WHEN TRISTAN got back there.

Mark and all his barons were in deep

sadness, for the king of Ireland has sent a fleet to lay waste to Cornwall, if
Mark will again refuse, as he did for fifteen years, to pay tribute,
once paid by his ancestors.
Let it be known to you that under the old treaties the Irish had the right
levy from the inhabitants of Cornwall in the first year three hundred pounds of
copper, in the second
three hundred pounds of silver, and in the third, three hundred pounds of gold;
when did it come
the fourth year, they took three hundred boys and three hundred girls of fifteen
age chosen by lot from Cornish families. And this year the king
sent to Tintagel with his demand the gigantic knight Morold,
whose sister he was married to and whom no one could ever defeat in battle.
King Mark, by letters under his seal, gathered all the barons to the court
his own land, to consult with them. At the appointed time, when the barons
gathered in the vaulted hall of the palace and Mark sat on the throne, Morold led
speech like this:
- King Mark, hear for the last time the command of the King of Ireland, my
overlord! He invites you to finally pay the tribute you give him
must. And because you refused him for a long time, he demands that you
gave me today three hundred boys and three hundred girls of a fifteen-year-old
age chosen by lot from Cornish families. My ship, standing on
anchored in the harbor of Tintagel, take them away, and they will become our
slaves. But if
any of your barons (I exclude only you, King Mark, somehow
befits) would like to prove by single combat that the King of Ireland takes this
tribute unlawfully, I will accept his challenge. Which of you lords of Cornwall
desires
join the fight for the freedom of their country?
The barons looked at one another from under their brows, and then lowered
their
heads. One said to himself: "Look, unfortunate, what a Morold of Ireland!
He will be stronger than four hefty fighters. Look at his sword: don't you
you know that he is bewitched, that he blew the heads of brave knights from those
very
since the king of Ireland sends this giant with a challenge to his
land? Do you want to go to your death, poor fellow? Why tempt the Lord?"
Another thought: "Did I bring you up, dear sons, for a slave share? You,
dear daughters, for the share of whores? But my death would not have saved you."
And that's all
were silent.
Morold said again:
“Which one of you lords of Cornwall wants to accept my challenge?” I suggest
him a fine duel: in three days from Tintagel we will reach by boats to
island of Saint Samson. There your knight and I will fight one on one, and
honor and glory to his family that he dared to fight.
They continued to be silent. Morold was like a gyrfalcon locked in a cage
with little birds: when he appears, everyone is silent.
And for the third time Morold spoke:
“Well, valiant lords of Cornwall, if such a fate seems to you
more worthy, choose your children by lot: I will take them away. I didn't think
that this country is inhabited only by slaves.
Then Tristan knelt before King Mark and said:
- Sovereign and Sovereign, if it be your grace, I will go out to fight.
King Mark tried in vain to dissuade him: he is a young knight, why
will his courage serve? But Tristan threw a mitten to Morold, and Morold
lifted.

On the appointed day, Tristan stood on a carpet of precious purple fabric

and ordered to arm himself for a great feat. He dressed up in armor and a helmet
from blued steel. The barons wept with pity for the brave man and with shame for
themselves.
“Oh Tristan,” they said, “a brave fighter, a wonderful young man! Why not me, but
are you ready for this fight? From my death, everyone would be less sad! .. "
They ring the bells; and all barons and petty people, elders, children and
women
crying and praying, seeing Tristan to the shore. They still hope
hope in the hearts of people feeds on small things. Tristan got into the boat alone
and
went to the island of St. Samson. Morold pulled on the mast of his boat
luxurious purple sail and was the first to arrive on the island. He tied his
a ship near the shore, when Tristan, having moored, pushed his foot into the sea.
- What are you doing, vassal? Morold asked. Why didn't you tie your
rook rope, how did I do it?
- What is it, vassal? Tristan answered. - Only one of us will return.
from here alive: or will one boat not be enough for him?
And both, exciting each other with abusive words, went into the depths
islands.
No one saw a fierce battle. But three times it seemed to everyone that the sea
the wind brought a furious cry to the shore; and then, as a sign of grief, women
beat
chest, and Morold's associates, gathered aside at their tents,
laughing. Finally, about noon, they saw a purple sail in the distance: a boat
the Irish sailed away from the island. And there was a cry of horror: "Morold,
Merold!"
The boat was getting closer, and suddenly, when she flew up to the crest
waves, on her bow they saw a knight, in whose hands were two raised swords:
it was Tristan.
Immediately twenty boats rushed to meet him, and the young men rushed
swim. The brave man jumped ashore; and while mothers are on their knees,
kissed his iron kneecaps, he called out to Morold's associates:
“Seigneurs of the Irish, Morold fought gloriously!” See my sword
jagged; a piece of the blade was lodged deep in his skull. Take it, gentlemen,
this piece of steel: that is a tribute to Cornwall.
He began to climb towards Tintagel. On his way, the young men he freed from
they waved green branches with loud shouts, and the windows were decorated with
luxurious
veils. But when among joyful songs, to the sounds of bells, trumpets and horns,
so loud you couldn't hear God's thunder, Tristan
got to the castle, he fell into the arms of King Mark, and blood flowed from his
wounds.
Morold's companions returned to Ireland in great despondency. used to
returning to Weiseford harbor, Morold was glad to see his
people who will greet him in a crowd will see the queen, sister
his own, and his niece, the blond Iseult with hair the color of gold, whose beauty
is already
shone like the breaking dawn. They gave him a warm welcome, and if he
been wounded, healed him, for they knew the ointments and infusions that
revived the wounded, almost already dead. But what are these magical
drugs, herbs collected at the appointed hour, various potions? He lay
lifeless, sewn up in a deer skin, and a fragment of an enemy sword still stuck out
in
his skull. The blond Isolde took it out and hid it in an ivory chest.
bones, precious as a reliquary for relics. I'm leaning over the huge
corpse, endlessly repeating the praises of the deceased and constantly sending the
same
curse on his killer, mother and daughter alternately led the funeral
wailing women.
 From this bottom, fair-haired Isolde learned to hate the name of Tristan from
Loonua.
Meanwhile, in Tintagel, Tristan was sickly: infected blood oozed from his
wounds. The healers realized that Morold had driven a poisoned spear into his body;
so
how their potions and antidotes could not save him, they provided him
God's mercy. Such a terrible stench emanated from his wounds that the most
close friends avoided him - all except King Mark, Gorvenal and Dinas
from Lidan. They alone could remain at his head: their love prevailed
disgust. Finally, Tristan ordered himself carried to a hut built in
side, on the shore, and here, lying by the waves, awaiting death. He thought:
"So, you abandoned me, King Mark - me, who saved the honor of your land?
No, I know, my dear uncle, that you would give your life for mine; but why
would your love help? Have to die! But how sweet it is to see
sun; and my heart has not yet lost courage. I want to entrust myself to the sea and
his accidents. I wish it would take me far alone. To which
earth? Don't know. But there, perhaps, I will find someone who will heal me. And
maybe
be, I will serve you someday, my glorious uncle, like a harpist, like
hunter and your faithful vassal."
He so pleaded with King Mark that he bowed to his request. Himself
carried him into a boat without oars and sails; at the request of Tristan, they put
him
only his harp. What is the use of sails when his hands could not unravel them?
Why the oars, why the sword? And how a sailor during a long voyage throws
board the corpse of an old comrade, so Gorvenal with trembling hands pushed into
the sea
the boat in which his dear son lay, and the sea carried it away.
For seven days and seven nights it carried Tristan quietly. Sometimes he
played the harp
to quench your anguish. At last the sea, imperceptibly for him, drove him to
shore. Just that night, the fishermen left the harbor to throw into the sea
nets, and rowed. Suddenly they heard a gentle melody, bold and lively,
gliding over the surface of the water. Immovable, raising their oars above their
heads, they
listened. At the first light of dawn, they noticed a wandering boat. They are
said to each other: "Thus unearthly music blew the boat of St. Brendan
{St. Brendan is an abbot and founded many monasteries in England. According to
legend,
sailed away to the paradise (happy) islands. The legends of St. Brendan have
absorbed
Celtic lore about Bran's voyage to the Isles of Bliss.} when he sailed to
Happy islands across the sea, which was whiter than milk. "They began
row to catch up with the rook; but she walked at random, and it seemed that there
was nothing in her
was alive, except for the voice of the harp. But as they got closer
the melody faded and finally fell silent; when they arrived, Tristan's hands
fell motionless on the still trembling strings. The fishermen picked him up and
returned to
harbor to entrust the wounded to his merciful mistress in the hope that
she might be able to heal him.
Alas, that harbor was Weiseford, where the ashes of Morold rested, and the
lady
their was the blond Isolde! She alone, versed in healing potions, could
save Tristan, but of all the women, she was the only one who wanted him dead.
When, revived by her sorcery, Tristan came to his senses, he realized that
the waves threw him on a land full of dangers for him; but,
brave enough to defend his life, he quickly managed to find
eloquent and cunning words. He said that he was a juggler who sat on
merchant ship and went to Spain to learn the art of reading
stars; sea robbers attacked his ship; wounded, he escaped
boat. They believed him. None of Morold's associates recognized in him
beautiful knight of the island of St. Samson: so terribly distorted from the poison
of his
traits. But when, after forty days, golden-haired Isolde, he was almost already
cured when in his body, again made flexible, began to revive
the beauty of youth, he realized that he had to retire. He fled after many
danger once again appeared before King Mark.