Chapter 3: The Sweet Willows Grow

Galahad does try to be kinder to Tristan. For love of his sister, he tries.

It’s not easy when everything about Tristan is so terrible. His soft, measured speech or the way he takes Iseult’s hand to lead her over a makeshift bridge crafted from a felled log—all of it makes Galahad grit his teeth and sink nails into the soft skin of his own palm.

Galahad finds it all terribly grating. Iseult does not, if her tinkling laughter and soft smiles are anything to go by. He bites his tongue more often than he does not, but there are moments when he can't help but make cutting comments at Tristan’s expense, much to Iseult’s displeasure.

And still they grow and grow, and those around them become less indulgent upon their play. Whispers follow them, tuts and scolds that say their parents’ indulgence is too great. The force of their affection keeps the worst of the whispers out—Iseult, stubbornly defiant, and Galahad, simply pleased to remain in his sister’s company. They spend long afternoons in the orchard still, although now their reach extends further, into the forest surrounding their home. They spend their summers exploring and mapping the terrain in studious, childish hands, finding landmarks of their own and building little shrines to the unknown gods in the woods.

Sometimes Tristan accompanies them, when he’s free of his duties for the afternoon. He shows them which berries are good to eat, which mushrooms will cause death, which bark will bring healing. They collect supplies for their mother in the woods, herbs and roots, pretty rocks and feathers.

When the weather is poor—when it rains, or when the winter takes over the landscape for claustrophobic months on end—Galahad and Iseult find solace in their mother’s den. Her chamber is always open to them. It seems her candle never goes out, that she is up at all hours reading from the books that Father procures for her on his travels. And if they’re given with pursed lip and disapproval, well, they are given all the same.

When bad dreams plague them—always the both, for one never has a dream without the other—Galahad and Iseult find their way quietly to Mother’s door, ready to be soothed by her open arms.

She teaches them things no one else does, small magics, the hidden names of all things.

Occasionally, she’ll put a slender finger to her lips and smile. “This is just for you,” she says. “Not for anyone else. Not even for your father.”

Though they never grow apart, in time Galahad and Iseult are separated all the same, for neither love nor magic can bear back the tide of the world.

On the eve of their thirteenth birthday, the ugliness of the world comes crashing in, portended by a crisp, clipped knock against their mother’s chamber door. They two are sprawled out across one of her plush rugs on the floor, playing a game of checkers as the rain falls beyond the window.

“A moment,” Mother calls, rising gracefully. She pauses to look over Iseult and Galahad’s board, nudging one of Iseult’s pebbles a fingerspan to the right with a wink.

Galahad is the better player of the two, but a cheat’s a cheat. His cry of protest is cut short at the heavy sound of their father’s boots.

“What is this?” Father asks. “It’s midday and my heirs are loafing about like vagrants.”

Galahad and Iseult get up from their heap on the ground where they’d lain, content as cats, in order to greet their father.

“It was raining, so Mother said we might stay indoors,” Iseult says.

Galahad says nothing. When he glances up through his lashes, Father’s face is stern and forbidding. Galahad quickly looks down again, nudging the carpet beneath his feet with a bare toe, all thoughts of their game forgotten.

“They’re only children,” Mother says. One of her hands comes to rest on Galahad’s shoulder, comforting and warm. “Let them play.”

“It’s unnatural for a boy to be so attached to his sister,” Father says.

“They’re twins. It’s different for them. They’ll have time enough to grow up.”

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It’s what she always says when Father raises his objections. Lately those objections have been many, and he grows ever more reluctant to be moved by Mother’s calm, gentle words. Today it seems he is in no mood for it at all.

“Enough,” he says, raising a hand. Mother falls silent—even their bold, whip-smart mother listens when Father speaks. “Enough of your nonsense, Ysolde. I’ll not hear talk of pagan superstitions in this house. The boy is old enough, and you do him no favors by coddling him.”

Now Father turns his attention to Galahad. “You will meet me in the courtyard at dawn tomorrow to begin your education. Do you understand?”

Galahad looks back toward Iseult and Mother. It’s instinct and nothing more. Mother’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head fractionally.

The slap against his face comes as a surprise. It shocks him more than it hurts, and he’s left mouthing at words that won’t come while his eyes fill with tears.

“Frederick—” Mother starts, already moving forward, but Father ignores her.

“Look at me when I speak to you, son. Do you understand?”

He nods, mute. His father is waiting for actual words, so Galahad finds his voice.

“Yes, Father.”

Their father looks at him with disgust, with a last meaningful look at their mother. “Clean yourself up,” he says to Galahad. “And do not be late.”

He strides out the door, and they’re left alone, the quiet peace of earlier shattered. Now that it’s safe, Galahad’s tears flow freely. Mother consoles him, wiping his cheeks with a soft cloth and murmuring sweet nothings into his hair.

Iseult stares at the empty doorway long after their father has left, eyes burning and fists clenched. “I hate Father,” she says.

“Oh, darling,” Mother says. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Iseult huffs stubbornly. “I hate him.”

Galahad is too plainly miserable to be moved even by Iseult’s defense of him.

Mother sets her handkerchief aside and gently tugs Galahad out of her skirts. She beckons Iseult over with a hand. Iseult hesitates, but Mother is patient. “Come here, my love.”

When Iseult grudgingly steps within arm’s reach, Mother sits them both down before her. Galahad is still sniffling, and Iseult still scowls, but Mother looks at them both with such tenderness.

“My darling children. Life is unkind, but we weather it as best we can.” She touches each of their cheeks in turn. “My sweet, beautiful boy and my firebrand girl. Life has much in store for you, so much more than you know. Sometimes the path means parting for a little while, but know this—no matter how far life takes you, you will always have each other. Feel this here.” She takes their hands and brings them up to each of their hearts. The beat beneath his fingers feels steady and true. “Follow your heart, and it will always lead you back home.”

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