Free Tristan and Iseult by JD Smith Page B

in such a desolate place.
    Acha says nothing as I loose my grip on the crook of her arm and use both of mine to balance a path to the grassy slope a few paces away. We scrabble up the banking and fall behind as the men bound to the top. We follow the curve of the land, skirting the crevices where it has fallen to the sea, making for where we saw the other boat’s mast above the hills.
    ‘My lord?’ I am slightly breathless and my head feels light from the ascent, but it is only a moment before brisk air fills my body.
    Morholt does not answer me, pacing quickly ahead. Uninterested in anything I would say.
    ‘Lord Morholt?’ I run a few paces to close the gap between us. ‘Why am I here?’
    ‘We are here to claim what is rightfully ours.’ It is as if he believes this country and the riches it contains are his, that they belong to him without question.
    ‘And me? Why am I here?’
    ‘What is the purpose of victory if there is no woman to witness it and tell of her man’s greatness?’
    I walk on, following this man, our lord, my future king, and despise him for his vanity. What man requires witness of death? Surely the very fact that he has killed another leader of men should be enough?
    ‘See,’ Acha says. ‘There is no malice in his bringing you here, is there Iseult? And we will both return home as soon as this is over.’
    Home. My lands and my sea and my wind. The elements that Morholt, even if he is godlike, cannot control. That is why I feel at peace with them, because they are beyond the choices of men.

Chapter 17
     
    Tristan
     
    By default — the absence of another son — I am the heir to Kernow’s throne.
    I have power now. More than I anticipated acquiring in my life. I had wanted a warband, the ability to pay men from my own purse, lead them in defence of our country. Now? What now? It is as though a title which is not yet mine has changed me as the seasons change the land, yet with no certainty that summer will come again. Could I be a better king than Oswyn or any of the warlords of Kernow? For the good of our people, for all of my beliefs, I think I could. Yet it is not what I wanted. I am not that man. 
    Many think there is little difference between warlords and kings. Kings are often forged by accomplishment in battle, and I have seen success in my short years; it is why Mark sent me to the frontier. But few men find the following kingship commands. Fewer still desire the strain of the politics associated with the title. I know, even now, I am one of the latter.
    ‘Will you, Tristan?’ Mark asks. ‘I need to know now whether this is a position you are certain you are willing to accept. I will ask these men to bear witness to my choice of successor.’
    ‘I can be whatever you need me to be. But Oswyn will not look kindly upon it.’ My reluctance is clear. Would I rather have Oswyn rule than do so myself?
    ‘I realise that, yes. It is one reason I am grateful he is in Ireland as we speak. If your position and rank is established before he returns, it will ease the new order of things.’
    Well said, I think. The new order. As the youngest nephew, I am chosen as the king’s first. It unsettles me. I do not like change.
    We turn and walk back to where Eurig and the men stand waiting. They are restless. The Irish ship has landed on the far side of the other hill, and the lord of the Bloodshields will make his way toward the strip adjoining our two small warbands.
    ‘Do we go to meet them, Lord King?’ Eurig asks. He is not nervous. Eurig is conscious of danger, he is aware of repercussion, but he is never nervous. He wants an end to this matter between us and our enemy. A swift end.
    Mark answers: ‘In a moment. First, I need you and the men —’ he nods to those whose attention is rapt as they listen, ‘— to witness my wishes. You all know my son Rufus is dead. It is to be known that I name Tristan, my nephew and a leader of men, as heir to Kernow’s throne when I enter heaven