Tristan 2: The Irish knight

The wind danced a serpent twist about the cliff edge castle of Tintagel. King Mark stood looking down with trepidation at his visitor climbing up the steep, rugged cliff path from the beach with ease.
King Mark was in a fix. Sir Morholt of Ireland had arrived to settle a deal.
'Mark,’ bellowed the Morholt, ‘You're in arrears with your taxes, seven years behind. Settle it with seven hundred lads and seven hundred maids from your kingdom of Kernow.’
The king nearly lost his balance with surprise. ‘I cannot afford to sacrifice so much young life, Morholt,’ he begged.
‘Aha, that is what I thought,’ boomed the Morholt, his voice ricocheting about the walls of Tintagel. The red beaked choughs buffeted on the wind as they swooped by in curiosity.
‘What else might I give you?’ said Mark sadly. He backed away a little as the giant of a knight approached.
The Morholt snarled at King Mark. He had come for a new generation for his land, not a begging little king. ‘A knight of the round table must fight me,’ said Morholt quickly. ‘Not any knight mind, one who means a lot to you personally, King Mark.’
Without waiting for a reply, Morholt strode back down the cliff to his boat and sailed away.
As a young man, Mark’s nephew Tristan learned to ride and joust like a knight. He longed to be a knight of The Round Table for real, just like Launcelot. Tristan had another side to him, he loved music and played the harp. His mother had a melodious voice and he wished he could have heard her sing. One day he would find someone who could sing with him as he played his harp.
King Mark stood listening to the harp as it floated across the great hall of Tintagel. He took off his hat and coat and made his way toward his young nephew, sitting unarmed and absorbed in his music.
‘Tristan,’ Mark said softly. ‘I have a terrible choice ahead of me. I must find a knight of The Round Table to fight the mighty Morholt, or lose seven hundred maids' and seven hundred lads’ lives to Ireland.’ The thoughtful king sat down at the long table and began to carve himself a generous slice of meat. ‘The question tormenting me is this: which knight must I sacrifice?’
Tristan played one more strum on his harp before looking up at his uncle, who was gorging himself as usual. He looked deeply into the life and zest of the roaring fire in the castle hall and felt its strength. ‘I have a proposition for you, Uncle,’ he said.
‘It must be a knight close to me,’ muttered Mark between mouthfuls.
‘Exactly that! Who is closer to you than me? I will fight the giant Morholt without fear or hesitation. However, if I come away from this fight with my life, you must make me a Knight of the Round Table in return for my bravery and duty to Cornwall.’
Tristan turned back to his harp and continued to play as if nothing had been said. Mark finished his large lunch and sat by the fire in despair. Tristan was the closest he had to a son, he had raised him and hoped for him to be a great knight. This would be the end! Surely no one came out alive from a battle with the Morholt. As he listened to the harp play on, he knew it was the only choice he had.
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In time, Tristan rode his horse along the cliffs by Tintagel Castle. Flanking him was the sea, throwing huge waves crashing into the beach. A little way away, on a massive horse sat Sir Morholt, ready to take a Cornish head. They began the battle with spears. The spear was better suited to Morholt, he smote Tristan quickly but Tristan turned his horse and rode on. Next they took out their swords. Tristan was fitter and better used to the twists and turns of the coast path. He held his sword deftly and smote the Irish knight in the helm. Where the sword stuck, Morholt fell and threw down his sword and shield.
‘Mark did indeed send his best knight,’ he gasped with his dying breath as his men dragged him down the path and sailed away, never to be seen in Cornwall again. A piece of Tristan’s sword was found in the Morholt's head, and was taken to his sister, the queen of Ireland.
King Mark carried the injured Tristan to the castle of Tintagel, and there wept over his silent body. But although gravely ill, Tristan lived and Mark searched for a healer. Knowing the only one who could save his nephew was the gifted healing princess of Ireland, he put Tristan on a boat in hope that the youngest Knight of the Round Table would be saved.