She trembled, giving herself forth to meet my hands, guiding them with the movements of her body. She asked, she demanded with groans, with rapid uneven gasps of breath. She pleaded with momentary submissions, warm and tender, only to harden the next moment into a quivering diamond.
“Love me, Morholt,” she whispered. “Love me.”
She was brave, greedy, impatient. But helpless and defenceless in my arms. She had to give in to my quiet, careful, restrained love. My love. The one I wanted. The one I wanted for her. For in the one she was trying to impose on me, I sensed fear, sacrifice, resignation, and I didn’t want her to be afraid, to sacrifice anything for me, to give up anything for me. I had my way.
Or so it seemed to me.
I felt the castle shudder in the slow rhythm of the pounding waves.
“Branwen…”
She pressed her hot body to mine; her sweat had the scent of wet feathers.
“Morholt… It’s good…”
“What’s good Branwen?”
“It’s good to live…”
We were silent for a long while. And then I asked a question. The question I shouldn’t have asked.
“Branwen… Will she… Will Iseult come here from Tintagel?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You? Her confidant, who…”
I shut up. By Lugh, what an idiot I am, I thought. What a bloody blockhead.
“Don’t torture yourself, Morholt,” she said. “Ask me.”
“About what?”
“About Iseult and King Mark’s wedding night.”
“Ah, this. Believe me or not, Branwen, I’m not interested.”
“I think you’re lying.”
I didn’t answer. She was right.
“It was just like people say,” she said quietly. “We swapped in Mark’s bed, soon after the candles were put out. I’m not sure if it was necessary. Mark was so charmed with Iseult of the Golden Hair that he would accept her lack of virginity without reproach. He was not that fussy. But that’s what we did. I did it because of my bad conscience after what had happened on the ship. I thought it was all my doing, mine and that of the magic potion’s I had given them. I assumed the guilt and wanted to pay for it. Only later, it turned out that Tristan and Iseult slept with each other even in Baile Atha Cliath. And that I was not guilty of anything.”
“It’s all right, Branwen. Spare me the details. Leave it alone.”
“No. Listen to the end. Listen to what the minstrels will never sing about. Iseult ordered that as soon as I had given proof of my virginity I should sneak out of bed and swap with her again. Perhaps she was afraid the king would find out, or maybe she didn’t want me to get used to him, who knows? She was with Tristan in the room next door, both busy with each other. She freed herself from his arms and went to the Cornishman as she stood, naked, without even combing her tangled hair. I stayed, naked, with Tristan. Till dawn. I don’t know how or why.”
I was silent.
“That’s not the end,” said Branwen, turning her face towards the fire. “After that, there was the honeymoon during which the Cornishman wouldn’t leave Iseult even for a minute. Thus, Tristan could not get close to her. But to me he could. To spare you the details, after these few months I was in love with him. For life and death. I know you are surprised. It’s true, the only thing we had in common was the bed where, it was obvious to me even then, Tristan was trying to forget his love for Iseult, his jealousy of Mark, his guilt. He treated me as a substitute. I knew that and it didn’t help.”
“Branwen…”
“Be patient, Morholt. It’s still not the end. The honeymoon passed, Mark resumed his normal royal duties, and Iseult began to have plenty of free time. And Tristan…Tristan ceased to notice me. Worse, he began to avoid me. While I was going crazy with love.”
She fell silent, found amongst the furs my hand and squeezed it tightly.
“I made several attempts to forget him,” she carried on, staring at the ceiling. “Tintagel was full of young, uncomplicated knights. But it didn’t work. One morning I took a boat to the sea. When I was far enough from the shore, I jumped.”
“Branwen,” I said, pulling her close, trying to smother with my embrace the shudders convulsing her body. “It’s all past now. Forget about it. Like many others, you were sucked into the whirl of their love, love that proved unhappy to them, and fatal to others. Even I…I caught it on the head, though I merely brushed against this love, knowing nothing about it. In Dun Laoghaire, Tristan defeated me, although I was stronger and more experienced. That’s because he fought for Iseult, for his love. I didn’t know about it, got a good bash on the head and, like you, I owe my life to those who happened to be near me and who thought it right to help me. To save me. To pull me out of that unfathomable depth. And so we were saved, you and me. We are alive and to hell with everything else.”
She slipped her arm under my head and stroked my hair. She touched the swelling that ran from the temple right down to my ear. I winced. The hair on the scar grows in all directions and a touch can sometimes cause an unbearable pain.
“The whirl of their love,” she whispered. “Their love pulled us in. You and me. But were we really saved? What if we are still falling into that depth, together with them? What fate awaits us? The sea? The rudderless boat?”
“Branwen…”
“Love me, Morholt. The sea is asking for us, can you hear? But as long as we are here, as long as the legend isn’t over…”
“Branwen…”
“Love me, Morholt.”
I tried to be gentle. I tried to be considerate. I tried to be Tristan, King Mark and all the uncomplicated knights of Tintagel rolled into one. From the mass of desires whirling inside me, I kept only one: I wanted her to forget, forget about everything. I tried to make her believe, if only for as long as I held her in my arms, that there was only me. I tried. Believe me.
In vain.
Or so it seemed to me.
Not a sign of sails. The sea…
The sea has the colour of Branwen’s eyes.
I pace the room like a wolf in a cage. My heart is pounding as if it wanted to shatter my ribs. Something is squeezing my chest, my throat, something strange, something that’s sitting inside me. I hurl myself on the bed. To hell with it. I close my eyes and see the golden sparks. I can smell the scent of apples. Branwen. The scent of a falcon’s feathers as it sits on my glove when I return from hunting. The golden sparks. I see her face. I see the curve of her cheek, the small perky nose. The roundness of her arm. I see her… I carry her…
I carry her on the inner side of my eyelids.
“Morholt?”
“You are not asleep?”
“No, I can’t… The sea…”
“I’m with you, Branwen.”
“For how long? How much time have we got left?”
“Branwen…”
“Tomorrow… Tomorrow the ship from Tintagel will be here.”
“How do you know?”
“I simply do.”
Silence.
“Morholt?”
“Yes, Branwen?”
“We are bound together. Tied to this wheel of torture, sucked into the whirl. Chained. Tomorrow, here in Carhaing, the chain will break. I knew that the moment I saw you on the beach. When I realised that you were alive. When I realised I was alive, too. But we do not live for each other, not any more. We are merely a tiny part in the fates of Tristan of Lionesse and Iseult of the Golden Hair from the Emerald Isle. Here, in the castle of Carhaing, we found each other only to lose each other. The only thing that binds us together is a legend about love, which is not our legend. In which we play a role we cannot understand. A legend that perhaps won’t even mention our roles, or it will warp and falsify them, will put into our mouths words we never said, will ascribe to us deeds we never did. We do not exist, Morholt. There is only a legend that is about to end.”