Prince of Dreams Page 10

  “Mother will have no choice. I’ll ask Father to make it an outright order. He will give me anything I want as a guilt gift for sending me away. Just say you will come with me. What future do you have here, after all? Do you want to be my mother’s drudge all your life? Come with me to Cornwall. We’ll find a prince for you to marry, and you can be a lady with a house of your own.”

  Branwen steadied her expression as the flush slowly faded. “The king has promised to make me a good match.”

  Shaking her head, Essylte kissed her hands. “Dear Branny, if it were possible, he would already have done so. Most maids are promised, if not married, by sixteen. And if you are useful to my mother, she’s as likely to poison you as let you go beyond her service. Please, Branny, come with me. We’ll be homesick for a while, but we’ll both be better off.”

  Branwen met Essylte’s eyes, aglow with tears. Tears always came so easily to Essylte. “Is it so important to you?”

  “Yes, Branny! Desperately important. Say you will. . . . It’s settled, then.”

  Branwen withdrew her hands and slid off the bed. “I will do whatever the king commands,” she said slowly. She went to the door and lifted the latch. “Keep your door barred and go nowhere without an escort. The queen means to prevent this match at any cost. And Palomydes is her tool.”

  Essylte shuddered. “That horrid creature. Surely Markion can’t be worse. Where are you going, Branny?”

  “To Ceredig. To beg audience with the king.”

  But as she turned to the door it opened in her face, trapping her behind it. A man stood on the threshold, tall and thickly built, richly dressed and adorned with silver rings and wristbands. His hair and beard were brown and curly; mats of curls grew along the backs of his hands and sprang from the throat of his tunic. Light blue eyes fastened on Essylte as he stepped into her chamber.

  “Sir!” she cried, leaping to the floor and grabbing her jeweled dagger from the bedstand. Behind him, Branwen slipped silent as a shadow around the door and fled down the corridor. “Sir! How came you here? These are the women’s quarters. Your presence here is forbidden.”

  White teeth gleamed within the beard. He closed the door softly and let the bar fall into place. “Others are forbidden, little beauty, but not I. Not now that you have accepted me.”

  “You are mad! I have not accepted you! If you have spoken to my witch-mother, you have heard nothing but lies. I detest you, Palomydes. I will never wed you.”

  He smiled again. “Such modesty is becoming in a maiden.”

  Shaking, Essylte raised the dagger. “You are dreaming. I would sooner lie with a toad. Get out!”

  Palomydes grinned. “I do like spirit in a woman.”

  Essylte flushed scarlet and held the dagger firmly in front of her. “Don’t come near me, you beast, if you value your life. My father has not approved the match. If you touch me he will kill you.”

  Palomydes shrugged. “I’m not worried about your father. Once you are taken he cannot wed you to another.”

  “Beast! Would you sink so low? And you a prince?”

  “I will take what has been promised to me. The Great Mother knows I have waited long enough!” He pulled off his tunic and threw it aside.

  “Ugh!” Essylte backed against the bed, wrinkling her nose.

  “Put away your pretty blushes and that foolish dagger. Be sweet to me, Essylte, and I’ll be gentle with you.” He reached out a hand to her; she swiped at him with the dagger and missed.

  “I loathe you! You smell worse than a midden. And so fat! So hairy! I loathe even the sight of you. Get out this minute or I shall call the guards.”

  He laughed. “There are no guards. Your mother has seen to that. Come, come, Essylte, your insults do not hurt me. You are only afraid. That will soon pass.”

  “Afraid? You are the one who should be trembling—my father will have your life! You’re just a tool in my mother’s hands—she wants to foil his plans for me, nothing more—yet you will die for it!”

  He paused a moment; she slithered up onto the bed.

  “I don’t believe you. You speak from fear.” He lunged. She dove across the bed and was on her feet in an instant, facing him across the fur-lined coverlet.

  “Get out! Get out now!”

  “Not until I’ve got what I came for.” His thick lips curled into a smile. “By the Goddess! You are beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “What a fool you are! Your feet are too big, and you smell like oxen. I would just as soon poison you as lie with you. Is that the kind of wife you want?”

  He licked his lips. “Little hellcat, eh? That’s fine with me. I’d rather fight than woo.” He threw himself across the bed. Essylte dodged and struck down with her dagger, catching his arm.

  “Bitch!” He landed heavily on the floor. She raced to the door and threw up the bar, but he caught her shoulder and spun her around, pressing against her and pinning her to the door. Turning her head, she sank her teeth into his hand. He wrenched away and slapped her lightly, flinging her head back. “Little bitch!”

  Blood flowed freely from his wound. He did not even feel it. His hand gripped her wrist and the dagger clattered to the floor. Her arm burned, held twisted behind her as his lips sucked her flesh. Pinned, helpless, she drove her knee into his groin with all the force she could muster. He felt like steel.

  “Damn you!” He fell against her, crushing her with his weight. “Bitch’s whelp you are, right enough.” He laughed into her face and kissed her. Weeping, she bit his lip. He hit her again. She screamed, tasting blood in her mouth. He shifted his weight, started pulling at her gown, sliding his big hands up between her legs, touching her soft flesh with blunt, questing fingers. She wriggled, freed her hands, tore at his face with her nails.

  “Faaaa-therrrr!”

  He ignored her and pulled at her underclothes. The fabric ripped. Coarse hands moved cold against her skin, prodded her, squeezed her, stroked her, forced her legs apart as his hot breath panted in her face. She beat her fists against his head, his shoulders, screaming, crying, cursing him wildly with every breath as he thrust himself forward.

  Thunderous pounding filled her ears. The door behind her shuddered. Was that her father’s voice? Palomydes, breathing heavily, backed away, pulling up his leggings. The door pushed open; Essylte fell to the floor.

  “Palomydes! What in God’s name is going on?”

  Percival stood in the doorway. Branwen ducked past him and bent down to Essylte.

  Palomydes bowed. “My lord king.”

  Behind Percival thronged the house guards, swords drawn. “What are you doing in my daughter’s chamber? What have you done to the girl? Speak, man!”

  Palomydes fell to one knee, groping behind him for his tunic. “My lord, I meant no offense. The princess Essylte and I are secretly betrothed, and I was, er—”

  “What!” Percival’s face grew dark. His body shook. The guards surrounded Palomydes.

  “My lord, I have offered for your daughter these six months past—we are betrothed, my lord. I am within my rights.”

  “My daughter is not betrothed until I say she is. My consent is required, and you do not have it. But this you knew. You came to force yourself upon her, and force my choice.”

  “Oh, no, my lord!” Palomydes gulped. “No, never that. I assure you.”

  Essylte lifted her head. “Liar!”

  Percival stared. Her hair, matted with blood, was stuck to her cheek, her face swollen, her lip split and bruised. For a long moment no one dared to breathe. Slowly Percival drew his sword and held it to Palomydes’s throat. His voice shook. “If you have forced her, I will kill you. Now.”

  “My lord! I never—”

  “Silence! Essylte?”

  Essylte pushed herself to her knees and glared at Palomydes. Sweat broke upon his brow.

  “I told you—I told you he would kill you,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t listen.”

  “Essylte! Tell him! Tell him I har
dly touched you!”

  “Liar!”

  “But I didn’t take you!”

  “If I were half the liar you are, you would die.”

  “For mercy’s sake, Essylte, tell him the truth! I never—”

  “If my father hadn’t come, you would have. Your leggings were around your knees.”

  “You filthy, double-crossing blackguard!” Percival breathed. The sword point trembled against the vulnerable flesh at Palomydes’s throat. “I ought to kill you for so much as crossing her threshold!” He turned to Essylte. “You are whole, then?”

  Essylte, still shaking, leaned on Branwen and struggled to her feet. Her smile was bitter. “Only just. Still negotiable.”

  “Essylte.” Percival’s arm slid around her shoulders and he pulled her to his breast. “My sweet little girl. I shall do with him whatever you wish—shall I unman him? Say the word.” He kissed her swollen face.

  “Oh, Father!” A sob welled in her throat, but she fought it down. “It would serve him right, but he’s only her tool. This is Mother’s doing.”

  “What?” His face lost color. The arm around her turned to iron. He glanced quickly at Branwen, who nodded. “My God!” he breathed. “Her own daughter!”

  “And that’s not all.” Essylte drew a deep breath. “She plans to poison the Cornish envoy and so force us to war with Cornwall. I was to be wed to this—this monster and be well out of the way. If he died, then I would command all Powys, and she would command me.”

  Slowly Percival sheathed his sword and beckoned to the soldiers. “Take Palomydes to his chamber and see he stays there. I will decide later what to do with him. First, I will speak with the queen. Privately. Lleu, take a dozen men and fetch her. Yes, I said fetch her. Bind her and carry her if she won’t come willingly.” Percival wiped a hand across his brow. “This is the last straw. So help me God, I will put her away.”

  Essylte looked up at his pinched face. He smiled bitterly and touched his lips to her forehead.

  “My lovely little girl,” he said sadly. “If I have saved you from one fate, I have consigned you to another. This very day I have struck a bargain with Markion of Cornwall. You will be High Queen of Britain, Essylte, but I shall lose you to a man I do not trust.”

  “At least—” She gulped. “If I have to leave, at least it will be somewhere where I can bring Wales honor. And he—he cannot be as bad as Palomydes.”

  Percival’s features hardened. “If I thought he were, I would not let you go at any price.”

  “Can I take Branny with me? Oh, Father, please let her come with me. If I am to live among strangers who hate me because I’m Welsh, let me take at least one friend with me.”

  Percival hugged her tightly. Over her head, his dark eyes met Branwen’s. The girl trembled and dropped her gaze.

  “Perhaps,” the king said in a tight voice, “someone older would better serve you in a strange land. At sixteen, she can hardly be your guide.”

  “Oh, but she can!” Essylte cried. “She is my best friend, truly she is, in spite of her birth. And she is so wise, Father. Her advice is always good. She has served me since childhood. I couldn’t bear to go without her. She has no kin, nothing to keep her here, no friends but me.”

  Percival cleared his throat. He was suddenly very pale. “Branwen? Are you willing? I will not keep you if you wish to go.”

  Branwen flashed him a quick look full of passionate emotion, then bowed her head and said in a smothered voice, “I will do whatever my lord thinks best.”

  Percival stood silent, staring beyond them to the wall. “Very well,” he said at last, “I shall give the order.” But his voice, low and weary, sounded like an old man’s.

  8 LYON’S HEAD

  Down the long, rocky Cornwall coast the north wind swept, over barren moors, across frozen river valleys, howling through twisted forests of storm-bent branches. Down it blew in all its fury to the very end of Britain, across the breadth of Lyonesse to the edge of the Narrow Sea, and then across the tide-crossed causeway to the great promontory itself, rising black and solid in the storm’s face.

  At the sea’s edge stood the fortress of Lyon’s Head, foundations rooted in living rock that rose, fanglike, from the roiling ocean. Towers and battlements of stone overlooked the wide, heaving waters. Great walls enclosed a quiet village, sheltered a meadow and a wood, ran down the sloping point to solid iron gates, a guardhouse, and a long causeway to the mainland. At high tides and storm tides the causeway flooded, leaving the fortress unapproachable by land. And on this night the wild ocean, whipped into a frenzy by the wicked blast, rose to lick the rock roots of the guardhouse and spit spray high against the battlements, a warning to the men within of the precarious nature of their shelter.

  Dinadan shivered and drew his cloak tighter around him. The log fire danced and snapped, but on such a night as this it gave only a feeble warmth. The wind was everywhere, whispering around the walls, lifting the heavy tapestries that hung there, sighing among the rushes strewn upon the floor.

  “Damn, but I’m cold!” he muttered, shifting his shoulders. He shot a quick glance toward Tristan and shrugged. The King of Lyonesse sat cross-legged in the rushes, cloakless, his harp upon his lap, lost in song. Dinadan reached for the skin of spiced wine and let the hot brew slide down his throat. While it lasted, the heat in his belly quelled his shivering. He glanced down at the scroll before him, opened on the table, and sighed.

  Since Tristan had taken up his kingship over a year ago, his moods had come more frequently upon him. No one complained—his people loved him unreservedly, the land was fertile, his rule benevolent, and his judgments fair. The Irish had risked landing twice, the Saxons once—all had been soundly defeated with barely a Cornish life lost. Markion had placed Meliodas’s crown on Tristan’s head with his own hands. The future was secure. He should be happy. Dinadan looked down again at the scroll with the High King’s seal. Did Markion know Tristan was unhappy?

  The last notes of the harp died as the sad song came to a close.

  “For God’s sake, Tristan, if I hear one more lament, or one more likening of the sea to a woman’s breast, I’ll fetch you a maiden myself. If you want Esmerée, go to her. If you don’t, rest your soul in peace. I’m about to go out of my mind.”

  Tristan put down the harp and looked up. “Do I drive you to madness, Din? I don’t mean to. It’s this infernal, never-ending pain across my middle. What a magnificent storm rages outside! Just listen to it! But I can’t enjoy them the way I used to—this burning, this gift of Marhalt, worsens in damp weather. On a night like this I can barely breathe.”

  “I’m sorry, Tris. I forgot. Live at Camelot or Dorr, then, instead of at the water’s edge.”

  “I belong at the water’s edge.”

  Dinadan scowled. “Stop talking like a bard. You know I was jesting. I’ve no desire to see you nearer Markion than you have to be. If the scar still pains you so, have her send you the cakes again. You don’t have to see her; I’ll fetch them for you, if you like.”

  Tristan slowly rose and picked up his harp. “He will kill you both. Her for baking them, you for coming near her gate. He has her watched.”

  “Ask her to send her servant with them. Or send one yourself.”

  “Then only she will die.” Tristan shook his head. “I cannot so much as breathe her name aloud without being a danger to her. How do I know what spies he has planted in my household? He may not dare come against me, but he holds her life cheap enough.” He sat heavily on the bench across from Dinadan and put his lap harp down next to the scroll. “After every visit to her he leaves a new mark upon her, just so I will know he has been there.”

  “How can you know this, if you haven’t seen her since summer?”

  “He makes certain I hear about it. One month it will be the talk of the marketplace; another, a courier will ride in with a piece of local news.” Tristan slumped upon the table, head in hands. “Oh, God, Dinadan! What a hell has her life becom
e since she met me! I cannot do anything to help her—everything I’ve tried has brought her fresh beatings. All I can do is nothing. It is pure hell to bear!”

  “And this still goes on, so long after your parting?”

  Tristan nodded. “On and on. Because she bore a daughter, because he thinks the child looks like me.”

  Dinadan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is she yours?”

  Tristan looked up, wretched. “I don’t know. Esme’s sworn to him it’s his. Segward doesn’t believe it.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I think,” Tristan said sadly, “she might be mine. Else Pernam would not be so afraid. He’s angry with me; I expected that. But I can’t think of another reason for his fear.”

  “Surely Pernam’s medicine can help you. You took it, I remember, before you met her.”

  Tristan sighed. “I could. But I’d rather not ask him for it now. He probably regrets he ever healed me. He is certainly wishing he had never introduced me to Esme. And besides, I deserve the discomfort. For all the grief I have brought upon her.”

  Dinadan pushed the wineskin across the table to him. “It was she who came to you. You are doing all that you can on her behalf, and you are suffering enough. Drink up, Tris. Take a deep breath. We need to talk about Mark’s letter.”

  Tristan shrugged. “I’d rather not.”

  “You must. I know you—you’ll do as he requests just to change the monotony of routine. I won’t let you. The gall of the man!”

  “Get it out of your head I ought to be insulted. I’ve never wanted to be High King of Britain, or King of Cornwall, either. Let him get himself another heir. Poor Gerontius. I liked him, didn’t you? He was good-hearted and brave, if slow-witted. I miss him.” Tristan raised the wineskin to his lips and drank. “He would be near twenty now and looking for a wife himself. God, I wish he’d lived.”

  “But more to the point—”

  “I know Mark, Dinadan. The last thing he wants to do is remarry. He likes women well enough, but not to live with. It used to be a joke my father told, how Mark hated to have women about him. He much preferred to leave Elisane at Tintagel and visit her there from time to time. Why do you think he took Castle Dorr from your father? To give himself someplace else to go.”