls of his rooms. I thought his documentation of life instead of living it had passed with Iseult’s presence. It seems it has not.
I watch a moment, her nimble fingers stitching the face of a young man. For a heartbeat I think it Rufus, then I realise it is me.
‘A fair likeness,’ I say.
Iseult startles.
My mother says: ‘This tapestry is for me to remember you by, Tristan. I have already stitched Rufus.’
Her voice near breaks, so fragile are her words. I wish I were a boy again, sat cross-legged at her feet, listening to her tales. Those times are gone. I steady myself with the thought of my own children and the stories I will tell. Of what? A cousin lost, a woman I could not have, and a kingdom I should have ruled?
‘I must have a word with the kitchen,’ my mother says.
She leave
s, her eyes telling me she extends the same courtesy Iseult once gave her.
I sit down on my mother’s stool. I think to take Iseult’s hands in mine.
Should not. Do not.
‘Iseult …’
‘There is nothing to say, Tristan. Live your life. I am happy for you.’
Her words are gentle, sad. She stares at the thread in her lap, playing it between her fingers.
‘This is why I must go. It is too much. We both know that. So many reasons why we cannot be together … Please, never think that I do not care for you.’
‘I know,’ she replies, her voice forlorn.
She must know as I do how unbearable it would become if I stayed. Better to forget until another time. Better to pretend it never was.
I reach out and brush her fingers with mine, and she grips my hand. This is the closest we will ever be, a light touch of fingers; all I will have to remember her. She has never been mine, even when I rode with her, held her, kissed her forehead and walked the shores each day. But I am hers. There is a piece of my heart she took for her own the day she came to Kernow. Once hers, she moulded it so that it would never fit back.
‘Come to me,’ I say, ‘when you are your own woman and may go where you wish. There will always be a home for you with me if you want it.’
‘You will be married, Tristan.’ Her face is wet with tears and the light in her eyes dies as I sit there. I pull her toward me and brush the tears away and feel such sorrow.
‘I am sorrier than you can know. For everything. Come to me, when you can. You will always have a place and I will always think of you, I promise.’ I feel her nod against my chest. ‘I will watch the sea every day for your boat. You do not have to come yourself. Raise a white flag and I will come for you. Raise a black flag and I will know that we are not to be.’
She pulls away from me.
‘I will come. I promise.’
When my lips touch hers there is no restraint.
Then I leave to start afresh. To wait for her.
PART TWO
20 Years Later
Chapter 38
Tristan
The summer sun warms my face and neck. Flies buzz. A nearby stream plays a tune, trickling, brushing, splashing over stones. A serene sound, of a day I should be working to a solitary rhythm and pace on my lands. How I crave the peace of my own company. Instead I stand with my back to a line of Ceredigion warriors waiting for the Saxon.
Behind the Ceredigion are men of Gwent. To our right and left stand Powys and Luitcoyt spears. Beside them men of Demetia and Elmet and Buellt. Almost all the tribes of northern Briton. United. Determined that this summer the Saxon will be pushed back and the heart of our lands reclaimed.
We stand high up, knowing they approach. Waiting for the sound of drums and the hum of marching warriors. I am not nervous. I do not feel the same fear the younger warriors know. My years have been spent living on one frontier or another. This will be my last battle, I think. A man’s body can only take so many blows on the front line, and mine has taken many. I feel the deep cuts to my arms and legs in the winter. The cold biting. I am stiff in the morning and exhausted in the evening. And these Saxon are becoming accustomed to our terrain, pushing harder, familiar with our lands, calling them home.
I breathe deep the scent of grass, almost smell the sea. We are many miles inland. I miss the coast, the estate I bid Cunedda grant me there, the breeze, the salt, the horizon; they have become my escape.
A haze forms in the distance. The Saxon will travel this road through Luitcoyt, I am sure. Beside me, Eurig grows restless. He shuffles from one foot to the other. Flexing his sword. Adjusting his shield.
‘They will come, Eurig.’
‘They had better. I was sent for news of your talks with the Irish, not to stand in a shield wall again.’
‘You relish it; otherwise you would not be here.’
‘I am here because I did not wish to wait in Cunedda’s stinking hall for your return.’
His relaxed face and slight smile tell me he is enjoying the frontier. I know he feels alive when he is in the north, with his sword and his shield and a mind free to face the enemy.
‘Do not worry, Eurig, I will send you home soon enough. Then you can fall back into retirement.’
His smile fades.
‘There are things you should know of home, Tristan.’
‘Stop!’
Eurig knows better than to speak of the life I left behind, to utter the names of the people, or deliver news of them.
‘Do not speak, Eurig. I will not hear it.’
He falls silent. Just as I think he is about to ignore my word and speak of Kernow, scouts appear on the road, riding hard.
‘They are on the road,’ the first to reach me says, breathless, as he reins in his horse.
I nod and dismiss him.
I hear them now, in the distance. The gathering warriors fall quiet. The ground feels unsteady. Cunedda would spit on my uniting the kingdoms of Briton if he were here. But he is not, bound to his halls by sickness and old age with no son of his own. He would curse more if he knew of my peace talks with the Irish when he believes I ride the waves warding them off.
Mark crosses my mind. I know I do this for him and all that I owe him. I am tired, but he must be more so. He craved a united Briton and Ireland, the creation of a force powerful and strong enough to repel the invaders who try to take our lands. Here we are. I look about me and see tides of men swarming the hill and wonder what Mark would think if he could see this: so many kingdoms together as one. That is why I asked Eurig to come. To see what I have achieved in the north, to take the news back to Kernow and know that we all are brothers in common cause.
Murmurs ripple through the ranks. Word reaches me. The keener eyes now see the enemy. Flags wave overhead. Voices shout to stand firm, not to move, not to run raging at the enemy and lose our advantage.
Barking.
The Saxon bring dogs. How I hate their mutts.
They lead the way, yelping, snapping, pulling. Behind them the Saxon spread out along the road. They scream and shout and curse in their language I have never understood.
‘See to the dogs,’ Eurig says.
‘You giving orders now, old man?’
Eurig grunts. I do as he says, wave an arm overhead and a heartbeat later shards of death whistle through the bright sky. The dogs yelp and cry as the arrows strike home. A handful of the enemy fall too.
‘Come and die!’ One of our men shouts. Another takes down his pants and waves his cock at them.
‘Your northerners know how to torment the Saxon,’ Eurig says, laughing.
‘Oh, they do,’ I reply. ‘Just wait.’
Sorcerers push to the fore of the enemy lines. Their robes held above their knees, feet hobbling as if dancing on hot coals. Screeching, crying, wailing.
My heart beats faster.
I am not afraid of the sorcerers. Their magic and curses do not trouble me. I am anxious for this battle to begin, and if I do not want to lose the higher ground, the enemy must come to us.
At last, as the sun peaks and begins to dip, the Saxon find courage and charge.
Their war-howls sound distant. Their movement slow. They reach the hidden trenches we dug two days ago, halfway up the slope, and the first lines of Saxon fall. Men behind stumble, and the men behind them are disorientated and trip over their brothers.
We charge.
I run almost too fast for my legs. Gaining speed. Holding tight my sword, a shield strapped to my arm. The Saxon are scrambling over their own, the trenches packed with their men. They bare their teeth and so do I. A snarling growl, lips curled, spittle flying and then we crash together.
The gods roar as a tide of iron strikes iron. Two thousand Saxon are crushed by the momentum of five thousand Britons charging down the slopes of their homeland.
Hot breath hits my face. My own, gasping and hard. We are man against man now. One sword against another. Battle
-din raging. Screaming and shouting. Curses. Rage. A mixture of noise that must be heard in every kingdom.
I take an axe-blow to my shield, push it away, bring up my sword and rip through the first man. Another strike, low down. I jump, punch down with the edge of my shield and up with my sword tip. Red rivers pour from the man’s mouth, down my arm. And again, I slice. Blood, warm and wet, sprays across my face and chest.
‘Tristan, damn it, watch your back!’ Eurig shouts.
I turn. Sunlight bouncing off a blade blinds. I am deep in the Saxon line, the enemy flanking me, closing in behind.
I scream my war-cry, a sound loud enough to shake the heavens and bring thunder on this hot day. I punch forward with my shield. And again. Feel it crunching into a Saxon face. I push the man back into the one behind and bring my sword in low. He has no furs to protect him. He growls back as if I have not cut him in two. Then the rage vanishes from his mad eyes and he drops.
I cut down two more with ease. The aches I know fade for a moment.
The enemy is thinning.
Eurig kneels on a man and parts him from this life. Stands. He drips with Saxon blood, sinew, scraps of flesh.
‘I am too old for this.’ His breathing is laboured but he recovers quickly.
‘I need to see what is happening.’
We scramble back up the slope. The first twenty paces slicked dark green, slippery and wet. When we are high enough I look across at the swathes of men, my men, the united men of Briton, and the Saxon buckling beneath the press of their spirit.
I knew the Saxon were outnumbered, yet seeing the armies spread before me I understand suddenly Mark’s hopes for peace and cooperation between our countrymen. He knew. He understood this would be the only way to save Briton. Peace with the Irish meant we could concentrate our force on a common enemy.
My sword hangs limp in my bloodied hand. Sweat stings my eyes, but it is stained red. Will this be our last stand? Will we now see a peace of sorts? I think of Mark sitting in his council chambers and the news Eurig will bring him as I watch the remaining Saxon retreat back along the Roman road. See our men slaughter the rest, cutting, slicing, ripping iron through flesh and bone. What will Mark think? Will he be proud?