Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (36 page)

It was a hard winter and a quiet one, Saxons and British both too caught up with survival to attempt conquest, licking their wounds and trying to regain their strength. At Arthur's camp in Caer Leon, training continued, but many men returned to their families for harvest and stayed away until spring. Drystan elected to remain with Arthur instead of going to his father's winter court at Lansyen. Many of the other men without wife or children also remained in the garrison during winter so that the troops would not be too thinned out.

Shortly before Christmas, a messenger arrived with news from Venta: Cerdic had negotiated a truce with Aelle — and to seal the bargain was to marry Aelle's daughter Cynewyn.

"Was Ambrosius informed of the negotiations?" Arthur asked, pacing the black-and-white tiled floor of his headquarters in the principia. The latticed window above the alcove where once the legionary standards stood cast a patterned shadow similar to that of the tiles themselves.

"No,
Dux
," the messenger said. "He was as surprised as you."

Arthur nodded shortly. "Thank you. You can find refreshments in the mensa before you have to return to Verulamium. If you need lodgings, Caradog will assist you."

"You think Cerdic is planning treachery?" Cai asked after the messenger left.

Arthur shook his head. "I think nothing yet, only that it is noteworthy that Cerdic did not take the High King into his confidence. Nonetheless, it is good if this will keep Aelle from harrying our southern coasts."

"But you are not sure," Drystan said quietly.

Arthur stopped pacing and looked at him. "No, Cousin, I am not sure."

* * * *

At the end of winter, soldiers began to return to Caer Leon from their families. Drystan found himself glad to see "his" men again, Ruan, Lucius, Tuthal, those he had trained and led. When their ranks were almost full again, before any news of movements of Saxons or Erainn could reach them, Arthur called Drystan to him, his expression sober.

"I have news from Marcus. He requests your return."

Drystan cocked an eyebrow at his cousin, and Arthur returned the look without a trace of answering humor. Slowly Drystan began to grow uneasy.

"It is your decision whether to remain or go," Arthur continued. "I can certainly use your fighting arm, not to mention your experience at sea. But I wouldn't mind having a man I trust among Marcus's retinue to report to me on his doings, if you would be willing to do so."

Drystan stared at Arthur in surprise. "You would trust me to inform you if my father were plotting against you?"

"I trust you not to betray Ambrosius or myself. I do not trust Marcus."

Strangely enough, Arthur was right. Drystan felt more loyalty towards his cousin, the Dux Bellorum, than he did towards his own father. But then, Arthur had no reason to believe in paternal loyalty; he had barely known his own father, Uthyr, the man who had raped his mother and disowned him. Blood was rarely thicker than water when blood was tainted.

"I don't trust my father much either," Drystan said. "Why has he sent for me?"

Arthur was quiet, obviously at a loss for words, and Drystan's uneasiness grew.

"It is hard for me to tell you this," Arthur finally said, his hands locked behind his back. "Marcus has finally negotiated a peace with Lóegaire and arranged for his marriage to an Erainn princess."

Drystan suddenly felt dizzy. He fell into the nearest chair and looked up at his cousin. "Who?" he choked out.

He could see the pain and sympathy in his cousin's eyes, could see he wished he did not have to answer.

Arthur raised his chin and looked Drystan directly in the eyes. "Yseult the Fair."

* * * *

And so, a year and a half after Drystan first set out across the sea of Eriu, he sailed west to fetch the love of his life to be his father's bride.

Book Three: Two Men and a Woman

Chapter 16

Tristrem in schip lay

With Ysonde ich night;

Play miri he may

With that worthli wight

In boure night and day.

Al blithe was the knight,

He might with hir play.

Sir Tristrem
(Anonymous)

His arrival in Eriu this time was very different than it had been a lifetime before. Then he had been feverish, delirious, unsure whether he would live or die, sailing in a coracle of hide with nothing more than his harp and his sword and the rags on his back.

This time, he came in state, in his father's finest ship, wearing a tunic of rich foreign silk as befitted a king's son. The rings on his hands were of gold, as were the bracelets around his arms and the torc around his neck. The sun shone down on his back, providing welcome warmth to everything but his soul.

He almost wished he hadn't lived to see this day.

Lóegaire's party had come from Tara to the Roman port at Eblana to meet the ship. The settlement was situated on a promontory and easier to defend than Inber Colptha: Lóegaire obviously wanted to get Yseult out of the country as safely and as soon as possible.

The small landing boat was pulled ashore, and slaves came out to meet it and carry him and Kurvenal to the beach. He was gripping the shoulders of two sturdy men, their muscled forearms beneath his thighs, when he finally saw her again, stepping through the ramparts, flanked by her mother and a man he presumed was High King Lóegaire.

She was dressed in white and green, the colors she had been wearing when he had seen her for the first time.

His feet touched sand. He looked away.

How often could a heart break? If there were a limit, his didn't seem to know it.

He strode forward through the fine sand, Kurvenal at his side. In order not to look at Yseult, he glanced at the queen —and nearly stopped in his tracks. Yseult the Wise seemed older, smaller, frail. He remembered her as taller than most men; now she appeared almost short. The air of command, the vitality of her presence that had always made her tower above those around her was gone.

She caught his eye, and for some reason, she smiled. Smiled and seemed to stand a little straighter again.

Drystan's broken heart twisted.

When they reached the Erainn party, the queen was the first to speak. "Welcome, bard."

He could have sworn there was friendliness in her voice, friendliness he didn't deserve: not as his father's emissary and not as the man who had killed her brother. Perhaps this was some strange Feadh Ree method of torture.

He knelt before her. "Lady."

"It is good to see you again, Tandrys. Perhaps you will give us a song before you leave?"

Drystan searched her face for signs of madness but found none. "I didn't think to be so well-received by you."

The queen shrugged. "I have learned much about unwise alliances in the last few years — friends who are none and foes who are friends. Rise, fili."

He stood, glancing at Yseult the Fair to see how she was taking her mother's odd behavior. She stood frozen, not deigning to look at him. He returned his attention to the queen. "As before, I do not deserve the honor of the title — now even less than at our first meeting. Circumstances have forced me to abandon my harp for a sword."

She shook her head. "I thought you wiser than that. But we still respect our bards here in Eriu, Tandrys."

No, she was not mad. She had said those very words to him when he had first regained consciousness in her care, so long ago now.

Was she reminding him of his debt?

He examined her face, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I will remember that, Lady," he said.

The High King stepped forward. "Welcome back to Eriu, Prince Drustanus. Your reputation as an artist and a warrior has proceeded you. You do us great honor by visiting the rath of Eblana."

Drystan allowed the formalities to wash over him, wondering what it was Yseult the Wise thought he could do for her.

And determined to do it if it was in his power.

* * * *

Although the people of Eriu referred to Eblana as "the Roman Port," there was little here that seemed Roman to Drystan's eyes. The main hall was rectangular rather than round, but it was built of wood and wattle in the Erainn style, with a thick thatched roof. Weapons and woven hangings graced the walls instead of painted frescoes, and even now in summer, the smell of a peat fire from the fire pits on either end of the hall lingered in the air.

Drystan was given the place of honor and the largest piece of meat at the feast held to celebrate their arrival, with the queen seated to his right and her daughter to his left. Kurvenal was farther down the table, next to Yseult's widowed cousin Brangwyn. There were wheat cakes cooked in honey; salmon with vinegar and cumin; watercress and cheese; wine, mead and ale; and both a haunch of beef and a haunch of pork turning on the spits over the fire pits. The king in Eblana, Tuathal, was not about to appear stingy when the High King claimed the right of hospitality from him, and the feast was better than any Drystan ever had in Eriu.

But even through the smells in the round-house, through the smoke and the meat and ale and wheat cakes, he imagined he could discern the subtle scent of Yseult the Fair, the woman who had haunted his dreams for so long. He certainly hadn't convinced himself he was over her; but neither had he imagined it would be so hard, seeing her again. She ignored him as much as possible, but he was aware of every time she spoke to the young King Tuathal on her other side, aware of every wheat cake she took and sip of wine she drank. The awareness was a pain in the pit of his stomach, barely allowing him to eat.

He tried to concentrate on the queen on his other side and Lóegaire next to her. Somehow, Lóegaire reminded him of his father, although they looked nothing alike. Lóegaire was bearded, his braided hair a melange of red and gray, while Marcus Cunomorus was brown-haired and clean-shaven, but both had that calculating look in their eyes marking those with a greed which was never satisfied.

Sitting between Drystan and the High King, the queen seemed to slowly be coming alive again. He found it hard to imagine that it had anything to do with him, after he had betrayed their trust, but he didn't know what else to think.

After all had eaten their fill and before the bards began the first songs and tales of the evening, the queen rose and motioned to one of the servants. The serving woman came forward, bearing a woven cape of finest Erainn wool, the color an almost iridescent royal purple.

The queen took the cape from her woman and presented it to Drystan on outstretched arms. "I made a present for the king."

Drystan rose and took the bundle from her, and their hands touched. "It is very beautiful, Lady."

"You will give it to the King of the South for me?"

He nodded and opened his mind to her. This was what she wanted from him, he saw now, the reason his presence gave her hope and brought some life back into her tired eyes. The King of the South was not only his own father — in Eriu, he could also be the king of the Laigin.

He would go along with the deception. He owed her at least that much, if not more. "My father will be honored."

At the thought of his father, who was taking Yseult the Fair to wife, he nearly lost his composure, and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, he could feel the queen's sympathy and regret. He stared at her, the soft purple wool draped across his arms, and wondered if Yseult the Fair had been right a lifetime ago when she thought he must have some blood of the Old Race.

* * * *

Yseult the Fair didn't like admitting she was wrong, but when it was obvious, she was woman enough to swallow her pride. And her pain.

She had been wrong about Drystan.

Before their Bretain ship even sailed out of the port of Eblana, he had come to her and Brangwyn with the cloak woven with her mother's magic and asked them how they were to deliver it to Crimthann.

Given his previous dishonesty, she hadn't thought he would be willing to help them now, let alone understand what his mother wanted from him.

Brangwyn answered in her place. "We've sent callings to Crimthann, and Brigid as well, that we will try to put in at the port of Inber Da Glas, but we don't know if they heard us. If not, there will be someone there who will be able to deliver the cape to the king."