Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (38 page)

Gangplanks were heaved from the ship to the wharf, and Yseult, Brangwyn behind her, made her way to land and her future husband. As she approached him, she reached out to touch his mind.

Greed. Lust. Self-satisfaction.

She shut the door in her mind, but not before she caught a glimpse of the overwhelming pain of Drystan beside her. He wasn't even attempting to conceal his thoughts from her, and the misery that hit her was like a scream. The numbness she had felt on the ship was infinitely preferable to this.

Her steps faltered, and Marcus stepped forward to take her hand, leading her the rest of the way to the wharf.

"Welcome to Durocornovium, Princess Yseult," the protector of Dumnonia said in Latin. "You truly are as fair as the stories say."

Yseult blinked. For some reason she had expected him to speak the dialect Drystan spoke with his men.

"Ah, I forget," Marcus said, switching to the Bretain language. "The language of the Romans has never taken hold on the island of Eriu."

His superior tone irked her, and she answered in Latin. "I do have some command of the tongue of Rome." There was a relief in anger — it was easier to deal with than the welter of pain and lust and love she had felt on the journey here. She would have the better of this man who had bought her for the price of a promise.

Marcus nodded, pleased. "So much the better. You will need it soon: we go to Verulamium next month where you will meet the High King Ambrosius himself." He turned to Drystan, as if the additional information was of no interest to her. "The kings of Britain have been summoned to a council — Ambrosius has received a plea for help from Gaul to fight back barbarian intrusions there. It is to be discussed when the traditional Whitsun festivities are finally held again."

Luckily Drystan asked the question Yseult would have wanted to ask herself. "Whitsun festivities?"

Marcus led them from the wharf to the steep pathway zigzagging up the side of the promontory. "It is no wonder you do not remember them; they have not been held for many years now. The treaties of Venta and Eriu have made them possible again."

The treaty of Eriu
. She wondered if he had any awareness at all of how little it meant, his treaty. Lóegaire still called himself High King, but he had lost half his kingdoms, and the kings of the South were not about to go along with a treaty bought with a stolen princess.

"Will Ambrosius go to Gaul?" Drystan was asking now.

Marcus shrugged. "Who is to say? With peace made with the Saxons of Vectis and Ceint, our borders in the south are safe again. But it is something all the local kings must decide together."

Yseult listened carefully. This was her world now, and she had to understand it.

Marcus turned back to her. He obviously thought the political details could not interest her, but she wouldn't open her mind to find out: she was too afraid of what she would feel from Drystan.

"Come, my dear," Marcus said, taking her elbow. "All is ready for you. We can be married tomorrow."

Yseult swallowed and fought back fear. Why fear? She had faced Ui Neill warriors in the rain, with only a short sword in her hand, had gone out on raiding parties with Murchad's and Illann's bands since she was sixteen years old. Why should she be afraid of a graying Briton who spoke the tongue of Rome?

Because she could not fight back, that was why.

He was not old as Boinda was old, but the skin of his hand was no longer young, and there were age spots on his muscled forearms. Much worse, however, was his huge opinion of himself, apparent even in the way he walked, the wide swagger that told of a man who had grown up a leader and never been seriously challenged.

No, she didn't think her mother's magic would have worked for her with Marcus Cunomorus.

* * * *

The weeks that followed were not easy. Yseult tried as much as possible to shut out the things that were happening to her and with her, to find a small, safe corner in her mind to hide from what her life had become. Anger helped. After their wedding night, Marcus believed he had been cheated, and even with her power of knowing, she didn't immediately understand that he'd expected her to be untouched, a "virgin" — not only young and unmarried, but still sexually ignorant.

Yseult was not to be bullied. She told him roundly that ways were different on the island of Eriu. If he was not satisfied with their union, she would be happy to return home, making his treaty with Lóegaire null and void.

Marcus pursed his lips, stroked her long, pale blond hair, and no longer complained.

Her mother was never far from her mind. Yseult had sent a message to Tara with a merchant ship shortly after her marriage, but she had yet to receive an answer. Even though her mother had seemed more herself when she and Brangwyn had left, Yseult still couldn't help worrying. She knew now first hand the kind of life her mother was bing forced to live.

And then there was Drystan.

She had no intention of continuing their affair after marrying his father; not only did she know that breaking marriage vows was regarded as a much greater sin among the Christians than among the Gaels, it would only make the situation that much more unbearable.

So she avoided him — and he avoided her; whether angry at her for not running away with him, or simply also trying to live from day to day, she didn't know.

One afternoon, she sought out the cave on the western side of the island, looking for wine suitable for medicinal use. Marcus told her she had no need to treat the ill and injured of Dyn Tagell, but she ignored him. After a week of marriage, she'd learned that he was not interested in her opinions or needs, so she didn't bother to express them. Instead, she visited the local healer and the doctor for the troops, discussed with them what was available, and determined what she would still need. It was not too late in the season to plant new herbs, but she was glad to learn that the Christian wise men who ran the church on the mainland already had an extensive herb garden. One of them thought she was the physical incarnation of sin, a beautiful, unclean heathen, but the other was friendly and helpful and very glad to listen to her suggestions on herbs that could be added to their garden.

As soon as Yseult entered the cave where the wine was stored, she knew she wasn't alone. She turned to see him leaning his shoulders on the cold stone behind him, his eyes on her, his arms crossed in front of his chest. The afternoon sun coming through the opening of the cave cast the left side of his face in shadow, while the hair of his braid, draped over his chest, caught the sunlight. They stared at each other for a moment. Then they were in each other's arms, and it was Yseult with her back to the wall of the cave, her tunic around her waist and Drystan pressing into her.

The act was over almost as soon as it had begun. Drystan dropped his head to her shoulder and let out a gagging sigh. "What are we going to do?"

Yseult slipped her leg down again and straightened her tunic. She very much wanted to cry, but she could remember having cried only once since she had left Cashel when she was seven years old, and she wasn't sure if she still knew how.

Only once — when she learned of Drystan's betrayal.

She leaned her cheek against his and closed her eyes. Why couldn't she resist this man of all men? What was there about him which made her weak when he was near? Life would be so much easier if she didn't have to keep wanting him, didn't have to keep loving him. His father was not her choice, would never have been her choice, but loving his son ...? Her throat hurt with unshed tears.

He hugged her tighter, and she wrapped her fist in his long braid, stupidly angry somehow.

"I don't want this," she said into his shoulder.

"I noticed." She detected a hint of humor in his voice and looked up. He smiled, but it was sad — sad, slightly sardonic, yet still with a touch of joy. She didn't know how he could get such conflicting emotions into one expression.

He trailed the back of one finger down the side of her face, his forest-green eyes holding hers. He kissed her lips lightly, tenderly. "As opposed to you, I can't regret it."

She could hear the sound of her own pain wrench itself out of her throat, a choking, gagging sound. She pulled out of his arms and turned away. "Well, I can. We can't continue this way."

After a few moments, she heard the sound of his footsteps as he left the cave.

* * * *

It was a relief when they finally set off for Verulamium. The situation itself had become no less difficult, but at least they were not all trapped on one small pile of rock. And anything that might distract her from what she had and what she wanted could only be good.

It was long journey, across half the breadth of the island of Alba, or Britain as the natives called it. While it would have been faster to go by sea for part of the journey, Marcus decided to go by land. That way, they were able to stay with a number of smaller kings in the province of Dumnonia on the trip, enjoying Marcus's right of hospitality, and allowing for hurried, secretive discussions between king and sub-king. Yseult watched and learned.

During the journey, she and Brangwyn stayed close, giving each other courage to confront the strange sights, and giving Yseult an excuse not to be alone with her husband. Not that he seemed to have much interest in her outside of the bedchamber, except when proudly presenting her like a token of war, his beautiful young wife, a princess of Eriu (which he called Hibernia). She and Drystan avoided each other, although she was constantly aware of him. Her gaze wandered to him again and again, seeking out his long, bronze braid, glinting in the sun, seeking out the pain and joy watching him gave her.

She had sent him away, but that didn't make her any stronger. She had so many remedies and cures at her disposal; why wasn't there one for love?

One morning when they were nearing Aquae Sulis, Drystan's friend and armsman Kurvenal rode up beside them. She wondered why he would seek her out; he had never been friendly with her.

"Good day, Yseult, Brangwyn," Kurvenal said, keeping his temperamental mount in check.

She nodded. "Good day."

"Kurvenal," Brangwyn said with a smile.

Yseult looked from Kurvenal to Brangwyn and back and knew why he had joined them, even without opening her mind. The smell of flowers and grass was in the air, a fertile smell that signaled new life and new beginnings. Yseult sighed, knowing Kurvenal was almost as likely as she to be unlucky in love. Brangwyn was not ready for courtship. Not only did she still mourn Aidenn, her treatment at the hands of Lugaid had made her bitter.

Still, she would be happy for anything that might take the hardness out of her cousin's eyes, and she made her excuses to drop back, grinning at Brangwyn's pursed lips.

* * * *

Yseult hated to admit it, but Alba was a land of wonders. When she had first seen the lower hall of Dyn Tagell, she thought it must be one of the finest buildings of Britain, with its large feasting area and high walls decorated with paintings and tapestries. The walls, although of stone, were as straight and smooth as a plank of wood, with murals painted directly onto them. Even the ceiling itself was painted, although the colors were faded. Not wanting to give Marcus the pleasure of her admiration, she had asked a servant responsible for repairs how the walls came to be so smooth, and had been enthusiastically initiated into the mysteries of plaster.

And the walls were nothing compared to the baths. The floor of the main bathing room was kept warm by what she learned was called a hypocaust, and the water did not have to be carried in by slaves, but came directly from the boiler through pipes. Yseult had been hard-pressed not to show her amazement at these wonders.

Which after two weeks on the road she now knew were not that unusual. On their journey to Verulamium, she and Brangwyn were confronted with even more wonders: huge walls of stone, straight and tall, the stones fitting together like those in the hills of the Sidhe; and within the walls,
cities
: crowds of people, more than at the annual fair of Tara, all living in a space little bigger than the fort of Dun Ailinne and its surrounding houses; wide, paved roads, going on forever, covering even difficult terrain, where in Eriu the wooden roads covered only marshes; the baths and temples and statues of Aquae Sulis; the games in the amphitheater of Calleva; and then the busy city of Verulamium itself — the triumphal arch, the huge building for the permanent market, and the theater, now in disuse.

As they rode through the streets of the city, Marcus complained about the state of disrepair. "When I was a youth, this street was still lined with fine buildings of stone," he said, pointing at a small lot where goats and cattle grazed. Yseult found it hard to imagine there could be even more buildings — to her way of thinking, stone was everywhere.