“No, Branwen,” I said, trying to make my voice sound hard, determined and full of conviction. “You mustn’t say that. It’s sorrow, nothing else, that makes you say these words. True, Tristan of Lionesse is dying and even if Iseult of the Golden Hair is on the ship sailing from Tintagel, I’m afraid she may be too late. And even though I, too, am saddened by this, I shall never agree that the only thing that binds us together is the legend. I’ll never agree with this, Branwen, lying next to you, holding you in my arms. At this moment, it’s Tristan who doesn’t exist for me, the legend, the castle of Carhaing. There is only the two of us.”
“I, too, hold you in my arms, Morholt. Or so it seems to me. But I do know that we don’t exist. There is only the legend. What will become of us? What will happen tomorrow? What decision will we have to make? What will become of us?”
“Fate will decide. An accident. This entire legend to which we so stubbornly return, is a result of an accident. A series of accidents. If it weren’t for this blind fate, there would be no legend. Then, in Dun Laoghaire, just think Branwen, if it weren’t for blind fate…it could have been him, not I…”
I stopped, frightened by the sudden thought, horrified by the words pressing onto my lips.
“Morholt,” whispered Branwen.” Fate’s done with us all there was to do. The rest cannot be the result of an accident. We are beyond the rule of accident. What is ending, is ending for both of us. It’s possible…”
“What, Branwen?”
“That perhaps then, in Dun Laoghaire—”
“Branwen!”
“—that your wound was mortal? Perhaps…I drowned in the bay?”
“Branwen! But we are alive!”
“Are you sure? Where had we come from to find ourselves on that beach, you and me, at the same time? Do you remember? Don’t you think it possible we were brought by the rudderless boat? That very same boat which one day brought Tristan to the mouth of the river Liffey? The boat from Avalon, looming out of the mist, filled with the scent of apples? The boat we were told to get into for the legend cannot end without us, without our participation? For it was us, no-one else, who are to end this legend? And when we end it, we shall return to the shore, the rudderless boat will wait for us, and we will have to get into it and drift away and be swallowed by the mist? Morholt?”
“We are alive, Branwen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m touching you, Branwen. You exist. Lying in my arms. You are beautiful, warm, you have a smooth skin. You smell like my falcon sitting on my glove when I return from hunting and the rain is rustling in the birch leaves. You are, Branwen.”
“I am touching you, Morholt. You exist. You are warm and your heart is beating just as strongly. You smell of salt. You are.”
“And so…we are alive, Branwen.”
She smiled. I didn’t see it. I felt that smile pressed into my arm.
Later, deep in the night, lying still with my arm numb from the weight of her head, careful not to break her shallow sleep, I listened to the roaring of the sea.
For the first time in my life this sound, dull and monotonous like toothache, made me feel uneasy, irritated me, kept me awake. I was afraid. I was afraid of the sea. I, an Irishman, brought up on a seashore, from birth familiar with the sound of the surf.
Later still, in my sleep, I saw a boat with a high, upturned stem and a mast adorned with garlands. The rudderless boat, tossed on the waves. I could smell the scent of apples.
“Good Lady Branwen…” the page was gasping for breath. “Lady Iseult asks you to come to Sir Tristan’s chamber. You and Sir Morholt of Ulster. Please hurry, milady.”
“What happened? Has Tristan…?”
“No, it’s not that. But…”
“Speak, boy.”
“The ship from Tintagel… Sir Caherdin is coming back. There was a messenger from the cape. It can be seen…”
“What colour are the sails?”
“It’s impossible to say. The ship is too far, far beyond the cape.”
The sun came out.
When we entered, Iseult of the White Hands was standing with her back to the half-open window, which threw off flashes of light from the little panes of glass fitted in little lead frames. She was radiating an unnatural, turbid, deflected light. Tristan, his face glossy with sweat, was breathing irregularly, with difficulty. His eyes were closed.
Iseult looked at us. Her face was drawn, disfigured by two deep furrows etched by pain on both sides of her mouth.
“He is barely conscious,” she said. “He is delirious.”
Branwen pointed to the window:
“The ship…”
“It’s too far, Branwen. It’s hardly passed the cape. It’s too far…”
Branwen looked at Tristan and sighed. I knew what she thought.
No, I didn’t.
I heard it.
Believe me or not, I heard their thoughts. Branwen’s thoughts, anxious and full of fear, like waves frothing amongst the shore’s rocks. The thoughts of Iseult, soft, trembling, fluttering like a bird held in the hand. The thoughts of Tristan, loose and torn, like wisps of mist.
We are all at your side, Tristan, thought Iseult. Branwen of Cornwall who is the Lady of Algae. Morholt of Ulster, who is Decision. And I, who loves you, Tristan. I who love you more and more with every minute that passes and takes you away from me, that takes you away no matter what colour the sails of the ship approaching the shores of Brittany. Tristan…
Iseult, thought Tristan. Iseult. Why aren’t they looking out of the window? Why are they looking at me? Why aren’t they telling me what colour the sails are? I must know it, I must, otherwise…
He will fall asleep, thought Branwen. He will fall asleep and he will never wake up. He has reached the point as far from the luminous surface as it is from the green algae covering the seabed. The point where one stops struggling. From that point there is only peace.
Tristan, thought Iseult. Now I know I was happy with you. Despite everything. Despite all the time you have been with me and thought only about her. Despite you rarely calling me by my name. You always called me “my lady”. You’ve tried so hard not to hurt me. You were trying so hard, putting so much effort into it that it was your very trying that hurt me most. Yet I was happy. You’ve given me happiness. You’ve given me the golden sparks flickering under my eyelids. Tristan…
Branwen was looking out through the window. At the ship appearing slowly out from behind the land’s edge. Hurry up, she thought. Hurry up, Caherdin. Sharp to the wind. No matter what colour, turn your sail sharp to the wind, Caherdin. Hail, Caherdin, welcome, we need your help. Save us, Caherdin…
But the wind, which for the last three days had been blowing, freezing us and lashing us with rain, now abated. The sun came out.
All of them, thought Tristan. All of them. Iseult of the White Hands, Branwen, Morholt… And now I…Iseult, my Iseult… What colour are the sails of this ship…? What colour…?
We are like blades of grass that stick to the cloak’s hem when one’s walking through a meadow, thought Iseult. We are those blades of grass on your cloak, Tristan. In a moment you’ll brush off your cloak and we shall be free…borne away by the wind. Do not make me look at those sails, Tristan, my husband. I beg you, don’t.