Free Tristan and Iseult by JD Smith

even mentioning his bastard born. ‘There is much to commend him.’
    He speaks the name of my cousin as a question. Does he want my approval, knowing that Oswyn and I have never been close? That I could never follow or acknowledge a selfish man as my king?
    ‘You have many warlords in your service, men who would see the chance of becoming successor as an honour. Who would do whatever it took to prove themselves worthy. It is up to you which one you choose.’
    Mark listens as I speak, nodding his head slowly. ‘I need someone who knows the people of Kernow. I always thought Rufus would fill that role well. He was a caring boy, much like your mother. Too caring, perhaps. He did not display the skills of a warrior, or at least he never appeared to use them. I have struggled for some time to envisage him leading men, and I am aware that others have thought the same. His death, although unfortunate, has saved me from having to make the hard decision of appointing a successor in his place whilst he lived. I have thought on it for some months, and I need someone who is not afraid to make decisions, even ones that would prove unpopular with the people of Kernow, if they were the right decisions. I need someone strong and determined to follow me. Someone who can scourge Briton of the Saxons and keep the Irish at bay when I am gone. What do you say, Tristan?’
    I am not listening to Mark fully, thinking instead on his words that he would have replaced Rufus regardless. His own son. A decision a king would have to make. But to be grateful for his death because it avoids the shame that others might witness his admittance of siring a son that the gods chose not to make fit for his father’s role, it is a pitiful thought.
    Mark is looking at me, awaiting my response with searching eyes.
    ‘I agree. You need someone strong. Oswyn is a strong warrior and I believe he would lead warbands against our enemies as well as he has ever done.’
    Mark gives a small laugh. ‘You misunderstand, Tristan. I am asking you to take the title of king after me. Will you?’
    Realisation dawns. Uncomfortable with my stupidity, I look to the ground then out to sea. The Irish are nearer. Much nearer. Fighting Morholt is not only a chance to make amends for Rufus’ death. I am to prove myself worthy of succession.
    ‘On one condition,’ I say.
    ‘What is that?’
    ‘Forgive me.’
    ‘Forgive you for what?’
    ‘Rufus. I should have done more to protect him.’
    Mark pulls a hand through his beard. He looks almost angry.
    ‘Rufus is dead, Tristan. It was not your sword that struck him down and you did not send him to the frontier so incapable of defending himself, lacking the skill to fight as you and my other warriors can fight. I did. Nothing now can change that. Forgiveness is not something you ever need ask of me.’

Chapter 16
     
    Iseult
     
    The ragged sea pulls us towards the shore. What am I in all of this? I wonder. Morholt intends to send his most feared warrior to fight for the tribute he wants. Am I therefore not a bargain or token or gesture between their people and ours? Will I return with Morholt to my beloved Ireland?
    There are six men and Acha and myself in one boat, and eight men in another. Morholt is wearing all of his armour and holds a shield painted with the blood of our enemy. We are heading toward their land now; to the kin of the men whose blood coats our warriors’ shields.
    ‘Morholt, look, they are here,’ one of our men says.
    At the opposite end of the small island the mast of a ship waves above the low hill like a giant with a rag.
    ‘They will have the tribute with them,’ Lord Morholt grunts.
    ‘You will kill them even if they do?’ the man asks.
    ‘If we kill them they will not send tribute next year, nor the year after.’ I half imagine I see him glance to me as he speaks. ‘Use your head, you fool.’
    ‘They should pay a price for their insolence,’ the man persists. 
    ‘No! The King of