When Tristan came back to that land, King Mark and all his Barony were
mourning; for the King of Ireland had manned a fleet to ravage
Cornwall, should King Mark refuse, as he had refused these fifteen
years, to pay a tribute his fathers had paid. Now that year this King
had sent to Tintagel, to carry his summons, a giant knight; the
Morholt, whose sister he had wed, and whom no man had yet been able to
overcome: so King Mark had summoned all the barons of his land to
Council, by letters sealed.
On the day assigned, when the barons were gathered in hall, and when
the King had taken his throne, the Morholt said these things:
“King Mark, hear for the last time the summons of the King of Ireland,
my lord. He arraigns you to pay at last that which you have owed so
long, and because you have refused it too long already he bids you
give over to me this day three hundred youths and three hundred
maidens drawn by lot from among the Cornish folk. But if so be that
any would prove by trial of combat that the King of Ireland receives
this tribute without right, I will take up his wager. Which among you,
my Cornish lords, will fight to redeem this land?”
The barons glanced at each other but all were silent.
Then Tristan knelt at the feet of King Mark and said:
“Lord King, by your leave I will do battle.”
And in vain would King Mark have turned him from his purpose,
thinking, how could even valour save so young a knight? But he threw
down his gage to the Morholt, and the Morholt took up the gage.
On the appointed day he had himself clad for a great feat of arms in a
hauberk and in a steel helm, and he entered a boat and drew to the
islet of St. Samson’s, where the knights were to fight each to each
alone. Now the Morholt had hoisted to his mast a sail of rich purple,
and coming fast to land, he moored his boat on the shore. But Tristan
pushed off his own boat adrift with his feet, and said:
“One of us only will go hence alive. One boat will serve.”
And each rousing the other to the fray they passed into the isle.
No man saw the sharp combat; but thrice the salt sea-breeze had wafted
or seemed to waft a cry of fury to the land, when at last towards the
hour of noon the purple sail showed far off; the Irish boat appeared
from the island shore, and there rose a clamour of “the Morholt!” When
suddenly, as the boat grew larger on the sight and topped a wave, they
saw that Tristan stood on the prow holding a sword in his hand. He
leapt ashore, and as the mothers kissed the steel upon his feet he
cried to the Morholt’s men:
“My lords of Ireland, the Morholt fought well. See here, my sword is
broken and a splinter of it stands fast in his head. Take you that
steel, my lords; it is the tribute of Cornwall.”
Then he went up to Tintagel and as he went the people he had freed
waved green boughs, and rich cloths were hung at the windows. But when
Tristan reached the castle with joy, songs and joy-bells sounding
about him, he drooped in the arms of King Mark, for the blood ran from
his wounds.
The Morholt’s men, they landed in Ireland quite cast down. For when
ever he came back into Whitehaven the Morholt had been wont to take
joy in the sight of his clan upon the shore, of the Queen his sister,
and of his niece Iseult the Fair. Tenderly had they cherished him of
old, and had he taken some wound, they healed him, for they were
skilled in balms and potions. But now their magic was vain, for he lay
dead and the splinter of the foreign brand yet stood in his skull till
Iseult plucked it out and shut it in a chest.
From that day Iseult the Fair knew and hated the name of Tristan of
Lyonesse.
But over in Tintagel Tristan languished, for there trickled a
poisonous blood from his wound. The doctors found that the Morholt had
thrust into him a poisoned barb, and as their potions and their
theriac could never heal him they left him in God’s hands. So hateful
a stench came from his wound that all his dearest friends fled him,
all save King Mark, Gorvenal and Dinas of Lidan. They always could
stay near his couch because their love overcame their abhorrence. At
last Tristan had himself carried into a boat apart on the shore; and
lying facing the sea he awaited death, for he thought: “I must die;
but it is good to see the sun and my heart is still high. I would like
to try the sea that brings all chances. … I would have the sea bear me
far off alone, to what land no matter, so that it heal me of my
wound.”
He begged so long that King Mark accepted his desire. He bore him into
a boat with neither sail nor oar, and Tristan wished that his harp
only should be placed beside him: for sails he could not lift, nor oar
ply, nor sword wield; and as a seaman on some long voyage casts to the
sea a beloved companion dead, so Gorvenal pushed out to sea that boat
where his dear son lay; and the sea drew him away.
For seven days and seven nights the sea so drew him; at times to charm
his grief, he harped; and when at last the sea brought him near a
shore where fishermen had left their port that night to fish far out,
they heard as they rowed a sweet and strong and living tune that ran
above the sea, and feathering their oars they listened immovable.
In the first whiteness of the dawn they saw the boat at large: she
went at random and nothing seemed to live in her except the voice of
the harp. But as they neared, the air grew weaker and died; and when
they hailed her Tristan’s hands had fallen lifeless on the strings
though they still trembled. The fishermen took him in and bore him
back to port, to their lady who was merciful and perhaps would heal
him.
It was that same port of Whitehaven where the Morholt lay, and their
lady was Iseult the Fair.
She alone, being skilled in philtres, could save Tristan, but she
alone wished him dead. When Tristan knew himself again (for her art
restored him) he knew himself to be in the land of peril. But he was
yet strong to hold his own and found good crafty words. He told a tale
of how he was a seer that had taken passage on a merchant ship and
sailed to Spain to learn the art of reading all the stars,—of how
pirates had boarded the ship and of how, though wounded, he had fled
into that boat. He was believed, nor did any of the Morholt’s men know
his face again, so hardly had the poison used it. But when, after
forty days, Iseult of the Golden Hair had all but healed him, when
already his limbs had recovered and the grace of youth returned, he
knew that he must escape, and he fled and after many dangers he came
again before Mark the King.