Prince of Dreams Page 5

  Tristan smiled and slung an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “With a red gash around my middle that will never heal. Pray I find a woman who won’t mind scars.”

  Dinadan shook his head as they started up the cliff path. “More like it will endear you to them. You always were a lucky bastard.”

  At the top of the cliff they stopped for breath.

  “Heaven help me,” Dinadan gasped, “your wind is better than mine! If you’re an invalid, I’m King of Rome. What are you waiting for, Tristan? It’s time to go home and take up the kingship that awaits you.”

  “I’m waiting until Pernam tells me I can go. I owe him that.”

  “Well, I don’t know why he keeps you here. You’re strong enough now to return to Lyon’s Head.”

  “He’s found a new concoction for my wound. It’s some deadly, bitter herb that he mashes up and makes me drink. I have to take it every morning.” Tristan shuddered. “It tastes awful. But it does help.”

  They had come to the gates of the sanctuary, and the porter let them in. Pernam met them in the hallway, a basket under his arm. He bowed politely to them both.

  “Good morning. You’ve been swimming, I see, Tristan.”

  “You’re not going to tell me it’s forbidden?”

  “On the contrary, salt water has many curative powers. Swim as often as you like, but never alone. Surely someone raised on the sea as you’ve been knows better than that.”

  Tristan bowed his head and accepted the rebuke. “What did you want me for? More of that foul drink?”

  Pernam lifted the basket. “I’ve something new for you this morning. Better-tasting. Come try it now and break your fast.”

  Tristan wrinkled his nose. “Nothing could make that vile herb taste better. What have you done, soaked it in spirits?”

  But Pernam would say nothing until they were seated in Tristan’s room around the little table. Leth came in with a pitcher of warm goat’s milk and a plate of bread and honey, but this morning Pernam pushed the usual meal aside. From the basket he brought forth a dense round cake, studded with raisins and flecked with lemon rind. He cut a slice for each of them.

  “Try it, my lord Dinadan. It won’t hurt you. I want your opinion of its flavor.”

  Gingerly, they tried it. Tristan’s features lit with joy. “It’s wonderful! It’s the best cake I’ve ever tasted. Are you sure the herb is in it?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “And you’ve always said you had no skill at cooking. Modest man!”

  “I did not do the baking. This was made for you by a friend of mine. A woman.”

  Both young men stared, and Pernam’s lips twisted in a thin smile. “Do I surprise you? Then you do not know me as well as you think you do. Perhaps, Tristan, if you learn to broaden your mind, I will introduce you to this generous friend.”

  “I beg your pardon, Uncle. And please, take me to her that I may thank her for this marvelous cake. Will it be possible to get more of it when I return to Lyon’s Head?”

  Pernam frowned. “Probably not, unless you’re willing to ride out here and fetch it. She’s a local woman. But first things first. We must see whether the cake is as powerful as the drink. Perhaps the heat of baking weakens the herb’s effect. We shall know in a week. If it works, I will ask her to bake you another. If you do not worsen over the next fortnight, I will send you home.”

  Dinadan smiled in satisfaction, but Tristan looked away.

  “Have you a harp in the place, Uncle? Since I rose at dawn I have wanted to make music.”

  “As it happens, I do.” Pernam signaled to Leth, who slipped out. “A very fine harp, although a small one. A traveling harp of horsehair, horn, and brass, said to have once belonged to Merlin the Enchanter.”

  “Indeed?” Tristan cried. “I have not heard that story. How came the harp into Cornwall? Merlin was a Welshman.”

  Pernam’s deep eyes seemed to look through him to something beyond. “In those days Wales and Cornwall were friends. In the days of Arthur. Yes, and even before that, in the days of Uther Pendragon. This is the harp, they say, that Merlin used to weave a spell around the High King Uther, changing him into the likeness of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, so that he might lie undetected with the Duchess Ygraine and beget Arthur. And in the morning, when our ancestor Gorlois attacked the King’s troops and was killed, Merlin hurried Uther out of Tintagel before the courier could bring the duchess news of her husband’s death and the deception be discovered. In his hurry, he left behind his harp.” Pernam’s gaze returned to Tristan. “It’s a pretty story, isn’t it? I’ve no idea if it’s true. Markion gave me the harp when he moved into Tintagel. The Goddess knows he had no use for it.”

  The boy Leth entered carrying a lap harp carved of horn, fitted with brass string shoes, and strung with horsehair. Tristan held it gingerly. It was very old. Settling it on his lap, he plucked it lightly, and its clear voice sang out sweet and true. “What a voice it has! Why, a breath will set it singing. It hardly needs a touch to tell its tale.”

  Pernam winked at Dinadan. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was made for you. It’s yours, Tristan. Take it with my blessing, and may it bring you joy.”

  “Mine?” Tristan swallowed. “Uncle, how can I ever thank you? This is—this is a treasure.”

  “You can start by taking yourself off somewhere private to learn the feel of it. Go on, bardling, I can see the longing in your eyes. And tonight, you can sing for us at supper.”

  When Tristan had gone, Dinadan and Pernam sat silently while Leth cleared the table.

  “Did you see his face,” Dinadan said, “when you spoke of sending him home? It was nothing like his face when you gave him the harp. Sometimes—sometimes I wonder if he really wants to be King of Lyonesse, and yet if he doesn’t, why did he fight Marhalt?”

  Pernam’s eyes narrowed as he rose, straightening his robe with his agile, long-fingered hands. “He is a bard in a prince’s body. Twenty, thirty years ago, perhaps, in the golden days of Arthur, he might have been celebrated throughout Britain. But he missed his time. He is caught between two natures. He was born between the stars.” A deep sigh escaped him. “May the Mother forgive him.”

  Alone in the sunlit garden, seated cross-legged in the shade of a laurel tree, Tristan ran his fingers over the harp strings and closed his eyes for the sheer pleasure of their sound.

  Coming down the path toward the gate with her servants, a woman heard his music and stopped to listen, waving the servants silent with a swift motion of her hand. She stood still a moment, leaning forward, hardly breathing, and then sighed in sudden exasperation.

  “Why didn’t he tell me? He has a bard here visiting, and he didn’t tell me. Reatha, Lydd, take the baskets to the wagon and await me at the gate. I shan’t be a moment.”

  She slipped into the garden and followed the liquid fall of sound to the laurel. When she saw Tristan she stopped and stared. So young! He sat in the grass bent over his harp, head cocked to the side, his ear near the sounding board, with such a look of perfect joy upon his face, a sigh rose to her lips and her eyes filled with tears. And the music! It flowed from his fingers without effort, a glorious river of sound, sweeping her before it, flooding her senses, drowning her breath. Even as she watched, he lifted his face to the morning sun and began to sing. She paid little attention to the words—it was a version of an old song she had heard often enough among the coastal fishing folk—but his voice! In a clear, haunting tenor it moved her with every syllable, sweet and melancholic, tragic and powerful. She listened, rapt, to the end of his song, unaware her pale cheeks were wet with tears. When the last note had faded to nothingness, he opened his eyes and saw her.

  Her voice caught on a sob. “Who are you?”

  Tristan froze. For a brief, panicked moment, he thought she was an angel descended on silent wings to fetch him from the world. With the sun behind her, her hair was haloed with light and her features shadowed. Then she moved and knelt beside him. />
  “Who are you?”

  But his lips would not move. He could only stare at her in blank amazement. Fine brown eyes, liquid with tears, sweet trembling lips, skin dewy and pale as a lily at dawning—a rush of feeling swept him that set him shaking with the effort of control. His body whipped to life even as his will acquiesced.

  “Lady,” he fumbled, “I hardly know.”

  “Never mind. Do not tell me what they call you. I know your true name.”

  “How can you?” he croaked, blushing at his sudden stupidity and awkwardness, he who had never been stupid or awkward, even as a child. What devil had possessed him and stolen his wit and tongue?

  She reached out a pale hand and brushed the hair from his brow. “You are Orpheus,” she said with a slow smile. “For your song is a song of enchantment.”

  At the touch of her hand he closed his eyes. “Lady, if I am Orpheus, you are Eurydice.” When he opened his eyes he saw her smiling.

  “Thank you, young lord. That is a compliment indeed.” She rose and paused. “How long are you staying with Prince Pernam?”

  He swallowed hard. “A fortnight.” He wanted to rise with her but could not. He was incapable of movement. He sat cross-legged in the grass as if he had grown roots there. His breath raced, and he could not slow it down. “Will I see you again?”

  She nodded. “I come thrice a week.” She turned toward the entrance to the garden, and the very way her head turned on her slender neck reminded him again of a garden, and of lilies upright in the sun. “The day after tomorrow,” she said with a smile as she made him a reverence. “Wait for me, Orpheus.”

  He said nothing about her to Dinadan. Even had he wanted to, he could not have found the words. But Dinadan was busy in Pernam’s stables, repairing the roofing, evaluating his stock of mules and horses, arguing about inbreeding, and teaching Jarrad the finer points of horseflesh. Left to himself, Tristan sought out a private corner in the garden or the orchard, in the rambling house, or in the low outbuildings that hugged the cliff. This was peace, he thought. Here, anyone could heal of any wound. Wherever there was sun and sea and wind, he could make a song.

  This was how she found him the second time, bent over the lap harp, the sun on his face and the sea wind ruffling his hair. He looked up and saw her at the door to the washhouse, still and listening, her rich hair bound behind her head, shining like polished wood in the bright sun. He jumped to his feet, the song forgotten, the harp abandoned in the grass. She stood looking at him while Tristan’s ears pounded with the silence and his throat went dry. Behind her something moved. Gray-robed Pernam stepped out of the building’s shadow, eyes upon them both.

  Pernam offered her his arm, and they both came toward him. The woman seemed to sail across the yard, proudly, fluidly, speaking to his uncle in her clear voice, gracing him with her glorious smile. They talked of mindless things, of wool and weaving. Impatiently, Tristan waved the words away with a flick of his hand. She filled his vision, the amazing warmth and fullness of her, the glowing flush of health under translucent skin, the vitality, the joy of living that lit her face, the wonderful, terrifying curves that strained against the lacings of her gown. Sweat broke between his shoulders and trickled down his back. For a moment he wished he could be as impervious to her as was his uncle Pernam; the next moment, he would not have traded places with his uncle for all the world.

  She turned luminous eyes to him and smiled. “My Orpheus, we meet again.”

  He inclined his head politely and hoped she could not tell how he trembled.

  “I think it’s time I introduced you,” Pernam said smoothly, watching Tristan with a light frown. “Tristan, this is your benefactress, the woman who has made your convalescence palatable. The Lady Esmerée. Esme, my nephew Tristan.”

  Her eyes widened, and a deep, glorious blush rose from her throat to darken her cheeks.

  “Tristan,” she whispered. “King of Lyonesse.” And she made a graceful reverence to the ground. At once he put out a shaking hand and raised her.

  “Lady Esmerée.” He said it softly. It sounded like the night wind, the breath of the sea through winter grasses. “I have wanted so to meet you, to thank you for the cake.”

  “My lord, it was nothing. A small thing. I am glad it pleased you.”

  “It is not a small thing to me, who am faced with a lifetime of taking that vile herb. It means more to me than I can tell you.”

  She lowered her eyes. The wind had loosened her hair and blew soft, curling strands under her chin and across the bodice of her gown. One slender tendril lay on the soft white swell of her breast. Feeling eyes upon him, Tristan looked up at Pernam, who regarded him with both compassion and disapproval.

  “Lady Esmerée helps us in other ways as well,” Pernam said, retrieving the harp. He walked them both up the path toward the garden. “She and her women weave and stitch our robes, as well as the clothing we collect for the poor children hereabouts. We are all of us in her debt.” They reached the entrance to the garden, where Pernam loosed their arms, handed the harp to Tristan, and bowed to Esmerée.

  “Thank you, Esme. I should have the wool for you by the time of your next visit. When did you say your husband was coming home?”

  A shadow touched her face and was gone. She stood very still.

  “At week’s end, the courier said.” Her voice was low and small. “He will stay six days if he keeps to pattern.”

  Pernam glanced swiftly at Tristan, who stood rooted to the ground. “I’m in no hurry for the blankets. Before the snow flies is soon enough.” And making a low bow to the space between them, he withdrew.

  Esmerée turned toward Tristan, her lips lifting in a bitter smile. “Your uncle is a very kind man.” She slipped her arm through his and drew him into the garden. “I owe him the life of my youngest daughter. He saved her from a snakebite when the priest had given her up for dead. He is the most powerful healer in all of Cornwall. I think it is because he does not give up. Life, mortal life, means more to him than it does to the Christian brothers. Their eyes are always on the next world.”

  A stone bench stood near the herb beds in the shade of the laurel. Esmerée sat down upon it and drew Tristan down beside her. His cheeks flushed with color. She sighed.

  “Since I first heard your music I have wanted to ask you, will you make me a song for my daughter?”

  He looked up at her then, with dark, tragic eyes. “I have made a song for you.” Color washed his face again. “I—I did not know you had a husband.”

  She took his hand and held it between her own. “And I did not know you were a king’s son, much less the warrior who saved all Cornwall, King of Lyonesse and my sovereign lord. I thought you were a bard.”

  “Sometimes I am. Sometimes I don’t seem to be the one who has done those violent things.”

  “How old are you, Tristan? Sixteen?”

  “Seventeen. In my illness I passed a birthday.”

  “Seventeen.” She smiled. “A time of such promise for a man. You are only getting the feel of your strength, of who you are and what you can become. You have many gifts. You are blessed with courage and with beauty. Surely you were born to do great things.”

  Tristan shrugged, digging the toe of his boot into the soft earth. “And you? Pernam said you were a local woman. But you are young and highborn and beautiful. What are you doing here? Surely you should be wed to some lord and be at court.”

  She was silent for so long Tristan raised his head to look at her. He saw tears in her eyes.

  “What have I said? I never meant to distress you.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you for those words, my lord. A woman needs to hear them from time to time.”

  “I spoke only the truth.”

  She managed a smile. “I am not so young, three and twenty. And my husband is a lord who is often at court. I stay here because—I prefer it, and so does he. I need space—wind and sea. I do not much like the company of men.”

  Tr
istan nodded. “We are cut of the same cloth, you and I.”

  She rose. “You are a king, Tristan. You must learn to like it.”

  He rose with her, silent, and followed her to the gate where her servants waited by her wagon.

  “When do you come again, Lady Esmerée?”

  “In two days. After that, my husband returns. By the time he leaves, you will be gone to Lyon’s Head.”

  At last he smiled. “Oh, no. I will wait. I dare not go without my cake.”

  But she clutched at his hand and held it hard. “Don’t wait. Please. I will send the cake. Don’t wait for me.” And before he could answer, she was gone.

  5 SEGWARD’S WIFE

  That evening he told Dinadan about her. His friend smiled as he listened to her praises, and teased Tristan that at last he had lost his heart.

  “And about time, too. You are as ripe for plucking as this pear.” He bit into the sweet fruit and let the juice dribble down his chin. Tristan laughed.

  “An unpleasant comparison! Say, rather, that I am a nestling poised on the edge of flight.”

  “Fly, hawk, fly. I can’t wait to see this vision of loveliness. Think of such a beauty visiting your uncle Pernam, who doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “Think of her dolt of a husband, to leave such a woman behind. How could he do it? If she were mine, I would not let her out of my sight, much less leave her stranded here on the coast, alone and vulnerable.”

  Dinadan grinned. “Vulnerable, eh? Are you sure, hawk? Perhaps she loves him, perhaps he trusts her. Perhaps she is under Pernam’s protection.”

  Tristan considered this thoughtfully. “Perhaps. I would like to think so. Despite his appearance, he’s a powerful man. But I do not think she loves her husband.”

  “How could you possibly know that? Did you ask her?”

  “Of course not. What do you take me for? It was something in her voice, in her bearing, when he was mentioned. That’s all.”

  “It’s not much. But you will find out soon enough if she is willing.”

  “Willing!” Tristan flushed crimson. “Is that what you think I’m after?”