Read Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Online
Authors: Ruth Nestvold
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur
Yseult
was originally published in German translation with Random House Germany as
Flamme und Harfe
(2009), and followed by translations into Dutch and Italian. This is the first publication in the original English.
Praise for Ruth Nestvold
:
"... an excellent up-and-comer. "
-
Cory Doctorow at
Boing Boing
http://boingboing.net/2004?w=27
"The book is so rich that it is impossible to recount every nuance, every emotion transmitted, each of the author's choices to depart from tradition or adopt unfamiliar elements, while manipulating them in favor of the economy of the narration... It tells the story of war with rawness and realism, love with feeling and sensuality, magic with naturalness and enchantment... Ruth Nestvold truly has my gratitude and commendation for managing to rewrite and re-invent this story of love and war so masterfully, creating one of the most beautiful books I have ever read."
-
Review of the Italian translation of
Yseult
by Valentina Coluccelli
http://www.diariodipensieripersi.com/2011/03/recensione-la-fiamma-e-larpa-di-ruth.html
* * * *
YSEULT
A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur
by
Ruth Nestvold
Copyright 2009, 2012 by Ruth Nestvold
Cover by Derek Murphy, Creativindie Covers
Map by Britta Mack
First Electronic Edition 2012
* * * *
YSEULT
Book One: Two Women
Prologue
swem nie von liebe leit geschach,
dem geschach ouch liep von liebe nie.
(Those who have never felt pain from love, have never felt joy from love either.)
Gottfried von Straßburg,
Tristan
Once upon a time beyond history, in an age almost beyond imagination, there was a girl as fair as the moon, sitting on a horse and watching a fire. The bonfire is a part of history, but the princess is a part of legend.
Tristan and Isot, Tristram and Isolde, Essyllt and Drust, Yseult and Drystan: the spellings have changed, but they have always been lovers — the greatest lovers the world has ever known. Most accounts of their story have begun with the man.
This one begins with the woman.
* * * *
Young Yseult reined in her mount and turned to look back at the Rock of Cashel, her home for the first seven years of her life. The fire Palladius had lit for the baptism of her father King Aengus illuminated the mount of kings with a glow to rival that of the rising sun.
Behind her, she heard her mother and the old druid Boinda rein in their mounts as well, but she didn't turn. She couldn't let her mother see the tears on her lashes — they were unworthy of the daughter of Yseult the Wise, Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, kingmaker of the island of Eriu. Yseult knew that, yet the tears were there anyway.
Her mother shed no tears.
She blinked rapidly and squared her shoulders. Strands of her long, fair hair came loose from her braid in the early dawn breeze. She raised a hand to tuck them behind her ear and wipe her cheeks before anyone noticed. Surely she would see her half-brothers and father again.
"Come, Yseult," her mother said gently. "There is a long journey north ahead of us."
Yseult continued to gaze at the fire. "Why did Father let Palladius drive the staff through his foot if it meant we had to leave?"
It was not her mother the queen who answered, but the old druid Boinda. Yseult turned in her saddle to look at him. His beard was whiter than her hair, but his hands on the reins were strong and his voice clear. "Palladius promised him that none of his sons would die a violent death, and no one would be king of Cashel but his own descendants."
It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. "But it is the queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann who determine who is king," Yseult insisted.
"Your father is trying to change that," Boinda said.
Her mother shook her head. "Even now it is changed. The marriage to the land is a symbol, no more. The assembly chooses the successor to the king."
"And Aengus wants to usurp the power of the assembly as well," the druid murmured.
Yseult wondered how her mother could remain so calm. Perhaps that was why people called her Yseult the Wise, while she was only Yseult the Fair. She wanted to be Yseult the Wise someday too. If only it were possible to be wise without being calm. She swallowed and looked back at the fire. "So that means father likes being king better than he likes us."
"I don't think he understood that he was making a choice," the queen said softly.
"If he didn't, he should have." Boinda's voice held more bitterness than her mother's. "The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann could hardly remain with the Christian king of Eriu."
"Which is why we must continue on our way. Come now, Yseult."
The sun had just appeared beyond the rim of the world behind them, and the Rock of Cashel hung above the horizon, illuminated by the first rays while the earth below was still muffled in night.
"It looks like a magical island," Yseult said.
Boinda nodded. "Tír na nÓg. The land of youth."
"My youth." Yseult whirled her mount around, towards the east and the rising sun, leaving the fire of Palladius behind.
Chapter 1
From across the sea he will come,
His head shaven,
His head full of madness,
His head in a hole in his cloak,
The head of his staff bent.
He will chant impiety,
From a table in the front of his house;
all his people will answer,
"Amen, Amen."
From Muirchu's "Life of St. Patrick"
Queen Yseult of the Tuatha Dé Danann, consort of High King Lóegaire, led the party of riders up the Hill of Slane, away from the road that would take them to Tara. It was a rich procession of bright cloaks and colorful jewelry, bronze and gold glinting at wrist, waist, and neck and on the bridles of the horses, but the expressions of the riders were somber, the group quiet. Even the youngest, fourteen-year-old princess Yseult, was uncharacteristically serious.
The queen kept her eyes on the top of the hill and the smoke rising from the summit. Another fire. Seven years later and far to the north, another fire burned, more important than the one she had fled all those years ago. And nothing she'd done since had been able to stop it; not her marriage to Lóegaire and her support of him as High King, not her work among the greatest wise men of the land, not her attempts to keep her people, the Feadh Ree, from turning their backs on the public life of the Gaels in answer to the growing disrespect for the old ways.
She clenched the reins of her mount tighter, and the mare threw her head back, snorting. The queen let out a sigh and loosened the reins again.
The party of Feadh Ree riders reached the summit and approached the circle of Christian believers, drawn by the ribbon of smoke snaking into the sky, dark gray against pure blue. They drew up at the edge of the gathering, the queen and her brother Murchad at their head. A few of the white-clad figures glanced behind them, but most kept their attention fixed on the fire and their master Patraic.
"It's sacrilege," Murchad muttered angrily, but he was as unwilling as she to attack the peaceful group of worshipers on the crest of the hill.
No, she couldn't let her fear show, couldn't allow those with the power of knowing to feel it. She was Yseult the Wise, and she had to fulfill that role.
"But very effective," she said. The smoke must be clearly visible at Tara, and come night, the residents of the seat of kings would be able to see the glow of the flames.
The mounted warriors accompanying them shifted in their saddles, knowing a bonfire lit the week before Beltaine could only bring bad luck.
"Can't we stop him?" Murchad's wife Nemain asked.
Yes, that was the question. She had seen fire too often in her dreams, the dreams of the end of the old ways. "I don't know," the queen said, answering more than Nemain was asking.
Patraic had ignored their approach, but now he turned, gazing directly at her. "Let no one forget. The lesson learned here is the lesson of Christ's dominion."
The wind shifted, as if obeying the will of Patraic's god, and the smoke from the bonfire wafted toward the party of riders, stinging their eyes. The horses began to snort and stamp, nervous, but they were well-trained warhorses, and they didn't break away.
The man behind this fire was much more dangerous than Palladius, the last Christian wise man sent by Rome. A dogmatic moralist, narrow-minded and intolerant, Palladius had appealed to little more than the small, scattered communities of the Bretain and Romans and the ambition of leaders like Aengus, whose conversion held more calculation than conviction. But Patraic was different: his former master had been a druid, and he knew the ways of Eriu, knew the power of symbol and illusion. It was a deliberate provocation, this fire, deliberate and clever. And what a sense of drama! Lighting a huge bonfire in the week before Beltaine was an outrageous stroke of brilliance.
Queen Yseult rode forward.
"What is the meaning of this?" she called out from the edges of the gathering. The question had the ring of command, but Patraic stood his ground, looking almost regal himself in his long white robes.
"It is the lighting of the Easter fire, Lady."
Seven years ago she had fled before the fire of Palladius; she would not flee this time. Smoke filled her nostrils and burned her eyes, but she urged her reluctant mount through the circle of worshipers, and they parted to let her pass. Patraic might be their prophet, but she was the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the kingmaker herself.