Tristan and Iseult

by Smith, JD

  This was his dream. Not this blood, but the hope blood brings.

  Is it my dream now?

  As much as I try to convince myself, I know it is not.

  Chapter 39

  Iseult

  I sit in the darkness of the king’s chamber. It is the last day Mark will inhabit this world. Lying in our bed his eyes roll beneath their lids, his lips ride up and show his gums and his face is waxen and yellow. Though he is older than me, with the Otherworld pulling him away he looks older still. Flesh drapes the bones of his face, fluttering with every breath.

  I think of Mark reaching for his sister and his son in the Otherworld. Isabel died in the Priory two months after Tristan left for Caerleon. In twenty years I have written to him only once, to tell him of his mother’s death. I told him she died of fever, but that was not true. She died of a broken heart and I could not bear to think of Tristan’s guilt.

  Acha fumbles wood on the fire, creating a noise that would wake my husband were he sleeping. Instead he groans as though the end of the world is upon us.

  ‘Pass me his sword,’ I say.

  Oswyn puts a hand on my shoulder. His touch is as tender as the farmers aiding the lambing in February, and yet I know how many innocent lives that hand has taken; how much blood has run down his blade in a bid to prove himself.

  ‘The sword will pass to me when he is gone, Iseult.’

  ‘He has not gone yet,’ I say.

  I lay the sword on Mark’s chest and place his hands upon it. All warriors should die with a sword in their hand. And my good and caring king needs his sword if he is to claim his rightful place in the feasting hall of the gods.

  My reflection looks tattered in the bright iron. I am old now — almost thirty-six — and because of my infertile womb Oswyn will inherit. The gods punish me. Tristan has never left my thoughts and the gods know this and they would see me barren and unable to provide for Mark. And yet Mark never banished me, never left my bed nor questioned my sadness. Never once have I walked with him on the shore, for that is the place I save to think of Tristan, but he has been kind to me and I have grown fonder of him each passing year.

  I kiss Mark’s lips and my tears spill onto his cheek.

  ‘Iseult?’ My name is a hoarse rumble from deep inside him.

  ‘Save breath to greet friends in the feasting hall.’

  I take his hand in mine and look into his face. I see the scar gifted by Morholt’s blade, and think of the day I pressed cloth to the wound, more grateful than he could ever know.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, ‘for everything.’

  The blade rises on Mark’s chest seven times and then rises no more.

  I already know what I will do next. I have known for a long time.

  Chapter 40

  Tristan

  I part with Eurig on the outskirts of Ceredigion. Head onward for the coast and home. Cunedda can discover the outcome of the battle from another, as I have no desire to visit his halls and face his disgust at my alliance with neighbouring kingdoms.

  My lands lie in a valley on the west coast, facing the Irish. I feel the sea air as I approach. For the first time in two months I can rest.

  I reach the edge of my estate and my horse urges onward, the sloping fields, low walls and narrow road familiar to us both. My house sits as idyllic as ever, accompanied by a scattering of outbuildings and tenant dwellings further afield. Eanfrid, my estate manager, in the yard with our horses. He waves.

  ‘Good to see you, friend,’ I say.

  ‘And you, Tristan.’

  I enter the house, sit in a chair at the kitchen table. I am dirty and tired, scratched and bruised. I have a broken rib, a cut on my leg and two more on my arm. All I wish to do it sit.

  Iseult of the White Hands comes into the kitchen. She carries a pail of water.

  ‘You are home?’

  ‘I am.’

  She ladles a little water into a bowl, sits down beside me and bathes the scratches on my body. There is little tenderness, just a methodical need to clean the wounds.

  I reach forward for bread and cheese, a cup of ale.

  ‘I worried you would not return to us.’

  ‘We outnumbered them,’ I say in answer.

  She purses her lips, disapproving. It has been a long time since her lips curved and her scowl relaxed.

  ‘You should take more care,’ she says. She wrings the cloth in the bowl, leaves the table.

  ‘Next time, I will. I am too old for this.’

  Her scowl deepens. I do not ask what it wrong. I drink the ale and chew on the bread as if she does not stand watching me.

  ‘Word has it you have sought peace with the Irish,’ she says.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Against my father’s wishes.’

  ‘I have done many things against his wishes.’ I look at her, sigh, wonder if she will ever understand. ‘Iseult, think of what it could mean. No more war, no more raids. Ceredigion could be wealthy with revenue from fishing and farming, instead of having to find coin for spears and struggling through the winter. Uniting with Powys and Gwent and the other kingdoms has already seen victory over the Saxon and the reclaim of lands that we have not trodden in years.’

  ‘My father is king of Ceredigion, Tristan, not you.’

  ‘Cunedda is on his deathbed.’

  Iseult throws the cloth into the bowl of water.

  ‘Do not speak of him as if he is already dead!’

  ‘He will be soon,’ I reply. ‘That is why you still sit at this table and sleep beneath this roof. Because you know that my men are the strongest force in Ceredigion and the whole of northern Briton. They might be under your father’s rule, but they are my men, loyal only to me. And without an heir, the strongest warlord will take his place. You not only stay because of it. You wanted it.’

  I chop wood in the forest. Sweat breaking. The marks of battle breaking open, weeping as I work, regretting my words to Iseult of the White Hands as I have done so many times. I came to Ceredigion to fight for her father, yet I have fought to better his kingdom and benefit the whole of Briton. Neither understand. Should I have expected them to?

  Cutting wood reminds me of my son. Eight years old with an axe twice his size, stood with me in this very spot. Who could know that winter would be the harshest we had known, that a weak chest would claim him? I wonder often if she hates me more for the death of our son or because she knows I do not long to be with her. Perhaps both …

  ‘My Lord! Tristan!’

  Gods be damned, but I cannot get a moment’s peace. I turn to see Eanfrid running up the embankment toward me. He is so old and unfit he needs to pause and catch his breath every few feet.

  I drop my axe and bellow back: ‘What is it, friend?’

  When he finally reaches me, sweating and gasping, he cannot speak.

  ‘You need more exercise, old man,’ I say, smiling, trying to forget my thoughts.

  ‘My Lord, the king is dead.’

  The words tumble from his toothless mouth and my hand slips from his shoulder.

  Thoughts churn slowly in my mind. The death of kings brings change, and no one can tell whether it be good or bad until the warlords have finished jostling and the order of power settles.

  ‘Then we must pay tribute to Cunedda. I must gather those loyal to me and make my presence in his halls known.’ I pick up my shirt and wipe my brow.

  Eanfrid is shaking his head.

  ‘King Cunedda still lives. The King of Kernow is dead. I speak of Mark.’

  Hearing the name forbidden in my house for near twenty years teases a flame somewhere inside me.

  I pick up my axe. ‘Keep a lookout on the cliffs. Tell them to watch for a single boat. There should be a flag raised. I want to know the colour of that flag.’

  Eanfrid leaves and I am alone with my thoughts. My heart races faster than a rabbit. Mark is dead. I wonder if Eurig knew him unwell as we stood facing the Saxon together. How long has it been since I was
last in Kernow? Too long, I think. I sold my services to Cunedda and have spent many days since wishing I had not. Does Iseult of Ireland, of Kernow, still think of me? Is she well? I burned all letters she and Mark sent. I could not bear news of home. But I remember our promise, clear as if I had just spoken it.

  Everything has changed. Everything is different.

  Will she come, I wonder? Will she stay?

  Chapter 41

  Iseult

  The morning I intend to leave Kernow, Oswyn comes to me.

  I stand by my coffer, folding clothes and preparing for my journey. I pick up the tapestry depicting Tristan’s face that Isabel and I had made. It is a poor likeness, but it reminds me of him. I put it on the fire and watch it catch. I do not need it now. I look at my hands. They are lined and wrinkled and dry and worn. I have changed. Childless, and still my belly hangs soft.

  ‘Which part of Kernow proves so undesirable that you flee, Iseult?’

  I look into Oswyn’s face and think how much he looks like his cousin. But Tristan was noble. He protected us and fought for Mark and when he chose to leave he went without complaint, leaving Oswyn the throne that should have been his.

  ‘There is no place for me here now.’

  ‘Then I shall make one for you,’ he says, moving toward me.

  He is the same age as me, but I have spent many years sleeping beside his uncle. His hand on my breast and his greedy mouth pressing on my lips surprises me. Nothing then reminds me of Tristan.

  I put my hands between us to ease him away. Our mouths break apart.

  ‘There is no need to make a place for me. I do not require one.’

  The strike which follows throws me to the floor amongst gowns and linen. Oswyn hits me again. Fear grips me as he presses his knees between my legs and then I hear my own shocked gasp.

  I learned a long time ago to feel nothing, to take each moment as it came and know that each one would bring me closer to my destination. I think of this now. Another obstacle on my path to Tristan. I will be gone from this place soon enough. And still the shame and anger wells in my eyes.

  Acha appears in the doorway. Her mouth is open and she looks about to scream, but I give a little shake of my head. It is too late; the painful thrusting has stopped.

  He kisses me, as a lover would after such exertion. And I think how I hate him more than I hated Morholt.

  Acha moves out of my vision and I look at Oswyn and feel scorn as he diminishes inside me. A tear rolls down my cheek as his fluids trickle down my thigh.

  ‘Even after all this time,’ he spits, ‘you would you go to him, Iseult of Kernow?’

  ‘To who, Oswyn?’

  He sneers at me as he has done so many times before.

  ‘Mark told me there was a connection between you and Tristan. How could he think my weak cousin would ever be a king? When he told me what he had done, that he had named Tristan heir, and of your obvious affection for one another, I knew I could not let you be together.’

  ‘It was Rufus’ throne, never yours.’

  ‘Who do you think spoke in Mark’s ear and persuaded him to send the weakling to the frontier? Who do you think told him that the boy could never be a king if he did not see battle? And who told Mark that your uncles desired you to marry the king of Kernow? You could have married any lord. You could have married Tristan.’ He smirks, pleased with himself.

  The revelation does not shock, I do not feel sick on his words. I am free now and I will leave here and I will never look upon him again.

  Chapter 42

  Tristan

  I sit on the cliff top waiting for the ship with the white or the black flag to appear on the horizon. None comes. I have been here five days. I have neither slept nor eaten. I look away, hoping that when I look back to sea she will be there, that I will see her white flag. I do not worry of the frontier. Of the peace I craved before. I wanted that for Mark.

  Mark, the man who thought of me as a son.

  I am ashamed that I could not stay at his side, to serve him, show him loyalty. But I have done my best from afar. I have begun to bring together the tribes of Briton.

  ‘You are still here, husband?’

  Iseult of the White Hands stands behind me, and I know she regards me with detestation in her eyes. For every moment I do not work the land, or serve her father, or fight the Irish, she looks at me in that way.

  ‘Yes, wife, I am here.’

  ‘I hear rumour we are expecting a visitor?’

  ‘Eanfrid told you?’

  She clicks her tongue with impatience. I take a deep breath.

  ‘We are expecting a girl … a woman … She is wife of King Mark. Her name is Iseult.’

  I do not look at my wife. I do not want to see her face as I breathe the name Iseult. To hear the difference in the way I say the name of my Iseult compared to hers. To know that I married her for her name and her face to ease my own aching, as she married me for my sword.

  There is a pause that stretches two lifetimes before she snaps, ‘King Mark is dead.’

  ‘So I am told.’

  ‘Why does his wife come here?’

  If only she would snap at someone else. Then I think of poor Eanfrid, and know that if she is not cursing at me, she is bleating in his ear.

  ‘Because she has no home now that Mark is dead. And I made a promise to her, a long time ago, that I would give her a home if she ever needed one.’

  ‘She cannot stay here.’

  ‘If that is your wish,’ I reply, knowing that I would leave this place if my Iseult still wanted to be with me. Leave the fighting, the treaties and home I made. I would leave it all to spend my remaining days with her.

  ‘When will she come?’

  ‘I do not know. She will come on a ship with a white flag,’ and my heart trips as I speak, ‘or send a ship with a black flag to say she is not.’

  My wife leaves, and I look out to sea and think of the irony. Not only does my wife have the same name as my queen, but she looks so much like her too: both with hair of silver blond and eyes so blue to be almost violet. And despite this, I could not feel more differently about the two. In which life did I think I could marry another Iseult and be as happy as I was walking the shore with Iseult of Ireland?

  Perhaps my two Iseults look nothing alike now.

  Chapter 43

  Iseult

  I leave as soon as Oswyn returns to our frontier.

  There are more bruises on me than I realised as I struggle to the boat. I planned this journey so many years ago that it feels as if I have made it before and every excited beat of my heart is followed by a beat that sends a trembling through me. The boat master smiles as I place coin on his palm to have him raise a white flag.

  I look back as we drift away from the coast. The wind makes my eyes water and tears stream from their corners and into my hair. I see the shore that I have walked along every day for more than twenty years. I can still remember the weeks I spent there with Tristan. The day that Mark fought Morholt and the years of gratitude I spent in his company. I remember Tristan, soaked through, walking up the muddy bank back to the keep and embracing his mother. What has happened between then and now? The Saxon still push forward, the tribes of Briton are yet to be united, my countrymen still raid the northern coast, and my feelings are as they have always been.

  Nothing has changed.

  Or has it? Eurig spoke of tribes united. Was it true?

  This journey will only take a few days and yet for me it has taken years.

  Will Tristan recognise me?

  I worry for the moment we meet again and cannot help but wonder about the disappointment I will be, or whether he has thought of me at all. They were just words, I tell myself. A promise of two young, foolish people; a promise that meant more to me than to him?

  And what of his wife? He married the King of Caerleon’s daughter, that I know. Did they have children? I worry that he is happy and that he will turn me away.

  I
do not sleep at night. I envisage him coming to meet me on the coast as I step from the small boat onto the shingle of his home. I think of his embrace, a memory so faded that I can barely remember what it was like; barely remember his scent and his voice and his face.

  Chapter 43

  Tristan

  Eanfrid finds me in the yard. I am seeing to the horses and he lingers. When I look up, his expression is awkward and he can barely hold my eye.

  ‘Say what you came to say.’

  ‘I have seen the ship.’

  Words fail me. I do not want to know the answer to the question burning my throat.

  ‘The flag is black,’ he says, before I have chance to enquire.

  She does not come. The world falls away and there is nothing beneath my feet. I stand there, an empty man, twenty years of hope and longing crushed by a breath of news.

  ‘All right, Eanfrid. Leave me.’

  He hurries back into the house and I am alone with my horse. She is old, but she is of the same temperament as her mother, with whom I rode to the priory so many years ago.

  ‘It is all right.’ I stroke her flank and she whinnies. ‘Shhh.’

  I had been captivated once more by the girl with playful humour. I was captured by a wish that would never be realised. For a long time all I had thought on was her caring expression, her smile, her hand in mine. It is strange; to know a ship sent by the Iseult I had cared for all those years ago and for all the years since crested our coast with answer for me. With promise.

  I stumble across the yard and out of the gate. I think to go to the shore, but I do not want to see the black flag upon the horizon. Instead I walk across the fields and to the forest. Foliage casts shadow on the mossy ground and tree roots trip me. The dagger I pull from my boot is a gift from Iseult of the White Hands. It slips easily from its sheath, used every day. I look at the blade and see the reflection of an old man with greying hair and a weathered face, whose life has gone by in a flurry of hope and regret.