The Tristan Stone (Conclusion of Tristan of Dintagell)

Chapter One

Tintagel to Tara

Midsummer, 638

Isuelt of Éire. The words resonated inside his head, like sound bouncing from one cold, stony surface to the next. Or perhaps like the sustained vibration of a rung bell. He didn’t simply hear Marc’s terrible words. They manifested physically in his body, as pain in his head, thumping down his throat to his heart, burning like molten lead down to his gut where they landed like a lump of ice in his bowel. His Isuelt. Isuelt of his heart. Then, the world went suddenly and profoundly silent, and Tristan grew immediately numb to the lips. He could not hear, nor feel the words he next spoke as they trickled out of his deadened, white mouth. Isuelt of Éire.

Marc barely heard them himself as they came from Tristan in a wheeze, a whisper.

I do know her.

Marc twisted around to look at him again, and this seemed to bring Tristan’s hearing back with a roar.

Are you ailing Tristan? Have the demands of the day finally worn through the fabric of your strength?

He heard Marc through the gale raging in his brain like a violent storm from the sea. The words seemed very far away, like an echo in time, and it took a moment for him to register and respond to them.

No, no, uncle. I am fine; just a bit weary. He did sound intensely tired, and suddenly truly did feel that way as well. With your leave, I will forgo the feasting tonight. I must preserve my strength and make ready if I am to travel once again to Temair.

Marc, still twisted toward Tristan as the horses continued straining forward and up, climbing the track to the headland, tried to catch a glimpse through the darkness of his nephew’s features. The night was an effective shroud however, and would not reveal Tristan’s secrets. Certainly Tristan, if that is your wish.

Marc righted himself on the horse to make it easier for his mount to balance them both as he plunged upward the last bit of the climb. Something niggled his mind, worrying him, and he wondered if it was grief over the loss of his grandmother, regret at having to return to the place of his captivity, loathing for the king of Éire, his former captor, or some other unnamed thing that so changed Tristan the moment he learned of his task.

Tristan’s mount stepped up beside Marc’s own now that the narrow track had widened and spilled them out upon the plateau. He drew no conclusions, nor would he insult Tristan by asking him, and so they simply rode stirrup-to-stirrup, knee-to-knee in silence, the last of the way to Dintagell together, yet leagues apart.

The glowing sparks rose like orange and yellow and white threads and flakes, brilliant as jewels against the black night, merry with life one moment as they evaded the leaping tongues of flame, their brilliance winking out into papery grey dead husks the very next. The revelers danced and shouted at its circumference while Isuelt sat a bit apart from the roaring fire, studying it glumly as its body of wood and heather and peat and grasses burst to life, rose on the power of its own heat, and then withered to dead grey ash, the night sweeping their corpses away into its deep darkness.

Stop scowling so. Is this no’ a time to celebrate?

Isuelt turned her dour attention then to Brengain. What is there to celebrate? This waste of effort and trees?

Brengain narrowed her brown eyes, nearly as luminescent as the fire they reflected. There is no waste if some purpose is served.

Isuelt snorted. Is not Midsummer warm enough without a fire upon every hilltop?

Brengain studied her a moment, her eyes still narrowed and snapping. Dinna practice tha sharp edge of yer temper on me. I have tired long months ago of yer wailing and mourning over tha coming day of yer marriage t’ a great king. There be worse things t’ suffer than becoming a queen, so set yer foul humor aside. Come, let’s jump tha fire with tha rest of them, and be happy for a time.

Isuelt shot her tongue at Brengain and turned away from her in a huff, pointedly ignoring the maid while she slapped a glowing bit of ash from her long, loose hair.

Brengain sighed, and settled in the long grasses more comfortably.

Isuelt stabbed a look over her shoulder at her maid. Leaping the fire would be a waste as well. Whether I leap it cleanly thrice or not, I am sure of a speedy marriage, whether I want it or not. And I am then likely to be burdened with a handful of bairns clinging to my skirts, whether I want them or not, as well.

Brengain rolled her eyes at Isuelt. Can ye not roll yerself out of that cloak of discontent ye keep yerself bundled so tightly within?

I do not cloak myself in discontent, Protested Isuelt.

Ye do, and ye do. I have never kent any other but yerself to be discontent, unless ye aren’t discontent.

Brengain mitigated her harsh words with a softening of her voice and manner. Lady, ye are born ta privilege and I am born to service. But even in yer privilege ye must serve, for as a daughter ye serve yer Athair, and as a princess ye serve yer people. Now then, I ask ye, would ye rather serve in yer capacity, or in my own?

Isuelt whirled about and pinched Brengain hard on the arm, making her yelp in outrage and pain. Fine! I shall leap Saint John’s fires then, and I shall be merry while doing it! She shouted scowling fiercely as she jumped to her feet.

Still rubbing her insulted arm, a smile just lighting her eyes, Brengain argued, Áine’s fires. The church ha’ only tried to distract us from remembering the old gods and goddesses by disguising our ancient rituals beneath tha robes of the Christian saints.

Isuelt’s eyes were sparking dangerous green against the dancing flames. I shall not be drawn into this disagreement yet again. My father is a Christian king. She said firmly. And his kingdom is a Christian kingdom.

Ye may call it so. Brengain answered stubbornly. But changing tha name of a thing does not change the thing itself, and these rites have been practiced upon this soil since before there was a saint to rename it for.

Isuelt crossed her arms. In that case, I shall not leap the fire at all then. She turned away, her hair flying out behind her like a snapping battle standard, and she strode briskly into the darkness away from the fire.

Hold! Brengain shouted, alarmed, jumping to her own feet. Where do you go then? She trotted behind Isuelt, reluctant to leave the revels of Midsummer; the laughing, shouting, dancing and drinking, those making merry in the light, and those making love in the dark.

I go to gather elderberries, yarrow and vervain for my simples chest and to cut hazel branches so I can douse for gold and jewels. Is not that the magic of Áine’s night as well? She answered stiffly, still pacing briskly forward.

Wait then a moment; Isuelt, wait me. I will gather a lighted brand so to find them by.

Isuelt waved her away. You will have the brand. You can with it seek me. Brengain recognized the stubborn set to her jaw, sighed again and ran quickly back to the fire for a lighted brand. She rolled her eyes again. She knew it would be a long night.

Tristan found his way back to Temair. The journey had been both too long and too short for him. His heart spurred him ever forward, buoyant in the knowledge that he would soon be in Isuelt’s presence, but his mind reined him back, knowing that she was forbidden to him. Elation and despair battled inside him daily, and he was exhausted by the demons within. Desperate longing had burned the softness of youth from his bones, and he grew hollow eyed and hungry looking, but neither Dinadin nor any man within the ranks of his guard mentioned it to him, and he was silently grateful for that.

When they finally rode through the first rampart at Temair, they found them only lightly guarded and the stronghold nearly deserted. They, however, were allowed passage by the king’s decree, and all travel weary, bedded their horses and themselves down for the night. Having nobody to show them hospitality, Dinadin and the guard took up residence in the Hall of Hostages, Dinadin’s former familiar home in this place, but Tristan chose instead the bed in which he had last held Isuelt close, in the House of Sorrows.

Casting off his weapons, he sank down into the comfort of the bed, imagining Isuelt there beside him, and for the first time in many weeks, tumbled down into a deep and satisfying sleep, void of dreams and worries.

Isuelt heard Brengain calling her. Turning back to the fire, smaller now in the distance she had covered, she watched quietly as Brengain raised the flickering torch higher, searching in the shadowy night. Raising her léine, tunic and cloak well above her knees, Isuelt sprinted like a boy through the grasses down the hillside and ran until her lungs burned. She wished desperately at this moment for her mare to carry her swiftly away, but faltered only when she reached the bottom of the hill, her lungs burning with effort, her throat raw with emotion. Finally, she allowed herself to sob away her anger and impotence and grief, ignoring her hot tears and running nose, for who was here to witness her decline into ugliness and despair? She restrained herself from shrieking in outrage, the way she had keened over Mórholt, for Brengain would certainly find her then, and after a moment, gathered her wits and turned decidedly toward the hill of Temair. She hitched her clothing up again and walked with long-legged strides, almost masculine in their determination, toward the royal residence. Her father could force her into marriage, but, she decided, no one could force her to be happy about it. Nor could they force her to make merry when she was decidedly so unhappy. And there was no point she could see in watching everyone around her rejoice, so she decided to leave them to it while she withdrew to celebrate her sorrow in solitude.

When she was certain that she had left Brengain searching in the wrong direction, Isuelt slowed her pace, for everyone, both great and mean would be employed in some sensual, self-serving practice throughout the dark hours of the night, and most of them would sleep off those effects through the light hours of the next day. Midsummer was a comfortable time, for the farmers were in the continuum between planting and scything, and the warriors were idle now with no killing to be done. Only the women would work tomorrow, they never having a respite from their tasks, and so it was only Brengain and her own mother the queen she would worry about when day broke. By then, she reasoned, she could make some excuse for her absence.

Temair, by contrast to the hilltop fires was dark and quiet. She slipped easily past the king’s guards, silent as the shadows that concealed her. Isuelt wandered aimlessly from the Women’s Grave on the Sloping Trenches to Rath Graine to Fothadh Graine, wondering about the women that in antiquity had called this place their home. From there she crossed Slige Cualann and made her way to the church, but found no comfort there, it as cold and empty as herself on this night. She wandered in stealth a while longer, avoiding An Forradh, her father’s palace, her feet bringing her instead to the House of Sorrows.

By memory alone, she found her way to the door. She ran her fingertips lightly over the ridged grain of the oak, smooth now under the assault of decades of wind and rain and sun. She found the door thong and freed the bolt. It slid silently open and she stepped through the portal, floating like a spirit into the dark silent hospital. Isuelt stood for a moment, remembering, and oddly the room still carried the pleasant scent of Tristan; musk and horse sweat, green grass and spice perhaps, or maybe even the woody, oily scent of cedar, found her in the air current she had disturbed in the close space when she opened the door. A sudden rush of blood warmed her skin, and longing drew her on cat’s feet to his pallet.

Reaching down to touch the furs and blankets, she recoiled with a gasp for her fingers found heat there, and for the first time her ears recognized the slow steady respirations of someone in a deep sleep. Her heart skipped like a flat stone skimmed across a lake, and unbelievably her fingers reached out again, seeking, for she knew somehow that Tristan had returned to her.

He moaned as her fingers brushed him, but did not awaken, and with a buoyant spirit, Isuelt recognized the throaty sound, longing to hear it again.

Tristan? She whispered, her voice finally piercing the veil of darkness and slumber. He came awake with a start and for a moment struggled to recall where he was. She called him again, her voice as smooth and sweet as cream, and he answered incredulously.

Isuelt? Can that be you?

It is. She cried, and then threw herself down upon him. I am come to you, as you have returned to me. Though he couldn’t see it, she was smiling broadly and her tears ran freely into her mouth and down her cheeks and chin.

How did you know to find me here? He rolled her into his arms and held her as though she were still a dream, and he afraid to wake and cause her evaporation.

Fate has brought me here, to this house, and straight to your arms. I have come to you, because you have come to me.

Despair washed through him and he moaned, unable to conceal it. He tightened his arms around her and burrowed his face into the soft cleft of her neck, grimacing in pain. They said nothing more for a long while, simply clinging to each other through the coldest hours of the night. Isuelt sighed and wound his curls around her fingers while he drew his own up and down her spine from her hips to her neck, wading through the black sea of her loose tresses. And after a time, they slept.

Tristan came awake suddenly when the sky began to lighten. He studied Isuelt, sleeping still in his embrace. He devoured the sight of her, memorizing her lashes still against her pale skin like blue-black ravens wings resting from flight. His heart broke freshly when he considered the planes and hollows of her face, and the soft lush lips, pink with the heat of deep slumber. Her lips were upturned slightly, as though she were in some way satisfied, and her pale skin was smooth, without blemish, without worry. He wanted to kiss her awake and stare at her startling green eyes, but to do so would end the moment, and replace it with the grief they would both be plunged into soon enough.

But she seemed to feel the weight of his scrutiny, and came willingly up through the depths of slumber, smiling sleepily at him before opening her eyes to the new day.

It was not a dream. She murmured.

Reaching up to draw his forefinger against a wayward strand of her hair, clearing it for an unobstructed view of her face, he answered. It was not.

She sighed, and he placed a warm kiss on her forehead. She returned the kiss, drawing his head slowly down to place her lips against his. The contact was like a flash of heat between them, sending a jolt of immediate and intense desire through Tristan like a sword thrust, and he drew back from her suddenly, mortified at his reaction.

Isuelt first looked bewildered, then smiled shyly at him. Will you not kiss me again?

I cannot. I should have not done so at all. Agony lanced through him, contorting his features painfully.

You can. It is not so difficult. Here, I shall help you.

No. Tristan sat up, gently disentangling himself from her. I must not. It is a grievous sin, and I would not have you burn for my error.

We shall marry then. My father has chosen another man for my husband, but I am not wed yet. I will defy my Athair, for love’s sake, and damn duty. She answered stubbornly, sullenly.

You shall not. Tristan replied, his throat gritty, his voice forlorn. You shall become the queen your were born to be, and I will not turn you from your destiny.

Anguish, then anger filled her. You will not?! What right have you to make my decisions? You are not my Athair. You are not my husband. You have no power over me at all.

And none over myself either. Tristan added in a whisper. He looked down, turning away from her, keeping her eyes at his back. I am sent to retrieve you as the bride for my uncle, Marc, King of Cerniw. The deal has been struck, and the arrangements have been made. The king sold you into marriage when my king purchased my freedom. I thought you knew of this already, though I only learned of it a week before I sailed from Dintagell.

Silence fell like a thick, awkward mantle between them. Tristan did not dare look back at her lest he break the tenuous control he exercised over himself and clutch her to his breast again. He felt her abandon the bed, and finally turned back toward her, his icy control melting against the assault of her liquid sobs.

She stood with her face cradled in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. She keened, a low throaty sound muffled by her fingers and Tristan leapt to his feet and started toward her.

Do not! She entreated with an outstretched hand. She looked around frantically and her eyes fell upon his sheathed sword. Snatching it up, she drew it and threw the scabbard to the floor, it bouncing against the waxed wooden floor with a hollow echo. I shall not suffer myself to live in grief. I would rather end my own life! She moaned.

Tristan leapt at her, white faced with alarm, and trapped her hand in his, pointing the blade earthward and clutching her against his breast. Do not! If you end your life, you kill me as well!

Isuelt relaxed her fingers against the stone embrace of his fist and melted into him, sobbing. With an iron will, she conquered her weeping and pushed herself out of his embrace. She withdrew her fingers from his grip, and as she did so her line of sight fell down the plane of the blade and she froze. Slowly, she lifted her reddened eyes to his, and an old grief overshadowed the new.

What did this? She rasped, pointing to a defect in the otherwise perfect edge of his sword. How did this come to pass? She asked again, while opening the neck of her tunic where the ties came together and lifting from beneath it a silver chain, and amulet.

Tristan opened his mouth to answer, puzzled at the sudden turn of her mood, but before he could do so, he recognized the amulet she wore as the missing sliver of his blade.

Isuelt shrieked, Murderer! Murderer! Her shrill words penetrated the crisp morning like a call to arms.

Tristan laid the sword aside and answered, baffled, No, Isuelt. No. It is not so." He lifted his hands in supplication, and opened his mouth to deny it once more, but a dozen men at arms burst into the room, looking both confused and alarmed, and pinned him to the wall with their swords and pikes. Isuelt ran from the house, sobbing yet again.

Chapter Two

Ireland, Summer 638

I will kill you myself! Domnall screamed, his face alarmingly purple and his eyes popping wide in rage. Tristan stood chained, flanked by Domnall’s pike-men. How do you dare to draw arms against my daughter? Tristan stood unflinching under the assault of his angry words delivered in a hail of spittle, and it brought to Tristan’s mind the image of a bear roaring with its mouth wide, its long sharp teeth dripping saliva. The king stared at him for a long tense moment, and then paced away from him, only to rush back and demand, Have you nothing to say. Would you have your silence condemn you then?

Tristan was supremely aware of Isuelt’s presence in the room, though he would not glance her direction. He opened his mouth to speak to his innocence, but another tirade from the king effectively silenced him again.

Did you rape my daughter as well? Is that why you drew your weapon? To silence her? The king seemed to grow louder and more agitated with each question, but he did not pause long enough for Tristan to answer any of them without risking the serious offense of interrupting the king while he spoke.

If you have violated her in any manner, he continued to violently storm, peace be damned, I will castrate you and send you back to Cerniw in pieces. It may take many weeks for you to die, for I shall keep you alive to prolong the agony of your death!

Isuelt finally bolted toward her father, sobbing, Dadai! He did none of these things. I swear it!

Domnall pierced Tristan with his gaze, narrow with disbelief, his lips thin and twisted in anger and disgust. She pleaded with him again. Dadai. It is much worse.

The king roared at those damning words and lunged at Tristan, his meaty fingers flexing and contracting, desperate to squeeze his throat until his round blue eyes popped. What did he then daughter? What be his crimes? Dadai will punish him for every one.

Isuelt’s full lower lip trembled, and a tear welled in her bright green eyes before trembling as well and spilling over to drop on the tip of her green satin slipper. She hesitated, then blurted out, He is the murderer of Mórholt.

Whatever Domnall expected, it was not that, and most of his bluster drained out of him. He turned to face Isuelt, incredulity plain on his face.

She misread him, and protested, It is the truth. See you this? She pulled the amulet out to display it again. It is a sliver from the sword that murdered Mórholt. She pointed a finger. He bears this blade. It is proof of his guilt.

Domnall swiveled his head back to Tristan, snapping his gaping mouth shut. Tristan met his eyes, no longer angry as dagger points, but skeptical instead. There was no defense to the charge so he quirked an eyebrow and shrugged.

Domnall swiveled his head back to Isuelt and she gasped, See. He does not deny it! Now the king’s daughter lunged forward, longing to deliver a stinging slap, but Domnall grabbed her upraised hand and yanked her backward.

Loose him. He has committed no crime.

Isuelt gasped again, her outrage turned on her father this time.

He has committed no crime? She shrieked and began sobbing again. His sword delivered the death blow!

He did kill Mórholt, but he committed no murder. Mórholt died with honor in single combat as a warrior should. Domnall studied Tristan again, his skepticism slowly fading into interested appraisal. The volume of his words decreased as he continued to speak them, coming out as almost an afterthought. It was a battle legally fought. Mórholt was a victim of war. This is something a woman’s mind cannot comprehend.

The fetters fell from Tristan with a heavy thud, and Tristan rubbed his wrists where the cold iron had gnawed them.

I thank you, great king. I have done nothing but what I was bidden. I am here to complete the accord between Éire and Cerniw. I am in the service of my king. The words rang hollow, even in Tristan’s own ears, but the king accepted them without further question, waving Tristan’s obeisance away.

Have you broken your fast? No? Come, let us eat together, and you can tell me how you, no more than a stripling, bested my champion. I am eager to hear it.

Isuelt shrieked again, and fled from the royal chambers, sobbing. The king raised a finger, pointing in the direction of her retreat, and one of his retainers nodded, and turned to follow in her wake.

Domnall sighed and turned, guiding Tristan toward the feasting hall. It is easier to live with the devil than a daughter, I think. I am glad I have but one.

Tristan could find no easy way to neither agree nor disagree with him, so he sagely kept silent, nodding vaguely instead.

We shall not prolong her departure and marriage to King Marc. Perhaps he can tame her where I have failed. I just could never bring myself to beat the girl, she being such a pretty lass.

Again, Tristan found he had no answer, nor could he speak even if he had one. His heart and his spirit were broken, and he did not want to betray himself to the father of the woman whom had done so.

So come you Tristan of Cerniw, and let us make arrangements for your travel back. We will tip a mug together and I shall ask your forgiveness. Also I will wish you a deaf ear and a thick skin on your journey. You will need both to remain sane, for if I ken my daughter, she will flay you with that tongue of hers at every opportunity. His eyes grew misty and faraway for a moment, and he muttered, She would have made a fine son, and a strong king.

Domnall suddenly came back to himself and chuckled, slapping Tristan heartily on the back. And you can impress upon your king that our bargain cannot be broken. I love my daughter, but I am well rid of her. She can labor to be king of Cerniw if she desires. I am weary of her trying to wear the crown in my kingdom.

Aye, well, she can begin with this, I suppose. Tristan was absolutely numb from his face to his fingers, and his heart beat sluggishly, as though it were pumping cold barley gruel through his veins. It took some effort, but Tristan found in his pack a small velvet-wrapped bundle, which he handed over to Domnall, but not before he fumbled and nearly thrice dropped the item.

Domnall took it in his meaty hands and with a deftness that belied his thick fingers, delicately freed the object from the soft black cloth. A thick gold ring set with a large deep green stone rolled into the palm of his hand. It caught and reflected the meager light in the hall, sparkling as only fine jewels do. The ring itself gleamed with the highly polished luster of excellent craftsmanship, and Domnall smiled.

It is fit for a queen. It is a fine bride-gift and Isuelt shall be proud to wear it. Give my thanks to your lord-king.

Tristan’s white lips twitched, but he couldn’t quite complete the smile. He nodded instead and answered gravely, And so, I shall.

The day dawned bright and clear. Tristan and the guard were mounted and ready, their horses stamping and jingling their harness with impatience at the delay. Tristan assumed Isuelt was impeding them, lingering over her farewells for he had not yet seen her that morn, though the sumpter animals were loaded with her many chests and crates and tied together in a baggage string, standing quietly in contrast to the saddle horses. But when Isuelt emerged, it was Brengain with the red-rimmed eyes, wailing in protest as Isuelt led her forward by the wrist.

I beg you, princess, dinna force me t’ depart.

Ysuet followed serenely, stepping behind them into the thin sunlight. She placed her hand gently on Brengain’s back as though to comfort her, but it instead induced a fresh wave of weeping.

Mistress Queen, I would stay ta serve ye here. Dinna send me away.

Ysuet’s words were quiet and kind, but carried clearly to every ear on the strength of her authority. Serve me by serving my daughter, Brengain. All will be well.

I dinna wish ta leave this place. She cried.

We are each of us compelled to act against our wishes. Isuelt answered coldly. At least you so said as much to me on Midsummer’s Night.

I did say so, perhaps, she sniffed, wiping the freely coursing tears away, but ye shall gain a queenship. What shall I gain? She wailed.

What shall you gain? A place in heaven. Isuelt answered smartly. And the skill to ride a horse.

Brengain’s eyes went wide with terror and she turned to flee, snatching her wrist from Isuelt’s grasp. She disappeared within the structure, Isuelt at her heels, shrieked once, and stumbled back into the morning, Isuelt dragging her out sobbing hysterically by the hair.

Dinadin rolled his eyes, trying to catch Tristan’s attention, but it was fixed on Isuelt’s hand clutching Brengain’s hair, the gold and emerald ring flashing like fairy fire in the summer’s morning light.

Without a sound, Tristan dismounted and walked quickly to the struggling maid. Without a word he gestured for Isuelt to free Brengain, and he scooped her up, howling, and carried the struggling girl over to a saddle horse, and set her astride the heavy-lidded dozing beast.

Brengain grew immediately still and quiet, clutching the saddlebow with blanching fingers. Tristan spoke quietly and calmly to her, as though trying to tame a white-eyed frothy mouthed horse, and reassured her that if she remained calm, her horse would do the same. She didn’t acknowledge the instruction in any way, frozen as she was with fear, but neither did she start shrieking and wailing again, so he turned from her and remounted his own horse.

Ysuet embraced her daughter, and Domnall appeared, red-cheeked and out of breath to do the same. Isuelt walked regally past the mounted men and maid, pointedly ignoring Tristan, and swiftly and skillfully mounted her little brown mare.

Domnall, Arch-King of Éire, approached Tristan and demanded his sword. Confused, Tristan drew it and handed it hilt first to the king who studied the cavity in the blade. Grunting, he handed it back to one of his guards and returned with a fine, new sword in his hand. To compensate for the one you have willingly given. Have a care with it. It has value to me. He said. He glanced quickly at his daughter, immobile and expressionless upon her brown mare, and withdrew to his wife’s side.

Tristan thanked the king for his hospitality and the columns of men and beasts began moving sluggishly forward. Without a backward glance, Isuelt put Temair to her back and rode bravely ahead into her future.

In the beginning, Tristan’s journey home was not precisely the torment he had anticipated, though neither was it as pleasant as he had hoped. The party rode through their days under a heavy mantle of quiet, for Isuelt would not deign to speak to Tristan, or any of his men, her anger still simmering dangerously close to the surface. And fear rendered Brengain mute and pale as she concentrated intensely to stay safely astride her gentle gelding. At the end of each day Tristan, or one of his men were forced to pry Brengain’s fingers from the reins or mane of her long-suffering horse, and the beginning of the next had to forcibly place her back in the saddle. He silently despaired that the poor frightened maid would never master her fear of horses, and grimaced, for that fear slowed their progress considerably.

After a week of traveling southeast toward the coast, Brengain finally began to control her terror enough to ride in a more relaxed manner, and her eyes softened from their wild, wide look of alarm. But if the horse stumbled or snorted or farted, or reached down to scratch an itch, or twitch away a fly, she still shrieked involuntarily and squeezed her eyes shut while jerking the poor patient beast in the bridle.

The first week, nor the second did anything to temper Isuelt’s silence, though from a distance Tristan studied her and noticed that her season of anger seemed to have fallen away to profound sadness. That change alone effected to warm the icy numbness from him allowing grief and longing to germinate and flourish in its place.

Dinadin commented more than once that fighting a battle took a smaller toll on the men than did escorting these two silent, moody women, and Tristan could do nothing but agree with him.

And if his days were unpleasant but bearable, his nights were not. The day’s labors were sufficient to occupy his mind enough to distract him from his misery, but the nights allowed him stretches of unbroken hours lying on the cold earth in exquisitely close proximity to Isuelt, with nothing to do but stare at her in the shifting moonlight and listen to her sigh in her sleep.

One night she came awake under the pressure of his gaze and boldly turned to meet his stare. She started involuntarily at the naked longing she recognized there. He caught and held her immobile with invisible chains of yearning. Their gaze remained unbroken for long minutes and to her surprise, Isuelt found herself unable to stop from reflecting the same anguished look back to Tristan. Their hearts spoke easily to one another while their words lay frozen behind stubborn tongues. They were both unwilling to break that tenuous connection and Isuelt stared until her eyes were dry with the effort. Tristan memorized every detail of her face and the disarray of hair around it while Isuelt took him in with equal fervor. A passing cloud shadowed the full moon and Isuelt watched Tristan through shadows of the transfiguring vapor until drowsiness overpowered her and she finally fell into the river of sleep, at the mercy of it’s pulsing current until dawn.

Something that night had changed their tragic dynamic, allowing the tension between them to drain away, though silence still reigned on its throne. So Tristan jerked in surprise when the next day Isuelt pierced the easy quiet by calling his name.

Tristan. Worry carried her voice to him and he reined his mount around.

Dreoilín was favoring her left foreleg in obvious discomfort. Tristan dismounted, ran his practiced hand down the foreleg searching for heat or swelling, and lifted the little mare’s hoof.

Merely a stone. Tristan said as he pried the pebble loose with the tip of his knife.

Dreoilín sighed with relief and licked her lips. Isuelt sighed as well and they continued on for an hour or more before she called him again. This time she slid to the ground and lifted the hoof herself before Tristan could reach them. She gently returned her foot to the earth and said with concern, There is no stone this time.

Tristan repeated the procedure he had earlier, running his hands down her foreleg before lifting her foot once more. No stone, but the shadow it left behind. Tristan tapped his knife handle where the stone had been and Dreoilín flinched as it struck the bruise and tried to pull her foot from his grasp. You cannot continue to ride her.

Oh! Isuelt cried in distress. What am I to do then?

You shall ride pinion with your maid.

Isuelt turned to look at the sturdy little gelding and Brengain astride him, and turned back with a stubborn set to her chin.

That is a foul solution.

And the only one available. We must not linger. We have delayed far too long already.

As ye wish. Her eyes sparkled dangerous green. But it is a poor idea, and you shall see.

And, she shot over her shoulder. I shall not ride behind. Move back Brengain, I will hold the reins.

Brengain, still pale after these many days of riding did not argue, but simply obliged.

Once she was mounted, Brengain clutched Isuelt’s cloak and tunic with the same desperation she had formerly clutched the reins.

Let my cloak free. Isuelt ordered. There is no need to grasp me so tightly. She finished, irritated.

Unreasoning fear closed her fingers tighter, for if she was frightened of the front end of the horse, she was terrified of the back.

I told you to leave off. If you do not, I shall force you from this garron’s back and you can foot your way to Cerniw.

Anger eclipsed her fear for a moment, and Brengain hissed in Isuelt’s ear. Ye shall do nay such. I would have to let yer new husband hear about where ye spent Áine’s night. Screwing her courage up, she bravely pried her left forefinger away from the cloth until it pointed subtly at Tristan’s back."

Isuelt drew in a sharp breath and hissed, You kent this?

Brengain answered, I kent this.

Grinding her teeth, Isuelt’s rage bubbled up red and dangerous, and she flowed from her head to her heels. You shall keep your tongue behind your teeth, or I shall see you dismissed to the kitchens.

Brengain dropped her hands to her thighs and circled her lips in an unvoiced, Oh! in shock and dismay.

The patient, rough-boned gelding was growing alarmed at the disquiet between the women he bore, and Isuelt took advantage of the shift in his demeanor, gigging him sharply in the ribs with her heels. As he bolted forward, Brengain was caught unaware and tumbled backwards off of the horse’s rump, landing in a gasping heap behind him.

As soon as she had done the deed, Isuelt was immediately contrite, but could find no way to apologize, lest she damn herself with her own behavior. So instead she said nervously, Brengain! Poor duck. You must pay more attention. You never do know when a horse will shy, even from it’s own shadow.

Brengain did not answer, for he had not yet recovered her breath. Two of the guard dismounted in grim silence at yet another delay, and after they searched her thoroughly for bumps and bruises, helped the reluctant Brengain to re-mount behind Isuelt. Once securely seated, she finally answered, Aye mistress, ye will never ken how a nag shall behave. Mind ye though, she warned, I shall be ready the next time.

Tristan. Isuelt called. Perhaps my maid should walk, rather than ride. It seems that my mount cannot carry two.

Brengain called out before he could answer. Nay, ‘tis not the problem. The nag is a bit mean spirited, aye?

Tristan studied them for a moment, weighing the different possibilities. As you said, he shied. It is not likely to happen again.

Brengain’s anger, and the fact that she had survived the fall, overshadowed her fear, and once they were well underway once more, she took two great handsful of Isuelt’s clothing again.

I beseech ye, dinna mistreat me, mistress. There was warning in her voice, which sparked the tinder of Isuelt’s temper again.

Do not threaten me, Brengain. It is a poor color on you. And let go my cloak!

I will not.

You will wrinkle my tunic.

Brengain snorted. I shall smooth it free o’ the folds and wrinkles later, as I always do.

Isuelt had no answer for that, and fell into a gloomy silence. After several leagues travel, she said quietly, Perhaps I will ask my husband for a new maid; one that will follow my direction.

Ye’ll not. Ye would frighten the poor lass into an early death.

Isuelt answered firmly, We shall see then.

This time Brengain lost her temper and gigged the confused gelding with her heels, and they both tumbled off the horse as he bolted in a lumbering gallop away through the trees.

Tristan gritted his teeth and ground out, Heaven preserve us! His patience had worn away like granite under dripping water. You there! Go fetch that horse. He directed. You help the maid to remount. Isuelt, come you here. You shall ride pinion behind me. And no, I shall be the one to hold the reins. It seems there is something particular to the women of Temair, they being unable to sit a horse, even if he is the most docile beast on the entire island.

Isuelt’s mouth dropped at the insult and then snapped shut without answer. He pulled her up behind him, and once the horse was caught and Brengain remounted, they finally were well and truly on their way.

Isuelt remained silent for the rest of the day, leaning into Tristan’s broad back when she grew weary. He felt her silent tears through his clothing, but did not embarrass her by drawing attention to them. His irritation dissipated, and soon the entire world had shrunk to the woman leaning into him.

By the time they reached the coast, an uneasy, unspoken truce had grown like fragile curling tendrils between them.

Tristan sold off all of the horses except Dreoilín, paid for passage for the passengers, baggage, and Isuelt’s horse, which she absolutely refused to part with, to the coast of Cerniw, and waited for favorable winds and the turn of the tide.

Chapter Three

Cornwall, Summer 638

A brief but violent summer squall erupted and caught them unaware as they approached the Cernish coastline, tossing the craft like a child’s toy, threatening to dash it to splinters upon the high and terrible crags. The sea captain ordered the thin hide sails struck, and his men scrambled on the pitching deck to lash them tightly to the spars of stempost and sternpost. The captain commandeered every available hand, setting them to row against the force of the current and wind and waves while the ocean broke over the high curved stern and sliced into the roiling water with its sickle shaped bow. But the sea scorned their efforts, snapping the long oars like old brittle bones, and for a time, Tristan worried that the spiteful ocean would swallow them, as she had done to so many others for no reason other than they dared to brave her shifting moods.

But fickle as a young maid’s affections, she relented, and set them gently upon the coarse shingle in the cove near Boskyni, miraculously delivering them clear of the enormous section of headland that had broken free and stood now as a giant sentry in the shallow waters. A second blessing was bestowed upon them when they somehow avoided the loose boulders that had fractured and fallen away from the cliffs to rest in the coarse sand of the low-water beach, often slyly punching holes in unsuspecting ships to the dismay of their surprised captains.

Isuelt and Brengain were clutching each other, cowering in the passenger hold as the coarse pebbles and fine-grained volcanic tuffs which had been polished by the sea into abrasive sand, clawed into the ship’s broad keel-planks as her bow plowed into the shingle with a jarring shudder, coming to rest with a sigh and a groan. The ship listed as though fatigued, falling over onto her starboard hull as though she were a broad-beamed woman shifting her weight, cocking it over to one generous hip. The stress of the ship bearing it’s own weight caused the carvel laid oak planks to flex and on the skyward side of the ship, the hazel-slivered pine resin caulking popped from between the strakes and fell from the thick iron nail heads, raining down as light as seed hulls.

Isuelt and Brengain were thrown violently to the right side of the passenger box, squeaking in surprise and fright.

Have we been spit out of the sea then? Brengain wondered aloud.

It seems so. Isuelt ventured, reaching blindly for Brengain in the damp dark passenger cabin. Have we come through this unharmed? She asked, still seeking Brengain with her reaching fingers.

A bit bruised, mayhap. Brengain answered shakily. What of yerself?

Isuelt found Brengain and clutched her by her wool brat. Before she could answer, Tristan threw the door open, allowing the murky grey light to penetrate the dark room, and popped his head through the doorway, his dark curls plastered flat and running with seawater.

Isuelt! He exclaimed, Have you suffered any hurt? He noticed Brengain