A Winter's Tale

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale

by Banquo's Ghost

Iseult heard the faint skirl of pipes a heartbeat before a cry of loss broke the still, afternoon air. She stiffened, a smile fading quickly from her face. The child sitting on her lap lifted his head and frowned, letting his toy drop.

"What's that?" the boy demanded, unnerved by her sudden change of mood. She restored her smile and brushed away a lock of hair from his eyes.

"I think that your father has returned, Cynan." She stalled his excited jump groundwards with a firm hand. "Should I go and fetch him for you?"

The child trembled with anticipation. Iseult stood carefully, lowering him to the wooden floor. "You must get ready for him," she warned. You don't want him to see you looking like a beggar-boy, now do you? He will have me whipped."

Cynan looked shocked. "But he wouldn't dare."

Iseult knelt to hug the boy. He responded happily as she murmured, "I was teasing, little one." Standing again, she flicked her golden hair over her shoulder with the grace of an archangel's wing.

"Brangain," she called through the doorway. A moment later, a young woman skipped into the room and nodded her head in greeting.

"Prepare this rascal for his father, and be sure he is scrubbed cleaner than a pot." Iseult steered Cynan toward the newcomer who held out her arms to collect him. "And mind, young man, no games." The youngster's face was already wrinkling at the prospect of a good washing. Brangain laughed and patted a finger on his disgruntled nose.

Iseult stepped out of the cottage into the bright haze of early summer. A butterfly danced in the heat like a fragment of sky before weaving away through the grass.

She breathed deeply, tasting the air's warmth. Despite the peaceful surroundings, her heart was pounding with anxiety. She looked away from the dappled green of the nearby woods and on up the hill to the timber walls of the citadel of Tara. Her uncle would be headed there with news from his voyage to the islands of Orcade. She feared a disaster, and found herself hoping that her young cousin Sean had not been the victim of his first clash of arms. He had left with such excitement.

Unable to calm her worries with the fresh summer air, she brushed the burrs from her skirt and climbed up the steep slope towards the eastern gatehouse of the mound of kings.

The inner enclosure of Tara was thick with bustling traders and farmers, forcing Iseult to enlist the commanding voice and ruthless arm of a nearby warrior to see her through to her father's throne hall. The oak facade glowered into the egg-blue sky. A visiting bard had compared it to one of the mythical temples of Rome. Born to such grandeur, Iseult barely glanced aside as she entered.

Inside, the afternoon sun fell in shafts from the ceiling, opaque as the buttresses of a cathedral. Dust floated in the quiet air, sparking as it caught the summer light. Beyond the bright pools, the throne of the High King of Erin seemed cloaked in gloom. Darker still was the face of Conchobhair Mac Findlaech himself. Iseult's heart weighed with pity for her father.

Another pair of eyes saw her enter the throne hall, and the queen rose from the comfort of her husband and stepped down toward her only daughter. Gormlaith of Erin moved with the grace of a lynx, and it was easy to see where Iseult's beauty had its source. Gormlaith took her daughter into her arms.

"Ach, my darling," whispered Gormlaith in a voice that had aged with recent pain. "You have not heard."

Iseult shook her head, and the slight movement scattered sunlight.

Gormlaith sighed. "Your uncle is dead - murdered."

She watched the tears well up in her daughter's eyes. Unsure of what to add and how, she let the silence draw out. Finally, she despaired of words and simply held the grieving girl closer, wishing that the tears would come to her too. She had loved her brother fiercely, and did not understand why her heart hung as stone.

Gradually, Iseult's sobbing subsided. The silence lay heavy on the hall, the murmur of life outside suffocated by the solid walls of oak. Gormlaith led Iseult over to a sun-splashed bench. She dried her daughter's eyes with a silk handkerchief, recalling how the precious silk had been given to her by her brother, a treasure from one of the raids on far Dumnonia. Now her bright, brave warrior was dead, and the riches were without meaning.

"What happened?" Iseult's question brought Gormlaith back from her memories. "I thought Maelduin was simply collecting tribute."

The queen half-smiled, aware that her daughter had a great deal to learn about this frightened and violent world. Nothing was simple anymore.

"Child, so he was. But it seems as though Coinneach MacGaetilach has received the Holy Spirit, and the monks that have baptised him have also planted the seeds of rebellion. Your father always said he would become troublesome." She looked at her daughter with distant eyes.

"Yet, who would have thought he would actually fight? Coinneach is a brave warrior, but there is no-one to match Maelduin of Erin." She grimaced. "Was no-one."

Queen Gormlaith withdrew the arm that was comforting her daughter. Iseult sat up, strength and spirit returning to her pale eyes. "For tradition's sake, Maelduin challenged the king to single combat. This time the challenge was accepted. Not by Coinneach himself, but by a warrior never seen or heard of before, a Tristan of Tintagel. Of course, Maelduin protested that he could not fight someone of common blood but this Tristan is apparently Coinneach's nephew, raised at the monastery in Dumnonia. A monk, by the saints."

Gormlaith paused, as if the injury was greater because of the warrior's background. "They fought on one of the little islands in the Loch of Passing." She smiled bitterly. "The Orcadian messenger has told us that the warriors rowed to the island in separate curraghs, and that the Prince Tristan pushed his away into the loch boasting that only one boat would be needed when the duel was done."

"A brave man," said Iseult reassuringly.

"Your uncle would not have lost to a coward," the queen snapped. Then, realising the intent of the words, she softened again. "Aye, by this account he is a god. Certainly the battle was fought with no quarter given or asked. A whole day they fought, until Prince Tristan split your uncle's skull with a blow that cracked his sword. See, your cousin has just brought me the shard from Maelduin's poor head." Carefully, she brought out a stained square of linen and unwrapped the gleaming, inch-long splinter of wicked steel.

Iseult handled the splinter like the fang of a snake still wet with venom. The touch of the metal, warm from her mother's breast, coloured her mind with images of pain and death. Without meaning to, she shuddered, and closed her hand over the shard. "I want to keep it. To remember." Iseult's tone was final.

Queen Gormlaith nodded. She was used to her daughter's convictions. Some even said that the princess had the gift of seeing the future's shadows. Whether that was true or not, she had found it wiser not to take issue with such feelings.

A bullock's roar echoed around the quiet hall from outside. Iseult got up and shrugged brokenly. "What am I going to tell little Cynan?"

"That his father was a great warrior." The strange voice boomed across the hall, shattering the silence. Iseult jumped with shock. She whirled round and saw a powerful man haloed by sunlight. A mane of hair flamed in the backlight and the shadow blanked away any features. Gold and gemstones glittered around his neck and a heavy axe was slung behind his back. His thickly muscled arm gripped a leather waist belt, and as her eyes adjusted to the unequal light, Iseult saw the curling blue tattoos that marked a Pictish warrior.

She heard her father sit up in his throne and the imperceptible scrape as he adjusted the great-sword beside him. Horror drained with the blood from her face into her heart as the foreigner looked her up and down with no disguising of his imaginings. The arrogant gaze swept lazily over her mother, now standing beside her and beyond to rest on the quiet eyes of the High King. The man tossed his head and padded out of the sun toward Conchobhair.

Iseult looked at her father, unmoving at the stranger's approach. Wide-eyed with worry, she searched the doorway for help, only to see what the king had already seen - fully armed Irish guards waiting nervously for a summons. At the same moment, the warrior halted and bowed, a reverence that seemed out of place with his manner.

"To Conchobhair MacFindlaech MacFinn from Coinneach MacGaetilach MacCormac, Greetings," growled the newcomer. "I am Dubhgall MacDubhgall, kinsman and herald to the King of the Orcades."

Both Gormlaith and Iseult breathed out heavily. Expecting the murderer himself, this mere ambassador was a sudden relief. Iseult looked back to the throne and saw MacDubhgall watching them with amusement. He knew what they had feared.

Allowing his gaze to linger on the women until they lowered their eyes, Dubhgall MacDubhgall turned back to the relaxed High King. "Coinneach MacGaetilach MacCormac announces that he has no quarrel with the High King of Erin and has returned to you your kinsman's body. Further, he no longer intends to pay tribute for your protection. The One God who is Three has shown us our destiny and through a miracle provided us with the means to be free." He turned and extended his open palm to the queen in an ancient gesture of respect. "Coinneach wishes to express his sorrow at the death of your kinsman. He fought like CuChullain himself."

Queen Gormlaith nodded a stiff acknowledgement. "At least you haven't forgotten your courtesy."

Dubhgall smiled and faced the High King once more. "It is my king's wish that the peoples of Erin and the Orcades are united in friendship. He proposes an alliance in blood."

Iseult groaned inside. The proposal could mean only one of two things. Though his man had defeated the tribute party, she could not believe Coinneach felt himself strong enough to demand the High King's head in payment. That only left one possibility.

"Coinneach MacGaetilach's wife died of the fever nearly eight winters ago," continued Dubhgall, each word striking deeper into Iseult's horrified heart. "A vision has come to his priest that the king should marry once more. A swallow dropped a golden hair into his hand at the moment Prince Maelduin's boats were sighted. These miracles have shown us God's will. Coinneach MacGaetilach MacCormac offers to marry your daughter Iseult to prevent war and bloodshed descending on our peoples."

Iseult felt an overwhelming urge to flee from the hall, but shock and dignity kept her motionless. She suddenly realised that her mother had relaxed beside her and was smiling with relief. Evidently, the consequences of Maelduin's death could have been far worse. But for whom?

"I hear Coinneach has taken a new name," said the High King slowly, as if he had not heard anything the warrior had said. Iseult's heart soared upward.

Dubhgall MacDubhgall scratched his beard. "Aye, lord. He is now called Mark, who was a great and learned saint and friend of the Saviour."

"And you, Dubhgall MacDubhgall, whose famed axe-play has been sung of in this very hall, are you now a Christian?" Conchobhair's eyes were fixed on the warrior's face.

Dubhgall actually swelled with pride at the compliment the High King offered. He smiled, then grimaced. "They have splashed me with water, lord. I do not know, other than that my king wishes it."

Conchobhair straightened and returned the smile. "And this Tristan, he is a Christian too?"

"Aye, he has the strength of the Christ in his arm. He is favoured by God, Conchobhair MacFindlaech, and I am proud to have him as my kinsman. He is the bravest man I have seen, and the hand that struck your queen's brother can play the harp with a magic that brightens the stars and brings the eagle down to listen."

"He sounds beloved of many gods." Conchobhair rubbed his eye with slow deliberation.

Dubhgall broke the lengthening silence, unnerved by the lack of response. "It's Prince Tristan that has been sent to escort Princess Iseult to my king. It is a great honour."

The High King grinned ruefully, and shook his head. "Of course. And no doubt, this paragon is even now landed on Erin's soil?"

Dubhgall shifted uneasily. He nodded.

Conchobhair sighed and stood up. "Ach, well, it is a good alliance. There is wealth to be had in the lands of Britain and it will be easier to take between us. I shall receive this Tristan, but in one month’s time. I must first talk with my daughter."

Dubhgall leaned forward to object but decided against it. The High King had the right to some time. Instead, he bowed and strode out, flinging a glance at the outwardly calm Iseult. She levelled a stony, hostile glare at him which served only to amuse him. Grinning roundly, he marched into the summer sun, leaving only the dust swirls and Iseult's silent protests.

The princess felt her mother's arm on her shoulders. "Well, my child, you are to be the consort of a king. And Coinneach of Orcade too!" Iseult could hardly believe her mother's sudden good spirits. Still mute with shock, she watched her father come down from the throne dais and throw his arms wide for an embrace. She stood stock still.

Conchobhair frowned. "The circumstances are not what I would have chosen. The Orcades have been a rich source of tribute for some years and it will be hard to lose them. But Coinneach MacGaetilach is a good man and a fierce warrior. I thought he still grieved for his wife, but after all, a king must have his queen. I couldn't have chosen you a better husband."

"But he's nearly forty!" Iseult's shock was so great that she could not think of anything but triviality as her protest.

Gormlaith laughed. "Don't be so foolish, girl. Would you prefer Mawgan of Dyfed? He's twenty-four and dribbles." The queen hugged her. "Anyway, my precious, you're not so young yourself for such a good marriage."

Iseult glared. "I don't love him," she said petulantly.

"No, but you will," said Conchobhair firmly. "You have been allowed more licence in this matter than good sense advised. This autumn will see your twenty-first year, and no suitor has come close to being good enough for you. Well, now you are needed to help your people, and find out what being of the blood royal means. Or would you prefer your first touch of love to be at the hands of Tristan's raping hordes?"

Iseult stared defiantly into her father's eyes while she struggled against the inevitability of his words. She willed tears to come and was surprised when they did not. She dropped her gaze.

"What does my future husband look like?" Her voice seemed to accept of her fate but there was still a ring of steel.

Tenderly, Conchobhair touched his hand to her chin and lifted her face. His dark blue eyes were shining with tears. "Truly," he whispered, "truly, you are the blood of my blood." He covered his heart with his free hand. "Here lies the true love for you."

Iseult choked with his emotion and she clung to her father.

"He has wild eyes." Momentarily, neither Iseult nor Conchobhair could comprehend the queen's words. They let go of each other and looked at her in confusion. "Coinneach MacGaetilach," she scolded, "has wild grey eyes, full of the winter sea." She nodded satisfaction. "He is very handsome."

Conchobhair grunted. "Aye, I seem to remember that you were once linked with him. And I hear that he has a big nose."

Gormlaith widened her eyes in mock horror and placed a hand delicately on her husband's lips. "Shush, my heart, you will frighten our daughter." She turned to Iseult with a soft smile. "I have seen him, your father has not. Believe me, little one, I am envious of you."

Iseult smiled faintly back. The love her parents had for each other was still fresh, and she could only wonder if she would ever taste its like herself. She felt desolate but resolved.

"I need to think," she said distantly. "I'll walk in the forest for a while. Do you mind?"

Her father shook his head, pulling Gormlaith to him playfully. "Of course not, little one. But take care not to stray too far. Ask Finuchan if the scouts have seen any Silurian raiders today."

Leaving her embracing parents behind, Iseult walked out into the sunshine. The day had started with such promise, lying now like a trampled flower. Avoiding a small flock of annoyed geese, she struck off toward the wildwood.

[matteus the inbred]

nice work Banquo's Ghost, that's pretty darn good stuff!

[Banquo's Ghost]

nice work Banquo's Ghost, that's pretty darn good stuff!

Thank you

This is the beginning of a novel-length story that I wrote some while back, and am now using to hone revision skills for more serious work. I thought it might be fun to share the process with the Mead Hall.

It's a variation on the Tristan-Iseult legend, but set in the Pictish Dark Ages where the original tale came from. It's of course a love story, but also a political/religious thriller exploring the influence of the new Christian missionaries on ancient pagan power structures.

Hopefully, it will make a diverting read.

[Csargo]

Very good story

[matteus the inbred]

Thank you

This is the beginning of a novel-length story that I wrote some while back, and am now using to hone revision skills for more serious work. I thought it might be fun to share the process with the Mead Hall.

It's a variation on the Tristan-Iseult legend, but set in the Pictish Dark Ages where the original tale came from. It's of course a love story, but also a political/religious thriller exploring the influence of the new Christian missionaries on ancient pagan power structures.

Hopefully, it will make a diverting read.

So far so good, it's a nice mix of authentic and gritty detail (that sword shard!) and legendary romance writing. You describe colour and light well to build atmosphere. I look forward to reading more. I read a lot of stories on this and other websites that involve no women or children or 'love' emotions, just 'guys' doing 'guy' things, so all those aspects were quite refreshing too.

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale: Chapter One, Part Two

The leaves rustled in the slight breeze, lit up by the late afternoon sun and dappling the long grass beneath with a chessboard of shadows. Insects hummed as they settled on flowers of red, purple and yellow scattered across the greensward. Only a few birds had the strength to sing, chirruping lazily in the heat in practise for the cooler evening. The unseen scratching of woodland creatures going about the business of life underlay the percussion of a distant woodpecker. The swish of Iseult's skirt over the grass caused only a hesitation. When she rested on a fallen tree trunk, the forest music resumed uninterrupted.

Iseult's mind was a cacophony. She knew she must accept her parent's wish. They were right, and duty demanded. But her dreams revolted at the prospect. Long ago, an old seeress had whispered words of prophecy to her and she had kept the vision in her thoughts ever since. She had listened to the poetry of the storytellers and smiled secretly to herself, knowing that such a true love waited for her. As she had become older, her conviction had grown with every rejected offer of marriage. Even her parents' acceptance of her unwillingness had supported her faith. Now fate had taken her in hand and her destiny sounded no reassuring echo in her soul.

Many times she had scolded herself that such romance was for children and that a princess had no business deluding herself. Yet always in her deepest heart, where sense seemed to have no sway, her belief remained. Perhaps now that she had no choice, the dream would finally be buried.

Her confusion was broken by the sound of a harp, quite near and hauntingly melodious. Wondering who else would stroll in these woodlands at such a time, she rose and walked past the trees towards the sound.

Her foot cracked a twig and the harper paused. Iseult looked through the leaves and when a breeze nudged a bough aside, she spied the musician sitting alertly on a grassy mound. She allowed herself a smile as he waved at her.

Cai No-father, as she had christened him, had arrived a week ago at the gates of Tara looking more like a dog's supper than a poet. He had described an ambush by the raiding Silurians some distance north and how he had barely escaped with his life. Finding that he was a bard from Brittany, wandering in Erin for inspiration, Conchobhair had offered royal hospitality as was customary. Iseult had taken an immediate liking to the young man, brave but incredibly foolhardy, and had dressed and tended his wounds. He was witty, poetic and greatly interesting, as a good bard should be, but his unassuming manner and meticulous politeness quickly developed a friendship between them. Her heart warmed to see him here. It was as if God had taken pity on her and provided comfort.

"Princess," he greeted her as he rose and bowed. "We are honoured by your presence here."

"We?" Iseult looked around her for his companions.

His moon-grey eyes sparkled with merriment. "The spirits of stone and wood," he smiled, indicating the trees around them. "The fur-clad creatures and those that crawl which bring so much beauty and meaning to this gift of a day."

She sighed. "Cai, when you speak like that I feel like I have no right to be unhappy."

He sat and patted the ground beside him. "Then sit with me and let me enchant your spirit. Let me make you happy."
She sat next to him, closer than she had intended and moved away a little. She looked at his face to see if he had noticed and whether she had offended him. As always, his eyes were both kind and unreadable.

While he spoke, she watched the sun gleam through his fair hair, a deeper gold than hers, and, she felt, more real. Yet his handsome features belonged to the elfin beauty of the Sidhe, magical and not quite born of woman. Those eyes seemed to look beyond the world to some secret garden that only he knew. Even his clean-shaven chin enhanced his otherness. He was thin, yet she knew from her ministrations that he was strong and well-muscled under his clothes. The wounds she had seen were those of a warrior, caught in a desperate fight. She let her thoughts linger on the memory of that torn, intriguing body until she suddenly caught herself blushing. Forcefully, she addressed herself to his words only to find that he had stopped speaking and was watching her as intently as she had been staring at him.

"I'm sorry, Cai. What did you say?"

He shook his head. Iseult wondered at the grace of even such a tiny movement. "Princess," he said earnestly, "you need offer no apology for blessing me with your attention." He shifted his position slightly and looked at her with his piercing gaze. "You are troubled by your uncle's death."

"And something more." She paused, suddenly wary of her wish to confide in this stranger. She searched his face for danger, for a reason to leave the glade, but found only safety and warmth. "You are a poet, Cai. When you sing about love, do you believe it? Is it real?"

His eyes widened and Iseult could see the ocean in their depths. "Aye, I do believe it." He frowned in thought. "But princess, true love is not given to all. The love that poets sing of, that knows no bounds, no chains and joins the two as one soul, that is a gift from God. And I believe, his greatest curse."

"Why so?"

He smiled. "Because of the price. To me, the gift is so precious I cannot conceive of the price to be paid. I should settle for the simple love of a husband for his wife, nurtured through many days and nights of shared life, born of respect and companionship along life's roads. Such love endures. With such love one may not always find true happiness, but one can at least, be content."

"You think I should marry Coinneach too."

Cai tilted his head to one side. "Is that the trouble? Your father has agreed to marry you away?" Iseult nodded. "It is hard to lose a dream, princess. Yet I have known peasant girls sold into slavery because their family needs to eat. I have heard of new-born daughters left in winter fields to die because a son is needed to work on the land and a girl-child cannot be fed and clothed. To be a woman in our world is to suffer, Iseult. By marrying this king, you might be able to change that a little. A queen can do much to rectify injustice. Coinneach's hand will give you power. Find contentment with your husband, and find your happiness by making others' lives happier. That is my counsel. I doubt if it helps much."

Iseult stared at the poet, wide-eyed at his words. Her heart felt light and full. "You have stolen my tongue with your words. Cai, how did you find such wisdom?"

He laughed, a merry cascade of sound. "Princess, I'm not wise. It's only an opinion. I have come to know you, and I can see what might bring you joy. I have seen you with the children and the glow of your face as they play around the fire. I have seen you sit long hours with the old ones and their memories when others have no time for them. I have seen you tend a stranger's wounds with care." He stopped and looked deep into her eyes. "It is a poet's blessing to know his audience." Awkwardly, he tore his gaze away and made to pick up his harp.

"But of course," he continued, brightening; "if you want to spread my reputation as rivalling that of Solomon, my welcomes will not suffer!"

Iseult accepted the change of mood, and laughed. "Who's Solomon?"

Cai strummed the harp strings into life. "A great king from a land very far from here. Your monks have been lax. I'll wager Coinneach knows his scripture backwards by now."

"You shouldn't speak with such familiarity, poet," she scolded, teasing.

Cai bowed an apology and struck up a drinking song. The notes and his voice lifted Iseult's mind from her worry into the joyful world of music. As the shadows lengthened, he played his harp with passion to exorcise her fears and soothe her heart. When the russet sun finally touched the meadows they rose and walked back through the ringing woods laughing and smiling as if the events of the day had never been.

[Ludens]

Excellent work, Banquo's Ghost. It isn't quite my kind of story, but it looks very polished.

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale
Chapter Two

The hall fell silent as the last wistful notes faded away into the night. Only the hushed breathing of the High King's guests and the spit and crackle of the restless log fire broke the spell woven by the harp. Cai lowered his instrument slowly and surveyed the bright eyes around him, all touched by the lingering lament. Many faces shone with tears as the hearts behind them still sang with the music of a lover's final farewell.

After a long time, Conchobhair spoke. "You have done me much honour, Cai of Brittany. Ask me a favour in return and be blessed."

Cai rose from his stool below the king's table and bowed deeply. He swept his hand around the hall and repeated his homage to the warriors of Erin. Returning to Conchobhair, he cleared his throat respectfully, as if overcome by the power of his own music. "Lord, it is you that has honoured me. You have taken in a poor stranger and treated him with royal kindness. My gift of song is too small."

He let his gaze move to Iseult and linger on her face, warm and beautiful in the soft firelight. "Nonetheless, I will accept one favour." He watched her eyes widen and her lips part slightly with pleased surprise. "I should like to tell a story for the enjoyment of your gracious daughter, the Princess Iseult, in part payment for her companionship and care these last three weeks. I must leave tomorrow and I would like to thank her in this way."

Iseult's expression changed into profound disappointment. She hid her reaction amid the thunderous banging of fists. The clansmen were dismayed at his announcement. Conchobhair held up his hand for silence.

"We will all miss you, Cai. Yet I know that poets must wander to touch the many spirits and stories of the world. This gives meaning to your music." Conchobhair rubbed his beard and looked hard at his daughter. "I will grant your request on one condition. That you return to Tara before you leave the shores of Erin."

Cai smiled broadly and bowed his head. "Lord, I swear on my life that I will return to this hall within the year."

The High King nodded his approval and beckoned Cai to approach his daughter. Gracefully, the young harper stepped up to the high table and sat across from Iseult. He looked at her as if they were the only two left in the great hall. Yet when he began to speak, his voice sounded clearly in every straining ear.

"Many years ago, in the wild and magical land of Caledon, there lived a woman whose beauty was such it could almost match that of this princess. Her eyes were as blue as a jay's wing and the shining gold of her soft, long hair put the summer's sun to shame. She was married to a fine warrior, and bore him a gentle child. But soon afterwards, her husband was killed in a great battle and so she lavished her love on the newborn baby.

"Now in the lonely hills and mountains of the wilderness there live a race of faerie folk that are called the Sidhe. As in Erin, the Faerie can be kind or ill to men, for they are older than the world itself.

"It so happened that two women of the Sidhe were walking amongst the summer meadows when they heard the cries of a human baby. Searching, they found the little mortal sheltered under a great yew tree, wrapped tightly in a linen shawl. The baby saw their dark, magical eyes and sang with delight as little ones will when they see something wonderful. The baby's song entranced the two faeries.

"It must have been abandoned," said one. "There is no-one here that owns it."

"Only a human would leave alone such a treasure," said the other, waving a finger and watching the baby's face wrinkle in delight.

"And what is not claimed can be claimed," pronounced the first and without further ado picked up the child. The faeries swept into the forest with their treasure and went quickly back to the Sidhean.

"Not long after, the baby's mother returned to the yew tree, as she had been only a short distance away collecting firewood. She searched under every tree but knew that her child had been under the great yew. She could find no trace of her baby at all.

"When it grew dark, she returned home to enlist the aid of her neighbours but though they searched all night and all the next day, the baby could not be found. Every passer-by was questioned, every heather bush searched. But it soon became apparent that the child had completely vanished and all lost hope. All that is, but the baby's mother.

"She thanked her friends and set out alone. She wandered from village to village, from farm to farm and from croft to croft. But no-one had heard of the missing child."

Cai paused, watching Iseult's face. In the firelight she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and her pale eyes were locked on his, brimming with tears at his tale. For a moment, he felt like reaching forth and stroking the sweet liquid away from her cheek, but he caught his breath and continued with his story.

"After a long time she came upon an old woman sat by a fire. Tired and despairing she asked the crone if she might share the fire. When her weary bones had warmed a little, she told her story. The old woman's eyes shone with wisdom as she listened to the weeping girl.

"Once she had finished they sat in silence for a long, long time, until the girl thought perhaps her ancient companion had fallen asleep or that death had caught up with her at last. But as the moon rose, the old woman spoke with a voice that echoed like the mist-wreathed glens.

"Sweet mother," she said, "your bairn has been taken by the Sidhe to their home under the hills. Give up your search my daughter, for nothing that enters their world returns to ours."

"The girl cried out at this. "No," she said, "I will never give up my search. The Sidhe may be powerful, but there must be a way. Surely you can find magic enough to help me?"

"The old crone shook her head. "No power of mine can match the Sidhe, for they are older than the earth. Yet I can tell you this; there will be a great meeting of the Sidhe very soon. The faerie are very vain. If you can find something that has no equal in the world, you may be able to trade it for your son. And to gain entry to the Sidhean, you must again buy your way in."

"The girl thanked the crone for her advice. "Finally," said the old one, "I will give you protection from all the elements that may harm you. In that way you may be able to complete your task."

"The girl looked into the fire, trying to plan where she would find such gifts without equal. When she looked up once more, the ancient woman had gone. The girl tried to think of the rarest gifts she had heard of in stories. She remembered how her father used to tell of the fabled white cloak of Nechtan and the golden-stringed harp of Wrad. But then her head fell. How could a poor peasant girl find such things when even the greatest warriors could not win them?

"Then a picture of her baby came unbidden into her mind, and that tiny face, more precious to her than any jewels, smiled at her. Strong with purpose once more, she got up and went to the sea.

"Clambering over the wave-drenched rocks for days and nights she collected the whitest down feathers from the nests of the eider ducks and the old woman's spell protected her from the violent seas and the sharp stones. When she had at last gathered enough down she set to work to weave a cloak as soft as a summer thistle. Cutting a strand of her own golden hair she wove a border of magical beasts and talismans around the edges of the cloak. And when she had finished, the birds themselves abandoned their singing to come and marvel at her handiwork.

"Fired by love and determination, she set about her next task. She walked the seashore until she found the bleached bones of a great sea-beast, whiter than ivory and smoother than fine silk. She bent and bound these bones into the frame of a wondrous harp and strung it with her own golden hair. She tuned it so that the music it played brought the woodland creatures from their trees and burrows to listen."

Cai illustrated the mystical sounds with his own harp, weaving an enchantment of sound to match the spell of his voice. He spoke now only to Iseult, the rest of the world having faded beyond his thoughts.

"With her two prizes, the girl set out for the Sidhean, travelling as one must when approaching the faerie, that is only by the light of the stars. When the moon rose, she rested. Finally, she stood at the entrance to the Sidhean and watched the faeries arriving for their gathering. When she saw a latecomer hurrying up on her own, she seized her chance. She stepped out into view with the cloak swirling around her like an autumn mist.

"What are you doing, mortal?" glowered the faerie. Then her eyes saw the cloak. Greedily she narrowed her eyes. "What will you take for your cloak?"

"The girl smiled haughtily at her. "It is not for sale."

"The faerie regarded her carefully. "I will weigh you in gold for it," she said with deliberation.

"The girl only shook her head. "There is not enough gold in the world to buy this cloak," she said. "But it has its price!"

"Trembling with greed now, the faerie gasped, "Whatever you want, I will give it to you." She stretched out a trembling hand to touch the wondrous softness.

"Take me into the Sidhean with you, and it is yours," said the girl. "But mind, you may have it after we are in," she added, mindful of the Sidhe and their trickery.

Impatiently, the faerie agreed and led the young girl deep into the Sidhean but not until she was deeply inside did the girl part with the cloak. Once there, she boldly pushed her way through the crowds to the Faery throne itself. The Sidhe were utterly amazed to see a mortal woman amongst them, and even more astounded when she held up her harp to the king.

"What is that?" demanded the king of the faeries.

"It is a harp," the girl replied boldly, "But a harp such as has never been seen or heard before." So saying, she played the strings until the Sidhe themselves wept with the beauty of it.

"When she had finished, the king stood up and held out his hands. "Give me the harp," he ordered.

"The girl shook her head firmly. "This harp was made by my own hands and is strung with my own hair. There can never be another like it."

"The king fairly shook with his lust for the harp. He had never wanted anything so badly in all his life, and his life had been a very long one. "Anything you want is yours. Give me the harp."

"The girl smiled in triumph. "Return to me my baby, who was stolen by your women."

"The king frowned for he did not want to give the child up. He commanded his people to bring the gold that lies at the rainbow's end, and they laid huge piles of sparkling treasure and intricate jewels that would have melted the heart of any woman. They were so wondrous that a queen would have sold her kingdom merely to touch one small piece. "With this wealth," said the king, you will be richer than any mortal has dreamed of being. You will be able to take any man as husband and bear many children. Give me the harp."

"I want only my own child," said the girl firmly.

"The king saw the steel in her eyes and finally commanded that the baby be brought forth. But he held the child away from her and demanded the harp first.

"No," she said, though her heart was full to bursting with sight of her long-lost baby. "Not until my son is safe in my arms."

"Faced by her resolution and courage, the king had to give in. Once her baby was safe once more in her arms, the girl handed him the beautiful harp. Immediately, he began to play, and the magic music so entranced the listening Sidhe that they did not even notice the girl leave with her precious son, happy beyond imagining.

"So wonderful was the harp that you can still hear its music on a quiet night when the moon is full and the rain twinkles on the summer leaves, an enchanted song that tells of a mother's truest love."

Cai played his words out with a haunting melody that pattered gently like a summer's shower. Slowly, he echoed the music away as if it were indeed coming from deep inside the hills.

Iseult had turned her eyes down toward the table as if she could bear the storyteller no longer. A faint smile passed over Cai's face and he slid carefully to the floor, nodded to the High King and strode from the hall with a lively step. The assembled Irishmen stayed silent in tribute to the harper and his story. Even when he had finally passed from view, the emotional silence still held.

"You must persuade him to stay when he returns to us," said Gormlaith loudly to her husband. "There is too much of the truth in him for the Bretons."

Her words immediately sparked a riot of stamping feet and thumping fists as her warriors expressed their agreement. Several stood and shouted, the words unheard amongst the din but the meaning clear.

Smiling broadly, Conchbhair rose and lifted a hand. This only intensified his people's show of emotion as they turned their newly released feelings towards their king. He was loved and they wanted to show their love. He had given them a great feast and brought music and a story from God. They had been reminded that the greatest virtue of adversity was courage. They saluted their king with the noise of their love.

Conchobhair lowered his hand, overcome by his people's reaction. Tears coursed freely down his face and he felt a hand take his and steady him. He looked at his wife, and saw that her eyes too, sparkled with pride. Cai of Brittany had begun the exorcism of their fears, the dread of an unknown future and had them remember their courage. Only Iseult sat unmoving, still staring at the table. She too had shown great spirit and Conchobhair wished she would raise her eyes so he could show her at that moment what her sacrifice meant to him.

When she still did not move, he turned back to his audience and once more raised his hand. This time they quietened, ready to listen. At first, his tight throat allowed him no words. He saw several faces grin at his difficulty and he smiled ruefully back. Brusquely, he drained a goblet of honeymead with a wild flourish and banged the cup on the table. Iseult jumped, but he did not notice.

"My friends, I promise you that I will do everything I can to persuade Cai of Brittany to stay with us when he next returns." He watched the nods of satisfaction. "In one week, Prince Tristan of the Orcades will arrive to escort my daughter Iseult to her new husband. In that marriage, we will protect our northern coast as tightly as with the sword of Prince Maelduin. It is plain that his heroic courage also runs in the blood of my daughter. We will drink to her." He filled his goblet and raised the cup to Iseult. As the rest of the hall did likewise, Gormlaith took her daughter's elbow and stood with her.

The warriors drained their cups and banged them on the tables. They continued beating out a rhythmic salute as the queen led Iseult from the high table through the hall and out towards the doors. At the same time, the other women present left the company. Conchobhair's invitation had been one to stories, bad jokes and drunkenness.

The night was cool and the sky was pocked with stars. A gibbous moon hung overhead, washing the occasional drifting cloud with silver. Gormlaith still held her daughter's arm and halfway to her chambers she stopped and stroked Iseult's cheek.

"He is a good friend, that Cai," she said nonchalantly. "And he gives good advice, so I hear."

Iseult wrinkled her nose at her mother. "What do you mean?"

Gormlaith laughed. "Only that there is much truth in stories. Goodnight little one." She kissed Iseult and walked towards her rooms.

Iseult watched her recede into the gloom, wondering at the meaning of her mother's parting words. While she understood that Cai was trying to explain something with his story, she had failed to see his point. Her mind had wandered away from the narrative and concentrated on the cadence of his voice, the movement of his eyes and the halo of firelight that crowned his face. At times she had felt as if she had fallen asleep and was dreaming, so gentle were his words, so kind those sea-grey eyes. As his harp had played for her, she had suddenly felt uneasy and had looked away, trying to hide from his unasked questions. No longer sure of herself, she had confined herself to a world of doubts until the clang of her father's goblet had startled her. She had woken abruptly to find Cai gone. Now, she knew with urgent clarity that she had to find the harper and talk with him before he left. Fired with purpose, she set towards his cottage, careless of the hour.

Cai had been given a room in one of her kinsmen's cottages located just beyond the walls. He had wanted to see the trees while he lay recovering from his wounds. It was not far, but the guard at the nearby gate was nervous at letting her outside the walls at this late hour. Unwillingly, he escorted her through the gate, and made her promise to call if she needed any help. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked, and fancied she heard his sigh of relief when she turned toward the door of the cottage.

The door was half-open and yellow light spilt like melted butter onto the limestone step. Though she paused outside the door, she could not hear any sounds within, though it was apparent that Cai was still awake. Could it be that he was expecting her visit?

Breathing deeply to calm her suddenly frantic heartbeat, she pushed open the door, revealing a fire-lit room. An oil lantern of Roman design burned sootily on a small table next to the bed. A candle had been placed in front of the fireplace as if warding malevolent spirits away from the chimney. Apart from two chairs of carved oak and the wide bed, the room was empty of furniture. On the bed itself lay the few items that Cai had managed to save from the raiders; his harp, a small knapsack and his sword, unscabbarded and newly oiled for the journey.

Cai was nowhere to be seen and she decided to sit and wait for his return. Carefully, she moved the flap of his knapsack so she could sit on the bed. Her face flashed in the polished mirror of his sword. She touched the bright metal, feeling its warmth and tracing with her finger the characteristic watermarks of finely wrought steel. It was a true warrior's weapon, razor sharp and unblemished except for a small, inch-long sliver broken away along the blade.

Iseult's breath stopped in her throat. The crackle of the fire dimmed in her hearing as her eyes riveted to the eloquent dent. Her heart hung silent in her chest as she was gripped by confusion. She managed with a great effort to regain control of herself and reached inside her blouse to the talisman she had kept around her neck for the past three weeks.

Suddenly fearless, she unhooked the shard plucked from her uncle's murdered head and placed it over the damaged blade. Like a nightmare coming true, the splinter matched the dent. This sword had killed her beloved uncle. And the man who owned it was Tristan of Orcade.

A footfall behind her froze her. She did not turn towards the sound. Her heart and mind paralysed her body.

"Och, I should have guessed you would be so bold." The gentleness of his voice confused her further. He must have realised that she had discovered him but senselessly would not make good his escape.

Frightened, confused, betrayed, Iseult forced herself to act. On instinct she whirled up the sword, swaying awkwardly with the weight before standing resolutely before the enemy of her blood. The sword tip wavered dangerously at his chest.

As she had expected, there was no fear in those eyes. Yet there was no mockery either. Merely a faint curiosity and a quiet sadness. Her anger flared and she lunged the point at him with bared teeth and full strength.

Effortlessly, he side-stepped and pushed the thrust past him. She stumbled twice to regain her balance and faced him again. A dull drip pulled her eyes down to his left hand. Blood dripped menacingly to the floor from a gash in his palm made by the razor sharp steel.

Her heart emptied of rage as if a sluice had broken and she lowered the sword. This was the same man to whom she had confessed her deepest feelings, the man who had shared laughter and friendship, the man she had come to trust more than any other she had known. A month ago he had come into her life bleeding and battered and now she had spilt his lifeblood again. The same man who had murdered her uncle.

He watched her quietly, as if to say anything might ignite her fury once more. He saw the turmoil rending at her heart and his own trembled with concern. "Princess," he said carefully, reaching to take the sword from her purposeless fingers. "I did not murder Maelduin. He died as a warrior should, in single combat for his king. But for chance it would be my kith and kin that would be grieving now. It is the way of things."

In the whirling collision of conflicts that stormed her mind, his words were meaningless. The next instant the confusion overwhelmed her and she ran for the door. She took only two flying steps before he caught her arm with a shocking strength. Her momentum swung her close to him and she glared defiantly into his grey eyes, daring his attack. His neck bent and her heart thrilled without warning as she saw his intent. Her lips parted to receive his kiss.

His eyes clouded over and he drew back. Though he did not let go of her, he had no need to fear her running away now. In that blinding, unbidden moment her mind had cleared as if the sun had broken over a fog-bound horizon. The confusion now swirled in Tristan's face.

"I shouldn't have lied to you," he said at length. "I'm sorry. I came here to see you, to find out what manner of woman you were so that my king would not be disappointed." He paused, a long silence full of new uncertainty. When it came again, his voice was small and distant. "I know that he will be very happy."

She felt the blood from his hand staining her sleeve. It was warm and real. The pressure of his grip anchored her from dreams. "You would make me marry Coinneach, even now?" she whispered, frowning. She could not believe that her uncle's death made so little difference.

He let go of her arm as if the contact hurt him more than the wound. "Nothing has changed," he said in a voice far away. "Don't you see, nothing can change. You must hate Tristan of Tintagel."

" But I am in love with Cai of Brittany." Iseult surprised herself with the boldness of her confession. "Now the man I hate and the man I love are one and the same. You're right to say it changes nothing. I judged you as yourself, not as some hostile prince. You couldn't have murdered Maelduin as I believed. If you are Tristan, then I love him too."

He laughed thinly and sat down on the edge of the bed. "It would still be better if you found the hatred again. This cannot be. I have my duty, and you have yours. We'll be kin soon. It is easier when a child is still-born than if it is killed when you have loved it and seen it grow. So it is here."

"So you will walk away and return as if nothing had been said?"

"As long as you let me go uncharged, yes." He shrugged helplessly. "I must do nothing less."

She sat down beside him and took his uncut hand into hers. Only his sigh showed any resistance. "I was led to understand that you had courage," she said, but the words did not have the bitterness that she wanted. They hung with resignation.

He smiled sadly and tightened his hand in hers. "God can be merciless. Though sometimes He takes pity on His victims. Who knows what might happen if we stay true to our honour."

Iseult felt hot tears begin to well up in her soul. In brief minutes she had found love, revenge, her dreams and their snatching away. Feeling her control about to slip, she dropped his hand and fled into the night. Running up the hill, she heard the door creak quietly shut behind her.

As the latch clicked in the quiet night, she whirled around, desire and duty pulling her in both directions. Her frantic eyes stared at the yellow lines of light that concealed her tormentor as if her will itself would change the world. Then, as she calmed and her vision adjusted to the thin moonlight, she saw a hiding figure.

Her throat tightened at the sight of her maidservant Brangain. From where she hid, the girl must have heard everything that had passed. Iseult beckoned her to approach.

Brangain checked the shadows about her before running up to join her mistress. She saw the bloodstain that glowered blackly on Iseult's sleeve and brushed at it nervously.

"Why were you following me?" demanded Iseult. The sense of betrayal and mistrust fired again in her voice.

Brangain frowned. "Look, when you didn't come back from the feast, I came to find you." She looked hard at the princess. "I thought I might find you here, and it's a good job no-one else thought of it and all. Especially when himself is Tristan and you're to marry his uncle. Ach, woman, will you look at yourself."

The anger washed out of Iseult at the girl's words. Ever forthright, Brangain had only just seen her eighteenth birthday and yet she was as wise and as stubbornly protective as a grandmother. "No-one else is looking for me then?"

"Not yet," Brangain scolded. "And they won't find you here. There'll be enough Hell to pay when yon brigand appears to collect you next week. Ach, and you covered in blood won't help matters any. Be off with you, now."

Iseult stared back at the closed door. "I love him, Brangain," she said simply.

Brangain snorted. "Aye, you think you do. But he's not the one, you know."

"How do you know?" Iseult searched her maid's face closely. She needed something to hang onto in the maelstrom of her heart, even if it was negative.

"Ach, there's no doubt." She shrugged. "You told me that yon crone had foretold your soul-mate, no?" Iseult nodded, remembering when she had confided this deepest of secrets to her new friend. "Well then, yon Tristan is a fine, handsome man just right for a princess such as yourself, and I'll grant he has a pretty tongue in his head too. But he wears no ring on either hand, let alone a silver one on his right. He's not the one, Iseult. Let's go home."

Iseult looked back at the dark cottage. Brangain was right. If she was to believe the witch's words, as she had before, Tristan could not be the one. Ruefully, she realised that his Breton origin was only a mask too. Another prophecy slighted. And yet, if she ignored the words of so long ago, as her heart still advised, there could be no soul-mate for her as foretold, and she was free to marry Coinneach. Tristan would be just another silver-tongued suitor.

She sighed deeply. She knew that he was far more than that to her. In spite of that, he would not let himself respond. Her fate was set in his refusal and she must be satisfied. At the very least, she could enjoy the friendship that had built between them as his queen and kinsman. That would be something. Nodding to Brangain, she took her hand and they walked quietly towards the forbidding walls of home.

[matteus the inbred]

On second thoughts, we have to ban this guy from the Writing Contest...much too good! Where does the legend of the harp and the cloak come from? Or did you invent that?

[Banquo's Ghost]

Where does the legend of the harp and the cloak come from? Or did you invent that?

It's a synthesis, based on an existing Gaelic Scottish story. There's quite a number of Celtic stories that use the changeling/faerie child that is taken away and returned either as an act of mischief or courage on the mother's part as a theme. I took the original story and embellished it with other traditions.

I hope it works, but if I were to really re-write from scratch, I think I would build it more effectively around the ancient tradition of threes, seen in Celtic story-telling. For example, there should be a third challenge, a third gift, a third entrance, because this reflected celtic understanding of the nature of the world.

[The Stranger]

I second the ban most definitly...:P im writing a book 2...but im suffering from lack of inspirition. i can write only 10 pages and after that i nead a break on the story for a while. im now writing 3 stories so that when my inspiritation for one story is gone inspirition for the other is refeuled...though it isnt as good as i thought after i read this...

[AntiochusIII]

Such amazing narration; you seem to have done your research well with the Celtic traditions, eh?

And such regularity in installments, too!

[matteus the inbred]

And such regularity in installments, too!

apparently that's down to the coffee...

[Shadow]

So when is the next update?

[Banquo's Ghost]

So when is the next update?

Soon, I promise. I have had my hands full writing the competition story and earning a living.

[Banquo's Ghost]

So, finally, I have the chance to pick up the story once again.
*dodges the rotten fruit*

A Winter's Tale
Chapter Three, Part one

The sentry squinted into the gloom, searching the undergrowth that tangled at the meadow's edge. It was nearly dawn and the mist that wafted like dusted cobwebs around the dark bushes could hide a multitude of enemies. The sudden cry of a falcon was out of place at this early hour, and he was about to call the alarm. Yet he waited for firmer evidence, since Dubhgall was not a man to be woken on the strength of an insomniac bird.

The strange call came again, this time from further away. His shoulders relaxed a little but he still stared out into the ghostly landscape. Finally he satisfied himself that nothing fearsome lurked in the fog. He grunted quietly to himself, glad that he had not needed to disturb the MacDubhgall.

A knife-blade appeared at his throat, intimate as a kiss. His jaw dropped with shock and a powerful hand snapped over his mouth. The razor under his Adam's apple demanded immobility and silence. He froze.

"Fiachra MacConn, you have an old woman's ears," a fierce voice hissed.

The sentry snatched the hand away from his mouth and turned on his assailant. "Tristan, you motherless bastard! You aged me twenty years!"

The young prince grinned and dropped his dagger back into its sheath. He shook his hair, silver-gilt in the fading moonlight, loosening bits of foliage. "At least you're alive, my friend," he laughed. "And if older, a little wiser, eh?"

"Och, there’s more mischief in you than all the gods." Fiachra rubbed his clammy hands. "Anyhow, we got the last of the Silurians a couple of nights ago. Down by the coast, just as you said. Though why you want to do these bastard Irish any favours fools me."

Tristan tapped his temple. "That, Fiachra, is why God made me a prince, and you a bog-hopper. Thus is divine wisdom."

"Aye, but whose God: Coinneach's, yours or our fathers'?"

Tristan grimaced. "Mark. Remember, we've got to call him Mark."

"Well, King Mark then," said Fiachra impatiently. "Morrigan's Paps, he'll have us nailed to trees before the year has done." Seeing Tristan's amused smile, he waved him away. "Get on, now. Dubhgall will want to see you're back."

Tristan nodded and made to leave. "Tristan," called Fiachra suddenly. "Did you see her? Is she as beautiful as they say?"

The smile faded from the prince's face. "She is the rainbow reflected in the seas of home. She is the wheatfield at harvest. Yes, Fiachra, she is as beautiful as they say."

Fiachra nodded in satisfaction. Tristan left him to his duty and went in search of Dubhgall MacDubhgall.

The big man was snoring loudly in his tent, his dreams drifting smiles across his rough face. His hand twitched near the haft of his lightest battle axe, lying by his side like a faithful dog. Tristan drew his sword with as little noise as he could and standing to the left side of the warrior's bed, poked the sharp point gently into an exposed toe.

Dubhgall roared and swung the axe up, ready to carve a swathe of death. Instantly awake, he glared into the tent opening, searching for the enemy. Laughter betrayed his tormentor.

"I might have known," growled Dubhgall. "And it's about time. You're two days overdue. I was about to go home. What have you been doing?"

Tristan sheathed the sword and unbuckled his belt. "In here?", he asked, pointing at a large chest at the back of the tent. Dubhgall nodded. Tristan pulled his rough leather jerkin over his head.

Dubhgall frowned. "Someone has done a good job on those cuts. You weren’t as pretty last time I saw you."

"I thought Aedun was behind me," shrugged the prince, drawing a handsomely embroidered tunic from the open chest. "Otherwise I would have left the axe-men to you. Anyway, a bit of blood provided a good excuse to get into Tara."

"I swear your mother dropped you on the head when she was nursing. So tell me, little prince, what did you discover in your time amongst the enemy?"

Tristan smoothed the tunic down over his lean body and stretched his shoulders. Sweeping a cloak of Roman purple around his shoulders, he fastened it with a filigree brooch sparkling with gemstones. "Och, it feels good to be back in decent clothes." He winked at the long-suffering Dubhgall.

"That they are not our enemy, for one," he continued thoughtfully, slipping his thick silver torc of office around his neck and frowning. "Dubhgall, where's my ring?"

"Don't fret, you woman," grinned the warrior, pulling a neck-chain from under his linen jerkin. "I kept it safe. I know how much it means to you."

Tristan took the delicately carved silver and held it reverently. His mother had given him the ring the day he had left for the Orcades, engraved with a crescent moon and the cross of Christ. A blessing of his spirit and his God. He had heard of her death a month after he landed in the north.

Slipping the heavy ring on his sword hand, he felt complete again. He sat lightly in a small chair and scowled at Dubhgall. "What was I saying?"

"Apparently the Irish have become sheep," said Dubhgall in return.

Tristan snorted. "If only, then we could get Gospadruig an Irish wife." Dubhgall guffawed in delight. "The alliance will hold. If Coinn… - Mark marries Conchobhair's daughter, the alliance will hold." Seeing his friend's face open, Tristan grimaced. "Yes, I saw her too. She's the one whose handiwork you so admired."

Dubhgall looked impressed. "Princess Iseult tended you? That's a good sign. A warrior's wife should know how to heal wounds. So what's she really like? Is her manner as enchanting as her looks?"

Tristan laughed. "Why, Dubhgall, I believe you're in love with her!"

Dubhgall bridled. "Aye and who wouldn't be who was a man? If you weren't so bloody holy and honourable you'd love her yourself. Bloody Christians!"

"You're right, my friend." His face was placid and empty. "But she is to be Mark's wife. We must love her from afar." His eyes twinkled. "But she has a pretty maid, young but full of fire."

"Does she now? Well, I think Maire would object on my part, and I'll counsel you to stay clear of spirited women, at least while Siobhan NiGruoch is still after your neck."

"True enough." Tristan paused as if collecting a thought. "Dubhgall, I've been meaning to ask. What do you think of Mark naming a Christian tanaiste?"

"Don't be a fool. I don't think. And if I did, I'd think that it was none of my business. Anyhow, you have too much of the old ways in you. Father MaolColm wouldn't describe you as a Christian. He would prefer the word heretic."

"I upset him a lot, didn't I?"

Dubhgall smiled at the recollection. "Any man who can upset both the monks and Princess Siobhan and still be alive will make a fine king for me. And most others." He scratched his beard roughly. "But if we don't get Iseult back to Mark in one piece, both of us will have to reckon with our present king."

"Don't forget Conchobhair. He wouldn't be overwhelmed either."

"Och, how could I forget the Irish?" Dubhgall stood up and looked at the grey light that had flooded the dew-sprinkled grass outside. "Do you want to see the heads?"

Tristan jumped up. "Yes, of course. Conchobhair should appreciate the gesture. The Irish might pride themselves on their Christianity, but there's an awful lot of the pagan in them still."

"I won't be surprised if he asks for your head to be added to the pile. Have you thought about how he'll take it when he sees you turn up again?"

Tristan slapped his friend on the back. "Och, man, he's got a sense of humour. Now, how many did you keep?"

Dubhgall led the way from the tent into the silvery cold of the morning light. "Thirty. Bloody ugly too. They should be nicely smelly by the time we get back to Tara. Christ's Nails, you'll be popular."




"Is it possible?" Gormlaith's voice whispered in the darkness of the cave. The object of her question sat immobile for a moment and then cocked her head to one side, like a crow that is unsure of an nearby footfall.

"All things are possible, Queen of the Sons of Mil. The question is rather whether it is desirable." The old woman did not break the pinion of her gimlet eyes.

"It is necessary," Gormlaith said flatly. "And necessity makes schemers of us all."

The crone licked her lips. Her eyes hooded. "Why don't you trust your daughter? I am intrigued."

Gormlaith could not afford to tell this disgusting creature to mind her own business. By coming here, she had made it her business. She sighed, half with regret.

"I trust her as far as that goes. But though she has honour, the heart is the most unpredictable thing. She is a dreamer and fancies herself a lover. I want to turn the odds in our favour."

The old woman scratched her nose thoughtfully. "And this Tristan, you fear his intent?"

The queen snorted in anger. "He has played games with us. He is a handsome rogue, and they say a man of great honour, but still he came to us in disguise and nearly stole my daughter's heart. We cannot afford chances."

"We?" The woman looked mildly surprised. "Conchobhair MacFindlaech is in agreement with this?"

"Not exactly." Gormlaith raised an eyebrow. "You know that he doesn't accept the old ways any more. He believes in the Christ. He has faith."

"And you do not?"

A smile passed over Gormlaith's tired face. "God helps those who help themselves. The first thing my confessor taught me. I don't want a miracle, just a helping hand. Can you do it?"

The crone coughed and began scratching with a sharp piece of wood on an ancient wax tablet. "Love cannot be imbibed as an infusion. It is a gift from the gods. But resistance can be softened for a little while and the heart can be fooled by the mind. Your daughter will feel happy, fulfilled and calm, as if wrapped in a dream. If the mixture is drunk at the correct time, she will believe that she is in love. Of course, if she actually likes her husband, it will make for a startling wedding night."

Gormlaith nodded, her expression demanding more information.

"You should ask your agent to administer the drug when the princess first sees her husband. A cup of welcome would be a good idea. Then the effects will convince her that she is suffering from love at first sight. It will last a few days, enough for the wedding and a little more." The old woman sniggered to herself. "The herbs will prevent a child, at least for a time." The queen's face remained dispassionate so she narrowed her eyes and held up a finger in warning. "Mind you, it needs to be done well and fearlessly."

The queen smiled. "I have in mind the perfect person. When will it be ready?"

The woman shrugged. "I have herbs to collect, stones to touch, trees to speak with. Come to me at sundown tomorrow."

Gormlaith rose from the unstable log that the witch had given her for a stool. Awkwardly, she lifted her leg a little, trying to encourage the blood back into her foot. "No later than that, my aged one," she said firmly. "They are to leave for Orcade the morning after."

The old woman slanted her head again and frowned. A gnarled hand waved the queen away as if her protest was an irritation. Gormlaith turned quickly and left the dank cave to its distantly humming resident.

[Ludens]

Nice chapter, BG. I am agog to read more.

[Ludens]

Is there still hope of reviving this story? It's must be amongst the best-written ones of the Mead Hall, so it would be a pity if it were abandoned.

[Banquo's Ghost]

Is there still hope of reviving this story? It's must be amongst the best-written ones of the Mead Hall, so it would be a pity if it were abandoned.

You're very kind, Ludens.

I've been rather busy and there didn't seem to be much interest, so I let it lie. But I'll get back to it in the very near future now I know someone is still interested.

[Ludens]

You're very kind, Ludens.

I've been rather busy and there didn't seem to be much interest, so I let it lie. But I'll get back to it in the very near future now I know someone is still interested.

[The Stranger]

i am also interested... but whats there for me to post... i can say everytime

but i dont think its very helpfull... but ofcourse for a humble $500 i'd like to be your ego, whispering nice words in your ea... eh... sorry :P

[Banquo's Ghost]

*Finally resumes*

A Winter's Tale: Chapter Three, Part Two

"My princess, your humble escort seeks conversation with you." Tristan knocked gently once more on the implacable door.

"Go away."

Tristan smiled to himself. At least it was an answer. "My lady, your avoidance mocks me in front of your father."

There was a click and the door opened a crack. There had been no footfall, and Tristan's smile grew a little wider.

Iseult had intended to glare as best she could, but his face was so lit with joy that she opened the door wide instead. "This is not a good idea, Tristan," she said wearily.

He followed her into the room. The sun shone through a tall window shaped in the form of a cross and splashed a warm crucifix across the granite floor of the chapel. Iseult stood at its centre, as if to ward away her visitor. The sunshine glittered from her hair so brightly he could barely look at her face. She was lit by a halo of summer, an angel in radiance.

"We can't run away from our feelings, Iseult," he said at length. "We will soon be kin. We must deal with this as best we can." He closed the door and bolted it, turning back to her startled and apprehensive face. Wishing that there was not quite so much hope glimmering in her worried eyes, he sat down on the stone floor, crossing his legs as if in worship of her. She did not move.

There in the sunshine, Iseult looked so beautiful that his every sinew struggled against the iron discipline of honour, and his mind swam with the effort of that denial. Yet deep within him, he could feel a touch of fear, an unnameable dread of what might happen if he broke. Not a fear of his uncle's wrath, nor even of broken honour. This fear was deeper, as if somehow, his eternal soul was at stake. The fear was enough to bind his desire.

"Iseult, we have become friends, good friends, in a short time." He sought comfort for both of them in his words. "Friendship demands honesty. The world seems unfair when the things we truly want are beyond our grasp. Sometimes in a lifetime, a cruel fate shows us a prize that we can only gain by denying ourselves. A simple choice, to betray what we believe in or to betray what we dream of." He shrugged slightly. "How can we face such heartache? Where do we find the courage? To be strong when the only thing that fires our hearts is to become weak? I believe that we must look, not to our own hearts but to those of others."

Tristan rose and walked over to the window. "Do you know what struck me most deeply when I first heard the Gospels? The simplicity of the Christ's demand that we love others as if they were ourselves. To do as you would be done to. I was six years old, and it seemed to me to be the true word of God. A God I could understand. Since then, I have grown up into a warrior. I have killed and I have protected. But always I have remembered those words, and set my actions by them. Whatever I have done, I have tried to do because I would expect it to be justly done to me. Your uncle for instance, came to demand tribute that would cause great suffering among people I had come to love. He would not listen to reason, so I gave him the chance to defend his beliefs against mine. God granted that mine won. Now I know how much his death hurt you, but there are children in the islands that will see next spring because of his death. And I gave him the chance to leave peaceably."

He turned to Iseult and the sun flared around his head. "I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is that we must deny this part of ourselves that wants...whatever. We must suffer a little because many lives depend on our forebearance. If I were your mother, or my uncle, or one of our people, that is what I would want, not war. At least God has ensured that we can be close as friends. We can still talk."

Iseult stared at him as if his words had melted into the air. Then she sighed slowly. "You weave words, as always. But do you believe your own sermon, Tristan? Maybe you do, even in your heart. But I know you don't in your deepest soul, because those words find no echo in mine. Surely if God had not meant us to be together, we would not have met like this? Why would He have brought me to trust you as I have trusted no-one else? I feel as though if we touched, we would melt into one person and could never be parted. But I am also scared that such a thing might happen. I have known you a month. How can I love you so much?"

Tristan's eyes locked into hers, understanding the bewilderment of her thoughts. He leaned back into the window as if the solidity of the stone would be his anchor. "I cannot tell you how much I have wished to hear you say such a thing," he whispered. "But I have not heard it. I cannot, Iseult, because I would cause us both to betray ourselves if I let those words into my heart. You speak of God's will. I don't believe that our course is charted for us with no choice of direction. We choose our own path, both in our mind and our soul, whether we care to know it or not. There is a reason for us meeting, but I don't know what it is. I can't even wish that we hadn't met, for you are precious to me in ways I cannot say. But to return to God's will, perhaps He will see to it that we can be both true to ourselves and in time, true to what we feel. Maybe it will not be in this lifetime. But I feel it will be, and it is that with which I will sustain myself and thank God for your friendship."

"I don't understand. You speak of other lives, but surely after death there is only heaven or damnation. How can we love after death?"

Tristan lifted his eyes once more. "The words of an old man, gifted to me many years ago, explained a truth that the monks do not accept. There will be time for me to instruct you, if you want. But believe me, the soul cannot stagnate in either paradise or hell. If I believe in a just and loving God, I cannot accept that there is only this one life. Some are born crippled or poor. Why are they deserving of such a terrible life when you and I drip with jewels? Why does God love us so much more?"

"I can't see that He does at present," interrupted Iseult fiercely.

Tristan smiled. "My heart, would you prefer life as a leper? Thrown out by your friends, abhorred by your lover, torn from your children's arms? We are fortunate to be in such exquisite pain, though I wish it were not so."

Iseult stepped towards him but stopped when close, hesitating. "You called me..."

"I know," he said roughly. "And I am sorry. You must make sure that I do not slip again."

"I want to hold you so badly, Tristan. I am burning with fire. But something holds me back. I can't approach you. It's almost as if you are a danger to me."

Grimly, he narrowed his eyes at her. "I am. I am the death of all you hold dear, I am the destruction of all you have known, I am the destroyer of your soul. Hold back, princess, because to step further will bring your end."

Iseult stepped back, appalled at the venom in his voice. "Do you love me at all, or is it hatred you feel?"

Tristan's eyes melted into pale grey sorrow, and a salt tear ran unchecked down his cheek. "I love you more deeply than the blue of the night sky. I love you with every flicker of my eternal soul. I love you so much I must give you to someone else to make you happy."

Blinking away the tears he strode to the door and unbolted it. Sharply, he swung it open.

Only then, about to be free, did he look back at her. "And," he said in a voice heavy with ten thousand years, "I will love only you until eternity cracks." The door thudded closed behind him.




Brangain felt the smooth side of the bottle hard against her stomach, pressed into her skin by the secure binding she had tied. Looking away across the sands of the bay, she wondered if anyone could see the fragile manacle that chained her with fear and treachery. Bringing her gaze back to the haggard face of her mother, waiting nearby with that slightly shocked, transparent strength that shrouds those anticipating love's loss, she prayed desperately that her own heart would stand the task set so harshly on it. Frightened to the marrow at the prospect of failing the queen, Brangain prayed as much for herself as her family.

Beyond the wan gentleness of her parents, she could see the queen's family preparing their own farewells. The king stood proud, fenced round by excited clansmen whilst Gormlaith herself hugged her daughter in an erratic dance of blessing and denial. Though the words would not drift over on the quiet breeze, Brangain imagined the conversation as if it were a yard away. Surely a royal mother said much the same meaningless, comforting things to her daughter as her mother had to her. Wear warm clothes, pray every night, beware of strange men.

Brangain smiled to herself bitterly. Strange men. She watched the tall, restless figure near the longship pace back and forth, impatient with the delays that families demanded. A strange man had landed on these shores of home and invaded her mistress' heart with merciless and unstoppable force. Against his power the queen had raised her, a lonely and frightened girl, to stand as shield, to commit an act of betrayal against the princess that she called her friend, and defeat the invader. She could not do such a thing, she could not kill the first flower of love in the long barrenness of Iseult's life, yet she had no choice at all. Friendship was sacred, but her family had given her life and love, food and shelter. The queen, not without sympathy, had told her that it was best for Iseult. But as ever, she had not thought to ask what was best for her poor maidservant. So because of her birth, she had been condemned to betray her friend.

Brangain focused her mind back to the pageant of the world outside, and saw that the royal party had moved along the seashore to the waiting boat. Iseult had climbed aboard and stood at the prow, still exchanging words with her mother. Nearby, Prince Tristan held fast to a rigging rope and gestured orders to the oarsmen preparing to strike for home. The sea splashed about the boat, eager to pull these jewels of humanity out into its grey, billowy desert and away to their sorrowful fate. The wind snapped impatiently at the canvas and contented itself for the moment with a discordant strumming of rigging.

For a long heartbeat, Brangain believed that somehow if she stayed where she was, the boat would put to sea and forget her, relieving her by default of her sudden destiny. She willed the sail to unfurl, and her brow knotted as she sought to influence the oarsmen to begin their task. But when she felt the touch of her mother's hand on her shoulder, and saw the urgent waving of several members of the royal party, she knew that God had not smiled on her. He had decided instead to continue with His great joke and she had no option but to see it through. Sighing in her soul, she stepped carefully down the dunes and across to the firmer sand, wet with the Irish Sea. As she went, each line of delicate footprints was washed into oblivion by the clutching waves, as if to eradicate every trace of her from her homeland.

[Banquo's Ghost]

A Winter's Tale: Chapter Four

The wooden thump of boat against jetty ended the voyage with a hollow drum roll. Three clansmen leapt from the dipping prow to rope home the vessel, tying it securely to manacle any thoughts of escape. A bitter wind cut along the low cliffs, its sharp edge unblunted by the watery sun. The sail cracked and strained around the stark black line of the mast.

Iseult stared out at her new home, her mind whipping foolishly about an icy image of winter here. As the boat had approached the islands, she had shuddered at the sight of the louring, barren hilltops, wasted of trees and paled with a sickly, more anaemic green than the rich lands of her birth. Perhaps to compensate for the thinness of the land's colour, the sky shone with a vibrant, almost painful blue. Clouds scudded across it as if eager to find warmer climes. Iseult felt that she was entering not just a foreign land, but a different and anxious universe.

Brangain stood beside her, ready to disembark, pale and cold. We are a pair of slaves, thought Iseult bitterly, booty from a successful raid. She felt alone, disoriented and increasingly frightened. On the jetty above, tattooed faces stared down at her and twisted with mockery. There was no welcome, no royal escort, just the garrulous noise of returning conquerors boasting to their friends. She looked along the wooden planks, wondering how she could stop from crying.

Thirty yards along the boards, her fearful gaze halted at a familiar face. As if reading her mind, even at a distance, Tristan turned his grey eyes to hers, and they crinkled with a special smile that filled her with warmth as if she had taken a deep draught of honey-mead. She felt a powerful strength surge up inside her, a spring-tide of resolution. Without her conscious will, her shoulders struck back and her chin lifted. Tristan's smile echoed itself onto her lips and she put an arm around Brangain. The girl stopped shivering for a moment and looked at her.

"I think I've had enough of this boat, Brangain," she said tugging her friend tight close. "You there," she pointed at a sailor with as much majesty as she could muster. "Help me to land."

Though she was afraid that she sounded like the querulous child she still felt, the astonished man leapt up to the jetty and organised a gangplank with remarkable speed. Smiling her thanks, Iseult stepped warily from the dancing boat to the firm backbone of the wooden jetty. Under the planks, the grey waves still lapped unsteadily as if to remind her of her weakness, so once Brangain had wobbled to her side, she strode with singular determination towards the rocky shore. Suppressing an urge to wink at Tristan as she passed him, she reached the sea-smoothed stone of the land she had come to rule as queen.

As featureless as she had supposed it from the seaward approach, the low, walling cliffs swept upward to a stunted hill bewigged by scrub. Birds circled and struggled above her head, white stars against the azure sky. She could not see a single tree, and the greensward was broken only by steel-grey rocks jutting in delinquent outcrops. Equally dismaying, there were no buildings visible, no sign of human habitation or endeavour except the thin scar of a track winding halfway up and around the waist of the hill.

Feeling a presence beside her, Iseult turned to see Tristan. Concern had softened his wind-whipped features. She frowned, and looked at him ruefully. "Do you live in the hills like the Sidhe?" she asked seriously.

"Yes," he replied, betraying no hint of the humour that shone behind the veil of his eyes. "The winds are harsh here, princess. No trees shelter the land. So the people live in the ground."
"Jesus save us!" Brangain breathed the words as if sentenced. "Can't we forget this nonsense and go home?"

Tristan swept her suddenly from her feet and held her struggling in his arms. "My lady Brangain, you are upsetting the princess." He grinned at a shout from one of the warriors behind him. "I have a mind to pitch you back in the sea from where you can swim home."

"Tristan, no!" Brangain shrieked a protest as the prince turned toward the splashing waves. She twisted furiously but he was too strong for her, and encouraged by shouts from his friends, he staggered onto the jetty.

"Och, I can hear the wedding songs." A ironical tone to the voice beside her drew Iseult's attention from the playful scene to MacDubhgall who had drawn up beside her.

A half-smile flickered around her lips. "You think so, Dubhgall?"

"It would be a relief to us all," he said slowly. "The tanaiste should have a wife, and a son. Keeps him out of trouble." He scratched the back of his wild mane thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, Tristan enjoys trouble too much."

There was a terrified squeal from the jetty followed by a rousing cheer and a few choice Irish curses. Iseult looked back to see her maidservant scolding the laughing Tristan for the scare of her life. He was playing this game well, she thought, even though the more perceptive souls like MacDubhgall were hardly fooled. She knew the big man was more loyal to her prince than a brother and found no danger in his words. But she also knew from Tristan's long warnings that the islands held hearts that would seek to control or damage her, and it was to them that this play-acting was directed. Even so, deep within a pang of envy struck like a viper, and brought the wish that it were possible for her to be free to enjoy such foolishness.

"Princess Iseult, I should show you to your new home before we all catch cold." Dubhgall laid a comforting but urgent hand on her arm. She looked back to him and saw the line of clansmen winding its way along the rough track, each carrying baggage and tools towards their homes. Snatches of their excited voices snapped back and forth on the wind.
"Of course, Dubhgall. This way?"

He nodded, and held out his arm for her. The pale fur of his bare forearm gave a satin feel to the iron of his muscles. Everything about him spoke of safety and reliance.

"Are you married, Dubhgall?" Iseult stepped carefully to avoid the rock-strewn path.

"Aye, to Maire." His chest heaved and a smile broke across his face like the sun peeping from behind a cloud. "She is a fine woman for a warrior, and I have missed her. I am glad your welcome feast is tomorrow, for I have much to catch up on tonight."

Iseult contrived to look shocked at his wolfish grin, and he coughed to regain some sobriety.

"I wouldn't know what you are talking of, my friend," she said, enjoying his discomfiture. "So, will I meet Mark today?"

Dubhgall nodded, approving that she remembered the king's new name. "I should think so. Och, would he be able to resist a glimpse of such beauty?"

"Why, Dubhgall, you've learned too much from your silver-tongued friend." Iseult suddenly felt a pebble roll from beneath her foot, and clung fiercely to her companion's arm. Regaining her balance, she saw that they had neared the sweep of the hill and the track now wound down towards a settlement of some hundred houses or more. She stopped still, for nothing she had seen before had prepared her for this extraordinary village.

Scattered in carefree disarray like a drunken giant's rune stones, the turf and stone roofs crouched into the ground, as if the huts were indeed sunk deep beneath little hills. Some dwellings were linked in secretive huddles by winding networks of stone-lined trenches, and within one such furrow she could see figures moving. In the centre of this brooding, grey web stood the bowed roof of the largest building of all, its thick turf length pocked with stones, hiding the great spider in his lair.

"No smoke." Her words were thoughts aloud.

Dubhgall grunted. "The fires will not be lit till tonight, princess. It is not cold enough for a fire in the day."

She stared at him with some disbelief, feeling the ragged cuts of the breeze even here, sheltered by the low valley side.

He smiled broadly. "A reason for living in the ground. Much warmer."

"Of course, having thick blood and no feeling helps, eh Dubhgall?" Tristan had caught up with them and spoke with a gentle mockery.

"Aye, well I'd rather that than boil in the summer like you southerners, with your flies and hot tempers."

Tristan laughed and gently shoved his friend further down the track. "And you'll be telling me that your blood won't run with fire once young Maire comes in sight!"

Iseult watched the prince with a suddenly rebellious heart as he followed Dubhgall down the pathway. And you'll be telling me that your blood is not on fire like mine, she thought helplessly. Feeling her resolve breaking, she forced the desperation back into the depths she had reserved for it.

As the party approached the settlement, a surging wave of people rose from the huts until it seemed that a multitude had sprung from beneath the soil. Many went straight to Tristan and mobbed him, shouting and cheering, asking questions and pushing with each other in their eagerness to hear news. Dubhgall held up a warning hand to Iseult, bidding her halt for a moment.

Obediently, Iseult stood where she was, watching the homecoming, feeling more like a stranger with every passing minute. Two months ago, these folk had been no more than distant and hostile subjects of her father, barely worth a passing thought. Now she stood among them with only three friends, and two of them members of this same tribe.

Even though few people had taken notice of her standing apart, she could feel no hostility directed toward her or what she might represent, just a sense of happiness and relief that their warriors had returned safely. Strangely, the faces in the crowd treated her not as some precious slave, but simply as an outsider.

Drawing her gaze back to Tristan, she caught a piercing and disturbing look beyond the crowd, and his face froze momentarily into a crackle of paradoxes. He broke the stare and his face melted back into conviviality, but Iseult had followed the arrow-shot of his eyes to a dark figure standing alone by a graven monolith.

The woman was tall, with a willowy, feline grace that hummed silently with darkly mystical sexuality. Her ebon-brown hair was cut and tied into a plaited tail that emphasised the perfect lines of her ivory features. She had wrapped herself against the wind with a woollen cloak that was dyed with the deepest hue of malachite, fastened above her breast by an intricate brooch of silver. The folds of the cloak hid her form, but the easy arrogance of her stance betrayed a siren-like understanding of her own beauty.

Iseult saw the woman turn deliberately and look at her. She saw something in those storm-silver moons that made her step hesitantly backwards. No menace frightened her but a terrible contempt hung in the air like the filigree of a fierce frost. She watched that face break into what might have been a gentle smile if it were not for those chill eyes. Iseult forced a smile in return, and the other woman inclined her head respectfully and was suddenly gone.

"My lady? Iseult?" Brangain was pulling at her hand.

Iseult felt drained, as if woken prematurely. Collecting herself, she called over to Dubhgall.

"Are you all right, princess?" he asked, approaching.

Understanding that the colour must have drained from her face, Iseult nodded away the question. "I felt a little dizzy, that's all. I'm tired from the voyage."

Dubhgall looked concerned. "Of course, I'm sorry." He made to clap his hands for some attention.

Iseult laid a hand on his. "Who was that woman? Standing over there by the stone?"

Dubhgall looked over wistfully, though no-one stood there now. "In the green cloak, very beautiful?" Iseult nodded. "That is the Princess Siobhan, the king's niece. You will meet her soon enough."

"Does she know me?"

Dubhgall made a shrugging motion. "Siobhan makes it her business to know most things. But I can't see that she knows more of you than tales told." He smiled. "She was probably curious to see if your beauty indeed rivalled her own. I should be careful of her jealousy, if I were you. She makes a fearsome enemy."

Iseult saw his worried glance at Tristan, now making his way towards the feast hall. She silently determined to discover just who this woman thought her enemy and why.

"Dubhgall!" The call came clearly across the valley escorted by shrill children's voices. Iseult followed the big warrior's delighted gaze to a group of running figures barrelling down the hillside behind them. Suddenly animated, he waved wildly.

"Princess, would you spare me a moment?" he asked, eyes pleading. "It is my family."

"My, and you're quite a man, Dubhgall MacDubhgall," said Brangain admiringly as Iseult waved her permission. "Seven children!"

He seemed not to notice her wry compliment as he half-ran, half-leapt to meet his wife. The children ringed around their parents, hugging as tightly as if they had been separated for a lifetime. Excited voices drowned the words they exchanged together.

"Don't you just love a homecoming?" Brangain's voice held a sad note of irony. As Iseult was about to reply, her friend's face lifted and she nodded a direction. "Himself has sent us a welcoming."

Iseult looked in the direction that Brangain indicated and saw a habitted monk approaching them. He had the look of an Irishman about him, and the familiarity lifted both their hearts. The church at least, was a friend in these foreign lands.

"Greetings, Princess Iseult of Tara." The monk held his arms wide, as if to embrace her. His voice indeed rang with the musical accent of her homeland, though from the wilder south-west of Munster. Mildly offended by his presumption, Iseult held forward her hand to forestall the hug she felt was coming. There was a flicker in the monk's eyes, but he took the offered hand and kissed it reverently.

"King Mark has asked me to show you to your accommodation. The Prince Tristan felt that perhaps MacDubhgall might become otherwise engaged." A frown settled on the man's lined brow. Iseult fancied that this monk indulged himself in a great deal of frowning.

"The joy of seeing one's family after so long is a happiness that I can understand, brother," she said pointedly, feeling it necessary to defend one who had become a friend. "You are from Munster, no? May I know your name?"

The monk inclined his head. "I am MaolColm, princess. And indeed, I was brought from the fair lands of Munster to do God's work among the heathen here."

"It appears that you have done well, Brother MaolColm," Iseult said stiffly, searching for a neutral line. "I have rarely met such a devout band of warriors. The king's nephew has intrigued me with his faith."

MaolColm betrayed only the merest blink of alarm, hiding his reaction by deepening his knitted eyebrows. "Perhaps you will follow me?" he said, bowing carefully.

Iseult allowed herself to be led forward, staring at the monk's broad back, counting the few thick black fibres that laced through the linen of his habit with a distant dedication. Her mind descended into a windless storm, battered by conflicting thoughts and images that had no real substance. She felt again as if she was living someone else's life.

The strangled scrape of leather on stone forced her to focus on the world beyond the monastic fabric, and she saw that they had come to a low building with walls of greenish stone, set into the heavy ground. A short flight of clean, flat stones stepped down into the hollow and gave entrance to a stubby wooden door. The door was misshapen, as if it had been built to block some other, grander entrance and had been rudely cut to size for this second task. Nonetheless, it opened clean and well, revealing a flagstone floor and a comfortable interior lit by wan sunlight.

MaolColm held the door open for the two women to enter their new home. The floor level was at least a yard below the ground and paved surprisingly flat with rectangular blocks of greenish flag. An elaborate hearth dominated the centre of the hut, ringed by stout poles that were dark with age. A thick rug covered the hard floor to the left of the fireplace. On the far side from the door was a large, welcoming bed with three stools of incongruent design up-ended on its covers. The rest of the room was completely empty.

Sliding past the princess as she stood taking in her surroundings, MaolColm picked up the stools one by one and set them near the hearth. He stood straight and shrugged his shoulders. "More furniture can be brought at your request," he said. "No-one was sure what you would need, and besides, this is not to be your home for long but that of your servant."
Iseult felt a tiny jump of excitement from Brangain at her shoulder. The girl was more used to a pallet in some cold corner of a feast hall than this luxury. Better such a pallet than the bed she was destined for, thought Iseult sadly. She sighed. "When is the wedding?"

MaolColm took the sigh as an indication of impatience. He waved his arms expansively . "Very soon, Princess Iseult, very soon. The day after tomorrow, on the feast of Saint Mary Magdalen. Everyone is anxious that your happiness is complete as soon as possible."

"I am honoured." Iseult lowered her eyes. "I'm very tired, Brother MaolColm. Would you leave us?"

The monk nodded and made his way to the door. As he opened the heavy portal and bowed under its low lintel he smiled back at Iseult and said, "MacDubhgall or I will call on you regularly to seek your wishes. But I will have you left alone for the next couple of hours."

"Thank you, MaolColm."

When the door had shut, Brangain ran over to the bed and sat down on it with a bump, testing its softness. The mattress gave pleasingly. "Saints, Iseult, this is to be mine!" She wagged a finger at her princess. "Now be seeing that you're married and off soon, won't you!"

"I'm sure I'll be away soon enough," replied Iseult coldly.

"Ach, I'm sorry." Brangain got up and took her friend's hand in hers. "It'll take a little while to be over him, you know. You have to stop thinking of what might be."

Iseult withdrew her hand, but gently, offering no rebuke. "My life will not be long enough to be over him, Brangain."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Ach, not what you think, foolish girl. I mean....it's just a saying."

Brangain nodded and looked around her. "Well, I have nothing at all to do. Not that you brought much, but the lazy good-for-nothings have brought not a stick here yet."

"Then rest, Brangain. I'm sure that there will be plenty of work for you soon."

She laughed. "That there will! And yourself should rest too, and dream of other things than Tristan."

"Later."

"Please yourself, as ever." Brangain pulled the rug from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. Running an admiring hand down the fabric, she pondered, "What far-off land was this plundered from, do you think? I'll be struck dumb if there's not a few fearsome stories in this one, eh?" Receiving no audible response, she made her way to the hearth, felt the stone floor for some residual warmth and lay down. She carefully wrapped the rug around her, looking up to Iseult as she settled. "It's not mine yet, you know," she smiled and laid her head down to sleep.

Iseult watched the girl's breathing gentle into sleep and then looked up to the chimney hole above her head. The sky still burned blue, an unreadable, hostile eye staring down through the roof. She wished harshly that Tristan was here, someone she could talk to, someone she could scream to. She felt unreal, as if she were two people trapped in the same cell, one meekly unbelieving, the other furiously powerless. Worse, Tristan did not appear to care for her plight, distancing himself with his careful courtesy and sophistry. The voyage had been fourteen days of imprisoned hell, so close to each other yet bound against talking, touching or tenderness because of the prying senses of so many. Now she wanted his wisdom and friendship so badly that the need stung like sour wine in her mouth.

Iseult felt betrayed, though she could not bring herself to blame Tristan for her helplessness. Her whole life had taught her the cruel mazes of political necessity, and the essential safety that honour brought. But that life had not prepared her or, she suspected, Tristan for a commitment to someone so deep and so urgent as the love she felt for him now. She could not believe that he would give her up to Mark. At the same time, she felt a scolding voice asking her why she would not refuse the marriage on her own behalf. Why, when her fate was truly in her own hands, she too could not fail her honour. The conflict cut deep, and the pain of it brought a tear into her eyes as she sat.

A gentle knock at the door brought her head up and a smile to her lips. He had come at last. She swirled round, lifting a hand to her wet cheek as she opened the door.

For a wild moment, she thought that her father stood at the door. She felt a happy greeting soar, stall and choke in her throat. The winter-grey eyes that bored into hers held more of Tristan than of Conchobhair, and more of burning farms than regal justice. The man's face was wide and strong, lined with years of ocean spray and weary battlefields, but the skin around the eyes was etched with humour and an elusive sadness. A mane of thick, brown hair the colour of a warship's hull was raked back and tied with a leather thong. Moon-silver strands of hair framed the face like a halo but the close-cropped beard was deep and self-coloured, emphasising a purposeful jaw. A great brown bear fur hung over the massive shoulders, decked with jewels and precious metals, and a huge rope of gold encircled the man's throat. Everything about him, from the studded leather of his Roman jerkin to the heavy, slashing blade at his hip, from the imperious tilt of his head to the callused power of the hand gripping his belt announced that this was the raider king of the Orcades, Coinneach MacGaetilach. There was no Christian Mark in this man.

He watched her for a long moment with a hint of question deep in those lunar-grey eyes so un-nervingly like his nephew's. Then, accepting her silent shock, he stepped past her into the room. Iseult let the door swing shut behind him.

"You shed tears. Why?" His voice was deep and resonant, full of the north wind, but there was a faint, deep-hidden lace of pain. The thread softened him into humanity and gave Iseult her voice.

"I'm tired and I'm homesick, Mark. I did not know you were coming."

He swung round and fixed his full stare on her. "Mark? Not king?"

Iseult found herself able to meet the storm of his eyes. There was so much of Tristan there, she felt as if she might be confronting the prince in one of his antagonistic moods. Consequently, she felt no trepidation. "In two days I will be your wife. Shall we call each other by title when we lie together?"

A grin broke over Mark's face, a huge smile that shone like a child loved by his mother, full of spring and feasting. Iseult could not help but smile back.

"You are as spirited as I have been told. And no-one has described your beauty and done you justice." He stepped closer to her and took her hand in his. His grip was warm and dry, like autumn leaves. "Welcome Iseult. In spite of the circumstances, I hope you will be happy here."
Momentarily, Iseult panicked inside. What circumstances? What did he know? What had Tristan said? Firmly, she forced her heart to beat calmly and cast out such dangerous thoughts. She carefully withdrew her hand and walked a few paces over to the doorway.

"Brother MaolColm tells me that our wedding is to be the day after tomorrow. I would like to see some of the island before then, if I may." She lowered her eyes.

Mark adjusted the fur cloak over his shoulders and nodded. "Dubhgall said you would make a good queen, and I see he was right. Tomorrow I'll arrange for Tristan to show you the mainland and tell you what you want to know." He looked at her quizzically. "I trust you don't mind my nephew escorting you - MaolColm knows little but books and Dubhgall I need all day."

Iseult shook her head as nonchalantly as she could.

"As for anything else, Iseult, you may seek me out whenever you wish. You will find me different from the stories. I haven't eaten any babies for a good month now." He winked the joke at her.

Again, in spite of herself, Iseult responded with her own smile. "You disappoint me. My father used to frighten me with your name when I was young."

Mark's smile faded. "The wedding feast is tomorrow night. This evening, only a few of us will dine together. You should join us and discover how wrong your father was."

His voice trailed off into the silence as Iseult seemed suddenly to be many miles from the hut, her wide and unfocussed gaze passing through and beyond him to some imagined scene. Mark gnawed at the inside of his cheek in bewilderment at her weird, fey look.

"Iseult?" Mark brought her name into the air as tenderly as he knew how, unsure of this sudden trance. His face warmed with relief as her green eyes shimmered once more with the real world. "I've been told that you have the sight. Were you dreaming of things to come?"

Iseult shook her head, sadly. "Not exactly, Mark. More things that must…" she paused and smiled. "That should be left unsaid. As I explained, I am tired and not a little hungry. I do not have any sight, just a weary mind."

Mark accepted her words with no trace of question. "I'll let you rest. If you are half as tired as your maid you will sleep through the wedding itself." He indicated the still sleeping figure wrapped in the rug, unwoken by their conversation. "I shall have some food sent over for you, and a guard posted to keep you from disturbance. He will get you whatever you want."

Iseult sighed, more deeply than she intended. "I think I shall sleep for a week," she said defensively, but there was no inquiry in Mark's eyes. "Thank you for your kindness."

Mark inclined his head with an odd, detached look like a crow when it approaches something outside its experience. Then he turned sharply and swung open the door. He paused for a long moment at the open portal, as if unsure of his next action. He turned his face over his solid shoulder and gave Iseult the same, odd stare. "I too, have been trapped far from home. I am sorry for your plight, but for myself and my people, I am glad. It is..." His face tightened. "It is the way it must be." He slammed the door quite hard behind him.

Brangain sat up as if stung. "What was that?"

Iseult walked over and slumped onto the bed. "That was King Mark."

"Jesus! And me asleep here! What was he like?"

Iseult shrugged. She stared hard at the rough wooden door, as if it blocked her from a multitude of futures. "A king, Brangain. He was like a king."

[The Stranger]

~

[Ludens]

Another great instalment. Please carry on, Banquo .

[Motep]

Very good work...(cant find the right smilee)

[The Stranger]

mine would do :P

[Banquo's Ghost]

Finally, I have got around to the next chapter. Hopefully during the next couple of weeks I'll have more time to add further installments. Just a question to readers - are the full chapter posts OK, or would you prefer shorter posts breaking up the chapters? Oh and since it's been a while, you might want to review previous chapters to explain what occurs later on in this one.

A Winter's Tale: Chapter Five

"If you two aren't ready by the time I count five, I shall leave on my own," Tristan warned as he picked up a knapsack left outside the door.

Abruptly, the heavy door swung open and Brangain staggered through, her hair unkempt and an angry gleam in her eye. "Will you stand your patience?" she snapped, shifting awkwardly under the weight of another saddle bag. "Jesus and Mary, you'll have me dead."

"Well then lassie, if you're to die soon I'd better make use of you now, hadn't I?" Tristan lumped the bag he had just picked up onto the girl's other shoulder.

"Ach, you're the devil in an angel's skin, Tristan ap Cystennin, that you are." Brangain shrugged her new load to a more comfortable position and wobbled up the steps towards the horses that stood sniffing the air some yards away.

Tristan ducked under the lintel and went into the hut. On the rumpled bed, a backpack lay open while Iseult stood by the hearth, fastening a thick woollen cloak about her shoulders. Her hair was plaited tight to her head and she had dressed in tough riding leathers, stitched into a harlequin patchwork of ebon brown and wine red. She looked primitive and shamanistic, an ancient tribal goddess suddenly incarnate.

"Are you misbehaving with my servant, sir?" she scolded gently as Tristan entered. She sensed his admiration and responded at the same hidden, animal level, but continued her outward calm. She finished attaching the brooch and stood straight, letting him look.

"You have spared the rod with that one," he replied, loudly enough for the twitching ears beyond to hear. Then, lowering his voice nearly to a whisper, he said, "You look beautiful....like an eagle home from the mountains. Like you belong here."

She smiled, her eyes windows of her pleasure. "Did you miss me last night?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow at the ambiguity of the question but decided to answer its content rather than its possible meaning. "Everyone missed you. The conversation was of naught but you. You made quite an impression on Mark." Iseult looked at the floor. "Come on, we had better be off. I'll tell you all about it as we ride."

He went over and picked up the bag from the bed. "Anything more to bring?" Iseult shook her head.

"What about that?" he said, pointing at a small bottle in the corner.

"Apparently my mother gave it to Brangain so that I could celebrate."

Tristan snorted. "Good. Then let's take it to celebrate this day together. Your mother wouldn't approve, but then that's another good reason to drink it." He picked up the bottle and pushed it deep into the bag where it would not break.

"Come on, you two, or I shall go without you!" Brangain's voice mimicked his own, drifting wryly through the doorway.

Iseult's eyes twinkled. "I'll race you!" she cried, and without waiting hurtled through the door. Tristan swung the bag over his shoulder and strode after her, shaking his head.

Coming up into the sunlight, he saw that Iseult was already mounted, and with a dry snap of leather and a challenging shout she pulled her horse sharply to the right and cantered off towards the valley centre. Flustered, Brangain kicked her horse into following.

Tristan sprinted over the few remaining yards to his own mount and vaulted into the saddle. The horse reared in surprise, and as it settled he poked another arm through the bag straps to secure it on his back. Just as he stuck his heels into the beast's flank to charge after the princess, he saw Siobhan watching curiously from a nearby doorway.

Dismissing her look with a cursory nod of the head, he urged the horse into a gallop, thundering after the diminishing figures ahead in a spray of flying peat.

Iseult was a fine rider, but had no idea of where she was going, and soon the flat, peaty ground gave way to jumbled tussocks of grass that forced her to pick her way or fall. She was acutely aware that Tristan was rapidly overhauling her on the far side of the wide valley, where the ground was obviously much firmer and more even. After another quarter mile, she saw him drawing ahead and climbing the slope toward a dip between hills, and decided to swallow her pride and cross to his side. As she turned the horse, Brangain muttered in agreement.

Tristan waited patiently at the cleft, watching the two riders tiptoe their way to the firmer ground and then climb the hill to his position. As Iseult rode up to him, he turned his mount's head and set it towards the slope of the next hill. She settled in beside him, staying silent for a time while Brangain trotted along some way behind, an unintrusive chaperone.

"Where are we going?" Iseult asked finally.

"Mark told me you wanted to see the islanders." He laughed. "He was very impressed with your concern."

Iseult scowled at him. "I did want to find out more. I didn't know you were to be my guide until he suggested it."

Tristan tilted his head. "I'm sorry. I should have known you would have taken this seriously." He pointed down a long, winding glen, visible amongst the hills some miles away. "I'll take you to the north coast where you can see one of the fishing villages. The fishermen can meet their new queen and you can ask all you want. There's not much more to the Orcadians than fish and the sea. Everything else they take with the sword, and that's Mark's story."

"So what did he say about me?"

"I really shouldn't tell you," Tristan grinned. "It might go to your head."

"Rather there than my heart," she replied quietly.

"He told us that he thought you very beautiful," continued Tristan, unhearing. "You remind him...you're just what he dreamed of. Dubhgall kept on about a royal heir, and every time stopped in mid-sentence to apologise to me. I think he's even keener on you having babies than Mark."

"Would his child displace you from the kingship?"

"Of course not, princess. Things may have gone Saxon in Erin, but here the succession is chosen and approved by the clan." He winked mischievously. "But your children would be eligible after me."

"My children." Iseult shook her head, wide-eyed. "Do you know how much I've dreamed of children of my own to love, and now it's possible I can't bear the thought."

Tristan chose not to reply. A gull screamed half-heartedly overhead.

"How did anyone persuade Mark to become a Christian?" she said eventually. "There's little gentleness in him."

"No 'turn the other cheek' in King Mark is there?" Tristan nodded. "His reasons are complicated, Iseult. There's the political expedient, of course. Few princes are still pagan, and those that are provide a good excuse for an alliance against them. All in God's name of course, but it's so much more satisfying to destroy an enemy and do God's will at the same time. But Mark doesn't really need to worry about that."

"Not when he has warriors like you," interrupted Iseult.

Tristan bowed his head. "You are kind, but rarely do determined raiders offer single combat. No, the islands protect Mark more certainly than any sword." He saw her expression and explained further. "You haven't seen winter here. For six months of the year, only the bravest or most foolish men dare these seas. Orcadians are born both brave and foolish, and we get visits from the fierce Northmen from beyond the dawn, but the rest of the Cruithne and the Saxons, and even your people are too sensible and civilised to come here. Of course, when they do, they have nowhere to rest and recover because the islands are so small. We are well protected."

Tristan began to lead them up a steepish slope, aiming for the summit of a long, low hill. "No, Mark is a Christian because he feels abandoned by his ancestors. When Cairbre, his first wife died, they had been happy for eight years but he was left childless. He had loved her fiercely and went mad with grief. Everyone in the North of Britain tasted his rage in those next few years and he did a lot of things that he now regrets, which gave rise to his terrible reputation. But finally the monks convinced him that he could be forgiven by God, and that he might be loved again. I don't think he believes it, but he's got nothing else left." He looked at her with that mystical and depthless stare that held everything and nothing. "You are the salvation of his soul."

"And you won't be responsible for denying him that salvation, will you? Tristan, have you ever thought what he will do if I am not what he needs?"

"You have to be. Ridding the islands of foreign tribute is only the beginning for Mark. There are many here who...who have other ideas. He needs strength and stability. He needs you."

"Surely he can't be that weak?"

He laughed, an edge of salt in the sound. "Mark isn't weak, Iseult, just hurt. Like a wounded wolf, he's unpredictable. Equally, there are those who will put him out of his misery."

"And why not you? You could rule here in an instant. They all love you."

"With you as my queen? Lucifer himself has no temptation to rival that, princess. But I am tanaiste. I have my honour. And Mark has you."

"This is ridiculous." Iseult stopped her horse. In surprise, Tristan reined in some yards away. "Have you seen two more foolish people?" The question was shot at the approaching Brangain, and it flashed across the moorland like a swooping merlin. The girl pulled up, nonplussed. Then her face creased into a frown.

"Not so far, Iseult" she said sternly, "but I fear for the both of you if your foolishness deepens. We're an awful long way from home, now."

Tristan shifted in his saddle. "There's no harm will come to anyone, for any reason."

Brangain snorted. "Sure, and you'll cut down every warrior at King Mark's call to protect this lady. And then Conchobhair's hordes. And will you be finding peace amongst this bloodshed? No, Tristan, it's you who must give this foolishness up. Let her be. That is where your courage lies."

"It is not for you to tell me about courage, girl."

"Isn't it? Why are you here then? You both know what's at stake here, but you're still playing these games. You talk of honour while behaving like children."

Iseult frowned. "You speak too freely, Brangain. What Tristan does is no concern of yours."

"Is it not?" Brangain quickly bit her tongue. "Ach, you asked. And I don't want to see him hurt you as he will if this goes on."

Tristan's eyes iced over until neither woman could tell whether he would shout or ride away into the sun. Finally, a smile etched onto his face but left the ice intact.

"You are a wise woman inside a child's frame." Brangain bridled at his faintly patronising tone. "Come on, we'll ride beyond this hill. There is a stream, and shelter from the wind. We can eat and enjoy the sunshine."

Without waiting for their consent, he drove his horse up the hill, keeping a distance between him and the following pair. His back clenched from time to time with contradictions.

Iseult rode in silence beside Brangain, occasionally betraying her anger with sidelong, razor-edged glances. The girl shrugged them off, knowing she had spoken in her friend's best interest.

They topped the hill, and looked down into a natural green bowl. A stream, shining like a bolt of silk rolled carelessly down the far side of the cwm, fed a glimmering pool. After tarrying there a short while, the water cascaded down over a stair of rock-jumbled rapids into a soft mantle of jade-leafed trees. Birds cavorted and danced in the sunlight, which seemed to be embraced and warmed by the steep grassy slopes into even more benevolent radiance. The bird-song blurred and blended in the distance, a soft susurration of natural music that twinkled its harmonies over the metallic percussion of water on rock.

"Tristan, this is magical!" Iseult stood in her stirrups, her angry mood lifted from her by the gentle summer orchestra. Brangain too, looked suddenly spellbound by this enchanted place.

"Not all the islands are bleak," he said in a voice that was. He prodded his horse forward, down towards the pool.

Away from the cutting breeze that seemed a permanent feature of these islands, the air was soft and warm, like the touch of a mother's hand. Iseult loosened the binding of her cloak and let it fall over her horse's rump. Small wild-flowers decked the grass-strewn slope, jewels of colour amongst the verdure. Far away, a rabbit’s tail flicked in the sun and was as suddenly gone. A swift soared around them, its flight a dipping, weaving maze of skill and frivolity, tracing through the blue sky in swooping patterns as it struck at the insects disturbed by their passing. Bumblebees rumbled through the air, disdaining of the swift's gifted mastery, intent on their work between the blooms.

As the riders approached the pool, the sound of the waterfall increased in volume until it clamoured like a gathering of garrulous bards, arguing, boasting and harping with no regard for each other. The pool itself shimmered and small ripples distorted the rocky bottom with wobbling images, made rusty by the peat. Tiny waterboatmen skimmed the surface near the shore, skating like the footprints of invisible starlings from eddy to inlet. The bottom of the pool seemed impossibly deep and far away, even though the water shone with clarity, as if below the surface lay the entrance to another, unknown world.

Tristan's boot-heels clacked discordantly on the flat stone as he dismounted and led his horse over to a flourishing swathe of grass where it could feed and rest. Exchanging a glance, his companions came to a silent agreement and Iseult lowered herself from her horse, giving the reins to her friend. Brangain quietly took the horses over to the grass, where they snatched at mouthfuls of the fresh fodder with undisguised delight. She began to unload some of the packed cups and platters, ready to make lunch.

Tristan was standing, completely still, his eyes glaring into the cascade of water as if it were babbling a litany of accusations at him. His frame was taut as a harp string, ringing with acrimony. Iseult came up behind him and laid a gentle hand on his tensed arm.

Feeling her touch, he pulled away. It was an awkward, disjointed movement, as if the arm belonged to someone else. He froze again, still staring into the water, his immobility an impenetrable wall that was being raised, brick by brick in front of her.

"Tristan?" Iseult's voice trembled with concern. His shoulders softened a little, but he still did not turn to face her. Instead, he walked carefully away from her to sit on a large, hump-backed boulder overlooking the pool. Only then did he raise his eyes to her. Grey as snow-rimmed slate, they had focused on that far-off land which only he could see, looking at her and through her as if she existed somewhere else, somewhere inaccessible to him. Her heart crumpled within her.

"I must go away," he said at length, in a voice that was as calm as the surface of the tarn, "to Cornwall, or perhaps Brittany. I am asking too much of myself."

Though her chest was tight with desolation, Iseult kept her voice calm, as if they were discussing what to eat for lunch. "You are tanaiste. Will you abandon your people?"

"It is the lesser of two evils. It will be in their interest, after all."

"And what of me?"

His eyes widened minutely, their colour seeming to darken still further. "I'm asking nothing of you, save that you forget me. Forget this."

"You say that as if I were a candle, lit one moment and dark the next. I can't do that. You of all people should know that."

"Nonetheless, Iseult, you must." He shifted uneasily, and a faint shimmer of warmth returned to his face. "Or at least, put me from your mind. I thought we could cope with this. A little willpower, a little restraint. Once you were married, I told myself, it would be easier. I would look on you as a sister, a friend. I've lied to myself believing that would be enough. But Brangain is right - I'm playing with you and myself. I'm denying that part of my soul, perhaps all of it, that wants to touch you, hold you and never let go, but it's far too strong. It's as if there is a part of me missing, an absence that when unseen was not missed, but now is tearing me in half. I feel like I am dying each time I am near you and cannot hold you."

Iseult took a step nearer but his expression warned her away. "But you can hold me," she pleaded.

"You're a fool," he rebuked, harsher than intended. His voice softened. "There is no going back, don't you understand? If I give in, we can never go back. The sky will fall, and we will be alone to face it. No, Iseult, our dice are cast. I will not be responsible for war and dying, if you will."

"Why must there be war?" She wrung her hands in futility. "Why won't Mark understand? He doesn't love me, and you are tanaiste. Surely if we married the alliance would be as good?"

"For honour's sake." Tristan's gaze inverted upon itself like a vengeful gimlet. "The same brutal honour that rules these lives of ours. Your father would be humiliated because Mark would have rejected you. Mark would be humiliated because you would have rejected him. The Church would be humiliated because we would have rejected its alliance and its wisdom. That is a destructive group of angry men. That is a recipe for war."

"So you will leave me to my fate."

"It is a softer fate than many. You will have life, and love and children. It is a better fate than loneliness. With me, you would have nothing. At the very least, Mark would have us both killed. Even if we escaped, we would be kinless, outcasts. Your children would have no clan and no safety."

Iseult sat heavily on a low rock, defeated. She felt bereaved, as if Tristan were dying in front of her. "So, this is our last day together. You're going to leave tomorrow, aren't you?"

He shook his head. "I had made no plans. This course of action only came to me as we rode."

"Then..."

"No. I must be at your wedding, for otherwise it would look amiss. But I won't see you again alone, and I will leave soon after. I must be selfish, for I will not be able to look at you and know..." His voice quavered suddenly, betraying his anguish. "And know that you had been with Mark."

"Oh, Tristan." His pain, inadvertently revealed, brought hot, stinging tears to her eyes.

"Please, don't cry. I am a memory that you will cherish, but I will fade into the remembering of a good and happy life. We have today to ensure our recollection is one of warmth and joy."

Iseult nodded as best she could, struggling to wipe away the tears with her hand, but they refused to be restrained and continued to roll treacherously down her cheek. "I can't lose you, Tristan."

He stood, and for a moment she thought he might come over to her, comfort her. "You won't. Some time, perhaps beyond death, we will find a way to meet again." He looked bleak. "There is a verse from a song that has been much on my mind.

'In Time, all wounds heal, no matter how deep,
Pain but a memory stitched to a seam.
We will be rejoined though God seems to sleep,
Loving for now in the care of a dream.'

"Dreams are all that is left to us." He walked away, over to the horses where Brangain stood fiddling inconsequentially, trying not to be aware of the couple's words or intrude on their pain.

"The princess seems sad," she said as he approached, more to forestall an awkward silence than to enquire.

"I am leaving the islands in a few days," he replied, his voice level and controlled but sounding to Brangain like one long sigh.

"Forever, isn't it?" She studied his face, impassive but lacking the gaiety that habitually rested around his eyes. "Ach, Tristan, you're a brave and tender man. I'll be praying for you." She looked over at the slumped shoulders of her friend, still shaking with sorrow.

"I think I'll be leaving you two alone for a while." At his look, she continued, "It's a rare and painful thing to lose a loved one. If I were her, I should like to be alone with you, just this last time. To say what needs to be said before it no longer matters. Then there won't be too many 'what ifs'. Talk to her, Tristan. Make her laugh like you used to. Be Cai for her, one more time. She'll remember you fondly for it."

"Where will you go?" He seemed confused by her offer, unsure of the change of ground.

"Not too far," she said lightly. "Up yon hill, to where the spring rises. I'll try and see Erin."

Brangain mounted her horse, flicking her hair in the wind. "I packed the food in that pouch you're carrying. Leave a little for me, now won't you?"

Tristan watched her ride slowly up the slope of the hill, winding a careful way beyond the crest and out of his sight. When her figure had finally disappeared over the horizon, he remembered about the bag he carried and unslung it from his shoulders. He went back over to Iseult, who sat quietly watching the ripples on the pool, no longer weeping. She turned to him as she heard his footstep on the rock.

"Brangain suggested that we eat lunch together. She has gone for a ride." He sat beside her and pulled open the bag. It was easier to talk now the words had been spoken and the tears shed. "What have we here?" he said, poking a hand into the interior and bringing out various items. "Bread, smoked herring, a little ham. Quite a feast. Och, and a bottle of celebratory wine." He spoke lightly, bidding delicately to lighten Iseult's heart.

She tried to respond, stretching the emotion from her neck and reaching over to unwrap the ham from its linen envelope. He tore a small hunk of bread from the loaf and offered it to her, but she looked at him with a faint hint of admonition. "I'm not a bird, Tristan," she said.

He smiled and tore off another, larger piece. That done, he picked up the small glass bottle and unplugged the wax binding around its neck.

Iseult spoke through a mouthful of bread. "Hadn't you better get some cups for that?"

He nodded and ran lightly over to a flat boulder near the horses where Brangain had laid her goblets when unpacking. He felt encouraged by Iseult's attempt to cheer up and made his way back quickly. "As commanded, two cups." He sniffed the open bottle with a curious savour. "Where in heaven did your father get this?"

She took the bottle and tested the fragrance carefully. It smelt of wild roses, of children's summers, of starry nights. She raised her eyebrows and poured the wine. It flowed, syrupy and faintly greenish in colour, like an old and treasured mead. "I've seen something like it that my uncle brought back from a raid at Caer Uisc. It must be very special."

Tristan picked up his cup and raised it to her. "To dreams, and the happiness they bring."

Iseult ignored his irony and drank from her cup. The taste was smooth, warming and full of meadow flowers, but she coughed suddenly when a fierce herbal aftertaste caught her throat.

Tristan refilled his cup and set about dismembering one of the fish. Iseult watched a swift swoop over the shimmering pool, dodging the rocks as if they were leaping up to catch it in flight. A thistledown floated precariously over the water, chased by eager breezes until it grasped at the long bristle of a grass stem, tired of its coquettishness. A tiny bird settled on the weary branch of an old and tired tree, forcing its drooping, gnarled fingers to splash gently in the mirrored surface. Lazy, irregular ripples struck out from the trembling bough, and the bird began to sing to match their rhythm. She felt her desolation seeping away into the tranquillity.

"Why is it so different here?" she asked, letting the sun steep its balmy warmth deep into her bones. "It's so peaceful, so far away from everywhere."

"I'm afraid I don't know." Tristan drained his goblet and settled back against the giant's pillow of a stone that he leaned upon. He closed his eyes and let a breath of serenity float over him. "The first time I came here, I was quite young, about thirteen, and it seemed to me that I was the first to see it. I used to dream about it a lot, especially being here with...."

Their eyes locked, and stayed tight together. "With whom?" asked Iseult slowly.

Tristan broke the spell with a grin as he stood up. "You're assuming again, princess. I might have meant with a good bottle of wine."

Iseult stood too, brushing the sand from her breeches. "Then why did you stop yourself?"

Still smiling, he ignored the question. "I feel like that child again, you know? Maybe now things are set, I can be free to enjoy this time with you." He jumped up onto the rock that had been his seat. "Yes, I remember it now. Iseult, let me show you a place of dreams."

Exhilarated, he jumped down next to her. Watching the light playing in his eyes, she impulsively stretched out and took his hand in hers. He did not withdraw as she half-expected, but tightened his grip. She felt a shivering, tingling exchange of energy through the tight clasp.

Then he was away, leading her gently along the stream bank, guiding her past tussocks and rounded stones, across scattered bays of greenish-grey sand and towards the flickering brilliance of the trees. Their leaves shivered with excitement in the irregular breeze, a myriad of candle flames burning emerald in the sunshine. Overlaid with the dappled blanket of the wood, the world itself changed colour into a coruscation of greens and yellows, gold shimmers and jade benedictions. The susurrating rustle of the branches mixed with the jangling music of the brook, supporting the impression that they had sunk beneath the waves of a mystic sea. The trees crowded around, protective of their visitors, until in a sudden moment, the couple emerged into a tiny clearing, nearly open to the sky and nestling close to the racing waters.

The grove was softened with grass so deep in colour it would shame the sweetest apple. The greensward was silken and short, as if it were tended, but the grove was so obviously wild its gardeners could only be from beneath the hills themselves. The sky above shone in azure tranquillity, unblemished by clouds. The stream rushed over grey rocks, gurgling with delight, splashing and splattering like it was newborn. A breath of wind hardly stirred the leaves, not daring to impose more than an accent on the quietude of this place.

Tristan seemed not to be breathing, and Iseult could not bring herself to speak. The gentle beauty of the grove was overwhelming, and she could sense that a miracle was dancing lightly amongst the gentle saplings. After more than a lifetime, Tristan turned to her and let the veil fall from his eyes.

"I love you," he said, simply. He let go of her hand, but with a reluctance to lose her touch. He opened his arms gently, inviting her in. "You are my heart and soul and the harsh world will drown in my love for you."

A grab of conscience momentarily kept her motionless, something preventing her step. Then, just as suddenly, all trepidation, all misgiving, all restraint left her. She flew into his arms and grasped him close tight.

There was a rushing, reeling sensation of happiness as the world around was splashed away by a wave of utter completion. She felt his heart beat, the surge of his hot blood, the gentle strength in his iron muscles. Her heart felt like a falcon, swooping into the sky, exuberant with the thrill of life. She could hear all the wonderful sounds around her, clearer than ever before, as if she had been born once more into a different world, a world nearer to heaven. The trees seemed to whisper and laugh with joy, exulting with her in this sudden paradise. She felt like she had come home, contented as if in a soft, new-made bed on a cruel winter night but exhilarated like a child watching the blizzard blow in.

She clung to him, never wanting to let go, until she felt the caress of his breath on her neck. Shivering at his touch, she lifted her head and looked deeper into his silver eyes than he had ever allowed her before. She felt her lips part and he kissed her, fierce with his passion and full of the weeks of longing. She responded, her body arching with the vibrancy of his embrace, harnessing it, loving it and returning it to him in a wild-storm of desire. Time and time again their lips parted for a fleeting second, their panting breath intermingling in the island air, but unwilling to stray far or too long they kissed again and again, dancing with their lips and tongues in a whirling scherzo of love.

Suddenly, his touch appeared at her bare neck, lighter than a down feather but so intense that Iseult gasped with the thrill. She looked at him, eyes wide with expectation and want. He bent again to her lips, knowing her heart but seemingly unsure of the enormity of her need. She brushed his lips with hers, teasing, evasive, and lifted her hands to the laced neck of her jacket. Carefully, fluidly, with a sparkling smile playing about her eyes, she loosened the lacings, letting the leather fall languidly apart to reveal the soft skin of her neck. Tristan watched her delicate movements, spellbound, completely enchanted by the magic she wove, anxious that should he touch her at this moment, she would fade back into the dreamscape from which she had sprung. She pulled the final knot from the thong, and the jacket hung enticingly from her shoulders, only the thin white fabric of her undershirt keeping her breasts from his gaze. Still he did not move, hardly daring to breathe. Gently, she took his hand by the wrist and brought it up in front of her. She kissed the palm softly, tracing a circle with her tongue, touching his ring-finger with her lips. Reverently she laid his hand upon her breast.

Under that touch, their individual worlds dissolved. Lost in the universe of themselves, they blended, interwove, shuddered, shouted, touched, smiled, danced and loved.

***

Soon they lay quietly, breathing softly in perfect synchrony. As the wonderment faded into simple joy, she looked over to his resting head, and stroked his hair, marvelling in the touch of him and the truth they had found together. "I love you," she whispered, and he raised his head to look at her. His eyes smiled with a deep, secret smile that would be theirs forever. Never again would she fail to read their message.

"You are my heart," he said, kissing her breast. "I love you too."

"Can we stay here forever?" she asked, looking at the trees that shone benevolently around them.

"We may have to," he replied, still stroking her skin, exciting little shudders to run along her body. "But I cannot think of a sweeter exile."

She luxuriated in his touch, the sense of being bound to him, two people with one soul. "Make love to me again, Tristan. Don't ever stop making love to me."

He kissed her gently and held her tightly to him, while above a bird sang sweetly, celebrating the union of true love, and the miracle of happiness that shone in the hearts below.

[Beefeater]

Highly Enjoyable!

[Ludens]

Just a question to readers - are the full chapter posts OK, or would you prefer shorter posts breaking up the chapters?

I think the current episodes are just right.