Tristan and Iseult by JD Smith Read Free Book Online

rolling me back onto the bed. He sits up, lets out a long growling yawn, and staggers across the room. He relieves himself in a bucket in the corner. With my eyes on his back, I fumble for the dagger, to conceal it in my skirts, but the folds of the sheets are a labyrinth in that moment and I cannot find it.
    ‘You are less attractive, Iseult, when you are compliant.’ The splashing in the bucket ceases, and he turns to face me. ‘You have no fire in you. You succumb to me as you succumb to your mother.’
    He nods in the direction of the door for me to leave. The dagger … I pause for a heartbeat, but he is watching me, so I hurry across the room as he takes up my position on the bed.
    ‘Or perhaps,’ he says, ‘you have more fire in you than I first gave credit for.’
    I stop. Dread overcomes me and I cannot breathe. I am facing the door and I feel myself grow cold. Footsteps behind me, then the cold of my own dagger presses against my throat.
    Morholt whispers in my ear: ‘Your father’s?’
    Unable to nod for fear of cutting myself, I say, ‘It is, my Lord.’
    ‘I remember it. Did you intend to kill me, Iseult?’
    ‘I did.’
    He laughs at that and drops the knife from my neck. ‘Take it.’
    I turn and see that he offers me the handle of the dagger. I grip the long bone handle. He lets go and spreads his arms wide.
    ‘Kill me,’ he says, laughing. ‘You want to kill me, so do it .’
    When I do not move, his jovial coaxing turns to anger.
    ‘I did not think so. I would have you killed if I did not want to whelp my sons on you. Your mother should have raised you to know more of the duty you owe your master. And do you know who that master is?’
    My face is now covered in his spittle and I feel my hands trembling. Every part of me wants to push the dagger forward, deep into his belly, and watch his life fade away. I hate him for my father’s death, for his greed, for his treatment of others, but most of all I cannot bear the thought of his naked body pressed upon mine.
    ‘You are, my Lord.’
    ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘I am. I command the warriors. I have the strength of men to rule southern Ireland. And soon I will have a son with the blood of kings of old. Do you understand, you stupid, infantile creature? You are your father’s daughter, and that means only one thing to me: your blood is valued more highly than anyone else, and your fertile womb higher still.’
    I nod.
    ‘Keep the dagger,’ he says, smiling. ‘It will make you more interesting as a wife.’

Chapter 11
     
    Tristan
     
    I recall how I clasped Rufus’ hand more tightly on the pommel of his sword and leant my forehead on our adjoined hands for a brief moment. How bitterness and frustration escaped my lips in a groaning sigh. His face was white and cold. Serene, I thought, in the early morning haze the new day drags.
    Now he takes passage with the ferryman. To claim his rightful place in the feasting hall of kings.
    We pass markers telling the distance to home. I take little notice as the roads bend and wind their way through forests of oak. A dozen men travel with me in uneasy silence. They are hit hard by our loss and the uncertainty of what will come.
    We are in Kernow now, I think. Dips and curves in the ground are familiar. At the head of our company a cart rumbles along the old Roman road. Therein Rufus’ body lies wrapped in linen, his sword heavy upon his chest. A box of coins from Geraint to Mark rests beside him. Geraint claims it is a gift. In reality it is compensation for the life of Mark’s son. For the heir to Kernow’s throne.
    I ponder on what will come now Rufus is dead, how our paths in this life will change, anything to take my mind from picturing the look upon Mark’s face when he discovers the fate of his son. Mark has a bastard child whom he may put forward as future ruler. Then there is my elder cousin, Oswyn, who rightfully has claim. But Mark’s bastard is a sick whelp only