A Winter's Tale

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale

Chapter Six, Part One.

Iseult sat in darkness, cloaked by the quiet, her thoughts hidden from the world. She knew the summons would come soon, and she feared the moment. She had heard the booted steps in her mind over and over again, knowing that they would not bring an invitation from Tristan, but Mark. The night was still new, but already too deep.

She felt the anxiety in her chest like a tiny bird flailing around its cage. This was the lonely, dangerous time when her resolve might weaken into fragile denial. She tried to listen again to her lover's words, recalled from only a few hours but a cold lifetime ago, words of necessity and hope. Clever, caring words, that could not armour her against the trepidation she felt while waiting for those footsteps.

She called back a memory of the sunlit glade, trying to exorcise her fears with the magic of that sudden and liberating love amongst the trees. A love that now needed to be hidden in lies and secrecy, shrouded in the darkness she had drawn around herself when all she wanted to do was sing out about her happiness. She saw Tristan's face, lit once more with love for her, and remembered the frown that had slowly clouded that beatific expression.

"Now we are bound together," he had said, "you must know what a struggle we face. How much of ourselves we must destroy to be happy." He had looked at her with a searing intensity that reached far into her soul. She had been so glad to let him in, to be comfortable trusting him so much.

"Tristan, my darling," she replied, shifting her legs from under her to lie across his lap, still wanting so much to keep touching, keep feeling. "I understand, really I do. Let me ask you something first, something important." She watched him nod his assent, curious. "You say you love me, and I know you do. But is there anything that could change that? If it came to a choice, what would you choose before me? Honestly now."

He looked away, as if caught off guard. He seemed to be searching his soul, finding defences, reasons. The pause lengthened. At last, he turned back to her and locked a steady and untroubled gaze into her eyes. "There is nothing else." He shrugged. "I love you."

She leaned forward, hugging him tight. "I love you too, Tristan. For me, there is only you, whatever I have to do to keep you. I hoped you would say that. I should have known." She sighed, full of contentment, but knowing that this happiness would only be regained by great trial, and soon. "Now, my heart, tell me what we must do."

He stroked her hair, long, tender strokes full of comfort and love. She felt blessed, as if God's strength and grace were being infused into her through his gentleness. She kissed his chest.

"Though it grieves me, you are going to have to marry Mark." He paused, waiting for her reaction, but it was evident that she had known what might be necessary. "If you don't, we'll risk death at Mark's hands. It may be romantic to die for love but it's not necessary for now."

"We will love beyond death," she said, tickling the hairs of his thigh. "You told me that yourself. I'm not afraid."

He laughed and ran a finger down her nose as if she was a child. "I don't doubt it, princess. But it is not necessary. Can we trust Brangain completely?"

"Of course. If only because my fate is hers, but truly because she is my friend."

"Then once we are dressed, we must take the Threefold Oath together, with her as witness."

Iseult sat up. "You mean, marry each other in secret?"

He smiled and nodded. "Before the old gods and in the presence of the Christ, using the most sacred oath of our blood. Then your marriage to Mark will be impossible in truth, so you can go through the ceremony with him but your vows will be void."

"I will have to lie, perjure myself."

"I know. But not in your heart, where it matters. Most of all, you can plead that you were making them under duress, and thus gainsay them later. My family have good influence with the church - these are considerations that will get you an annulment. It will buy us time to get away from Mark on some pretext, an escape we cannot make now."

She looked at him, eyes wide with thought. "But have you considered that I must lie with Mark at some point - probably tomorrow night?"

His lips stiffened into a thin line and his jaw clenched. "I know. But that is the pain we must bear for our love's sake. And my tortured dreams are as nothing compared to what I ask of you - you will have to bear his touch."

Iseult saw the anxiety that consumed him, knowing what he was asking of her. She stroked his face lovingly, trying to smooth away his guilt. "I've lived through worse, my love. I have this afternoon to think on, and it may be that the king will find me so unresponsive that he will tire of me quickly. I'm more worried for you. I want you to promise me that you won't think of it, to know that it will mean nothing to me and that I will have you always in my heart. If I believe you are unhappy, I won't be able to go through with it."

"You are the most precious jewel in God's creation." A tear ran down his cheek. "I love you so much. And I promise, I will be content."

She kissed the salt water away, and then moved to kiss his lips, fiercely as if imprinting the feeling onto her soul. He responded with similar passion, and she felt his desire rising once more. She broke away, laughing.

"We must get back to Brangain." She stepped over to her clothes and began to dress. Her undershirt flapped uselessly in her hand. "You are too rough, Tristan," she scolded lightly. "Tell me, how do you intend to get us away from the islands without a fight?"

He grinned. "I will suggest a pilgrimage to Rome, or somesuch. There are many ways."

Pausing whilst lacing the front of her jerkin, she said, "And we will still meet, as best we can?"

"Of course." Tristan came close to her and took the laces from her hands, carefully tying the garment for her. "We must be very careful. But we can always meet and talk, for we will be kin. And I'm sure that we might stray in this direction on occasion, for lunch."

She stretched up and kissed him, still trembling with happiness. "You will make me fat, with such promises."

"Not for the times we shall have such an opportunity, my love," he said earnestly. "Now, we must find Brangain and hope that she does not scold us too badly."

Iseult started. There was a sharp rap on the door and it came again, insistent and abrupt. The glade had gone, her feeling of contentment had gone, Tristan's soft, strong hand had gone. There was only duty and darkness left. For a long heartbeat, Iseult wished hard that she might fade away, be snatched by dreams back to the little woodland of her happiness. The darkness only ignored her. Drawing on the strength of her dreams, she stood up, tilted her head royally as her mother had taught her to do, and made to leave the darkness.

***

The feast hall was still quiet, those who had taken their places early limiting their voices to gentle whispers and stifled chuckles. The rowdiest noise came from the broad doorway, flung wide to the starry night and to the greetings of friends and kin, echoing the excitement of the clan gathering deep into the oak-vaulted hall. Few wanted to settle yet, restless and eager for an early glimpse of the princess, or the chance of a snatched word with their king on this happy eve. Some shot glances through the doors to the brooding figure at the high table, carefully keeping their anxieties to themselves and their company.

Tristan had come to the hall a half hour before, tired of pacing the flagstone floors of his cottage, tired of trying not to think. He had hoped to find distraction in the buzz and jostle of the incoming guests, but as he sat alone the pleasantries and gossip all stung him as unimportant and inconsequential. Angrily, he had accused himself of unfairness and self-pity, but still he felt trapped. Debating with himself, his mind responded with the defence that at least unfounded malevolence towards his fellow clansmen kept him from dwelling too long on that which might send him mad.

As he glowered at the door, knowing that to frown so badly at this time was foolish yet still unable to lighten his brow, he saw the shapely figure of the Princess Siobhan push past a jovial woman and head purposefully toward the high table. She would take her place beside him, as was the custom, and curiously he hoped that the inevitable crossing of swords would take him out of himself. Besides that, he was aware that Mark still had hopes for their alliance, and he was interested in how far that remained Siobhan's goal too.

"Greetings cousin." Her voice was ever dark with that alluring, bittersweet honey that had fired his blood over a year ago. Then, landing in the islands of his mother's birth to find his cousin flowered into such a beautiful woman had been a pleasant surprise. To find her so clever, so stimulating and so interested in him had been providential. Immediately, their passionate affair had brought the question of tanaiste to everyone's lips. Now, he felt the emptiness and indignity of their relationship like a wound. He rose swiftly, and pulled her chair out for her to be seated.

"Courteous as ever, my prince," she smiled, mocking him as she had always done. Once, he had found her taunting challenging, exciting.

"I am glad to see you once more, Siobhan," he said, meaning it. He felt no antipathy toward her, simply regret, and wariness.

She tip-tilted her head, an imperious, unconscious gesture that emphasised her lovely, cruel jawline. "Yes, you've been very preoccupied since your return. I was disappointed that you wouldn't make time to see me. We are so close, even now. But I am sure the Princess Iseult is a very demanding person."

"Mark is the demanding one." Tristan felt a tiny smile play about his eyes, which he knew were as grey and opaque as the clouded moons that flashed at him opposite. They were both well aware of each other's capabilities at this game, and the spice this added was hot. "He has had me nurse-maiding the princess since before she left Erin, and has not relieved me of the duty yet."

"Not such an onerous one, I am sure."

He finally let himself smile. "Not in the least. But she doesn't have your...intellect."

Siobhan let a ambiguous silence develop and then dropped her eyes. Her head dipped in wry acceptance of his compliment. She watched the gathering at the door for a time before speaking again. "Will she make Mark a good wife?"

Tristan shook his head very slightly. "I can't say. She would make a fine queen."
"And bear him a son?"

"Now, cousin, who can say? That is in God's gift."

She turned back to him. "Of course, the Christ makes babies. And miracles. But neither will bar you from the kingship now, will it Tristan?"

"I was hoping that you would be glad for me. After all, Siobhan, a half year ago such news would have caused you ... ah, excitement."

She grinned at the implied memory, a smirk full of raw passion. "Ach, my prince, if only you had accepted my offer then. What rulers we would have made, with my brains and your beauty."

He noted how the pupils of her eyes went narrow with some inner treachery, a vengeful memory of his rejection. He decided, without sensible reason, to salt the wound a little. "Now, as then, I cannot allow you to banish the Christians from the islands. You were most dear to me, but what you called love was not and is not worth a war."

The grey mist of her eyes stayed blankly unreadable, a sign that he knew signalled a hit. She smiled, a thin line of deep winter frost. "So you have said, my sweet one." A hubbub of noise erupted from the doorway. "I think our uncle has arrived. We shall talk some more, Tristan. I find you so relaxing."

She stood up, and Tristan followed, both turning in the direction of the entrance where King Mark was carefully forcing his way through the crowds of congratulatory clansmen. Behind him came Dubhgall, fiercely protective like a fussy mother hen dressed in a bear's body.

Tristan saw with interest a nod of acknowledgement directed at his cousin from a tall, craggy-faced man who had slipped through the crowd at the back. Sitting himself down at the far end of the long side table, he continued to stare at Siobhan until she frowned severely at him. At the warning, he turned away.

Knowing well that Siobhan would have realised that the exchange was observed, Tristan decided to make an point of it. "You are surely not seeing Gospadruig, little raven?" he whispered.

She smiled wryly at his long unused endearment. "If only that was true jealousy, my white hart. Gospadruig has his uses, but intimacy is not one of them."

"I'm glad to hear it. It is only reasonable for you to be upset at our parting, but that would be rather beneath even your dignity."

"As ever, Tristan, you flatter me with words of honey." Suddenly, the corner of her eye caught Mark beaming at them across the hall, evidently happy that they were locked in such deep conversation. "Smile, cousin, our uncle is approving of us."

Tristan looked over and smiled dutifully. Mark hoisted himself onto the dais and made his way along the high table. Beyond, Maire and Brangain came through the doorway, now emptying of guests as they finally went to their seats. The girl was looking completely bewildered, deprived of both her mistress and, Tristan knew, much of her certainty by the afternoon's events. The look on her face now almost matched the expression she had worn as she had seen them clamber towards her waiting by the pool, lovers hand in hand. Though he recalled more raw fear in her then.

His gaze folded inward as her terrified words rang again in his ears, the sound of one sentenced and pleading. "It's not my fault," she had wailed as they approached. "Oh Jesus forgive me, what have I done?"

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale

Chapter Six - Part Two

Iseult had gone over to her and hugged her, her face furrowed with concern. The wine bottle that Brangain had been waving in distress fell from her wretched hands and she began to sob.

"You have done nothing wrong, Brangain," comforted Iseult softly. "We are happy, but it is our choice."

"No. It isn't. You don't understand. Oh God." Brangain wracked herself with unexplained grief.

Tristan came over and gently prised the girl from Iseult's arms. "Let me," he said, and led Brangain over to a rock, sitting her down firmly and kneeling in front of her.

"Brangain," he said, a flash of steel in his voice. "Brangain, listen to me. And look at me." She did so, calming at little. He wiped the tears away from her face with a tender hand. "Tell me what you think you have done wrong. Remember little one, whatever happens is God's will. There is no blame to attach, even if it exists."

The tiny shudders of her shoulders calmed, and she sniffed away the last of her sobs. Nonetheless, as she spoke, her eyes kept darting to Iseult as if expecting sudden retribution.

"Tristan, I had to do it. The queen made me, and I thought it was for the best, for sure. I didn't want to." Realising that she was not making much sense, she took a deep breath and continued. "The bottle. You shouldn't have brought it. I didn't pack it. It was a potion. The queen threatened my family. I was supposed to give it to Iseult and the king. It was supposed to make them fall in love. I had no choice, Iseult. No choice."

Iseult stared in horror, open-mouthed with shock. "You were to poison me for my mother?"

Tristan looked at her expression and felt a rising pressure in his chest, suddenly released from his control by his lover's stunned face. He guffawed with delight, laughing so hard that he fell backwards onto the grass. He let his joy take full rein for a long while, and then sat up to regard his astounded companions. A wide grin settled over his face. "Och, my love, don't you see the poetry in it?"

Iseult's expression had only changed to include puzzlement, so she obviously did not. He stood up, still smiling broadly. "Your mother, bless her, tried to fool you into marrying Mark, and no choice about it. But by interfering, she gave God the tools He needed to stop us making a terrible mistake. The true love He wanted was ours, and we, rather I was trying to deny that. If Gormlaith had left well alone, I would be about to leave your life and the islands now. But she had to make sure, didn't she?" He laughed with joy. "Don't you see? This was fated."

Iseult melted with his words, catching his mood. Brangain still looked puzzled, but no longer frightened.

Tristan grasped her hand and urged her to stand up. "Brangain, your family will be safe. The princess is to marry Mark."

The girl's face creased with further bewilderment. "But didn't you two just...I mean, she can't."

"Yes she can, little one. She must for all our sakes. But not for long, and not in the eyes of God." He turned to Iseult. "Do you see, my love, how we will succeed? God defeated my attempt at denying this, and He will help us even though we must lie for now. Our true vow will be the one we take now, with Him as witness." Seeing her nod, he grasped Brangain's hands tighter, imploring her help.

"We need your understanding. To forestall the binding of the wedding vows tomorrow, we are binding ourselves through the Threefold Oath here and now. We need you as witness." He stared deep into her heart, willing her to accept his plan.

Brangain nodded, still bewildered, but realising that events were moving too fast for there to be time to reason and reassured by Tristan's insistent confidence.

Tristan smiled again, and held out his hand. "Come here, my heart." Iseult joined him, her grip warm and thrilling to his touch, tight with her belief in him. He felt stronger than he had ever felt before, fired by purpose. As he looked about him, savouring the fresh green trees, the liquid diamond of the water, the solid truth of the rocks, he felt blessed by God, as if angels from heaven had descended to stand around them in a circle of benediction and encouragement.

Touching Iseult, feeling her hand so delicate, yet so full of spirit and strength, he felt unified with all creation, a harmony with all that lived and loved. Though his heart swelled with pride and joy, he was overwhelmed by a sudden humility, an abrupt sense of how small a life was his, yet how incredibly favoured. Impulsively, in celebration, he hugged Iseult to him, fierce, desperate, needy.

She kissed him, and stroked his face, as if she understood what was singing in his soul. He felt more strongly than ever that this woman was the half of that soul, bound to him through Time and now indivisible in joy for the rest of eternity.

He turned to Brangain. "With you as witness, I take this woman, Iseult of Erin, the truth of my soul, as my love, my heart, my wife. I am hers until Time dies, and beyond. All I have been, all I am, all I will be is hers. There is nothing else. This I swear with the Sacred Oath of my people, and should I fail, may the trees gather round and choke me, may the waters rise up and drown me and may the earth gape wide and entomb me. I swear it too on the Holy Trinity of my God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. So be it now, as God is my witness."

Iseult's eyes glistened with tears as he turned to her, sparkling like the dew-drenched hills of her homeland. She lifted his hand and kissed it reverently. "Brangain, witness my vow. Tristan ap Cystennin, in my royal right as princess of Erin, and in my heart's right as queen of my soul, I accept your oath and swear to you eternal love. You are everything to me, and there can be nothing else that matters. I love you, cherish you and can give to you no more than this truth, for all I am is yours already. I love you Tristan, and will do forever. My love is true, and true love can never die. This I swear to you, before God, with the Sacred Oath of my people, and should I fail may the trees gather and choke me, may the waters rise and drown me and may the earth gape wide and entomb me. I promise you this in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, forever witness to my eternal love."

Though he had prepared for this moment, Tristan felt her words arrow to the very deepest part of his being, resonating with such power and reality that he feared he might faint with the happiness. He watched Iseult turn to Brangain and embrace, the two girls crying with shared joy, and tears sprang from his own eyes.

***

His introspection was jolted back to the present by a sharp slap on his shoulder. "Why the tears, nephew?" asked Mark, now standing beside him and looking odd. "You're away with the Sidhe."

Tristan smiled and blinked away the unwelcome wetness in his eyes. "Och, I was thinking of a happy story. I might have told it tonight, but I'll think of a better one."

"There'll be little time for stories tonight, Tristan." Mark sat down in his great chair. He waited for the others to seat themselves and narrowed his eyes at his nephew. "You were away much of the day."

Tristan shrugged. "You wanted me to show her the island. She is a demanding woman. This all takes time. And I felt it best to avoid MaolColm's leper colony."

Mark nodded. "Good. So, Tristan, can you tell me what she thinks of me?"

"She is very closed, Mark." He scratched his head as if to attest to the impenetrability of the princess' true mind. "I think you will find her difficult to comprehend. But I do know that she found you impressive and fascinating in your short visit."

Mark chewed the inside of his cheek. "Do you think she'll love me?"

"Who can tell?" Tristan smiled. "Maybe in a while. She still resents being taken from her home. And, Mark, please remember she is not Cairbre."

The king's eyes focused inward, shuttering away the thoughts. Tristan watched him with a little sadness and then continued. "I would recommend you treat her with kindness. I have found her to have too much pride to respond to anything else. She has her father's stubbornness and her mother's courage."

Mark came out of himself at the words and smiled. "Aye, I remember Gormlaith. Damn near married her, but her ambition was too great." He pierced his grey eyes at Tristan. "An affliction in an otherwise beautiful woman, wouldn't you say?" His voice was deliberately pitched to reach Siobhan's ears.

Tristan grinned and leaned back, allowing the princess to defend herself.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "perhaps the affliction is being too honest with men. I have a feeling that Princess Iseult is both as ambitious and wiser than her mother." Siobhan took pleasure in the momentary flicker of thought that showed in her uncle's eyes.

"Hmm. On the subject of my bride, where in Heaven's name is she?" Mark bellowed the last words, causing a sudden shock of silence. After a pause, Brother MaolColm detached himself from a small group at the entrance and stalked down the middle hall. Opening his arms in a submissive gesture just below the dais, he explained, "MacDubhgall has gone to fetch her, my lord. She will be here in a moment."

"Good." Mark stood up. "Let's have some wine then, before we greet her."

The jumble of assenting voices and clatter of goblets undertook the king's invitation and once more the hall filled with the low thunder of chatter. As his goblet was being filled, Tristan looked over at Brangain, who smiled wanly back at him. She seemed lost, though Maire had taken it on herself to look after the waif for now. Then, as he watched, Maire's face brightened, and Tristan followed her eyes to the door where Dubhgall stood, half a yard behind Iseult and with such a radiance of pride on his face that he might have been her father.

She was truly beautiful, her fair hair brushed long and fine, laid in cascades of the palest, shimmering gold around her shoulders. She wore an exquisitely embroidered gown of midnight blue, sewn with scenes from the legends of CuChulainn in gilded thread that flashed in the guttering firelight of the torches and lanterns. Her head was crowned with a garland of intertwined precious metals, so delicately made it might have blown away at a sudden breeze, but set with sapphires of such a vibrancy that they might have been plucked from a jay's wing. From her shapely neck, across the soft skin until it flickered at the gentle swell of her breast lay an intricate weave of golden chain, supporting a midnight sapphire the size of a falcon's egg, that shadowed and gleamed with each breath's rise. She held her head high, steady, acknowledging the worship of the clan, royal and unafraid.

The silence stretched, no-one wanting to break the spell that Iseult's beauty wove, no-one wishing to interrupt the sweep of those jade eyes as they danced an enchantment over the feast hall, touching everyone's gaze except Tristan's. Then, beside him, a chair scraped and Siobhan stepped gracefully down to the floor, gliding over to Iseult with her hand offered in greeting.

"Come, sister, and join us. We are honoured to by you." She stood, as royal as the newcomer, her invitation insistent and welcoming. Iseult took her hand and followed her to the high table, passing behind Tristan's chair without a look and seating herself next to Mark.

Iseult smiled carefully at the still silent and watching crowd. "Please," she said gently in a clear and ringing voice, "enjoy our hospitality. You're making me feel like a holy relic."

Laughter and surprise broke the quiet and voices rapidly turned into discussion and animation. Iseult looked to her right, where Mark, Tristan and Siobhan sat in a line watching her. Both Tristan and Siobhan had raised a surprised eyebrow and looked at her wide-eyed. She suppressed a tiny gasp from her lips, for the three pairs of silver-grey eyes that regarded her shone with uncanny similarity. Mark's sea-storms, Siobhan's snow-clouds and Tristan's mystic moons all twinkled with that far-off, unreadable magic from the land of Faery. She felt fascinated, hypnotised like a rabbit in the presence of a three-headed snake.

A man bearing a platter of roasted meats interrupted the spell by leaning forward and placing his load on the table. Mark and Tristan immediately reached forward and chose their meal, and the loud clatter from the hall showed that their lead had been well received. A rough brown sleeve carefully reached past her from the left, and she turned, astonished that MaolColm sat beside her at the high table.

He saw her look, and nodded greeting, whilst sinking his teeth into a large haunch of beef. Chewing on his mouthful thoughtfully, he swallowed and then spoke. "Your humour is a little less respectful than I had expected, my lady." He said nothing more, evidently having laid an opening gambit. She assumed that it was more for the rest of the high table than for her.

Indeed, it was Mark that spoke first. "Priest, it was clever and well done. Surely God does not mind a smile?"

Iseult leaned back carefully to allow the conversation to mature around her. She was still feeling disoriented, and wanted to settle and understand something more about the confrontations here.

MaolColm shrugged. "Of course not, my king. But it is sometimes dangerous to judge what may or may not offend God."

Mark snorted and reached for another rib of beef. "You tell me that the Church, and you, know these things. Yet you are from a poor clan at the edge of the world. How much better must the princess know, with ancient royal blood and the Christ a king too?"

MaolColm shifted, warming to his task, but there was a wrinkle of uncertainty about his brow, and he shot furtive, concealed looks beyond the king to the penetrating double gaze of Tristan and Siobhan. He knew that each of them had their own reasons for faulting his arguments, and both were intellectual falcons.

"Indeed, Our Lord is a king, the High King of all the peoples of the world. But His law is handed down through the gospels, and we His priests bring it to the people. As I have told you, we are like the bardic scholars of your earlier years. Just as your father consulted them on points of law, so you now must take our advice."

"As I understand it, MaolColm," said Tristan quickly, "Gaetilach MacCormac took no-one's advice save that of his sword."

Mark choked with sudden laughter, causing Iseult to react without thought, patting his back to relieve the coughing. As he recovered, he held up a hand to her, bidding her cease. Still grinning, he thanked her. "Already you save me. You have a solid blow for one so lovely."

Iseult smiled thinly at him, and then turned to MaolColm. "But Brother, I also..."

Mark interrupted her by banging a fist on the table. The hall quietened. "No," he said firmly, taking Iseult's hand in his. "I will not have that said." At her stunned and embarrassed expression he explained further as the guests realised that their attention was not called for and resumed their feasting. "By calling him brother, you include him in the royal clan. I have told MaolColm that I will not have this. He is not your brother nor mine."

At her look, MaolColm shrugged non-comittally. She nodded to the king and sat back, feeling crestfallen and estranged, out of place once more in this foreign world. Mark saw her crushing loneliness and made to speak, but could not find the right words and instead took a tearing bite at his meat bone. He glared at Tristan for help.

Tristan saw her sudden confusion and felt sorry for her. She looked so alone, completely abandoned, and though to most of the hall she seemed dignified and controlled, he could sense the bewildered desolation that rose in her throat. He leaned forward. "MaolColm, tell the princess about the new chapel you have built high above the cliffs. It is, after all, your finest work here, and no-one has taken her to see it yet."

After a pause when the monk stared blankly at Tristan, he came to his senses and began describing the new building, drawing Mark into the conversation to explain where they had found the stone, the places in Caledon that they had raided to find precious metals and glassware. The king spoke tenderly, thankful for this simple topic. Tristan watched Iseult become animated once more, grateful to be included in this proud lecture. He sat back, smiling at her returning confidence.

Once, she let a glance flash over Mark's shoulder to him, and her self-control faltered for the blink of an eye. The gratitude of her smile shone like the sun breaking through a long rain-soaked day. He returned her smile with a wink, and settled back into his chair to watch the hall in its revels. He felt himself relax gently with a certain satisfaction.

Disconcertingly, he began to feel an unwavering attention. He lolled his head round to meet Siobhan's gaze. Her face was open, strange, full of contradictions. As he looked at her, an imperceptible smile played around the corners of her eyes, and then suddenly her thoughts, whatever they had been, were shuttered away behind those cold, silver mirrors.

[Banquo's Ghost]

Now that we've reached Chapter Six, I would be grateful if any readers would share their impressions. Most particularly, on characterisation and its depth - or otherwise.

All of the main characters (bar two) have been introduced by now, and the relationships between them beginning to come into focus (one hopes). Do they engage your attention? Do you find yourself considering what moves they may yet make?

Any feedback would be appreciated.

[Ludens]

All of the main characters (bar two) have been introduced by now, and the relationships between them beginning to come into focus (one hopes). Do they engage your attention? Do you find yourself considering what moves they may yet make?

Still no replies? I'll take the lead then, although to be honest I haven't read this story as attentively as it deserves so I won't give detailled comments. Let's just say that I find the character very engaging, and amongst the best in the Mead Hall. Tristan and Iseult seem very familiar to me know. On the other hand, I am unsure about Siobhan and MaolColm. I feel they are important characters but I am unsure of motivations and their part in the whole. However, I assume that this will be cleared up later on.

[Banquo's Ghost]

Thank you Ludens, for your views. I have a reader!

I trust that Chapter Seven will provide you with some further insight into both Siobhan and MaolColm's plans.


A Winter's Tale: Chapter Seven

Siobhan came out into the clear morning air and relished the taste of salt in the breeze. The day had dawned in glorious majesty and a pure, unblemished sky stretched from horizon to hill-crest. The winds had shifted during the night, so the sea-breeze was light and warm, tantalising with a tang of salt.

The fresh smell of the new day helped flush away the stale fumes of Gospadruig's hut from her lungs. It was still early when she had rapped on his door and the fool had not recovered himself from the befuddlement of the night. His habitual lethargy irritated Siobhan to irrationality, but she needed him to be about her business, as other matters would hold her attention this morning. Now that she had planted the seed in the fertile muck of his mind, she could refresh herself in the diamond air and watch.

Enjoying the inspiration of the morning, she leapt gracefully out of the ditch. She stretched languidly like a cat newly let out, and then ran across the grass, jumping over the intervening trenches, exhilarating in her athleticism. She wrapped herself in the feeling of movement, of exertion, of control. Too quickly, she was at her destination and she relaxed, padding down the flagstone stairs with precise steps. She knocked on the thick, forbidding door.

Brangain opened the heavy wood, her long brown hair brushed and beaded having been awake for several hours. She was quizzical and slightly defensive, but her voice held respect and courtesy. Altogether a valuable servant, thought Siobhan, and thus someone to be taken into account.

"I am here to see Princess Iseult," said Siobhan, letting her expression twinkle with friendship. "I thought we might go for a ride, clear out the cobwebs."

Brangain showed little surprise, but her brow creased in a tiny gesture of indecision. "Please come in."

Siobhan entered the hut and glanced at the cluttered interior. Bags and boxes were still packed and piled in carefree collections, with no apparent organisation. Several had been pulled rudely from under their fellows testifying to chaotic attempts to discover their contents. It was understandable. The real unpacking would be done tomorrow, after Iseult had moved into her new husband's house.

The princess herself was sitting on the smartly made bed, wrapped in a loose gown, not yet dressed for her wedding day. She drew a comb through her long hair and strands of the fine-spun gold lifted to float freely in the fierce shaft of sunlight piercing the roof. The hair drifted lazily like the flickering trails of falling stars. As she saw Siobhan enter, she put the comb down and stood up.

"I hope you won't mind the intrusion, Iseult," said Siobhan, smiling, "but I fancied taking a brisk ride to enjoy the morning, and the thought occurred that we could get to know each other better. Would you like to join me?"

Iseult looked at her, an odd expression on her face. "Where are you going?"

"Just down to the sea, by the cliffs. Not too far, because I have to be somewhere this afternoon." Siobhan tilted her head in a familiar bird-like affectation.

Iseult smiled. "I would love to. I'm so glad that I don't have to stay locked up here all day." She unbelted her robe. "Brangain, fetch me my riding leathers."

Waiting for the princess to change, Siobhan studied the interior of the hut more carefully, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary. The baggage was in such a jumble that it was difficult to distinguish anything and she soon gave up the search. Turning back to Iseult, she saw her tying the last laces on her jacket. The maidservant was picking up a cloak of her own from the wall hook.

"Lady Brangain," she said, "would it not be best for you to stay here and get things ready without interference? We're just going to have a sisterly chat."

Brangain smiled with pride at the mistake. "Thank you, princess, but for sure I'm not of any blood. And if I might, I could do with some time to get set."

"Of course, Brangain," nodded Iseult. "We won't be long."

So, thought Siobhan curiously, it is true that the girl fancies herself more noble. A useful notion, for what flattered usually shone light on the soul, and the possession of Brangain's soul might prove useful.

"Let's be away then," said Iseult, standing already by the door. Siobhan followed her out into the sunshine.

"The horses are over there," she said, pointing over to the monolith that stood between the village and the hill track. A servant held the animals gently as they approached.

Iseult mounted and waited for Siobhan to dismiss the lad and join her, flicking her hair in the caressing breeze like an eagle impatient to fly. Prodding her horse forward, Siobhan pointed down the sweep of the hill where the track wound towards the harbour.

"Just beyond that spur is a long stretch of sand. It's a fine gallop through the surf."

Iseult shifted in her saddle, anticipating the ride. "Sounds wonderful, Siobhan." She paused for a long moment. "You know, I'm glad you came today. It's been a long time since I had a sister."

Siobhan smiled tenderly, disguising the thought in her heart. She said, "We are to be sisters, Iseult, I insist. This can be a wretchedly small island with the only men worth talking to being Tristan and Coinneach. We have a lot to share."

"It's odd, but after the things Tristan told me you were the one person I really wanted to get to know. I was quite taken aback when I first saw you at the stone."

Siobhan laughed. "Tristan says a lot of things that mislead. I was unsure of you too. You might have been a threat."

"To whom?"

"To our whole way of life." Siobhan carefully manoeuvred her horse down a steep incline. The low waves crashed onto a pale strip of sand sweeping into the distance, far yet but enticing. The horses nodded their heads vigorously, sniffing the salt air with wide nostrils and eager anticipation. "The Dalriadans have taken advantage of Cruithne custom for a long time in the south. Coinneach's vulnerable, especially with this new Christianity. I want to see a Pict hold the chieftainship of Orcade, not the creeping Irish."

Iseult shook her tresses in the fiercer breeze, luxuriating in the tang of the salt. "That sounds like we should be enemies. Why then, do you want to be my friend?"

"I know that you're here under protest, Iseult. That's one thing. And I've perhaps there's more to you than meets the eye. Tristan sings your praises all the time. He says that you'd never hurt or betray Coinneach, and I believe that."

"Thank you." Iseult watched her horse's hooves dig a pattern in the soft sand. "You keep calling him Coinneach," she said after a little while. "You don't approve of his conversion?"

Siobhan snorted. "Of course not. It makes us weak."

"How so? Faith has always made me strong."

"Has it? Perhaps for you, grown in it. But Coinneach no longer raids the rich lands of Caledon because he has been told it's a sin. He no longer rules the clansmen with the necessary harshness, because he must be merciful. He reels with guilt because the Christ killed his wife for his persecution of the Church. He is barely a king, and the warriors of Orcade are no longer whispered of with fear because to be ourselves once more would mean the punishment of Hell." She spat the last word. "No-one owns my soul, and rather than give it up I will send your Christ to his own Hell."

Realising that Iseult was staring at her with an expression little short of shock, she smiled sweetly. "I get passionate about Coinneach's failures."

Iseult shrugged. "I don't see them as failures. But then I hardly know anything of the islands. But you can be proud and Christian, like my father. Perhaps I can help Mark to show you that."

"Perhaps." Suddenly, Siobhan spurred her horse into a furious gallop, charging toward the breaking surf and ploughing into the water, sending up a curtain of spray. She plunged through the sea, bounding through and over the wave crests, splashing like a centaur into the distance.

Caught by her companion's mood and eager to join her, Iseult galloped into the bright water after Siobhan, whooping and laughing with delight. The two girls raced through the swirling waves together, thrilling in the freedom and effort.

A while later, soaked through with sea foam and enjoyment, they led their horses to a flat rock near the sea and lay down to dry a little in the strong sun.

"You're very fond of Tristan," said Iseult after a long while simply enjoying the silken touch of the sunshine. "Why did you give him up?"

Siobhan propped herself up on her elbow. "I haven't."

Iseult opened her eyes and rolled her head to meet the frustratingly closed gaze. "He seems to think that you have."

"I had no idea that you and he were so close. In my experience, Tristan is a very closed book."

Iseult closed her eyes again, fearing that perhaps her soul was much too visible. "I have had no-one else to talk to since I left Erin. He has become my friend. But I was guessing; for a while he seemed attracted to my maidservant Brangain, so I simply assumed you and he were no longer involved."

Siobhan laid back on the warm rock. "Tristan is an unusual man, Iseult. He hides what he feels in reality, but gives a convincing display of understanding feelings. He is too kind to be real." She let her head loll gently to one side so that she could see Iseult's face. "Nonetheless, he is an exhilarating lover."

Iseult’s heart flinched, and then in the same instant she caught herself and turned her upset into feigned shock, sitting up and covering her mouth with a hand. "You mean, you and he...?"

Siobhan cocked her head, put on the wrong foot by such an extreme reaction. "Yes, of course."

Iseult gasped behind her hand. "But you're not married. How could you?"

Siobhan sat up and looked at her companion with a complete lack of comprehension. Then an understanding began to dawn. She relaxed and began to laugh to herself, shaking her head. "I told you, Iseult, I'm not a Christian. It doesn't matter to me." She stood up and stretched languidly. "You people have such double standards. Your Church ignores a man's indiscretion but a woman is some foul, sinful thing if she's not an innocent virgin on her wedding night. Do you have any idea how many women your husband-to-be has been with, and that's not counting the rapes on raids?" Siobhan's face softened from its mocking sneer when she looked at Iseult and saw her look of distress. "I'm sorry, Iseult. It's just that Coinneach won't be able to tell whether you're a virgin or a sheep. I wish you had known a real lover before you spend your life in his bed."

Iseult stared at the waves, hoping the subject could be changed, relieved that her misdirection had worked. She hated the very thought that Tristan had been with this woman, yet it felt curiously far off, as if it had happened in another lifetime. As the silence drew out, she decided to turn the conversation back onto Siobhan.

"So," she said at length, "why haven't you married? Surely your son would have a good chance of becoming king?"

Siobhan stiffened and her face fell into a bitter tightness. "Perhaps," she snapped.

"I'm sorry." Iseult looked to the sky, pleading for some inspiration. She did not want to continue and ask further because of the quiet venom underlying Siobhan's clipped statement. "We should be getting back."

Siobhan let her tension fall out into a long smile. She held out her hand. "Yes, we should. I'm sorry too. I haven't talked to anyone like this for years. I'm out of practise. I don't want to offend you."

Iseult relaxed as she rose and returned the smile. "Don't worry. I like honesty even if it hurts a little." She climbed down from the rock, jumping carefully to the soft sand, evading a clutching wave.

Siobhan watched her with a smile as thin as winter sun on a coffin lid. The golden-haired girl climbed into the saddle and sat waiting, breathing the air deep into her lungs and luxuriating in the feel of her hair blowing in the wind. Honest people, she reflected as she clambered quickly down to join Iseult, are so much easier to deal with.

***

Brother MaolColm sighed deeply as he saw yet another misplaced candlestick. He trotted over to the altar and arranged it properly, standing back to admire the beginning of the end of this wedding preparation. Proud of his efforts, he allowed himself a long appreciation of the ambience he was creating for this royal occasion, the culmination of his mission here. He could hear the breaking sea far below the wide, colourful window on which he had painstakingly painted a representation of Moses bringing down the Commandments. That window spread light throughout his chapel, now the most visible symbol of what he had achieved here amongst the violent pagan. Much more though, the marriage between Mark and the beautiful Christian Iseult would cement the faith forever in these important islands. He would finally have tamed the Wolf of the north and brought him docile to lie at the divine feet of the Lord.

A metallic clang brought him out of his reverie, and he half-turned to see MacDubhgall with a comical look of apology on his face, the long, gold crucifix he held still vibrating with the force of its collision with a stone pillar. MaolColm tutted and waved the big man over in his direction. "Carefully, Dubhgall, carefully."

A movement caught his eye as MacDubhgall stepped past him to the altar, and he watched impassively as Prince Tristan incarnated from the blinding rectangle of sunlight thrown through the chapel doors. The prince was dressed in his full finery, crimson leather from Iberia, aureate silk from Constantinople, a finely woven cloak from Brittany and precious jewellery crafted by the goldsmiths of half a dozen exotic lands. Framed by the halo of noon-light, he looked like a messenger from God, as if the archangel Michael had rested a while from his wars against Satan. MaolColm's lip curled at the unbidden image, knowing this man to be far from an archangel's piety.

Nonetheless, for the moment he was tanaiste and thus important to the future life of the Church – at least for now. MaolColm strode down the aisle, arms outstretched in greeting. "Tristan, come in, come in. Ach, man, you're dressed finer than the king himself."

Tristan smiled and clasped the priest's hand warmly. "You flatter me, MaolColm. I have just come from the king and I am a beggar by comparison." He walked further into the chapel. "Mark wanted me to check that you had everything ready." He waved to Dubhgall, still struggling to slot the crucifix in it's holder.

"Those are beautiful," continued Tristan, pointing at the tall candlesticks of knotted gold that lined the back of the altar. "I don't remember those being here before."

MaolColm swelled with pride. "The king bought them from some Norse raiders while you were away. They are from Kent."

"Of course. I had forgotten how generous the English Church has been to us."

MaolColm's face dropped as he caught the barb of Tristan's words. He narrowed his eyes. "I refuse to justify myself to you, Tristan."

The prince laughed. "I'm not surprised. You haven't been able to, as yet. A good priest is always able to justify any action, MaolColm. Otherwise you might encourage your flock to think instead of bleat in tune with your hymns."

The priest felt anger rise into his throat like bile. "You're a damned heretic, Tristan ap Cystennin, and your thoughts are blasphemous. If I had my way, you'd be banned from this church of God."

"Unfortunately for you, my friend, God doesn't agree with you. Och, MaolColm, why don't you unbend a little? You're an intelligent man. Just read your gospels again and see if I'm not right."

MaolColm grunted. "I know the Word as well as you. Both Ephesus and the Council of Orange have confirmed your doctrines as heresy. The Church must have structure. Your ideas don't give anyone a lead."

"You put leads on dogs, MaolColm, not men."

"And what's more, I will not have you infect Princess Iseult with your barbarous heresies. Your attentions are already tainting her and I won't have it."

Tristan looked at him levelly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that your disregard of rules leaves you unaware of the bounds of decency. I have ears, you know."

"If you have an accusation to make, brother, then make it."

Even though Tristan's voice was still calm and light, something in the tone caused MaolColm to step back. "It is not me who makes it. I am merely warning you that such things are being said. A good Christian would not have got himself into a position where the pot could hold water."

Tristan sighed. "Who said what, MaolColm?"

"Gospadruig, this morning. He brought some water up to the chapel, and well, mentioned that you and the princess had been rather familiar at the feast last night, and that you spend a lot of time in her company. He said that people are talking."

Tristan sat down on the nearest of the stone benches. "MaolColm, are you a complete fool? Iseult and I have come to know each other as friends, and Mark has ordered me to be friendly with her to make her feel more at home. Gospadruig is a tattle-tale and makes life up as he goes along. Think man, about what you're saying. That I would put at risk everything I have here, and quite possibly embroil us in a bitter war with the High King of Erin. Iseult is like my sister, and will be just that in everyone's eyes after today."

"Nonetheless, I think you should see less of her."

"And disobey the king? Are you inciting me to insult his wife?"

"Well, no, but..."

"'No, but' is right, MaolColm. There are no buts when it comes to the king. I suggest you give less credence to lies and stories and devote a little more time to Iseult's spiritual happiness so it doesn't fall to me to be her only friend. Or doesn't the Church care for people far from home?"

MaolColm stayed silent, staring at Tristan's calm face to see if just once, he could find something in this damnable family's eyes.

"If you ask me," boomed Dubhgall from across the nave, "and you didn't, I'd give the same weight to Gospadruig's little story as I gave that one he put around last year about you and my eldest daughter."

MaolColm started and stuttered, "But Dubhgall, you know that was a lie."

Dubhgall shrugged. "Of course. I asked her and I trust her to tell the truth. But if I had believed Gospadruig without checking first..." The consequences were left unsaid but clearer than the summer sky outside.

MaolColm nodded quickly. "I see what you mean. But I have only your best interests at heart, Tristan. Rumours can do a man damage."

"Yes, they can." Tristan let his eyes hold the priest's for a long time, underlining Dubhgall's words. Suddenly, he sprang up, and grinned. "No matter. I'm glad to see that your holy concern extends even to heretics. If you will excuse us, MaolColm, I need Dubhgall with me to attend the king. I will see you later this afternoon."

MaolColm bowed and watched the two warriors leave the church. Shaking his head, he went back to the altar to prepare for the ceremony now only a few hours away.

***

Mark stared at a tiny cloud that hung alone in the wide expanse of blue above his head, deliberately avoiding looking at the procession that was winding its way up the steep hill towards the chapel. He shifted his feet impatiently, caught suddenly between a wish that this was already over with and the desire that it might not happen at all. Searching for a little support, he glared malevolently into the darker confines of the little church, hoping to catch MaolColm's eye. Though he could see movement and shadows, his eyes could not pierce the brightness of the summer around him and so he could not discern anyone's identity. He ground his teeth and bit hard into the inside of his lip.

Unwillingly, he cast his gaze down. Still far below, the line of people and horses made steady, slow progress toward him. He could see the princess sat rigid and proud on her horse, being led to his side by her maidservant. The women of his clan scattered around her, singing and laughing, enticing the good spirits to celebrate with them. Iseult's face was impassive and slightly stern, as if she had set herself to bear this pagan preamble. Once again he felt sorry for her, out of place, far from her home and her own customs. He could not deny the ancient traditions their place here or half his people would condemn the marriage. He both old and new held him but the past still had the stronger grip on him.

A scuffed footfall behind him drew his attention and he smiled as he saw Tristan emerge from the chapel hefting a polished sickle. The prince came over to him and waved the implement airily.

"I hope your aim is in," said Tristan, grinning. "I don't fancy starving this winter."

"I'm thinking perhaps I should cut MaolColm in two rather than the kirn. He's a bigger target."

Tristan followed his uncle's gaze towards the woven corn stalks hung on the chapel doors. "I'm not sure that would help the harvest much, Mark, but you'd be popular."

Mark looked back down the hill. "She's coming."

Tristan's face lost its smile and he sighed.

"You don't approve, do you?" Mark's voice was toneless and matched the clarity of his eyes.

"I brought her here, remember?" Tristan did not meet the king's gaze. "It is for the best. Of course I approve."

"Liar." Mark smiled thinly. "You think like Siobhan, and always did. You think I'm weak and getting old."

"I think you're being made to feel guilty by people who should know better." Tristan laid a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "Tell MaolColm to be quiet. I find it a deeply religious experience."

Mark grinned widely and the light shone back in his eyes. He bunched his face up wryly. "I'm not going to be able to handle her, you know. She's too like Cairbre."

Tristan dropped his hand and shrugged lightly. "Then don't force it. Iseult's an understanding girl. Let things take their own course. God's plans will unfurl as they must."

Mark did not reply, and kept his eyes on the rapidly nearing procession. The women fanned out into a circle, and then a semi-circle, enclosing the front of the chapel. Brangain led the horse up to the waiting men and bowed.

Iseult sat high, still impassive, draped in a beautifully sewn linen robe, unbearably pale in the glare of the sun. The gentle breeze ruffled the mantle of down feathers across her shoulders. Her golden hair lay in a cascade, crowned with a plaited ring of wheat and barley stalks.

Tearing his gaze from her, Tristan saw that Mark was similarly transfixed and leant over to give him a sharp nudge. The king jumped, bringing a mischievous smile to Brangain's lips, but seemingly unseen by Iseult.

"Woman of the Irish, see this," shouted Mark, louder than he intended. He turned to Tristan who handed him the sickle. Flicking a glance at Iseult, he saw that her expression was still stony and distant. Hefting the sickle for its balance, he drew back his hand and hurled the blade at the chapel door.

There was a bang, and a muted gasp as the sickle bounced from the kirn. Mark growled a profanity under his breath, knowing that he had hit the thing with the blunt edge. Tristan leapt over to the door and whipped up the sickle, giving a shout of triumph. Swiftly he pulled the kirn from the door, sliced evenly in two. The crowd of women, for a moment unsure that their king had cut the kirn cheered as Tristan brought the head piece to Mark. But the king had seen his nephew's lightning cut of the straw as he picked up the blade.

"Thank you," breathed Mark carefully as he took the straw bundle from Tristan's hand. He turned back to Iseult. "I claim you for my wife. May the land grow strong and fertile from our union."

Iseult dismounted and took the kirn from his hand. She nodded and allowed him to take her hand. As she stepped past Tristan, she stopped and handed him the straw. "This is yours, I believe," she whispered.

The bridal party walked into the church and strode up the aisle to the altar where Brother MaolColm waited for them with outstretched arms, his eyes and ears having been averted from the paganism on his very doorstep.

"In the name of the Christ, welcome," he said, pointing to the floor in front of him. Iseult made to kneel, but Mark pulled her back to her feet. Another of MaolColm's long-suffering frowns passed like a summer cloud and then he smiled.

"My bro...people, we have gathered in this holy place to witness the joining together of this man and this woman in the sacrament of marriage. United in God's love, we pray that they grow together in faith and love and are blessed from this day forward." As he spoke, MaolColm looked benevolently out at the packed chapel, imagining that it might be like this every feast day, and wondering if he might soon broach the subject of his founding a monastic settlement here. The myriad faces stared back, rapt with interest at his words, spellbound by the new mysteries of faith. Only the Princess Siobhan, standing near the doors and yawning deliberately when she saw him looking at her, seemed disinterested, and even Prince Tristan stared piously and humbly at the floor.

After finishing the blessings, MaolColm motioned the couple closer to take their vows. Both seemed nervous and he gave then a reassuring smile. "Mark MacGaetilach, King of the Orcades, you have chosen this woman Iseult of Erin to be your wife and queen. In the sight of God, will you cherish her, feed her, and love her until death parts you?"

There was a long pause, until Mark said finally, "Aye, I will."

Turning to Iseult, MaolColm saw that she had paled to almost the colour of her dress, her eyes blank and unseeing. Concerned, he leaned closer to her and whispered, "Are you all right?" She nodded slowly, so he shrugged and continued. "Iseult of Erin, daughter of the High King of the Irish, you have been chosen to be Mark's wife and queen. In the sight of God, will you accept his hand, and in so doing cherish him, obey him and care for him until death parts you?"

Though her lips moved, MaolColm could not hear her words. He whispered, "I can't hear." She nodded her head.

Accepting that as good enough, and not wishing to distress her further as he had sudden visions of the queen passing out in his church and thereby bringing bad omen on the whole enterprise, MaolColm hurriedly continued. "In the presence of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and before these witnesses in Christ, I now pronounce you man and wife, king and queen."

There was a great cheer, led by MacDubhgall, and MaolColm tried desperately to wave the people down so he could proceed onto the consecration of the host. But the clan had broken ranks and were mobbing Mark and the unfortunate Iseult, lifting them up on their shoulders and carrying them in an unstoppable wave through the chapel doors, on the way to the nuptial bed. He knew that the pagan custom was for the newly-weds was to get the marriage consummated as soon as possible so that the blessing of fertility would not be lost, and he knew that this was most important with the king whose fertility was intimately associated with that of the land. Even so, he had still hoped that they might stay and celebrate Mass with him, and perhaps understand a little more of their new faith. Listening to the wild sounds of ribaldry and joy that were fading away down the hill outside, he sighed, and let himself be reasonably satisfied. There was still a long road to travel.

Looking back around the chapel, he realised suddenly that Tristan was still there, kneeling in prayer. Touched, he went over to the prince and laid a tender hand on the knotted shoulders. "Tristan, would you like me to finish celebrating Mass for you?"

Tristan lifted his head, and MaolColm gasped as he saw the grey of his eyes burning with danger, unveiled for once in a terrible glare of distress. Then the moment passed, as fleeting as if it had never been.

"I would like to be left alone," said Tristan simply.

MaolColm nodded, eager to get away from the young warrior. As he left the church through the sacristy, he cast a glance back at Tristan, kneeling hunched over and taut with some inner conflict. The last time someone had sat here like that had been a new convert who had just lost her mother to old age. There was no comfort for those shoulders, and MaolColm had been told in no uncertain terms that none was wanted. He shook the confusion from his neck and went about his tasks.

[Ludens]

Thank you Ludens, for your views. I have a reader!

More than one, I would say. The patrons of the Mead Hall have never been very verbose. People are reading your story, they just don't post.

[AntiochusIII]

More than one, I would say. The patrons of the Mead Hall have never been very verbose. People are reading your story, they just don't post.

I devote my 2222nd post to this story!