Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (28 page)

She shook her head. Suspicion was giving way to a strange conviction, and suddenly she could barely stand his touch.

He gave her a tender kiss on the cheek, and she sheathed her own sword and returned to the rath without looking back.

Tandrys. Drustanus, son of Cunomorus. Drustanus in the British tongue would be Drystan. Drystan. Tandrys.

Yseult felt like a fool.

After leaving the practice grounds, she ordered his belongings cleaned for the journey to Dun Ailinne. Totally unaware of her suspicions, he gave them up easily, glad enough to have slaves doing the work for him.

She waited a sufficient amount of time and then entered the round-house on the pretext checking up on the slaves' progress. His harp looked like new, the carvings in the spine polished to perfection. But it was not the harp she was interested in. She picked up Tandrys's sword in its finely made scabbard. An Armorican piece, the Roman-Gaulish influence was obvious in the work; at the same time, the figures of the horse and rider were too stylized to be completely Roman, the lines too smooth, the figures too pleasing for pure verisimilitude.

She was putting off the moment of truth and she knew it. No more.

Yseult drew the sword out of its scabbard and found the chip in the blade immediately. Her hand stilled and her stomach plunged. Laying the sword down next to the harp, she drew the splinter out of the pouch she wore at her waist and fitted it into the irregularity in the bard's blade.

Perfect. The fit was perfect.

* * * *

The air of the bath house was sweet with herbs and heady with humid warmth. The fire in the fire pit crackled merrily as Yseult slipped silently through the door, clutching the sword that had killed her uncle. Tandrys — no, Drystan — sat in a wooden tub with his back to her, washing off the dirt and sweat from the afternoon's practice, cleaning his underarms vigorously, and humming a song beneath his breath. She paused for a moment. The back would be perfect, but it wasn't honorable.

Yes, the back was perfect, smooth and well-muscled, slim for a fighter but strong. His braid was loosened, and he had pulled the wet hair off his back and tied it in a knot at his neck. Yseult felt a wrench in her stomach, and she gripped the sword tighter. It had to be. She had sworn to avenge her uncle, sworn that Drustanus son of Cunomorus would pay. And he, liar that he was, had taken the hospitality of his enemies, had fooled them all for months, and had almost tricked the niece of the man he had killed into falling in love with him. Ah, yes, he liked to laugh so much, he was probably laughing at all of them behind the wall of his mind even now.

She choked back a sob, hating her own weakness. At the sound, Drystan started up in the tub and turned. A pleased smile began to form on his fine lips until he saw the sword she carried. His gaze flitted from her face to the sword and back again, and the smile died. He began to lift one hand, but she lifted the sword in reply, and he let his arm drop again.

"Yseult," he said finally. Nothing more. At least he wasn't going to try and pretend innocence. His eyes were full of sadness, and when she reached out to his mind, the wall was gone and his mind screamed with pain. She winced and withdrew.

"Drystan." She took a deep breath. "I have come to take revenge for the death of my uncle."

The water glistened on his body, catching the glow of the firelight and making him appear like a statue of shining bronze. At the sight of all that wetly gleaming male beauty, her breath caught in her throat, and she looked up, concentrating on the face, the face that lied.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

Yseult stepped forward and placed the tip of the sword in the middle of his surprisingly hairless chest, fighting the urge to lower her gaze and take in the whole lean length of him again. "This is the sword that killed Murchad. I extracted a splinter from his skull and it fits your sword perfectly."

"The fight this afternoon."

"Yes."

"Your uncle died in a battle to the death. If I had not killed him, he would have killed me. He almost did kill me when the wound grew poisonous."

"But you slew him when he was returning hostages, when he was given safe passage to your father's seat."

Drystan let out a ragged sigh. "I know."

Yseult was so surprised, she almost let the sword drop. "So you admit to the dishonor?"

"To the dishonor of my family, yes, but not to my own. I slew Murchad in a fair fight."

"How can you distinguish between family and personal honor?"

Drystan shrugged. "It was not my decision to violate the laws of safe passage. That was my father's doing. I was only trying to save whatever honor remained."

It all sounded so reasonable, so possible, Yseult felt herself wavering. But she couldn't. For her uncle's sake, she couldn't.

"Instead of ambushing him, you just slew him in a fight to the death," she said bitterly.

"So you admit the fight was fair?"

She had to get her anger back again. With every minute she stood there, the sword growing heavier in her hands, she could feel the anger slipping away. "I admit nothing. You are a liar who tricked us into nursing you back to health. Are you a spy for your father?"

"I am no spy." He heaved a great sigh. "I would have been your bard."

"Bard? Murderer! I will kill you with the sword that killed Murchad!"

Drystan didn't move, only staring at her with those eyes the color of new grass in spring. Yseult found she couldn't move either, couldn't push the blade into his breastbone, couldn't watch the red blood seep down across that perfect body or those green eyes go blank.

"Yseult, what is the meaning of this?"

At the sound of her mother's voice, Yseult whirled around. Drystan leapt out of the bath and grabbed her from behind, forcing the sword out of her hand. As it fell to the rushes of the floor, all the tension left her body, all the energy which had been keeping her standing, and she slumped against her naked foe with a sob. Drystan tightened his arms around her. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, tears running down her face, and gazed at her mother. Crimthann stood at his queen's shoulder, his expression bewildered.

Her mother repeated her question, this time addressing the false bard. "What is the meaning of this, Tandrys?"

"Not Tandrys," Yseult got out, the taste of tears salty on her lips. "Drystan."

"Drystan?" Her mother still didn't understand.

"Drustanus," Yseult said. "Son of Marcus Cunomorus."

The silence in the bath house stretched out. Yseult felt the water from Drystan's body seeping through her tunic to her skin, felt the muscles of his forearm beneath her breasts, felt the heat of the tears beneath her eyelids and on her cheeks, felt her heart cramp and her trust die. And still, the feel of him, naked and wet behind her, made her want to turn and kiss him to the ground.

She hated him, more than she had ever hated anyone in her life.

"A life for a life," Crimthann said.

"Release her," the queen ordered, her voice tired.

Drystan loosened his grip, but Yseult couldn't move. Standing by herself was impossible, and she didn't want to end up sprawling on the floor of the bath house. She stood listlessly leaning against her lover-turned-enemy, the tears mopping her cheeks in a steady stream. Crimthann stepped forward and drew her away from Drystan into his own arms. She leaned her head on his shoulder, aware that soon his tunic would also be wet. Somehow, the burning tears just wouldn't stop.

"I cannot avenge Murchad with your life," Crimthann said, his voice rumbling next to her ear. "I owe you my own. But I want you to leave Ard Ladrann immediately and make your way out of the territory of the Laigin as soon as possible." He was silent for a moment, and Yseult felt him swallow. "I wonder if you realize what you have done to us. We trusted you and loved you and made a place for you in our lives. Now go."

Yseult heard Drystan gather up his belongings and stride to the door, heard the door creak and his footsteps stop. "Forgive me."

Then he was gone.

Crimthann gathered her up in his arms and carried her through the rath to her own bed. She felt her pallet against her back and tasted the bitter flavor of nightshade.

And she slept.

Chapter 13

Where, then, will Coroticus with his criminals, rebels against Christ, where will they see themselves, they who distribute baptized women as prizes — for a miserable temporal kingdom, which will pass away in a moment? As a cloud or smoke that is dispersed by the wind, so shall the deceitful wicked perish at the presence of the Lord; but the just shall feast with great constancy with Christ, they shall judge nations, and rule over wicked kings for ever and ever. Amen.

St. Patrick, Letter to Coroticus

Yseult awoke with a start. As so often in the last months since they had moved to Dun Ailinne after Crimthann was chosen king of the Laigin, she was disoriented and confused. She thought she smelled smoke, fresh smoke, not like that from the evening fire which had been banked and put out before everyone sought their beds. It made no sense; summer was almost over, but they did not yet need the warmth of a fire at night.

She rubbed her eyes, sniffed the air again, and tried to probe the rath with her sleepy mind. It
was
smoke — something was wrong. She threw back the covers and slipped into breeches and shoes, noticing as she did that her mother was up too. The queen had pulled back the curtain to the sleeping area she normally shared with Crimthann. Now, however, he was on a campaign against the Ui Bairrche who had betrayed his father and gone over to the Ui Neill, a campaign he had begun shortly after being elected king. The territory of the Ui Bairrche was not far north of their new home, but it was too far away for him to help them now.

Their gazes locked across the darkened round-house. With King Crimthann and half the fighting men of Dun Ailinne gone, it was the perfect time for a raid, and they both knew it.

But why had there been no warning bell?

"I'll go see if anything is amiss," Yseult said, lifting her sword and shield from the wall. Her mother nodded.

By this time, Illann too was awake, pushing back the curtain of his sleeping chamber with one hand as he belted his tunic with the other. "I will go with you. Lithben," he said to the final occupant of the round-house, "you stay to guard the queen."

Lithben nodded shortly, and Yseult and Illann slipped out of the door. Outside, the smell of smoke was stronger, and she turned her head, trying to determine where it was coming from. Everything was too still for a fire — no sounds of panic, no calls of warning, no frightened animals, no scurrying to save buildings or stores from ruin.

It could only be the outlook itself.

They hurried to the closest round-house assigned to the warriors of the Fianna. Many of them too were already on their feet, their swords in their hands.

"We must check the guard posts," Illann said. "But I also want more warriors guarding the queen. If it is Lóegaire, she is what he wants."

"If it is Lóegaire, we can only hope he has underestimated our forces," Illann's brother Ailbe said beside her.

Illann ignored his brother's mutterings. "Fiachra, you go awaken the other warriors and send another half-dozen to help Lithben guard the queen. Bran and Bress, take half the remaining men and check the outlook. Yseult and I will go with the other half to see if the guards are at their posts."

"That is too many," Yseult protested. "We need to split up to check all the guard posts."

Illann shook his head. "No, Yseult. You are as valuable as your mother."

Yseult would have liked to object, but she knew Lóegaire had sworn to capture her as well. And if she made too much of a fuss, he would send her back to be put under guard in the round-house with her mother.

Swords drawn, they moved silently between the houses to the southern gate where two guards were on duty inside the earthworks of the rath. Although there were no yells of combat, no identifying cries, and no rain to slow their movements, there was something that reminded Yseult of the night Tandrys fought at her side — something about the threat beyond the cover of darkness. Only this time, the moon was high, visibility was good, and Crimthann was gone.

"Aed?" Illann called out quietly when they neared the gate. "Cellach?"