Chapter Two
The little island where the great Irish warrior, Morholt, (brother of Isolde the Elder), set the stage for the duel, seemed fitting: the terrain was barren, rocky, and remote. The only eyes present at the duel were Morholt's men. King Mark of Cornwall, his uncle, had such confidence in his nephew's fighting skills, that he sent him alone, with only a little boat, his sword, and his misguided faith.
Morholt merely asked the King of Cornwall to pay tribute to Ireland, for recompensation. The warriors of the Emerald Isle died defending the English people and her lands. The king refused, and instead sent this little blighter to try and finish him off.
"Well, Tristan…" Morholt sneered, as the little Cornish boat came up on the rocky shore. "You showed. Didn't think you had it in you, lad."
"That's where I prove you wrong, old man," he taunted, and unsheathed his sword, swiping it through the air with practiced, teasing ease. Tristan of Cornwall's name was known throughout all of England, and Ireland, he assumed, as being the best of swordsman--even outrivaling the bloody Lancelot in both valor and skill. He had Arthur to thank for that; the good king's notoriety made his trusted knights famed as well.
The court and Round Table of Arthur was nothing more than a memory…after the foolish Lancelot rode away with Guinevere, the king of Camelot lost all will to live, and the knights disbanded of their own will. Tristan fortunately had his uncle to go home to. No woman, no wife. Being unwed held its advantages; he wished to never marry.
"You best watch your tongue, boy," Morholt sneered, and unsheathed his sword as well, pointing it toward Tristan, as a threat. And it should have served his purpose: the Irishman was over six foot, a giant. But it didn't.
"What will you do, old man…cut it off?" Tristan goaded him, and stepped closer to the man. "You'll die before you ever cut me. Do you wish for your sister to see you return as a corpse?"
"You will die, and this will teach your land, and your uncle to pay Ireland its' just due!" Morholt rushed forward, meaning to end the dispute in one swift stroke. Tristan, however, was faster, and side-stepped the attack, delivering one walloping blow to his chest.
"Aaaargh!" Morholt screamed in pain, his lifeblood quickly soaking his shirt front. "You bastard!" He rose to his feet, and brought his sword down in a chopping motion, striking Tristan in the shoulder.
Though the wound hurt, Tristan merely laughed. "Barely a flesh wound. The great Irish warrior; bested by a mite such as myself!" He watched in glee as Morholt fell to the ground in agony.
"My wound will be the death of me…" he hissed. "As will yours."
"How so?"
"I coated my blade in poison, fool! You think that I would let your uncle's actions go unpunished? He will lose his beloved nephew…and no other but my sister, Isolde the Elder, can heal your wound." His head hit the ground, and in his final breath, he gasped, "…mark my words, for they be true." His skin went white with the pallor of death.
"Ignorant Irish bogtrotter," Tristan spit, kicking the stiff body. He pointed to Morholt's men; their faces showing no emotion, sadness or otherwise. "You, men, come get your fallen champion, and send this message back to the court of Goram, the husband of Isolde the Elder--the only tribute Goram will get from King Mark of Cornwall is Morholt's body."
He watched as the men took the body, and loaded it into the boat, sailing away without incident, much like Tristan planned to do shortly. His uncle would be pleased.
He never thought he'd find himself in a boat again so soon, but life held many surprises. The pain was absolutely unbearable, and the wound he received from the blow of Morholt's sword was agonizing. And the stench…no one wanted to come near him at court. He consulted every doctor, wizard, witch, and healer within the immediate radius of Cornwall. Nothing helped.
He thought again of Morholt's dying words. Tristan had dismissed his claim, thinking the man a lunatic…now, he knew the validity of his claim. He needed to seek out the help of the enemy, or he would surely die.
The passage to Ireland was rough, and because of that and the pain, he slept little, and his body told the tale…his hair stuck out in all directions, his eyes were bloodshot and heavy with wanting sleep. As the shore of Ireland neared after only two day's time, his weary mind raced. He had to hide his true idenity. The man who killed the brother of Isolde the Elder would not get any treatment should his true identity be known.
He scratched his head, wondering at what to do. He rummaged through the sack containing the belongings he packed for the trip, searching for a clue to help him. Coming across his harp, he smiled. "A minstrel, a player. Tantris…a lone player with enchanting ablities and even greater intellect." Ever the actor, he had no problem playing the part. At a young age, Tristan played the harp, and rather enjoyed the beautiful notes it made. Now, at his rather young age of 23, his skills outrivaled even the best of England's players.
As the boat docked on Ireland's shores, he wondered if the queen would heal a "lowly player?" We shall see, he decided.