Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (16 page)

When they reached the port of Abona, Caw met them with a small party. Caer Custoeint, a hill-fort named for Drystan's grandfather Constantine, was half a day's ride away, but the marriage would take place in the church in Abona. They handed Labiane over to Caw and stayed only long enough for the hurried wedding and a good night's sleep.

Which Drystan could not claim to have had.

To his surprise, Labiane sought him out on the docks early the next morning, a dark cape clutched tight around her shoulders. Her generous lips were pressed tight, and she looked as if only anger was keeping her from bursting into tears. "I will not forget this, Cousin."

"Nor I, Labiane. But if we had sent you home to your father with a brat in your belly, it would have meant war."

"You persuaded your father not to marry me."

Drystan shook his head but said no more. Labiane had no interest in the truth, only the fiction she had created for herself. The whole business left a bad taste in Drystan's mouth.

"I hope someday you will be able to forgive me," he said.

She turned on her heel and ran back through the streets of Abona.

The return trip took longer than the trip up the coast; without the wind at their backs, they had to tack back and forth and make the best of the crosswinds. Luckily, the coastal waters were calm for the most part, and even after a swell that sloshed over the entire deck, they were in no danger of running out of fresh tunics.

Drystan was tying his wet tunic to one of the foresail lines when the shout of warning went up. He hurried to the side where he was joined by Kurvenal and the crew of the ship.

Three deep-bodied Erainn ships were visible on the edge of the horizon.

* * * *

Drystan couldn't help thinking he deserved being returned to Dyn Tagell with his hands tied behind his back. He had delivered his cousin into the hands of a man she didn't know, and although her parents would surely take her back if Caw didn't treat her well, she would at least have to stay with him until several months after the child was born to give credence to the story that it was his. There was a certain justice that he was now the one bound and helpless.

He doubted he was in any danger — the captain, Murchad, had indicated he was interested in negotiations with Marcus. Neither Drystan nor his crew had revealed his identity, but the quality of the golden torc at his throat and the bracelets on his forearms were evidence enough that this particular captive would ensure the safe passage of the Erainn raiders. Their leader was a giant of a man, his hair dark, his eyes blue, and his voice gentle. Drystan admired the way he treated his men, and if he weren't the enemy, he would probably have liked him.

Drystan, Kurvenal and their crew were put them in the hold of the ship Murchad commanded, where they joined a dozen others, British hostages who had spent years in Eriu. After several hours in the hold, Drystan felt the ship slow and stop, and then he and Kurvenal were brought above deck again. The Rock stood before them, the ocean surrounding it reflecting the bright summer sun. Drystan blinked from the glare. A white flag was hoisted at the masthead, and already a small rowboat was on its way out to the Erainn ships. The rowboat pulled up next to them, and Justic and Iaen clambered over the side. Drystan indicated with a short shake of his head that they shouldn't show any recognition. Iaen nodded.

Murchad stepped forward. "We have brought forty Dumnonian hostages captured from Lóegaire as well as six captured on your coast. We will exchange these six for safe passage to discuss the fate of the other forty with Marcus of Dumnonia."

"Granted," Justic said. Iaen moved forward to untie Drystan and Kurvenal but the giant stopped him with one broad, outstretched arm. "You will have two landing boats sent out to us, and we will go ashore with the hostages."

Murchad and half-a-dozen Erainn warriors, one for each of their charges, landed on the beach of Dyn Tagell and were led up to the Lower Hall where they were met by Marcus.

"You delivered your cousin to Caw safely?" Marcus asked Drystan as Justic untied the ropes at his wrists.

Drystan nodded, rubbing the raw skin below the bracelets on his lower arms. "Luckily, we did not meet with the Erainn ships until afterwards."

Marcus turned to Murchad. "Iaen tells me you have other hostages on your ships."

Murchad stared down at the king from his great height. "We are thirsty from our long voyage."

Marcus motioned Justic over to him. "See that
our guests
are brought ale." He led them to the main hall. Cador was seated at the center table with his tutor Antonius, but they started up and moved back when their party entered.

Marcus went to the head of the large table. "Please be seated."

Slaves arrived with tankards of ale, and Murchad and his men drank deeply. After his thirst was stilled, the giant spoke again.

"I come from the Laigin king Enna Cennsalach," Murchad said. "I carry forty hostages which I will return to you in exchange for forty more."

"And what of the High King Lóegaire?" Marcus asked. "It was he who held the hostages and he with whom we were negotiating a peace."

"Lóegaire has abused his authority as High King. The kings and queens of the south no longer support him."

"And the other chieftains of the five fifths of Eriu?"

Murchad paused briefly before answering. "They bide their time."

"And you would exact tribute from us when the situation is so uncertain?" Marcus asked evenly. "What are my people to do when Lóegaire also comes to demand tribute?"

"He no longer has that authority. The position of High King is granted by the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and she has withdrawn her support from Lóegaire."

"We are speaking of your sister, are we not?"

Murchad nodded. Marcus shot a look full of meaning at Drystan, his eyebrows raised, and returned his attention to the champion from Eriu. "You come from your sister, not the High King of Tara."

"I come from the kings of the Laigin."

"Does any of them have the authority to speak for the five provinces of Eriu?"

Murchad leaned across the table toward Marcus, and his father's personal guard stepped forward. "
My
authority to speak," Murchad said quietly, "comes from the forty hostages on the ships in your harbor. No more and no less."

Marcus returned his stare unflinchingly, but the muscles of his lower arms resting on the table were tense. "Then I must refuse to pay any further tribute of slaves until a new High King is elected."

"We speak of hostages, not of slaves." The giant possessed a strange gentleness, the assurance of a man who had no need to make a show of strength. Watching him with his father, it reminded Drystan of the behavior of a pair of dogs, one large and one small. But Cunomorus — the great hound — was not the bigger of the hounds in this confrontation. His hackles were raised, and his threats were like yapping in the face of a beast larger than he.

"It matters not what you call them. I see no need to provide hostages to a regional Erainn king when I am conducting peace negotiations with the High King of Eriu," Marcus insisted. "I will only reconsider under one condition."

"And that is?"

"You bring back the Princess Yseult as my wife to seal the alliance."

"No!" Murchad thundered. Drystan looked at him curiously. It was the first time he had seen the giant ruffled. "Yseult the Fair does not wish to leave Eriu," he added more calmly, but his voice still shook. He must be inordinately fond of his niece.

"Then I see no reason to acknowledge the claims of the Laigin by what in essence would be paying tribute."

"And I will return to Eriu with the hostages I already command."

"The hostages remain here."

"Not without new hostages to replace them."

Marcus gave a sign and the soldiers at the doors surrounded Murchad and his men. "We will hold you until the hostages are released."

Murchad smiled grimly. "You have three Erainn warships in your harbor, with forty of your people aboard — sons and daughters of your subject kings — in the power of my warriors, and you threaten me?"

Drystan watched the proceedings, unbelieving. He knew Murchad was the enemy, one of the warriors who had been ravaging their coast off and on for decades, but he also knew that they had been granted safe passage to Dyn Tagell. Labiane and now this — an unclean patrimony.

Murchad's eyes found his, the expression in them an accusation. He dropped his gaze to the torc at Drystan's neck and slowly looked up again.

Drystan pushed back his chair and rose. At the scrape of the legs on the stone floor of the hall, he had the attention of all present. "There is another way," he said. "According to the old ways, if we can beat your champion in single combat, we will no longer owe tribute."

The approval on the face of the giant was well worth the disapproval on the face of his father. "I myself am the champion of the kings of the Laigin. Who is yours?"

"I will fight you," Drystan said.

"This is not necessary," Marcus protested.

"But it is a solution."

"You do not have to do this, Drustanus."

He heard murmurs of surprise from the Erainn warriors, and one whispered to his neighbor, "We had the Great Hound's whelp himself!"

Drystan faced down his father. "We cannot let the hostages be sent back to bondage."

"We will accept your challenge," Murchad said, as if the soldiers posted on either side of him, hands on the hilts of their swords, were nothing. A smile played around his wide lips and Drystan thought he saw a gleam of acknowledgment in his eyes.

"Drystan is the champion of Dumnonia!" Cador piped up from where he sat on a couch with Antonius, and a huge cheer went up from the men in the hall, accompanied by the sound of clapping and wooden tankards pounded against the tables. The decision was no longer Marcus's to make.

* * * *

The fight was set for the next morning. Drystan slept poorly that night. He had been well-trained in battle skills, but he was as yet untried in serious combat. Life and death. Drystan had never before killed a man, and it was either that or be killed himself. But perhaps the latter was not such a bad option.

When he rose barely refreshed just after dawn, he sought out the baths. Kurvenal found him there, almost dozing in the hot water.

"Drys, you are an idealistic fool," he said, handing him a thick towel.

"And my father is a dishonorable bastard," Drystan replied, feeling much better after the soothing influence of the bath. Somehow, it was curiously liberating to know how little he would lose if he lost his life. "Someone has to uphold the honor of the family."

"Why you?" Kurvenal's voice caught, and Drystan finally noticed that he was near tears.

Drystan looked away, not knowing what to say. He might not care whether he lost his own life or not, but Kurvenal —Kurvenal was like a brother to him. He knew how he would feel if Kurvenal were to die.

And his friend felt the same way about him.

He draped the towel around his shoulders and led the way to the changing room where he had left his clothes. "I may not lose, you know," he said, pulling on his breeches and tying them at the waist.

"You don't believe that yourself."

He sighed. "Not really, no." Murchad was over a head taller and probably twice as heavy. He was the champion of kings. Drystan was no more than the son of a king.

Together they went to Drystan's room and Kurvenal assisted him with his armor in silence, lifting the ring mail over his head. Drystan preferred the garment of leather and metal to a Roman breastplate; it was not as heavy and didn't restrict his freedom of movement as much.

Kurvenal handed him his belt and their eyes met. "If you won't think of yourself, Drys, think of the hostages."

Drystan nodded and took his friend in a quick, hard embrace.

"Drustanus?"

The two young men released each other and turned to face the king, who was standing in the doorway bearing a finely made Roman helmet. It sported a horsehair crest dyed red and long flanges to protect the face, connected under the chin with a leather strap.