Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (17 page)

"I would like you to wear this," Marcus said.

"I — "

"Please."

Drystan took the helmet. It was gaudy but solid, certainly more protection than the leather cap covered with metal plates which he usually wore. Heavier too.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the helmet from his father. Affection was a very odd thing. Despite all he had learned about his father which he couldn't like, he now felt gratitude — and affection. He held the cold metal in his hands, staring at it. "I will look quite the mongrel."

Marcus began to pace. "This whole business is barbarous."

"There is little we can do with those ships in the harbor."

"We could fight off an attack for months, I'm sure."

"Or the Erainn warriors might simply take the hostages back to Eriu."

"They may still."

Drystan grinned. "Chin up, father. I'm not dead yet." He picked up his Armorican shield, with the intricate designs which Marcus Cunomorus would surely also term barbarous, and headed out of the hall with Kurvenal.

* * * *

They met at the practice area east of the soldiers' lodgings. The wind coming in from the sea whipped his braid around, and he put on the Roman helmet, tucking his hair up underneath.

Murchad was waiting for him, tall and broad, not deigning to use armor, his dark hair waving in the wind. At least he was a large target. And Drystan knew this island, knew its every rock, knew the behavior of the wind and the slant of the sun. All those details just might even the odds a little.

The five Erainn warriors who had come ashore with Murchad were waiting as well, along with another dozen of their compatriots, thickly muscled arms crossed in front of broad chests. Behind them, most of the residents of Dyn Tagell had assembled around the edges of the practice grounds: the warriors from both the island and the mainland; the merchants and their wives from the mainland; the whores who — as in all the legionary towns — plied their trade. Cador stood near the front with Antonius, and when Drystan strode up to face Murchad, his young cousin called out his name, starting a chant.

"Drys-tan, Drys-tan, Drys-tan, Drys-tan!"

The Erainn giant grinned, and Drystan found himself once again inclined to like him. "I see I must dispense with hurling insults, or your mob would run me down before we came to blows."

Drystan nodded. "My mob is well trained."

Murchad laughed, deep, booming, sincere. "Ah, young Roman, it is a shame we must meet like this."

"Roman, you call me? I thought you wanted to dispense with insults."

Murchad smiled. "The gods have surely reserved a place of honor for you in the Otherworld," he said quietly.

"Or for you," Drystan replied.

They took up places across from each other, battle swords drawn.

The captain of the guard called out for the battle to begin, and the two men circled each other, judging the best time to attack. Before Drystan could maneuver the giant around where he wanted him, with the wind from the west and the sun from the east, Murchad attacked, raining blows on him so that he had no time to think of tactics. The other man surely had the energy and strength of four. Drystan dodged thrust after thrust, able to do little more against the giant than raise his shield — and that was growing heavier by the minute. As difficult as it was for him to fend off the attacks, he had the feeling his opponent was playing with him, fighting as he would in combat between friends, not a battle to the death.

Drystan misjudged the angle of a thrust and had to duck. Murchad's sword nearly caught him in the side of the head, glancing off the metal flange of the Roman helmet. If it hadn't been for the helmet, that stroke might have taken off the top of his head.

He would be dead now.

Drystan suddenly realized he
didn't
want to die: he wanted to continue feeling the sun on his back and the wind in his face; he wanted to see Kurvenal's sardonic smile and feel the curve of a woman's hip under his hand again.

His head rang from the glancing blow, but he kept his balance and redoubled his efforts. He thought he detected a look of surprise in the giant's eyes as he began to take the initiative, turning his small size to his advantage, striking quick and low. The slight smile left Murchad's face, to be replaced by a look of concentration.

He could feel the sweat collecting beneath his leather tunic and on his brow. His muscles were beginning to ache from wielding shield and sword. Again, Drystan misjudged the angle of an attack, holding his shield too high, and Murchad leapt under his guard, stabbing into the soft flesh of his upper thigh. The point cut through cloth, skin and muscle, and he felt shrieking anguish jolt through him. The giant withdrew his sword, and a spurt of dark blood followed, drenching one leg of Drystan's breeches and coloring the ground at his feet. Drystan clenched his teeth, parrying another blow, and shifted his position so that Murchad had to squint against the rising sun. The wind blew his dark hair forward, further hampering his sight.

Drystan retreated a few steps and the giant followed, stumbling on a patch of rocks at his feet. Then Drystan saw an opening high and swung his sword up and down, aiming for Murchad's unprotected head. There was a dull thud on contact, and blood reddened Drystan's sword and flowed down his opponent's shoulder and arm. The giant's eyes widened in shock and his grip on his weapon loosened. The sword slipped out of his hand to clatter on the rocky patch where they fought. Appalled, Drystan jerked his sword back, wrenching it uncleanly out of the mess of hair and bones and blood.

"You've slain me, boy," the giant croaked, and then his eyes turned up in his head and he pitched forward. Drystan stumbled out of the way, fell to his knees, pulled off his helmet, and retched acid bile into the grass and dirt.

The Erainn warriors in the crowd rushed over to their fallen leader and were immediately surrounded by soldiers in Marcus's employ. Drystan raised his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Call them off, father."

Marcus motioned the soldiers back, and one of the Erainn warriors turned to Drystan, who was getting up again shakily with Kurvenal's assistance. The wound in his thigh ached abominably.

"We claim the head of our champion," the warrior said formally. "It must be brought back to his relatives to be given the place of honor he deserves."

Drystan nodded without waiting for confirmation from the king, and one of the warriors pulled out a heavy battle ax and swung it high. Drystan looked away, but he could still hear the crunch and splat of metal cutting through blood and bone. He would have gone to his knees again if Kurvenal hadn't been holding him up.

"Barbarians," Marcus muttered beneath his breath.

* * * *

The members of Murchad's party took the head and released their hostages, but kept the ship they had captured, sailing out of the harbor of Dyn Tagell before the sun set to return their bloody memento to the giant's family.

That same week, Marcus celebrated by having a great feast prepared for his son. The nearest of the seven kings of Dumnonia came, as well as many of those whose relatives had been among Murchad's hostages. There was Cador's widowed uncle Gwythyr and his only daughter Ginevra from Celliwig, Cynan of Caer Tamar with his second wife and four sons and three daughters, and Marcus's cousins Gurles and Idres, who together held a fort to the south. Cador's father Geraint was off fighting with Arthur and Ambrosius and was unable to come, although his own niece Elen, daughter of Dywel, had been one of the captives Drystan had freed. The colorful tents of the guests dotted the outskirts of the mainland settlement, and the happy cries and laughter of relatives united after years of fear and uncertainty filled the air. The festivities lasted three days.

Before the last of the local nobles left, Drystan had taken to his bed and could no longer get up.

The best doctors from every corner of Dumnonia were called, but none could help. The wound in Drystan's thigh was deep and had begun to fester.

"Perhaps it is poisoned," one doctor suggested.

"Perhaps we should amputate the leg," another proposed.

"Perhaps it is witchcraft," said a third.

Marcus sent them away.

A wise woman from the north was called. She looked at the gaping hole in Drystan's thigh and shook her head. The wound had begun to stink. "If it had been treated correctly from the beginning, the inflammation could have been avoided. Of course, given how quickly your son fell ill, the weapon may have been poisoned. But whatever the cause, this wound is now beyond my ability to cure. There is probably only one person who can save your son at this point."

"Who is that?" Marcus asked.

"Yseult the Wise. It is said she is the greatest healer in the known world."

The king sat back, silent. Drystan opened his eyes and looked at his father, giving him a pained grin.

"Then I must go, mustn't I?" His voice was weak, but the smile lingered around his lips.

"You killed her brother," Kurvenal said.

"She will surely kill you," his father added.

Drystan shrugged. "And if I don't go, my wound will kill me more surely than she will."

It was a choice between certain death and less than certain death. Drystan chose the latter.

Chapter 8

A winde thider him gan drive;

Schipmen him seighe neighehand.

In botes thai gun him stive

And drough him to the land.

A wounded man alive

In the schip thai fand....

No man might bi him stand

For stinking of his wounde.

Sir Tristrem

Marcus paced back and forth in a small room of the Lower Hall, in his long-limbed, caged impatience resembling the British name for him: great hound. Drystan watched from his sickbed, Kurvenal beside him.

"We will have the rumor spread that you are traveling to Alexandria to consult the medical experts there," the king said, a worried frown making an irregular slice down the middle of his forehead.

"What's the need?" Drystan asked.

Marcus halted in his pacing and fixed his green eyes on his son. "News does travel between here and Eriu. And Queen Yseult is said to be ambitious and unforgiving. If she sends anyone to find you, that will put them off track."

Drystan gave a weak grin. "But I am going to look for her."

Neither of the other two men laughed.

"Your father is right, Drys," Kurvenal said. "It's best no one wonder why you're not here."

"Murchad was killed in a fair fight."

"What do the Erainn barbarians care for that?" the king said.

More than you, it seems
, Drystan thought but said nothing. He shrugged. "Do whatever you want when I'm gone. It will hardly matter to me."

* * * *

Kurvenal slid his arm carefully beneath Drystan's shoulders and helped him onto the litter. Then the small company slipped out into the night to take the path to the harbor of Dyn Tagell, where the ship which had been prepared for their journey was waiting offshore.

"Good luck, my son," Marcus said. He pressed Drystan's hand and stepped back. Drystan attempted a weak smile. Kurvenal and Iaen took either end of his litter and lifted it into the landing boat, while Gormant carried his harp and sword. The rocking of the boat was nearly indistinguishable from the rocking of the litter, and the fever in Drystan's head made such niceties even harder to track. Over the last few days, the world had become little more than a blur of hot pain, and if it had not been for the moment during the fight when he realized how much life still had to offer, Drystan would have found it hard to care whether he lived or died. His greatest wish now was that the pain would finally be over.

It was not yet dawn when they struck north in a small ship with only six men on board. From a bed they had made for him on deck, Drystan watched the coast of the home that was no home recede. He only hoped the Queen of the South would find him, since he was not likely to find her himself in his condition.

* * * *

For most of the journey, Drystan slept, and Kurvenal cared for him as best he could, bathing his wound and his forehead, forcing him to take food. From the Erainn warriors who had come ashore with Murchad they knew that Yseult the Wise was at the coastal town of Ard Ladrann with her new consort Crimthann. It was one of the southern ports of the island and not an inland rath. Kurvenal clung to that fact, hoping it might mean Drystan's survival. A world without his friend's laughter, without his voice lifted in song above the melody of his harp, was a world he couldn't imagine. He believed his friend would return to Dumnonia in good health because he had to believe it.