The Road to Kernow

A Tristan one shot - Complete

This story is entirely for my personal enjoyment. I have no rights to any of the characters from either 'Tristan & Isolde' or 'King Arthur'. I freely dedicate this work to our dear Tristan's Lady Hawk, who has offered me so much support over this effort.

This is my poor attempt to reinterpret the Tristan & Isolde story and I have been strongly influenced by Diana Paxson's novel 'The White Raven' which I sincerely recommend. I've had the honor to work with and know Ms. Paxson; she is a true lady, a fine scholar and a wonderful person. I also needed to work out my perverse fixations with Rufus Sewell, Richard Armitage and Mads Mikkelsen, and I've included some quotes from 'Game of Thrones' – so please enjoy!

It was all Lancelot's fault – that whoreson!

This was the third day that Tristan had been on the road from Camlann and while the weather was clear and there had been no threat from brigands or marauders since he, Dagonet and the escort from King Marc had set out, Tristan nursed a seething fury at Lancelot.

Lancelot had intended to go on this pointless journey – and had had he not stumbled down the stairs in his pathetic, drunken attempt to chase some serving girls he wouldn't have fallen and broken his damned ankle, he would be here - and Tristan would be happy back in Arthurs new city in his lover's arms. Tristan had just settled in with Caitlyn - his Caitlyn - and now he'd had to leave her in order to replace Lancelot on this trip to some territory on the south west edge of the island.

Yes - it was only for a few weeks and yes - Dumnonia may well become an ally for Arthur in his attempts to establish a coalition of all the tribal nations in this damp and misty island - but that did nothing to sooth Tristan's frustration. Tristan had grown highly possessive of his time with his feisty lover and while once it might well have been impossible to imagine that anyone could ever get to the silent Sarmatian scout with the golden brown eyes and the deadly grace, but now - with Caitlyn in his life all bets were off. Almost 8 months had passed since the Battle of Badon where Dagonet, Tristan & Lancelot had all come perilously close to dying, yet they'd managed to survive. Tristan liked to think it was his Caitlyn's nursing that saved him – they scarcely knew each other well then, but he didn't care about the facts – and who really was going to argue with the scout? The close call against the Saxons had made Tristan value his time – and now he wanted to spend as much of his time in his lovers arms as possible.

That evening Dagonet, Tristan and Lyon, the representative Marc had sent to Camlann - camped in a grove less than a day's ride from the borders of Dumnonia. Lyon would have preferred to travel at a more leisurely manner but Tristan had insisted on pushing them hard in the trip. As Marc's friend and ambassador, Lyon might have had doubts about any sort of alliance with Arthur's court if his only experience of it had come from these stoic warriors traveling with him. Ideally Marc ought to have gone to meet Arthur - but that was not practical at this time. Also as Lyon knew Latin, Marc had sent him to meet with this Romano British warlord. Marc wanted allies beyond Kernow and outside Dumnonia, not simply to stop the Irish raiders on the coast but because he imagined a collective - an understanding between the various tribes of the island. And, as far as Lyon understood Marc's intentions – Arthur's notion of a round table of tribal leaders working together seemed a good fit. These two men, one half Roman, one entirely Cornish - yet both seemed to want to look beyond petty tribalism to a greater possibility of unity…well they had a lot in common. Lyon hoped that together they might be able to achieve something remarkable. But right now Lyon wanted to get the Sarmatians safely to Castle Dor and to Marc and Yseult. Tristan and the tall stoic Dagonet had come this far, and Lyons job was to get them to Marc and get them to talk to him.

Dagonet and Lyon watered and tethered the horses while Tristan lit a fire. Lyon mentioned that the next day they would be able to stay at the fortress at Glennum, Dagonet smiled - "From there - how far is your Lord Marc's household?"

"We'll be welcomed by Marc and his new bride in two day at this rate at Castle Dor," Lyon answered.

"His new bride? D'ye hear that Tris? So you're not the only one in love." Dagonet remarked to the scout.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" Tristan muttered. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Caitlyn - not here and not now. Dagonet ignored him and responded to Lyon "So this Marc - who's his woman then?"

Lyon smiled, "His first wife died…but he's recently married the daughter of the High King of Ireland." Dagonet looked blank "Eire - the Western Isle?" Dagonet still seemed lost at the names Lyon offered him. Tristan muttered simply "She's probably a Woad."

Lyon guessed that these Sarmatians couldn't recognize Jute from Celt from Pict. Maybe that was a good thing. Still there was no point in discussing all that here – besides he thought, if wee Yseult were here she'd insist on being called Dumnonian - now that she'd married Marc.

On the fourth day they entered into Dumnonia and as they approached Caer Ceri they were welcomed by Oric, a Pictish leader with strawberry blond hair- a narrow face and big bright eyes. Marc had informed his followers of the guests expected from Camlann, so they were welcomed everywhere they went. Tristan kept his eyes open. This was a part of the island he'd never seen. The land was warmer and greener than the land near the wall, with wide slightly hilly fields. They traveled past large orchards of pears and apples - parting gifts from the Romans - and as the apples were starting to ripen Tristan helped himself to more than a few. Dagonet liked Oric almost immediately, and as his host tried to interest the quiet giant in the local drink "Mead", Tristan silently feasted on the apples he'd appropriated, along with fresh venison, leeks, turnips, rabbit stew and brown bread.

As they skirted the edges of Caer Gloui through to Caer Baddon, Tristan could almost feel the salt sea in the air - the winds from the west were tinged with it. Someone without the scout's preternatural senses might not have noticed it - but he did. Here again the land was broad with green fields, forests and flocks of sheep. Fewer houses of wattle and daub here, he noted more stone buildings, some structures were round similar to the hut like buildings he'd noticed amongst the Woad villages in the north. There was less of an influence from Rome here. The roads were mere paths through the trees in places not the broad flat stone roads the Romans had cut through all the way up to the Wall. Dagonet commented on the soft looking pelts of the local sheep – he could use a new sheep skin, he said to Lyon in passing. Tristan imagined wrapping a warm soft creamy sheep skin around his pretty Caitlyn, or even better - a soft buttery colored one for her to rest her feet on. Ah - such a luxury and his pretty lover deserved it. Caitlyn had such sweet little feet… such long smooth, shapely legs … such curvaceous tempting hips… how those hips swayed under her kirtle in the day and how they tempted him as she lounged in their bed... Tristan decided he'd better stop thinking about his lover, as his trews were starting to get uncomfortably tight and they still had a way to travel until the next holdfast.

Once they reached the fortress of Cadry, Cai, another of Marc's supporters, already had sheepskins for them to choose from as gifts for the guests from Arthur's court. That night they ate broiled mutton roasted hare, fish pie, as well as mead and a little imported wine. Dagonet was rather starting to like this mead stuff - and after a few tankards he was happy to tell anyone exactly how much he liked it! Tristan only hoped they wouldn't give him too many bottles to take the rest of the way or Dagonet would never get to Dor. Tristan imagined that Caitlyn; who never seemed to like wine very much, might surely like this. That night Tristan dreamed that he held his spitfire of a girl in his arms.

The morning of the sixth day from Camlann they'd passed through Glastennig, Dyfnient and Kernow and Lyon assured them that by evening they would be at Dor and that Marc would have a feast to welcome them. Tristan had already feasted well at every place they'd stopped but he'd learned that as a soldier one could never be certain of the next meal so he didn't complain. This land surprised him, the Romans seem to have had made no in roads or had no serious influence over these tribes, but they seemed eager to work with Arthur. Why?

"Ask Marc that." was all that Lyon would say. Now Tristan wished again that Lancelot was here instead of him. He had no skill at politics. Negotiation, intrigue, debate – those were the sort of things that that whoreson Lancelot was born for.

YSEULT

Yseult was not a beautiful woman. What was worse - she knew it for a fact. She was short (squat may have been a more truthful term) and she lacked physical grace although she was not really a bad dancer. Her features were tidy and even, and her skin was smooth, clear, rosy and prone to blushing, but the combination of thick wavy long blond hair, dark green eyes, a neat, even, slightly aquiline nose and a small mouth set in an heart shaped face somehow did not inspire anyone who saw her to call her anything more charitable than 'plain'. She was perpetually aware of this and of the cruelty of her name -it translated as 'she who must be gazed upon' and she'd always felt inadequate - a massive disappointment. Once in her father's court a traveling minstrel had greeted the eight year old Yseult - her long windblown hair loose about her shoulders as" Yseult, Dohnechal's graceless little haystack" and she'd wept. Dohnechal ignored the singer - it was taboo to condemn the comments of such 'gleomenn' as they were believed have magic in their songs, but later he beat his daughter for being so weak and shaming him. Yseult felt that he was really beating her for the worst crime any woman could commit - the crime of being ugly. She longed to apologize, to beg mercy - but there was nothing to be done to change it. What could she do about it anyway - what could her father do - what could anyone do about it. Beating her made no difference – these blows wouldn't add grace to her movements or make her lovely, tall or shapely, her father beat her because he didn't have any answers either. The bruises had healed eventually, but the pain laced with fear and doubt remained.

She had rather expected Marc to declare her a hag once they first met, but he'd been nothing but sweet towards her. The people of Dumnonia had been wonderful and welcoming to her at her arrival too. Considering the vicious raids that her father had orchestrated on the south western coast of Brut - she couldn't have blamed them had they had ridiculed her. Her marriage to Marc was to end these conflicts – a marriage to end a war. This union was to bring peace without spilling one drop of blood as Marc's ward and champion Drustan had often said.

Drustan - he had become the bane of her existence.

THE CHAMPION

Drustan, Marc's ward was a tall handsome man with shining softly curling black hair that grew past his shoulders and liquid blue eyes. He had fine features in a dramatic narrow face, a remarkably long straight nose and a haunting smile, but it was his smirk that so many ladies always remarked on. Someone had told Yseult that with his eyes, his smirk and his honeyed voice Drustan could seduce any saint, bean-druid, hermit or even charm the devils wife from her warm bed in the Underworld. He was lithe and lean and quite aware of his appealing charms. But he hated Yseult. She knew why Drustan resented her. His parents Eregan and Yrena had died in a raid orchestrated by her father and he held her responsible for his suffering. To Drustan she would always be the monstrous foreigner - "the Irish Crab". Drustan was Marc's ward and one of his best warriors - she did her best to toughen herself to his barbs, snipes and cruelties. She recognized that he was clever, charismatic and skilled, but he could also be petty and a bully. But she was not a position to tell Marc that. After all he - Marc's champion - had won her for his king – and as she loved her husband she ought to be grateful to him…

The Irish king Dohnechal had arranged a tourney between the various tribes of Brut- with his daughter (and a rich dowry, peace, a good political alliance, gold, fertile lands and tribute taxes) as the prize. It was a cynical attempt to try to break the growing unification between Powys, Kernow, Dyfneint and the various territories of Dumnonia, after the Irish king's last raid on the coast had been massacred. Yseult saw through the ploy as had the Dumnonians. She remembered how Drustan came from Kernow as Marc's champion; and had after three days of tourneys and combat won the prize for his king. She'd been impressed by his strength, grace and skill - Drustan was a serious warrior - fit and clever. However -once the bridal party had left Dunluce, Drustan no longer kept his less than polite comments to himself. He repeated for everyone to hear how he really needed two ships to return in, one for the victory and the plump little dowry he'd won for Kernow and Marc, and one for the fat ugly little cow (Yseult) that had tagged along. Even his companions Erok the Jute and Melle seemed embarrassed by Drustan's coarseness. Melle, Marc's nephew, Drustan's closest friend and foster brother, was kind and patient with Yseult; he had acted as Drustan's second in the tourney although out of some sort of pride Drustan had never called on him to fight. A handsome man with strait brown hair braided randomly, and a short brown beard that clung to his jaws, he'd agreed to tell her about her future husband Marc, about Kernow and help her practice her new language skills. While they were not dissimilar, Gaelic and Brythonic, the language spoken in Dumnonia – she still wanted to have a good understanding of the language of her new home. Her handmaids Branwyn and Etain contributed to these ad hoc language classes as best they could. Near the end of the journey she spoke openly to Melle.

"Ser - I know that Drustan haz every right to condemn me for hiz pain, and fur the pain and suffering of the past raids on the coast. I've come to try to heal those wounds, and I hope to please your uncle King Marc." She heard a smothered snicker outside the wicker chamber set up to give her and her ladies some privacy on the ship – Drustan was eavesdropping on their conversation, she sighed. "But Ser -there iz little I can do about my appearance -a raven might wish to be a dove - but wishes avail one little. Warriors of such valor az I have seen from Dumnonia – those men famed far & wide for beating the proud Irish, ought not stoop to abuze the weak, the harmless, and the humble guests of their King."

Yseult thought she saw Drustan's proud shadow against the wicker wall wince for a moment upon hearing her. Then she noticed Erok, a man with a head as bald as an egg and a sweet endearing voice move behind him unexpectedly. Drustan's lithe figure turned but before he'd completed his pivot Erok slammed his fist into Drustan's jaw. Yseult gasped and Melle stood abruptly and spoke "Please forgive Drustan's behavior, he's doesn't always think before he acts or speaks…or err - does almost anything… "

A voice from the ships prow called out that the coast was in sight.

That had been months ago. Yseult still did her best to avoid Drustan, she felt uncomfortable around him and even though she knew she ought to feel more gratitude, she still disliked his behavior and his bitterness and bullying. Drustan had the ability to charm and delight - she'd seen that but he also could torture and ridicule. His remarks about 'the Crab' and the 'Monstrous Turtle from Eire' were clever blows carefully executed to cause maximum pain.

Drustan knew all about causing pain.

DRUSTAN

Drustan remembered the night that the Irish had attacked the fortress at Tantallon when he was not quite eight years old. He'd been hidden by his father under a trapdoor as the sudden night battle raged and once he emerged from the earth he discovered a stinking ruin where the proud wooden structure had once stood ravaged by fire He found the gory mangled corpses of his mother, father and their guests…

In many ways his childhood ended then too. Drustan had been picked from the chaos by the already wounded young Lord Marc. The refugees had fled to Dor, stopping only to bury the dead where they fell. Every placed they built a cairn, or burned a body, or buried a corpse, Drustan remembered the cruel Irish who'd done this. He swore he would never forget and never forgive.

So far he hadn't forgotten any of the lessons that he learned then – to be strong, to fight, to remain aloof, detached, to avoid any situation that could compromise or weaken. He learned to be 'dead while alive' so that no fight, no battle, no war - nothing could ever frighten him ever again. He would never make mistakes or be weak - so he would never have to tolerate errors or weakness in those around him – To make a mistake meant that one must be forgiven or need to forgive. To do that was to acknowledge weakness. He would never forgive the Irish at Tantallon - nor could he forgive his parents for dying - or himself for living after that night. He still had nightmares about the night at Tantallon. He could not forgive Yseult for not being a bloody beast from the land of Irish Monsters - not forgive her for being just someone from across the small sea, just a maiden who'd suffered the loss of friends and relatives of her own over the years of the raids. If he forgave Yseult - if he acknowledged that she was not the source of all his suffering; then his careful, tightly spun world might start to unravel…Then he might see that she was just as lonely and afraid as that lost little boy under the trapdoor years ago. Drustan knew that hidden deep down the terrified little boy sobbing for his parents and his home was still there inside him. He fought Yseult in the best way he knew – he mocked her, called her monster and ridiculed her. If he didn't fight her - hate her - oppose her then all that he'd constructed - his life - might fall apart.

What else could he do?

It was her fault - ALL HER FAULT!

If it wasn't her fault then who was to blame?

MARC & YSEULT

In moments of despair Yseult still wondered if Marc was just trying to make the best of this political marriage, a situation where it was often best when neither partner really wanted anything emotional out of the union. But she'd loved him from the moment that she didn't note disappointment and disgust at the site of her in his eyes. She dreaded the notion that Marc was just a good actor. But since their wedding she hoped that her husband was happy - or at least that he didn't despise her.

That night when Marc came to bed Yseult was half asleep, but she quickly stirred and gladly curled up around her spouse. It was summer in Kernow and they both slept in thin linen shifts, even though the stones of Castle D'Or were sometimes drafty. She purred as he lay next to her. He whispered her name and she smiled sweetly - like a happy child, he often thought as he gazed at her – but had he ever said anything like that to her- she would have repudiated him. She was his happy wife - not a child.

"My Marc" she sighed, caressing his oval face, stroking his short salt and pepper beard and slipping her fingers across his shorn scalp. She thought him the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. The age difference between them seemed meaningless to her. She gently slid the tips of her fingers over his eyelids and around the edges if his eyes. They were luminous, vivid eyes - pale green - they glowed like spring time buds, like green peridot, reminding her of the clear green beads that she'd inherited from her mother's mother. Marc's eyes were heavy lidded and it seemed that his eyes bulged out slightly from the sockets - to her it made him sweet vulnerable and sensual. "How fairs my husband?" she asked.

"Happy now…" Marc answered, bending to kiss her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes and then her lips. He kissed her lips again, tenderly at first, then with more passion and hunger. She tilted her face slightly, sighed, and her lips parted to his as the kiss grew in intensity and power. Yseult slipped one of her hand behind Marc's head to bring his lips even closer. In the months since their marriage she'd grown to know his body well, and she loved to give him pleasure. He leaned back resting his head on his right arm while his left arm and hand smoothed her hair. She kissed and caressed his lips and neck and slipped her fingers under the loose throat of his shift to stroke his chest and torso. She heard his breath catch and she pulled his shift up over his waist and the slight friction enhanced Marc's growing erection. Every time she saw his body Yseult was amazed anew – he was a magnificent man; his cock was firm, thick and wonderfully sensitive to the touch. He sighed deeply as she slid her fingers up and down his erection using both hands she alternately flexed her grasp gently pulling and squeezing his flesh like a pulse on his skin. She noticed the way he moaned and shook at her touch. Soon her lips replaced her hands - at first her tongue licked the head of his cock then she slid her mouth over him eagerly sucking while she delicately fondled his testicles, they throbbed at her touch and she heard him moan- "Yesss… yessss… dear gods… yesss…"

She paused, knelt over him and pulled her shift off over her head. Straddling his hips she impaled herself on Marc' shaft, and began to gradually roll her hips while Marc caressed one breast then the other. She increased the motions of her hips, listening for his breath and watching his face. Moaning he seemed to gasp and tremble convulsively, then Marc pulled himself up on his elbows and then drew himself up. Marc, his face full of hunger - drew Yseult close to him - into his arms. He kissed her passionately as he held her close to him with his right arm, as his left hand slipped inside her, teasing her nub, thrilling and arousing her as only he could. The both moaned . He starred into her eyes - his pale green boring into her dark green orbs… "Don't - look - away…" Marc cried out to her - he was so close to coming now - so close…"Don't look away from me…" She cried out in ecstasy - tears pouring down her cheeks - she was lost in his peridot eyes and he followed her, drowning in her soft dark mossy stillness. Gasping, time seemed to stop for them both, and after a few moments or a few centuries they collapsed in each other's arms. Marc held her so close, his face flushed and his eyes so bright. Later he asked – haltingly… "Yseult …Is - is there anything I can do to make you happy... I - I want to make you happy… I want it so very much."

Marc worried about Yseult, he could tell that something was making her uncomfortable … was it him? Did he not satisfy his wife? He'd sensed a hidden sorrow somewhere deep within Yseult, and he'd felt it from the moment he first saw her. Strangely it had made him care for her deeply. Marc prided himself on being able to read faces - but he knew that she didn't like being looked at ...why?

She wasn't proud and she loved to help people; even the poorest farmer or fisher family could expect a surprise visit from the petite blond queen. She'd been seen trundling along on foot without any escort other than one of her hand maids, knocking on the doors of simple homes with a basket of bread and apples or sometimes blankets. She hadn't told him about her trips and he didn't want her to think he was spying on her, but when he found out about these spontaneous visits, it had charmed him deeply. She was becoming very dear to him – but did she know that - did she understand that?

Did she have a lover?

"Is - is there anything I can do to make you happy... I - I want to make you happy… I want it so very much."

Yseult listened in a state of bliss in her husband's arms. What could she say? That she loved him but hated and feared his champion - that Drustan had hurt her? Offended her? Upset her? How petty, how childish would Marc imagine her if she said that?

All she could say was the truth.

"I love you Marc – sincerely… all I wish iz to please you and gain and keep your affection."

It was the truth.

GUESTS AT THE FEAST

Early in the afternoon Lyon, Tristan and Dagonet approached Castle Dor. The weather which up until then seemed warm and friendly had started to turn cloudy. It didn't bother either of the Sarmatians as they'd both traveled and fought in rain sleet snow and hail. Tristan was more interested in the location of the walls and the battlements at Dor, he could see how well situated the fortifications were. This Marc was no fool. Maybe the Romans hadn't gotten into this area but that didn't mean that these men weren't serious fighters, at least they knew something about defense. The castle was made of stone constructed in the last ten years but well-built and carefully designed. As they approached, the booming of drums could be heard announcing their arrival. The clear eyed scout saw a collection of men and women emerge from the gate of the castle. Three men - two younger, one slight with brown loosely braided hair and a short beard, the other youth was tall and wirily with pale skin and long dark hair. His chin had been shaved recently. Tristan noted that this fellow was scrutinizing them as thoughtfully as the scout had been watched him, and saw how he kept his arms crossed over his chest. This one is holding in a secret - he thought.

An older man, his dark hair shorn with a very short salt and pepper beard, stood in the center of the group, clad in a ruddy long, reddish brown tunic and trews, a heavy silver brooch held his cloak in place. Here was their leader, Tristan knew, as all eyes in the entourage followed his movements the way that daisies turn toward the sun. He looked strong and fit - he'd seen a lifetime of battles. Dagonet and Tristan could read his past and his experiences from his posture. He'd been wounded some time ago - even at a distance Tristan could see that the loss of his right hand had caused him to compensate. It would be interesting to spar with this fellow, he thought. Nearby him were four women. One looked to be close to the one handed man's age, she was a handsome woman, dignified in a stylish yet simply robe of bright blue, her dark blond hair caught back from her face with elegant combs. Dagonet eyed her appreciatively - he'd always enjoyed the company of mature ladies. Three younger women stood closer to Marc, two of them were tall, one had dark hair & brilliant grey eyes, clad in a gown of panels of light and dark blue cloth, the other was curvy with auburn hair dressed in green and brown. They both wore wreaths of fresh summer leaves in their hair. A shorter blond woman, her hair caught in an elaborate collection of bands and braids stood in front of the taller maidens, she wore a dark mossy green dress. "Marc & his woman?" Dagonet muttered to Tristan in Sarmatian. Tristan shrugged.

Lyon dismounted first, then Dagonet and Tristan. Marc caught his friend in a bear hug then Lyon turned to introduce the knights from Roman Britannia. "Marc of Kernow I bring you Tristan and Dagonet of the famous Sarmatian Knights of Arthur Castus." Lyon announced. Marc stepped forward and embraced both Dagonet and Tristan "Welcome Men of Artorius Castus! Well met Dagonet. Well met Tristan." Both Knights nodded respectfully and each had to admit that like Arthur, Marc possessed that numinous sense of charisma that drew men to him as a torch could draw moths. Marc gestured to the small blond woman by his side, "This is my loving wife the Princess Yseult – Dohnechal's daughter." Yseult blushed, and tilted her head up to greet the tall strangers – and it seemed as if the sun came out from behind the clouds when she smiled at them. Maybe she was no beauty – but there was something gentle and kind about her face. "Welcome gentle guests." Yseult greeted them in Latin. Marc smiled, he then introduced his sister "My sister, fair Adytha, her son Melle of Gallis" and Marc's ward and champion,"Drustan son of Eregan." Drustan remained stiff and simply starred at the two foreigners. There was the sound of distant thunder and a cool wind stirred in the courtyard.

The Sarmatians were taken to their guest rooms and provided with hot water and towels for bathing. Lancelot had mentioned how important it was that they both have clean clothes to make a good impression on their hosts over and over until even Dagonet had begun to complain of his nagging. Tristan imagined fashion and appearance to be a pointless waste of trouble, still the hot water was refreshing. After a good rinse the scout unbraided his hair and poured some water over his scalp then ran a bone comb over his sodden locks. He opened the bundle of clothes he'd brought with him from Camlann.

A provocative Sarmatian curse passed his lips when he saw that Lancelot- damn him - had gone through his packed clothes and added two new linen tunics, a tabard of coppery brown wool, a longer robe of soft buttery suede, a leather belt, heavy copper cloak pins, new boots and soft leather trews. Seven Hells…well - he'd keep the belt - that at least was practical and useful…and maybe the boots…

Once dry, he tried on the new leggings, tunic, tabard & boots, and braided a few sections of his hair. He heard Dagonet pounding at his door. Opening it, Tristan spied his comrade clad rather uncomfortably in a new tunic, a woven coat of dark blue wool shot through with silvery pale grey threads and fresh black leggings. "Damn that Lancelot - he's tarted us up like a pair of maids at Beltane…" Dagonet roared loudly. Tristan smirked…

"Bet your girl would like that - I think…" Dagonet added, gesturing at his fellow Sarmatian. He knew that no matter how stoically Tristan tried to behave, how hard his separation from Caitlyn was proving, and he would never mock Tristan for his feelings. He understood that for the scout - always a solitary man in so many ways - love was no easy emotion.

Tristan wiggled his nose & lip slightly and looked down at his clothes then up again at Dagonet. "Yeah?" he muttered…

"Yeah 'spect so."

"Ehhh - you too- your little Buddicca – she'd like that…" At the mention of the fletcher's daughter Dagonet's face seemed to transform into nothing but a giant smile… Tristan still couldn't imagine what those two saw in each other but the Giant and the Little Mouse Girl seemed very happy.

A young man came to escort them to the feast. "Try to smile now…" Dagonet muttered jokingly to Tristan.

"You're not that pretty…"he mumbled back.

The banqueting hall was large and although Marc had no round table, three heavy long tables made up 3/4ths of a rectangle and there was plenty of seating. As the Sarmatians entered the feasting hall everyone stood and cheered them. Neither knight was used to this sort of attention but the room was warm & the rich smell of food tempted everyone's nostrils. The welcome guests were seated at the high table. Marc sat in the center with his wife on his right and his sister on his left. Tristan was seated by Adytha and Dagonet next to Yseult. Beside Dagonet was Etain and next to her was Drustan while Melle and Branwyn sat by Tristan. At Marc's command a feast of fresh fish, oat bread, partridge baked in honey, roasted beef, green peas, turnips and leeks, eel pie, barley cakes, berries and apples as well as wine and Dagonet's new favorite drink, mead was served. Yseult chatted amiably with Dagonet who felt flattered by her attention. Melle and Tristan discussed weapons and tactics and Marc drew both guests into a discussion about Arthur and the knights remaining at his capital. What were Arthur's intentions - exactly what did he want, and what was he willing to do. Could Marc work with Artorius Castus? Would an alliance help Kernow?

Drustan; feeling bored and slighted, glowered at the Sarmatians with barely concealed contempt. Yseult tried not to wring her hands when she glanced passed Dagonet at him.

After the meal Marc lead his guests to a slightly smaller round room with a large central hearth. Here minstrels sang and music played while the guests chatted and danced. Marc lead out Yseult for a dance, watching them Tristan wished that Caitlyn was with him - she'd like this sort of thing, he imagined. That Irish princess wore some sparkling honey colored beads and he imagined that his sweet spitfire would look pretty in similar things. He'd ask her about them later, he thought. Melle and his betrothed Maeve of Rhegedd danced with Drustan and Etain and although Adytha tried to teach Dagonet the steps, he looked about as graceful as a plow horse to Tristan. Marc and Yseult fed each other little bites of fruit and laughed at each other and Dag elbowed Tristan…"It's you and your Caitie…" he teased. Adytha had better luck teaching Tristan a few steps and they performed with Melle and Maeve. Marc watched as Yseult danced a very simple dance with Dagonet which he was eventually able to manage - then Yseult danced with Marc. Drustan caught Marc afterward as the knights were departing the hall. He took the King aside as Yseult excused herself with her handmaids.

"Why are they here?" Drustan hissed…"We don't need them…I don't – you don't need them!"

"Drustan – there is more to this than simply Kernow – if Dumnonia can ally with another strong war lord then we're all safer for it …" Marc tried to explain - surprised at Drustan's sudden fury. "You don't need them? You? Kernow needs this - Dumnonia needs this - I need this… Why is this about 'you'?"

"Was this her idea?"

"What?"

"HER - the Irish Crab…I…"

"What did you say?"

…

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

…

"Drustan - you're drunk – get to your bed…"

"No – no …Hear me out…"

"GET TO YOUR BED!"

More furious than he could express, Marc stormed out of the hall, leaving Drustan behind.

Drustan stood stunned - the little boy that he'd buried so deep inside his heart was starting to rise to the surface… The walls of his little world were threatening to collapse. He hurried to his chamber - his face blank – closed the door and began to shake.

THE NIGHT

Marc entered the chamber. Yseult was getting into their bed. She glanced up surprised as he usually didn't come to bed so soon after banquets…

"I think the meeting went well…" she said smiling - although she knew that Drustan had wanted something from Marc she hadn't remained to overhear their discussion - she thought that all was well with the feast and that the Sarmatians were welcomed and impressed.

"Damn him…" was all that Marc could say.

"Marc – What?"

Marc looked up - his eyes flashing with rage.

Yseult was terrified.

But the fury in his eyes was not for her… after a moment Marc realized that his wife had no idea what he was upset about. He saw her staring at him with a mortified face. "Yseult –I'm sorry … Drustan's made me angry… I swear it's not you – please - please I beg you not to be afraid…" At that moment he needed her presence, her calmness, her sweetness more than he could put into words.

Trembling she rushed from the bed and took his hand, gazing at him completely unguarded – she whispered "Let me help."

"Drustan - that fool - doesn't understand why I wanted this meeting with Arthur… he's drunk - stupid drunk…he must be drunk… "Marc laughed "You - you wouldn't believe what he said about you…he…"

"He called me the Irish Crab…yez I know…"

Marc froze –"You know?"

"Drustan blames me for the deaths of his parents…for all hiz suffering as a child and for all the raids on the coast by the Irish. I've tried zo hard to make recompense for all the pain my father caused… to be a good queen… Drustan is Kernow's champion – but – but - he can be so cruel."

It was all clear now to Marc. Yseult's unhappiness...her spontaneous trips to the people … her discomfort around Drustan. His behavior when around Yseult – Marc had begun to worry that maybe his attractive champion was secretly meeting with her - and affecting distain in public to disguise this …Marc'd never wanted to even admit to his doubts and concerns- but now it was all clear – it wasn't love that bound them – just the opposite.

"How long? How long has he been blaming you?" Marc whispered

"I suppose since Eire…since he won the tournament…"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Marc whispered holding her close - Yseult stared into Marc's eyes.

"He's Kernow's champion - your second – what could I say?"

Tristan slept remarkably well that night. As the sun rose he stirred. Dressed in some of his older clothes he hoped to check on his horse and perhaps get some exercise in the yard. He was able to find his way to the kitchens and helped himself to a few apples and some bread. Wandering outside he found Melle, they both went to the stable and Tristan shared some green apple with his mount. Melle asked if they could spar and soon the two men were working up a healthy sweat. Tristan's sword was lighter and thinner than the heavier weapons that the men of Kernow preferred - he saw that Melle had potential as a fighter - he just wanted a little more experience. After Melle and Tristan were finished, Tristan continued to practice, his body fluid as a predator – dark eyes flashing in the light. He turned in his exercises to see a tall figure with dark hair and limpid blue eyes approach him.

"Got any time for me?" Drustan asked - his voice as worn and as haggard sounding that morning as he looked. Eregan's son was much the worse for wear – his black hair hung sweaty and matted even early on this cool day, his eyes were red and he looked pale and sick. Too much mead maybe, or too much wine…but that was no concern of the scout.

The truth was that Drustan hadn't slept at all that night. He'd thought about getting drunk - but he doubted there was enough wine, enough ale, enough mead in all of Kernow for that to happen…He'd walked up and down in his chamber trying to forestall the inevitable, but it was too late. By midnight he could no longer keep the little boy locked away under the trapdoor from escaping…the tears the terrors and the stunned shocking stillness overwhelmed him. Now he needed motion, riding, hunting, sparing - anything to drive the terrors away.

Tristan nodded and took the aggressive posture allowing Drustan the defensive. But to his surprise Drustan manipulated Tristan's parry and claimed the attack. His sword was heavier that Tristan's - a bit more like Melle's - but his weapon was also longer and his arms were strong and flexible. Drustan did not telegraph his blows as Melle did, so Tristan was in for much more of a challenge with him. The scout relished it. After about an hour they paused and Tristan suggested a few moves - modeling some of his motions for the taller Drustan. Drustan and Tristan moved like shadows every time Tristan spun and brandished his thinner lighter sword, Drustan followed him precisely. Time slowed and it wasn't until almost noon then a messenger from Marc interrupted the two warriors. Marc wished to meet with Dagonet and Tristan after the noon meal. After the messenger left, Drustan caught Tristan's arm - "Come on." He said quickly "We could both use this…" Tristan sheathed his sword and followed Drustan after he replaced his weapon; they hurried down past the outer keep of the fortress beyond a small cluster of trees to a rocky outcropping. Below the outcropping a tiered opening had been created next to a hot spring that bubbled and steamed, the carved bowl structure was over two meters deep at its center. Drustan stripped and splashed into the pool. As Tristan's eyes got used to the steam he saw that the pool was large enough to welcome several bathers and that the area seemed to have be excavated some time ago. "There's another well - a bigger one on the other side of the keep. The women use that one - but this one is hotter." Drustan added. Tristan smiled and pulled his tunic over his head. Soon his muscles were relaxing in the steaming pool. Comfortably lazy, Tristan considered Drustan – a very good fighter – yes - a man with real potential - but he had weaknesses…

"You need to act out of a still center…Your natural strength is cut in half because you're fighting two battles at once. You'd be a serious fighter if you can do that…" Tristan commented quietly. Drustan dipped his head under the water shook his hair and eyed Tristan as he rubbed his wet face and remarkably sharp nose. "Two battles?" he responded to the Sarmatian warrior. After some time Tristan spoke "One outside you - and one inside." Drustan felt stunned. It seemed as if this stranger could see into his soul. "How do I do that?" Tristan stepped from the spring, shook himself dry and wrapped his tunic around his loins. Pausing to collect his other raiment, boots and his sword he answered quietly "Don't refight battles long since over."

Tristan was able to skirt the edges of the gateway to the keep and rush up to his chamber, without being seen by too many - he imagined. Back in his room he chose fresh leggings and a clean but simple tunic, pinning one of his older tabards at his shoulders he straightened his boots and nibbled at a left over apple. He heard Dagonet stirring across the hallway. Opening the door he saw the other knight clad in his second best set of trews and a heavier grey green tunic.

"Did you sleep all morning?" Tristan joked. "Nah - but the beds here are good" Dagonet laughed.

A servant guided the knights to the room where Marc expected them. Marc, Lyon and Melle were chatting comfortably when they arrived. "Welcome friends." Marc spoke, "I have read the letters from your king offering an alliance between Arthur's territory and Dumnonia and while I'll want to review the details with my vassals in Powys, Dyfneint and throughout Kernow, I foresee no objections to his offer. However sometimes treaties are only fine words on paper…and as you know - paper burns… Often the best treaties are strengthened through a more physical exchange - to create stronger ties between our peoples…"

"A marriage?" Dagonet responded. "Arthur is wed to Gwenevre of the Woads… and as follower of the White Christ, well - err - I doubt he'd be willing to accept a secondary wife. That's against their traditions - I think…He has no children by Gwenevre at this time - but they're both young…"

Marc watched then quietly, his bright eyes luminous in the half light, his chin resting in his left hand. Then he answered "Not a marriage – a different sort of union. A sort of exchange… No doubt Arthur's knights are strong, but is there no room at the round table for another knight - perhaps one from Dumnonia? If we were to send a representative to Camlann to show our goodwill … then perhaps Arthur - in seeing our faithfulness - might eventually send a guest to our court. Our two kingdoms could become more familiar with each other in this way. Such an exchange is better that a treasure tribute or a marriage – although each option has its particular benefits."

Tristan looked at Marc –"Who would you send to Camlann?"

"I would need to consult with my warriors and consider the options"

Dagonet glanced at Tristan and he nodded subtly. Both knights knew that over the years the round table had lost many members - and while no one could ever replace Persifan, Agravain, Tuac, Odreth or Edlan in the memories of the Sarmatian warriors, new knights and new blood would always be welcomed by Arthur, especially knights from this island. It would be an option that Arthur would be interested in. Knights from various locations could develop a sense of commitment and a notion of community, and could move them to embrace a greater whole - something bigger than the petty differences between separate tribes.

The door opened and Yseult entered with servants carrying wine and chalices for the guests. Marc stood and smiled at his wife, and stood behind her as she turned to chat with the Sarmatians. "I hope that you've enjoyed the hospitality of Castle Dor. While kings and princes may receive many rich gifts in their travels - sometimes it's the smallest items that may offer the most lasting pleasure." Marc laughed and drew her close to him as he listened to her speak to Tristan and Dagonet. "I've prepared these small gifts for you to take back to your homes in Camlann. I can see from your eyes that you've both left your treasures at home – treasures that you sorely miss now. I hope that you'll accept these small gifts from me for your dear ladies. I'm as grateful for your visit to Kernow as they will be eager for your swift and safe return! For you gentle Dagonet, and for the graceful warrior Tristan, please accept these small trinkets." She offered them two small wicker boxes, Dagonet opened his box and his face burst into the same giant smile that Tristan had witnessed before – he lifted up a rope of flashing polished smooth clear bright quartz and carved jet beads, they sparkled in the light. At the bottom of his box was a heavy brooch decorated with a sunburst pattern in gold, copper and silver.

Tristan glanced in his package shyly and found a necklace of multicolored amber beads. Yellow, white, honey, golden brown and olive beads that glowed with warmth, and he found a brooch shaped like a stylized falcon enameled with bright patterns on the feathers and body of the bird. Caitlyn would love these, he imagined, visualizing the elegant pin on her simple grey wool cloak, or the long amber necklace around her sweet throat… Tristan glanced up from the table to see Yseult smiling brightly at Dagonet as he loped to the window and held up the quartz necklace admiring the way the light spun through the beads. Marc smiled "Here is my treasure, and I wish you two such good fortune as I." He smiles, kissing her hair gently.

"Marc of Kernow - your people's love is your greatest treasure!" she answered him.

"You and Drustan are my right arm - you two maintain my strength."

For a moment Yseult's face darkened. Tristan noticed it - even if no one else did. He said nothing.

As the two knights admired the gifts from Yseult the door opened and Drusten came in. Yseult turned to make a comment to Tristan about the enameled broach, while Marc glanced tensely at his ward. Drustan still looked pale, but appeared well, better than he had earlier in the day - he'd dressed in a knit tunic of olive green with fitted leggings and soft boots. His hair was clean and combed and he had a bronze twisted collar around his neck. "Marc" he spoke, his voice deep and persuasive. "I wish to beg a boon of you."

"Drustan…"

"When the Sarmatian knights of Arthur return to Camlann – allow me to accompany them. Let me prove myself to you as an ambassador of Dumnonia."

"Drustan - are you sure that you want this? You would need to remain in Camlann until either Arthur released you - or I had need of you in case of war."

"I am…Give me leave to go - I beg you…"

"Dagonet, Tristan - Drustan is Kernow's champion – my strongest most skilled warrior…" Marc turned to the Sarmatians to explain, but Tristan interrupted him. "I sparred with him today – he's got real potential …"

Dagonet looked at Tristan, shocked – the scout was never so complementary of other fighters – seven hells- he almost never commented on his own Sarmatian brothers. "Well I'll trust Tris on this. Marc – it's up to you."

Marc glanced at Lyon and Melle. Lyon nodded slowly, and Melle answered that his greatest interest was in the safety of Kernow …Marc looked as Drustan carefully. "l wish you to consider this overnight. In the morning you may make your choice, but once the choice is made you must stand by it." Drustan stood to his full height, graceful and elegant, beautiful and terrible, and bowed to Marc. Then he turned toward Yseult and caught her eye. She tensed at his approach -Tristan noticed it – and he saw how confused she was once Dustan simply looked at her sadly, bent his head low and left.

"Has he ever threatened you?" Tristan whispered, softer than a breath, softer than footsteps on the stone floor, quiet as a tear in the dark.

"Words can wound as deep as blows and fear cuts deeper than swords. All warriors learn that - gentle Tristan." She answered as softly as he'd asked.

At the evening meal Marc, Yseult, Dagonet, Tristan, Melle & Maeve, Adytha, Erok of the Jutes, Etain and Branwyn sat in a somewhat more informal manner than the night before, everyone chatting and enjoying fresh fish, berries and dark bread. Yseult laughed and teased that Tristan and Melle would start a new fashion amongst the men with their dark braided hair. Even Maeve remarked that as both men were so handsome that she could hardly choose which man was hers. Erok, Marc and Dagonet all rubbed their scalps at the same time and Yseult swore that her she preferred short hair to long. The guests all laughed again as Marc kissed her brow. That evening it was agreed that Tristan and Dagonet would depart the next day to Camlann with Marc's reply to Arthur. Erok and Lyon would escort them through Dumnonia, and for all the welcome that Marc had offered them it was clear that both Sarmatians were eager to get back , to their homes their friends and their lovers.

As the sun rose, Yseult woke to Marc gently shaking her – she yawned "Yes my love?"

"Drustan wishes to speak to you…"

"Now? Did I oversleep?"

He's been up all night praying to the old gods. He's contrite and I believe he's sincere."

"Give me a moment please…" Yseult stirred. There was no time for Branwyn to heat water so she rinsed her face and neck in cool water, dried her face and ran a comb over her hair. She slipped on a loose brown and olive over robe. She passed into the anteroom where Drustan stood looking out a small window. He turned as she approached. She was terrified of him and at long last Drustan could see that.

"Drustan?" she spoke, uncertain of what to expect.

He turned, his face pale, his blue eyes were brilliant in the half light. "Lady let me leave the court."

"Marc is the one to speak to for that request - I have no hold over you…"

Drustan glanced away from her and spoke so quietly she could scarcely hear him in the small room - "Forgive me."

"Go with gladness." she answered.