There are days when even an emperor can’t make a penny. I’d sent Trystan on some trumped-up errand to keep him clear of Yseult, but Cador arrived tardily. The Council and Yseult were still in residence when Trystan returned. Sooner or later he’d find a way to her. It was my questionable fortune to see it.

I happened to glance out of a casement that commanded a view of Guenevere’s garden hidden by an angle in the wall from most other views. I saw Yseult strolling alone and at ease through the straight avenues of spring flowers. The attitude of her whole being was peace and repose, as if this moment alone were a delightful treat. Ready to call a greeting, I just watched rather than intrude. She made me think then of little Drost spying out some new wonder to study.

Her head turned sharply toward something I couldn’t see. Her mouth opened in a soft cry too distant to hear. Her arms went out and Trystan came into them. They locked together, rocking back and forth, Trystan’s face buried in her hair and neck as her head fell back to drink in the pleasure of him.

I turned away from the casement.

Dinner that evening was held in the large hall since Caradoc, Maelgwyn and Kay and all their high officers were present. Trystan appeared in a bardic blue robe, harp polished and fine-tuned. Never did he sparkle more, never was the dark of him so vanquished by the light. He greeted his uncle with convincing affection and was courteous beyond reproach to Yseult, tactfully leaving her service to Gareth whose office it was. That Gareth was more than adequate to his charge inspired his wife Rhian to grumble, “Were he not my husband, I’d say the Irish were too light of tongue and loose of eye.”

“Surely,” 1 protested, “not Lord Gareth.” “Surely not,” Rhian affirmed grimly. “He sees through the like of her, but too kind to show it.”

“So it’s said of your husband. There’s not a kinder man in Britain.”

Our tables were formed in a horseshoe, servers tending from the center and Trystan among them, singing like a lark, turning aside to joke with this or that man as the fancy took him. Now he caught the arm of an old carver.

“Llewellyn-fach, can you swim?”

The gnarled Llewellyn denied it. “No,” my good lord, that I cannot.”

“Why then you’ll live forever.”

Kay called, “And how could he do that?”

“Life’s an island surrounded by sleep, and if you can’t swim on the dark, I fear you’re stuck on this shore.”

Llewellyn considered that seriously. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Trystan took up his harp. “Only so long as the shore is beautiful. No fear, man. Stay high, stay dry. I’ll go for us both.”

He swept an arresting chord across the strings. “Emperor of Britain! Princes, lords! Ladies to shame the light of day and make the moon think twice before shining! One last song—and what shall it be?”

“A love song,” Guenevere bade him. “The one you sang for me.”

“A love song by command of my queen.” Tryst bowed to her and Yseult by her side. The dark Irishwoman dropped her eyes. I thought she looked troubled and sad.

“Now, this is truly a British love song,” Trystan prologued. “A shepherd finds his love, loses her and, after much travail and sorcery, finds her again and never lets her go. As he shouldn’t have done in the first place. This lay was not popular among the Saxons: they’re for a different tune. The farmer finds a woman, flhe woman bears child, the land gets plowed by both of them. All of which demonstrates that the heart of Saxon can usually be found with his turnips.”

Laughter around the table, a rattling of cups on the board.

“No more, then.” Trystan rippled a chord over the strings. “A love song.”

He played—the simplest, loveliest music I ever heard from him. But I remember when it ended, his fingers wove against the :. clear melody a hint of that weird three-note figure oddly uncon-‘•-. netted to the rest.

208

Firelord

Wheel of Shadow, Wheel of Sun

209

“Arthur, are you asleep?”

“Yes.”

Gwen pulled my face around to her. “None of that, you great child. We must talk. I’m worried.”

I turned over with a sigh. “Just drifting off. Thought they’d alt never go to bed.”

One lamp burned near the bed. In its light her face was heavy and serious. “We’ve a problem.”

“Just one?”

“Listen to me. It’s Trystan.”

“Now, was he ever better than tonight? He didn’t touch a

drop.”

She bounced up on one elbow. “And do you know why? He thinks she’s going away with him.”

That opened both eyes. “When was this?”

“She told me before dinner tonight. He found her in the garden and—”

“Yes, I saw them. Pray no one else did.”

“Well, she was glad to see him, thinking him dead for so long. And she said things she didn’t mean to say. She made promises.”

Guenevere sat up beside me, arms crossed under her breasts. I wrapped the coverlet around her.

“Does she still love him, Gwen?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, he goes away again tomorrow, by God.”

“She doesn’t want to hurt him, but she can,‘t do what he

wants.”

“Not now,” I agreed. “It’s too damned expensive.”

“She wants you to do something.”

More than a love affair was at stake. With Cerdic building his forces and probing my coasts like a surgeon deciding where to cut, I needed Marcus to re-arm every possible hill fort on his south shore. He saw no need for the expense and might use this insult to refuse, possibly break with me and ally on his own with Rome or even Cerdic.

“God damn it, Gwen! Would she were born a pig or not at ail! She’s comely, men are going to be at her, why can’t she handle it? I wish she had your sense.”

“Me?” Gwen said wistfully. “I was never that beautiful. A skinny little girl clever at Latin and sums, but I knew my worth. She never did.”

She hugged the coverlet to her. “Everything hurts her. Dear

God, how she prattled at me over the planting of those vines. ‘ She’s starved for a woman friend, just someone to be close with. j And you know how the women down there treat her. That bitch from Astolat. Poor Yseult, she’d be so happy loving someone simple, without a brain or a nerve in his body.” ; Guenevere sighed. “But it was Tryst, and he’s too complicated. They’d never be happy anywhere. He loves the wanting, not the having. Dull as she is, Yseult knows that.”

She burrowed under the covers again. “You must do something. Think on it?”

“I’d rather have my teeth pulled.”

“So would I. But you’re the only one Tryst‘11 listen to.” She : kissed my cheek. “Good night, love. Rest you gentle.” > “Sleep you sound.”

Nothing for it but to see the two in private, have it out and done. The matter took some light of hand, but Gwen and I managed it. We arranged an elegant hunt for the princes of the : Council and their chief men, a jaunt that would take them hours ; from Camelot through lovely country, with wine and musicians j - to attend them, everything done but the bending of their bows. \ Then I sent for Yseult and Trystan.

The chamber selected was reserved for private audiences, with i no furniture but two state chairs raised on a small dais. I planted myself on one of them and waited, hating virulently what had to be done.

1 4 A freshet of flower-scented breeze came through the open

j -, casement, a bird sang in a pear tree, the warm spring sun bathed

, ; all Severn in its glow. A day to fall in love, not end it. My

fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. Footsteps. My fingers

paused.

Yseult slipped into the chamber. She would have knelt, but I ! stopped her.

• “No ceremony, love. Come sit down.” ‘•. I deposited her in the other chair. She was in green with the dark hair curled tight and prim about her neck. Over the green ‘jj; kirtle was a loose supertunica of the same shade, well cut to ?’ conceal the slight tendency to flesh. We are a people vain of our figures; our clothes are close-fitting when we have something to show off. No doubt Yseult ate sparingly, but wile served where . will could not.

:>’ “I don’t want to hurt him,” she said. “He thinks I’ll go away ‘. with him. When I saw him, I forgot all my common sense and j..A the promises to myself and I said what he wanted to hear.”

210

Firelord

Wheel of Shadow, Wheel of Sun

211

She stirred restlessly in the chair. “It’s almost ten years, and I’m not his—not what 1 was. Just tired, and Trystan will never see that.”

“But you know it has to end.”

“It is ended. Long ago, and it can’t be anymore.”

I sat down next to her. “Then you can’t help hurting him. Cut deep and quick and be done with it.”

Those helpless, wounded eyes turned on me again. “Then truly we’ll both have nothing. For myself, it’s being numb, no more than I have been all these years. But what’s there for him, Arthur?”

“Damned if I know,” I confessed. “I’m wondering what to say when he comes that won’t sound righteous or bloody stupid. I’ve seen him before a charge, the two of us so sure of death we were white with it, dry in the mouth and wet in the pants, and then he’d follow me right down its throat and come back with a joke to hide his trembling. I’ve covered him up when he drank himself to sleep. I’ve cursed him awake, trusted my life to him, and all I’ve ever known of his heart was that he wanted one thing. Now, / have to say he can’t have it. And if you think being king of the whole Christly lot makes it any easier, you’re wrong. There, he’s coming.”

His rapid, light footsteps came down the passageway, then Trystan swung into the room. “Now, sweet king! What’s— Yseult.”

“Come in,” I ordered. “Close the door, sit or stand, but

listen.”

Listen? He barely knew I was present, taking Yseuit’s hands and kissing them. She avoided his eyes, but the empathy of them was like another person in the room.

“Hear Arthur,” she told him in a small voice. “Heed the High King of Britain.”

.“Arthur, what is this?”

“It’s a good-bye, lad. Yours.” I took a breath. “I’m sending you away, but I want your oath you’ll never see or send word to Yseult again.”

I might have chattered in an unknown language. “What did