The Bramble and the Rose: A Historical Novel

By Sanford Leffler

In fifth century Britain, a baby is born to his dying mother, the heartbroken queen of Lyonesse. Before she takes her last breath, she makes his newly-appointed guardian, Rohalt, promise to raise her son, Tristan, in secrecy until he can avenge his father, defeat the usurper, reclaim his birthright, and liberate his people. Moments later, the queen lies lifeless as tiny Tristan and his guardian vanish into the darkness.

Tristan has grown into a moody dreamer, trained as a warrior. Meanwhile, Princess Isolde has become famous throughout Ireland for her healing potions. Tristan, now a king, is severely wounded in a ferocious battle. He is brought by aides to Ireland to seek help from the legendary Isolde. She helps heal him and they fall in love. But it is only a matter of time before they discover if she has truly saved his life or tragically sealed their fates.

In this medieval historical tale, a lord and an Irish princess brought together by her healing powers must find a way to unite through their loveeven if it is in death. In life, they could never be united. In death, they would never be separated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532015625

Sanford Leffler

Sanford Leffler earned a PhD in Forest Biology at the University of Washington. After several years teaching high school through college graduate levels, he transitioned into a role as a social worker while singing with the Seattle Symphony Chorale in his spare time. Now retired, he lives in Washington State.

Book preview

BOOK I

CHAPTER 1

LYONNESSE LOST

A land as shrouded in mystery and legend as with the grey clouds that hung eternally over her wave-washed shores, Lyonesse was gradually being swallowed up by the very sea upon whose swells floated the ships which carried out her commercial bidding. Lyonessean elders told of times not long past when but a single island lay a day’s and night’s sail from Land’s End. The ever-doubting young knew three islands and refused to believe that narrowing beaches and widening gulfs proved the old tales.

A land of energetic, productive people with a rich history and a strategic present, the proud guardian of the westernmost one of the old Roman network of lighthouses, Lyonesse provided early warnings of impending Irish or Scandian intrigue. In return, she was a favored recipient of trade with the kingdoms of Ambrosius Aurelianus’ fledgling Federation. Fish abounded off her shores, sheep grew fat and woolly in her lush meadows, and her skilled craftsmen exported fine cloth, mortar, and carved building stone to the mainland. A proud member of the Federation, Lyonesse offered her resources, her energies, and the blood of her young men to insure the survival and, inevitably, the prosperity of the interdependent kingdoms loyal to the Roman Party.

Just eight years earlier, at Wipped Estuary, Ambrosius led his native army to a stand-off against the much larger force of the german trespasser Hengist. After some fifteen years of indecisiveness, Hengist, in order to insure his power-base, knew he had to push through to the Severn and isolate Ambrosius’ growing legions in the southwest before their successes drew allies from the north and west. Every Saxon, Jutish, and Anglish leader was pressed into the fray, including Hengist’s own son Aesc and the venerable leaders of the Celtic Party Vitalinus and his son Vitalinus the Younger. The elder Vitalinus, better known by his title Vortigern, had first invited the germans onto British soil as mercenaries in exchange for land, only to embroil himself in their treacherous connivances. The Wipped battle was but a bloody draw. Ambrosius witnessed a dozen of his finest field commanders die around him in the carnage.

A lengthy truce was arranged and an uneasy peace maintained.

But Hengist was disgraced by his failure to achieve absolute victory and Vortigern fled. Ambrosius’ fury at the Celtic high-leader’s cowardice drove him to pursue the old man deep into his native Welsh mountains far west of the battle site. After even his own kin refused him shelter, Vortigern sought sanctuary in a church. Such hypocrisy so enraged pious Ambrosius that he personally set the wooden structure ablaze, burning the traitor to death.

Vortigern’s execution made Ambrosius a national hero to the Britons and a feared enemy to the german federates. Thus, it was Ambrosius who led the British army when, once again, the germans broke the uneasy truce. This time, in the chalk hills above the River Wallop, Ambrosius’ force, trained to perfection in the finest Roman tradition, scored a decisive victory. Two of Ambrosius’ most trusted commanders, Mark, King of Cornwall and Prince Rivalen of Lyonesse, showed exceptional skill and bravery in the pitched battle near the bank of the river dried to dust beneath the hot summer sun. Each returned home in glory to bask in the adoration of his own people. Proud Ambrosius was elected by acclimation as Warlord, the Duke of all Britain. Loyal Mark again took up residence at double-walled Dore Fortress to oversee the remote reaches of the southwest peninsula and the expanses of ocean between Cornwall and Gaul. And, brave Rivalen, tall, blond grandson of the legendary Pictish chief Drust mac Earp and son of the current aging ruler, sailed to his island realm and the undying adulation of her people.

A deserved hero’s welcome, indeed, did Rivalen receive. Word of the great victory at the Wallop preceeded his return to Lyonesse and his arrival was anticipated. The old galleon relived her former glory days as she easily breasted the difficult currents around Peninnis Head to course gracefully into the quiet, safe haven of The Pool. Before the tired crew, renewed by the excitement of being home once more, had even furled the galleon’s immense sails, the quay filled to overflowing with the people of Lyonesse. Gentry, shepherd, and beggar alike jostled for the best position to celebrate their prince’s homecoming. It was a Triumph harkening back to those that honored Rome’s caesars. In their excitement, two boys accidently fell off the dock into the water only to swim out to the approaching galleon, hauled aboard, and be reunited with their fathers before all the other children awaiting the docking.

In the midst of the throng, resplendent in flowing white gown and purple mantle, her loose, long golden hair cascading over her shoulders to the matching girdle at her waist, stood Blodegwen, betrothed of Prince Rivalen. She, too, searched the faces of the crew and soldiers as they poured from the ship. Her pulse sped up when, at last, she saw her beloved’s tanned features. This night, there would be feasts. Tomorrow: tourneys, honors, and awards. But now was the time for renewals of vows, reunions of families, being together.

Yet, joy was not universal throughout the Federation.

Jealousy and hatred ate through every fibre of Morcant’s being. He, too, returned from service at Wallop. Word, too, had preceded his arrival home. A king in charge of supplies while others, no more his betters, reaped the glories of victory. No glory for a quartermaster. A stony, wind-tortured land, Surleon, her overtaxed people too immersed in eking out an existence than in wasting limited resources on expensive celebrations. A few dignitaries witnessed the arrival of Morcant’s ship, because they had to rather than that they wanted to. So, Morcant travelled the few leagues to Chun Fortress with his small security force. The fort’s cold stone ramparts swallowed up the final vestiges of Morcant’s sanity. Growing madness was behind the revenge plans in his head.

Three years passed. Eventful though nothing of world-shaking consequence. For the island-kingdom of Lyonesse, however, much occurred to add to that land’s history. The king was dying. A son of Pictland, through a union of state between Pictland and Lyonesse, the king’s father, Drust mac Earp, had led his land from remaining an outlying, backward Roman colony, merely a depository for exiles, to a nation that took her place as proudly as any in the new Federation. No country would stand in Drust’s way as he built a benevolent powerbase. Particularly, he interfered with the Irish ships sailing to collect tribute from Cornwall, a tradition going back some three generations. Ireland, at first, took Lyonesse for granted, as she always had before, but soon learned to avoid the scrappy kingdom after losing several of her best sea-going curraghs. War with Lyonesse would only attract British notice and Ireland was too embroiled in her own internal strife and an increase in Norse raids to risk Britain’s attention.

Thus, Ireland never attacked or raided Lyonesse. Let Cornwall continue to bow to Ireland’s outrageous demands. Lyonesse would not. Diplomatic missions by his father and, later, Prince Rivalen himself, to reconcile political differences between Cornwall and Lyonesse failed. Rivalen’s efforts at diplomacy were poorly received at Mark’s court though the two allies at Wallop maintained a personal friendship. At one of the pre-Wallop sojourns, Rivalen had met Mark’s sister Blodegwen. Union became inevitable. Even if he had to defy his father, Rivalen would marry Blodegwen. However, war intruded. But, once the battle was won, the union did take place with a spectacular ceremony. The king resented Blodegwen’s presence at his court.

However, Drust could not risk his son’s displeasure or that of the adulating people were he to force the issue publicly and oppose the marriage. He did not attend the wedding which otherwise numbered among its guests some of the most famous rulers and other nobles of the Federation. The stubborn king would not make peace with his equally obstinate son. Thus, never did the two share one another’s presence the entire two years after Rivalen’s return from Wallop. Finally, though, a debilitating illness struck the king one winter and worsened beyond his ability to recover. Only when confined to what would ultimately become his death-bed did he summon Rivalen and Blodegwen to his private chambers. Rivalen prepared himself as well as he could for his father’s end, glad that, finally, they could make a peace. Nonetheless, he did not expect to see his father so wan and deteriorating and he wept openly as soon as he entered the heavily curtained chamber, Blodegwen a discreet distance behind. With immense effort, the mortally ill sovereign had been able to prop himself up on cushions, thus projecting a hint of his office’s dignity. With a voice hoarse from interminable coughing bouts, yet still ringing with power, the monarch bade his son approach, Here, to my side, my son.

Rivalen hesitated but, finally, went to the man who had shunned him for so long, Father, thank you for granting . . .

I have no time for amenities, the king interrupted. There is something important I must say to you before my Lord takes me. You are a hero to our people and I am proud of you. I needed to let you know that.

Thank you, father, Rivalen replied quietly as he sat carefully at the edge of the bed. I have longed to hear that you are proud of me.

Do you know why I opposed your marriage?

Yes, but I have held out hope that, eventually, you would give us your blessing.

Ireland threatens the Federation’s peace. As long as Cornwall continues to pay that hell-spawned tribute, Lyonesse is vulnerable. Mark disserves himself and us by bowing to Irish will. You further angered me by taking the coward’s own sister as wife. Where would your loyalties lie should Lyonesse need an ally?

Sire, Blodegwen said, crossing the room to the bed. I cannot speak for my brother but I do know where his loyalties lie. Except for the accursed tribute to Ireland, Mark is true to the Federation. Should Lyonesse require Cornwall’s aid, even against Irish invaders, Mark will gladly give it. I know it.

Still, Mark is a coward for not resisting the Irish, the king emphasized, noting in the blond woman the uneasiness he wanted his blunt answer to achieve.

Someone other than I must not yield to the Irish demand lest Ireland may become emboldened enough, once more, to tie the Picts with the germans against Britain, thus undoing all my work.

Father, you curse your own Pictish heritage? Rivalen asked.

Who better than a Pict to know what Picts would do?

The king pulled himself up even farther against his supporting cushions, Hear me, my son. Britain is at risk. Your victory at Wallop will have been for naught unless every foreign power respects British strength. None can exact tribute without, at the same time, lacking designs on greater gain. Mark’s weakness can ruin the Federation. I had hoped you would be the champion to end Britain’s shame. When you took Mark’s own sister as wife, my hopes were dashed.

Father, there . . .

Do not interrupt! I am dying. I know it. My influence failed to end that vile levy. Mark ignored my warnings and spurned my offers of aid. Now it is up to you. Swear, my son. Swear to me on your honor that you will continue my effort to end the tribute.

Crossing himself and raising his hands to Heaven, Rivalen said with great emotion, As God is my Witness, I do so swear.

The king slumped down a bit in the bed and breathed a needed sigh, the first in many weeks so deep without him lapsing into great spasms of coughing. He reached out feebly and grasped the hands of both Rivalen and Blodegwen, Now my conscience is clear. I bless your union. You will soon be King and Queen of Lyonesse and I can die happy.

The young couple remained with the old monarch for some time. His suffering ended at last two days later.

The great state funeral was attended by many Federation luminaries. Within the week, the same audience celebrated a coronation. Now it was Rivalen’s time to rule. He had to establish his credentials at the courts of neighboring kingdoms before pleading his case to Ambrosius himself for a punitive invasion of Ireland. That would not come until much later.

By late autumn, three years after Wallop, Blodegwen announced to a doting husband and a delighted populace that she was with child. Despite an outwardly healthy robustness, Blodegwen was sickly and Rivalen wanted her to remain in seclusion during her pregnancy to rest. But, though fragile of body, Blodegwen was strong and determined of will. Her lady-in-waiting, Helavar, had to keep her mistress from overexerting herself. Blodegwen insisted upon attending most of the frequent courts of justice. In her sixth month, at one of these, a hearing involving a woman seeking protection from an abusive husband, Blodegwen got into a heated exchange with a magistrate attempting to defend the husband despite all the evidence against him. Amidst the verbal sparring, Blodegwen clutched wildly at her abdomen and fainted. Thereafter, Rivalen restricted her to her chambers and garden. He would risk no further chance with the well-being of his wife and their first-born. The nation prospered, the people had a just and honest leader in their king, the seneschal and his good wife bought land on a hill overlooking the city, and the queen’s belly grew great with the new life within her.

Three years gave Morcant time to plan. Trade in tin and porcelain clay provided him wealth though little of the prosperity trickled down to the general populace. Windswept Surleon offered little else of interest to any but the most desperate or indiscriminating of free-lance raiders and was, thus, largely spared outside harassment so Morcant could direct his energies toward his plots. Purposely he cut himself off from the outside world, confining himself to dark-curtained chambers and appointing ambassadors to represent Surleon at meetings of state. These representatives often found themselves hard-pressed to assure their hosts that they did indeed do the bidding of a living king and not some phantom. Likewise, surrogates carried on day-to-day domestic dealings of his government. Only Morcant’s closest aides and servants had contact with him and he did not trust even them with his plans and ideas. But Morcant, despite his cadaverous gauntness, remained in excellent physical health, regardless of persistent rumors of his illness or, even, demise.

In the winter, three-and-one-half years after the Battle of Wallop, his plan was ready for the procurement phase. A treasury enriched by three years of stinginess permitted generous incentives to the the hand-selected army Morcant had recruited. The next few months saw his loyal and heavily-bribed advisors training the elite force. Simple intent: Morcant would assume rule of Lyonesse following the death of her king, his cousin. Since Rivalen prospered, Morcant had to resort to treachery to achieve his goal. Invasion was out of the question. Not even Morcant could garner the support or manpower to conquer Lyonesse. And Cornwall would surely send a retaliatory mission. No, subterfuge was the tool of the Raven-Lord of Surleon.

Visitors from Surleon arrived in Lyonesse. Flying Surleon’s flag, an old weather-worn galley pulled into The Pool one crisp, late March afternoon. Her only passengers disembarked quickly: a herald and his small entourage of servants and bodyguards. So closed-mouthed were the Surleonese sailors about the herald’s mission that gossip-starved Lyonessean dockworkers soon abandoned them to their shipboard duties. The herald bore a leather diplomatic pouch supported by a stout chain across his blue and maroon doublet as he and his retinue crossed the square before the fitted-stone buildings where King Rivalen held court.

Dutiful guards barred the herald’s way. Halt and identify yourself, the mailed Captain of the Lyonessean Guard challenged according to protocol, though he certainly recognized the visitors’ ensignations. I bear a message for His Grace, King Rivalen, from Morcant, Liege-lord of Surleon, the herald announced.

Guard, said Rohalt, coming to meet the richly livried party the watch had reported. I recognize the Raven Emblem of Surleon on this herald’s diplomatic pouch. Addressing the herald, he stated, Lyonesse offers her hospitality to you and your aides, sir. I am Seneschal of this land. What message do you bear?

Greetings and long life, my lord, returned the herald, following the time-honored if not tedious pomp of protocol. My message is for good King Rivalen alone. If you would be so kind as to present me .

Rohalt bowed slightly, an act the herald returned more deeply.

This final ritual accomplished, the great pivotstone protecting the entrance into the courtyard swung open and Rohalt led the herald and two of his guards across the flagstone-paved court, up three of the carved granite steps for which Lyonessean masons were reknowned, and into Rivalen’s presence in the Hall of Justice. Sire, the herald began his well-rehearsed presentation after another deep bow. My lord, your cousin Morcant, sends his greetings to you and your honored consort. He regrets not having been able to attend your noble father’s final rites.

My thanks to your liege-lord, good herald, Rivalen responded without rising from his massive but comfortable oak throne. What is it that requires a special emissary to convey my cousin’s message to me?

Majesty, I bear grave news and a plea for Lyonesse’s aid to my threatened homeland. In this pouch is a letter from my lord Morcant which I beg you to read. The herald broke the pouch’s ornate seal and drew forth a parchment map and a scroll which he handed to Rivalen.

The young sovereign recalled Wallop four years back. He had heard nothing from his cousin since the battle. He never understood Morcant’s reaction when he proposed him for the post of Chief Quartermaster for the entire British Army. Rivalen knew the slightly built man was poor soldier-material but had a wonderful head for organization and figures. Someone of ability and trust had to manage the supplies for so ambitious an operation as the Wallop Campaign. Rivalen himself brought his cousin to Ambrosius’ attention. An Honor Guard relieved Morcant of his field command and led him behind the lines. Morcant’s unstable mind saw the new duty as punishment and ridicule. In fact, everyone marveled at his meticulous regard to detail and efficiency. Unfortunately, bitterness blinded Morcant to the praise heaped upon him. Rivalen never noticed his cousin’s feelings.

Rivalen unrolled the scroll and read an alarming communication. Its carefully scripted Latin was unmistakably in Morcant’s hand:

"Cousin, I beseech you. My agents inform me of plans for invasion of my land by treacherous Irish mercenaries. The godless ones further besmirch our British honor by disguising themselves as Lyonesseans. Even as I write this missive, I understand they converge upon a ravine in the moorlands west of Chun. A phalanx of Lyonesse’s crack troops led by their own illustrious and battle-skilled king will turn back the invasion and restore blessed peace to Surleon and her revered ally. The map I supply should serve well. Until I join my beloved cousin in glorious victory, I remain Morcant, Raven of Surleon."

Rivalen reread the scroll before summoning Rohalt. The seneschal entered to find his sovereign deeply troubled. Before he could inquire, Rivalen ordered him, Aid the good herald and his party toward their departure. Then summon our generals immediately. Sighing deeply, he added, Lyonesse is at war!

Far into the night, Rivalen met with his three most trusted generals and his seneschal. The Hall of Justice echoed to the tense planning as the five men pored over the parchment map. All shared qualms about the veracity of the situation. Rivalen argued, We cannot doubt my cousin’s loyalty to the Federation. No reports have issued from Surleon in years, so we lack reliable information on her defense capabilities. We are forced to take the message at its face value. Should Ireland win a foothold in Britain bolder than the Cornish tribute she exacts, she could extend her power eastward and renew her old alliances with the germans. Gentlemen, we must not chance that.

A grizzled veteran who had fought at Rivalen’s grandfather’s side countered, Sire, to deploy a large enough force would leave our land defenseless against any invasion here.

Friend Ellrus, you forget your history. Had not the sons of old Cunedag allied with my grandfather, the Irish might indeed covet Lyonesse. As it is, they dare not disturb our peace. We are safe from Ireland but my cousin’s homeland apparently is not. We must insure that there is no further Irish adventurism in Britain. I swore to my own father on his death-bed that I would work to that end. I propose that we muster a force of seventy five plus officers. Sixty will march under you Ellrus, Blismelen, and me.

And the other fifteen, sire? The question came from a blond giant from Gweal on the northwest island. He had been a mere stripling at Wallop but his strength and courage quickly elevated him to a command-role.

You will lead them, General Didorr, the king answered. You will sail the day after we have left to act as a precautionary back-up.

And I, sire? asked Rohalt.

Yours is a most crucial mission, my friend. You must govern Lyonesse in my absence.

Your Majesty…, the burly Gaul protested.

I know of no one better than my noble seneschal to serve as Regent while I am in battle, the king interrupted. You know the complexities of State better than any, including myself. I can rest more easily knowing my kingdom is in such capable hands.

Faced with the inevitability of the king’s decision, the disappointed warrior bowed his acceptance. The meeting closed once lists of supplies and conscriptees were drawn up.

A weary, careworn monarch finally made his way to the royal chamber just as the first glimmers of an icey dawn cast foreboding shadows across the courtyard. Blodegwen lifted her bedcovers to admit her husband. He merely laid beside her with his hand on her great belly to feel the firm heartbeat of the life within. An hour of silent companionship and Blodegwen helped him into his chainmail, cuirasse, and helmet. Hand-in-hand they made their way to the head of the road to the harbor, their matching beryl signet rings reflecting stray beams from a cold morning sun that occasionally broke through unfriendly clouds. Not until the three ships passed from view around Peninnis Head did Blodegwen’s tears flow.

All day and all night, the ships sailed to Surleon, then followed the coast northward from Land’s End. Late the next morning, leaving a half-dozen sailors to guard the ships, Rivalen, his two generals, and force of fifty-four set out on the hard, uphill, half-day march that would bring them near the fantastically-weathered granite outcrop identified on the map as Cairn Kendizhek. They could not have imagined that, once they were out of sight of the broad, white sand beach, a squad of Surleonese assassins stole aboard the ships, murdered the guards, and set the vessels afire.

Morcant had chosen his battlefield well and Rivalen, for all his experience, should have been more cautious. He simply could not conceive of his own cousin, the son of his own mother’s sister, as being traitorous. Shortly before dusk, the Lyonesseans entered a steep-walled ravine that wound tightly toward its head so that, within barely several paces, the men no longer saw its mouth. They proceeded slowly, scouts to report back frequently. Two scouts climbed to the rim on either side of the ravine. Swift, silent shafts insured that these luckless runners never returned with their reports. Before the fifth deployment of scouts left the ravine floor, a blast from a ram’s horn at the cliff top above rent the air. A rain of arrows and sling stones felled the scouts and those soldiers at the end of the column nearest the ravine’s mouth. Nowhere to flee and cover on the ravine floor was but a few bare bushes along the narrow, shallow creek. Any man attempting to escape up or down the gulley died instantly from a stone or arrow. Steep walls prohibited any attempted offense toward the attackers. One by one, the Lyonesseans died to a man, leaving only Rivalen and the half-dozen nearest him still standing. Rivalen realized too late that he was being spared the fate suffered by his men. In desperation, the survivors formed a tight circle, shields over their heads.

Then, painful silence. But for their own pulses pounding in their ears. No birds’ songs, no skittering pebbles down the cliff face, no rustling branches of shrubs that had only barely begun to leaf out. The devastating quiet terrified the warriors, more so than seeing the bodies of their slain comrades strewn all about them. Rivalen’s honored companions, many veterans with him from Wallop, lay dead. Ellrus, veteran of a dozen campaigns: pierced through the neck and chest with arrows. Blismelen, the Yellow Wolf: blood from his stone-shattered right temple stained his golden beard. Rivalen knew he would never again gaze upon Blodegwen’s loveliness. Or see his child… . Dusk dropped like a final curtain. An owl screeched. Muffled at first, then more definitely, the sound of hob-nailed boots against winter-worn leaves and loose stones echoed up the ravine. Shields and swords at the ready, the resolute survivors faced their approaching destiny. Torchlight blinded the Lyonesseans as a final death squad closed in on them with clubs and axes and the gasps of dying men mixed with commands and responses barked through the cold, still air. Rivalen found himself separated from the rest of his men by a special squad, each member aiming a sword at him. First one and then another lunged forward. Then, the men pulled back, leaving Rivalen stabbed in each arm. He sank to his knees by the edge of the body-littered creek, blood dripping from twitching fingers.

Individual torches resolved from the disabling glare as flickering spots that closed in on this scene of carnage. As he approached Rivalen, the leader, his chainmail and bronze cuirasse making him shine in the light like a beacon, addressed the wounded king, Hail, Cousin Rivalen.

Blinking his eyes hard through his pain, Rivalen recognized the raven-emblem on the ceremonial bronze shield even as its bearer removed his black-plumed helmet, Morcant! What treachery is this? Are you indeed allied with the Irish?

Treachery, dear cousin? I need no Irish aid to prove myself your better, my strong sovereign. You humiliated me at Wallop. You saw to it that I was not to carry Ambrosius’ banners, only to issue them to others from a wagon.

"I knew you were no warrior but your work was