Branwen was silent.
“We cannot allow something like the love of these two to cloud minds destined for higher things. To weaken arms whose purpose is to crush and kill. To soften the spirit of those who are meant to hold power with iron tongs. And above all, Branwen, we shall not allow what has bound Tristan and Iseult to pass into a legend as an imperishable love that dares all dangers and makes light of hardships, binding the lovers even after their death. That is why Iseult of Cornwall has to die far away from here, bringing into the world another descendant of King Mark, as befits a queen. As for Tristan, if he has already gone to rot before we got to him, he must be laid at the bottom of the sea, with a stone tied to his neck. Or burnt. Yes, that would be best. And the castle of Carhaing should go up in flames with him. And soon, before the ship from Tintagel sails into the bay. Instead of a tomb of beryl—a heap of stinking, smouldering rubble. Instead of a beautiful legend—an ugly truth. The truth about a selfish infatuation, about stepping over dead bodies, about trampling the feelings of other people and the harm done to them. Branwen? Do you really want to stop us, us the Knights of Truth? I repeat: get out of our way. We have nothing against you. We do not want to kill you. There is no need. You have played your role, a rather contemptible one, now you can go. Go back to the shore, where they are waiting for you. You, too, Sir… What is your name?”
I was looking at their eyes and their hands, and I thought that the old Hwyrddyddwg was right: their eyes and hands indeed showed their intentions. For in their eyes there was cruelty and determination while their hands held swords. I didn’t have my sword, that same sword I had offered to Iseult of the White Hands. Well, I thought, tough titties. After all, it’s not a big deal to die fighting. It won’t be the first time, will it?
I am Morholt! The one who is Decision.
“Your name, sir,” repeated Marjadoc.
“Tristan,” I said.
The chaplain appeared out of nowhere, sprang from the ground like a pukka. Groaning with the effort, he threw across the hall a huge, two-handed sword. Marjadoc leapt at me, raising his sword. For a moment the swords were up in the air—the Marjadoc’s and the one flying towards my outstretched hands. It seemed I could not move quickly enough. But I did.
I cut Marjadoc under his arm, with all the strength, in half-swing. The blade went in diagonally, as far as the line dividing the fields on his coat of arms. I turned back, letting the sword slide out. Marjadoc fell down, right under the feet of the other three who were running towards me. Anoeth tripped on the body, which meant I could easily crack his head. And I did.
Gwydolwyn and Deheu rushed at me from both sides. I stepped in between them, whirling round with the stretched sword like a spinning top. They had to back off. Their blades were a good arm’s length shorter than mine. Kneeling down, I cut Gwydolwyn on the thigh. I felt the blade grate on bone. Deheu swung his sword and tried to get to me from the side. But he slipped on the blood and fell on one knee. His eyes were full of fear now, begging for mercy, but I found none. I didn’t even look for it. It’s impossible to parry a thrust with a two-hander delivered from close range. If you cannot move out of its way, the blade will sink two-thirds of its length till it stops on the two little iron wings placed there especially for this purpose. And it did.
Believe me or not, but none of them let out as much as a squeak. While I…I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I dropped the sword on the floor.
“Morholt!” Branwen ran and clung to me, her body shuddering with waves of terror that were slowly dying away.
“It’s all right now, dear. It’s all over,” I said, stroking her hair, but at the same time looking at the chaplain kneeling by the dying Gwydolwyn.
“Thank you for the sword, monk.”
The chaplain lifted his head and looked me in the eyes. Where had he sprung from? Had he been here all the time? But if he had been…then who was he? Who the devil was he?
“It’s all in God’s hands,” he said, and bent over the dying Gwydolwyn. “…Et lux perpetua luceat ei…”
Still, he didn’t convince me. He didn’t convince me with the first saying, nor with the second.
Then we found Iseult.
In the baths; her face pressed to the well. Clean, pedantic Iseult of the White Hands, could not have done it anywhere else but on the stone floor by the gutter meant for draining away water. Now this gutter glistened dark clotted red along its entire length.
She had opened her veins on both hands. With expertise. Along the forearms, on the inner side, and then, to make sure, on her wrists with the sign of the cross. We would not have been able to save her even if we’d found her earlier.
Her hands were even whiter than before.
And then, believe me or not, I realised that the rudderless boat was leaving the shore. Without us. Without Morholt of Ulster. Without Branwen of Cornwall. But it was not empty.
Farewell, Iseult. Farewell. For ever. Be it in Tir Na Nog, or in Avalon, the whiteness of your hands will last for centuries. For eternity.
Farewell, Iseult.
We left Carhaing before Caherdin’s arrival. We didn’t want to talk to him, or to anyone who might have been on that ship from Tintagel. For us, the legend was over. We were not interested in what the minstrels were going to do with it.
The sky was overcast again, it was raining, a drizzle. Brittany, the usual stuff. There was a road ahead of us: the road through the dunes towards that rocky beach. I didn’t want to think what to do next. It didn’t matter.
“I love you , Morholt,” said Branwen without looking at me. “I love you whether you want it or not. It’s like an illness. A weariness that drains me of my free will, that pulls me into the deep. I’ve lost myself within you, Morholt, and I shall never find myself the way I was before. If you respond to my love, you, too, will lose yourself; you will perish, drown in the deeps and never find the old Morholt again. So think well before you give me your answer.”
The ship stood by the rocky shore. They were unloading something. Someone was shouting, cursing in Welsh, hurrying the men. The sails were being rolled. The sails…
“It’s a terrible sickness, this love,” carried on Branwen, also looking at the sails. ” La maladie, as they say in the south, on the mainland. La maladie d’espoir, the sickness of hope. The selfish infatuation, bringing harm to everyone around. I love you, Morholt, selfishly, blindly. I’m not worried about the fate of others, whom I may unwittingly draw into the whirl of my love, hurt, or trample upon. Isn’t it terrible? If you respond to my love… Think well, Morholt, before you give me your answer.”
The sails…
“We are like Tristan and Iseult,” said Branwen, and her voice came dangerously close to breaking point. ” La maladie… What shall become of us, Morholt? What will happen to us? Will we, too, be joined finally by bushes of hawthorn and brier-rose growing on our graves? Think well, Morholt, before you answer.”
I was not going to do any thinking. I suspected Branwen knew as much. I saw it in her eyes when she turned her face towards me.
She knew we’d been sent to Carhaing to save the legend. And we had. The simplest way. By beginning a new one.
“I know how you feel, Branwen,” I said, looking at the sails, “for I feel exactly the same. It’s a terrible sickness. Terrible, incurable malady. I know how you feel. For I, too, have fallen ill.”
Branwen smiled, and it seemed to me that the sun had broken through the low-hanging clouds. That’s what this smile was like. Believe me or not.