Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (23 page)

They found Aidenn with the new recruits, boys of fourteen and fifteen still practicing with wooden swords. He marched between the pairs, calling out criticism and encouragement, his curly brown hair ruffled by the mild breeze. Lithben was working with some of the additional warriors sent for the defense of Ard Ladrann, little more than boys themselves. When she looked at these "recruits," Yseult could only be glad that they were so far from the territory of the Ui Neill.

Aidenn saw Brangwyn, hurried over, and took her in his arms for a sound kiss. Only after this infatuated welcome for his wife of over two years did he turn to Yseult. "Good day, Cousin."

"Brangwyn told me the news. Shall we have dancing around the fire tonight?"

Aidenn laughed, his blue eyes alight. "Will you lead me out?"

There was a touch on Yseult's arm and she turned. Gamal. Since she had joined Crimthann's court, she dreaded these moments. Gamal still had not accepted that their relationship was at an end.

She pulled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders. "Good day, Gamal."

"Yseult," he said, his once jolly voice intense. "May we talk?" His hand was on her arm, and he leaned into her like a lover.

"There is no need," she said quietly.

"Not for you, perhaps."

She placed the flat of her hand on his chest, pushing ever so slightly. "Leave us now, Gamal. Please."

He looked down at her hand, and then took it in a quick fist so she couldn't escape. "As you will," he said, raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back. Then he released her and strode away quickly.

* * * *

From just outside the gates of the rath, Drystan watched the love play. When the red-headed warrior took Yseult's hand to his lips, he slipped back into the shadows so as not to be seen and leaned against the earthworks. It mattered not what he told himself, that his place was not here, that he was living a lie, that in a few months when the seas were calm again and the wind did not roar as loudly, he would leave this place and return to friends and family and the world he knew. That she was not for him. But when he saw her with another man, saw her touch him, saw him raise her hand to his lips, the twist in his gut told him that the truth was as much a lie as the lie he was living. She was not for him, but his body told him otherwise.

He pushed away from the ramparts and limped back to his bed.

* * * *

He was working on a song, sitting near the fire in the house of druids, his harp on his lap and a flat rock he used as a slate next to him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He went still, trying to still his mind as well. It was her, he could tell, by the feel of her hand, by her scent.

"What is that?" she asked, bending over him. Her soft breasts beneath the fabric of her tunic brushed his upper arm, and he felt himself rise to attention.

He took a deep breath. "A new song."

"You write our language in the Latin script?"

He nodded. She was still there, beside him and behind, one hand on his shoulder, one breast casually brushing his upper arm. It robbed him of reason.

"I do not know the holy alphabet of the druids well," he said finally. "As you know, in many things I was raised in the Roman way."

"But also in the old ways."

"What is left of them in Armorica, yes."

She slid her breast and hand down his arm, carelessly, perhaps a caress and perhaps not. He could almost believe she was flirting with him, courting him, despite the intimate touch he had seen, the touch he had been seeing for days now in his mind's eye.

Yseult sat down beside him, smiling. "You are a bridge between two worlds."

"You do me too much honor, Lady."

"My name is Yseult. It is my mother who is the queen." She placed a bundle on his knee. "I brought you a gift. I would have waited until the midwinter celebration, but you are in need of such now."

He stared down at the neatly folded blue fabric, unable to think what to say. He laid aside his harp and took up the bundle, stood and shook it out. It was a lambswool cloak in a pattern of blue squares in different shades, the colors bright and the wool soft to the touch. Drystan threw it over his shoulders. "Thank you. I cannot think how I deserve this."

"You give us joy with your harp and voice almost daily. And you have taught me much in the little time you have spent with us."

"The little time I was awake, you mean."

Yseult laughed and rose, and her hand went to his shoulder again, stroking the wool smooth. Suddenly her laughter stilled and she raised those light blue eyes to his, so bright it was almost painful to look at them, pale silver in the middle enclosed by a dark blue ring.

"You have withdrawn. Why?"

He never would have expected such a direct attack, and he gave her the truth, or part of it at least. "I'm leaving again in the spring."

"Must you go?"

Must you go?
She asked him to stay. But what of the warrior with whom she exchanged caresses? And what of the life he had left behind? He thought of Kurvenal's tear-stained face and nodded mutely.

She withdrew her hand. "Gamal is the past," she said and turned and left the house of druids.

Drystan watched her go, fear curling into his belly and killing his desire. He couldn't even be pleased at what she had told him.

He had dropped his guard and allowed her to see into his thoughts. He would never be safe with her. What if she someday saw what she would never forgive?

* * * *

Yseult sat in the circle around the peat fire; it was smoldering and sweet, banishing the cold from a sudden winter squall. Earlier in the day the sun had been shining, unseasonably warm, but now winter rain kept everyone in their houses, drinking and playing fidchell and listening to the tales of the bards.

She wanted him. Yseult was unused to not getting what she wanted. And so, like a child, she wanted him all the more. It didn't help that she understood the power of the friendship pulling him back, had felt it herself when his guard was down; the desire was there anyway, insistent, resentful. She knew it made no sense, knew the affection drawing him was sincere — but still her eyes sought him out whenever he was near.

She had always had a weakness for those of bardic temperament, drawn to the power of their words as well as by their physical charms. She told herself that was all, told herself she would be better when she returned to Dun Ailinne and saw Illann again, saw his tall, fair form and winning smile, told herself Tandrys would then soon be forgotten.

Told herself and watched the bard's hair glint with reflected firelight as he tuned his harp. His hair was the dark gold of leaves in autumn and his eyes as green as the grass in spring.

"Tell us a tale of love, a serca tale," Yseult said, linking her arm through Brangwyn's. "It is winter and we yearn for summer."

Tandrys shook his head. "I know no tales of love. Boinda has been remiss in teaching me." There was a spurt of laughter around the fire, but Yseult saw in his eyes the way he was keeping himself from her with a joke. Saw and wanted to taunt him further, until he could not help but acknowledge her.

"Let us have another tale from your homeland," Brangwyn put in — saving the bard from her baiting, Yseult knew it. Brangwyn had teased her before, but she teased no more. She disapproved. Yet another reason for resentment. Not that Yseult was proud of the fact, but somehow she couldn't help it.

Tandrys stroked the strings of his harp. "I can tell you the story of the city of Ys," he said. "But it is a long tale, and sad, more told than sung."

Several of those sitting around the fire looked disappointed that they would not have more of the joy of the Armorican's fine singing voice, but a tale was almost as good as a song, and most nodded eagerly. No one minded the lateness of the hour.

"Once there was, and once there was not," Tandrys began. "In a place I can take you where I have never been, far across the sea, a beautiful princess by the name of Dahut lived in a city that no merchant now visits and no map contains. Dahut was the daughter of good king Gradlon of Armorica. Before Gradlon founded the city of Kemper, he ruled in the famed city of Ys and lived by the old ways. Ys was at the end of the world, and it had escaped the attention of the Romans. But it was not beyond the reach of the new religion and the ways it brought."

Yseult watched him as he told the tale, watched the way his fingers played upon the strings, fingers long and fine on hands strong and broad. His lower arms where the tunic fell away from his wrists were well-muscled. She listened as his fine voice flowed over her, his speaking voice nearly as musical as his singing voice. The rhythm of his foreign accent seduced her, tricking her into abandoning her resentment. He wasn't telling a serca tale, and yet he was telling a tale for her, a tale of the conflict between the old ways and the new, in a city with a name very like her own. He might not be a druid, but in his own way he was a magician and she allowed him to work his magic on her, surrendered her resentment for the space of a story.

"The princess Dahut did not like the new ways. The wise men of the Christian religion tried to tell her how to lead her life, forbidding her the joys of the flesh, calling it a sin. But Dahut's mother had left King Gradlon many years before and returned to the sea, and the king found comfort in the teachings of the Christians and welcomed them to his city. Dahut went to her father the king and begged him to build her a home somewhere away from the influence of the Christian wise men where she could enjoy the pleasures of life undisturbed. King Gradlon loved his daughter dearly, and he granted her wish. A great house was built on the sea, beyond the reach of the wise men of Christ, a splendid building of white stone which caught the rays of the setting sun before it disappeared beyond the edge of the world.

"Dahut's people lived by fishing. In the years after her castle was built, the storms of the bay grew more fierce, threatening the people's safety and livelihood. Dahut went again to her father the king and asked him to build a sea-wall for her and her people to protect them from the worst of the storms. But King Gradlon had only recently given his daughter the splendid building on the sea, and now the filid of the Christ were demanding that a place of worship be built in the city. The Christian wise men had very powerful spells, and they threatened the good king with eternal fire after death if he did not do as they asked. The pressure was great, and Gradlon built the house of worship in the middle of the city of Ys.

"When Dahut found out about the building where the Christian god was to be worshiped under a roof rather than in the open air, she turned her back on her father. She rowed all night and all day through the dangerous waters of the ocean to the sacred isle of Sizun, where the holy women lived who continued to honor the old ways and practice the arts of magic. The holy women welcomed her, but when she told them about the house of worship for the Christian god in the middle of Ys, they were more angry even than Dahut herself.

"The wise women sent Dahut home, promising her that she would always be able to follow the old ways. Then they called upon the korrigans, the spirits of the sea. Upon hearing of King Gradlon's heresy, the korrigans rose up against him. There was a great storm, and the water spirits came and engulfed the city of Ys. Dahut was on her way back when the storm hit, and the king of the waters saw her and saw how beautiful she was and took her for his own to live with him in the world beneath the sea where they still follow the old ways.

"The wise men of the Christ had been warned by their god of what would come, and the fili Guenol escaped with King Gradlon. The king and the monk fled before the waves, all the way to the crossing of the waters, a night and a day they fled, before the flood receded. There Gradlon founded the city of Kemper, and it has been the capital of the kings of Gradlon's line ever since."

The crowd in the round-house clapped and congratulated Tandrys on a story well told.

Yseult sat, still watching, coming out only gradually from the world the bard had created for them. No longer caught in the spell of words, she was suddenly aware that the night outside was not as quiet as it should be. A number of warriors were already standing when the warning bell rang out. At almost the same time, the door of the round-house crashed open and a young warrior stumbled in, bringing a burst of damp and cold air with him.

"Attack!" he gasped, falling to his knees on the rushes of the floor.

At the single word, everyone in the round-house with a weapon to hand was on their feet and storming into the wet winter night. Yseult raced to the wall where the weapons hung, Brangwyn at her side, pulled down a sword, and followed the armed warriors out the door. A numbing rain slanted out of a sky the color of charred wood as the alarmed warriors scrambled to the gates of the rath. On the other side, the intruders had attempted to set the closest buildings on fire, the smokehouse and the blacksmith's forge, but the pelting rain was on the side of the residents of Ard Ladrann, and the fires did little more than sputter and smoke.