Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (43 page)

Drystan's hand clenched around the stem of his wine glass as a wave of simultaneous panic and relief came over him.
Leave Yseult? Just when he had found her again?
But two nights ago, someone had been spying on them in the courtyard of the ruined temple. He had not been alone with her since, didn't know when he would be able to be alone with her again. Didn't it make more sense to put some distance between them, let the rumors die down?

Drystan leaned his head against the column behind him, glancing around at the overgrown courtyard. The pear tree above had tiny fruit, little bigger than a fingernail, and wild roses bloomed despite the obvious lack of care. A rosemary bush lent a more stringent scent to the sweet smell of the flowers.

"I think you should take me up on it, Drystan," his cousin continued quietly when he didn't answer. "What are you going to do if you stay at your father's court? Although I must admit, I wouldn't mind having someone I trust to check up on what Marcus is doing."

Drystan turned his head and gave Arthur a rueful smile. "My father is an ambitious man."

"Let us hope not too ambitious."

Perhaps it would be for the best if he left. There was no future for him and Yseult. No future. When he was with her he could forget that, but being with her had become much more difficult.

"I will go with you."

"Good." The two men rose and shook hands.

Drystan turned to go, repressing a sigh. Now he would have to tell Yseult of his decision.

* * * *

The Whitsunday feast was held outside the city walls, near the church to the northeast of Verulamium. Drystan still had not had a chance to talk to Yseult alone since he had spoken with Arthur. He had told his father of his plans the same day as they all gathered for the evening meal. Yseult's expression had not changed; she had even congratulated him on the trust the greatest general in Britain put in him. Perhaps she had already discerned his decision without him having to say the words.

He could only hope now at the feast, in the intimacy of the crowd, he could find an opportunity to speak with her.

The Whitsuntide Fair was set up across the River Ver from the city, but for the feast all the stalls were closed up, their owners partaking of the mounds of food spread out on tables in front of the church: breads, honey cakes, hams, cheeses, strawberries, early season cherries and raspberries. On huge spits turned by a succession of volunteers, a wild boar and a deer roasted above two separate fire pits, sending tantalizing aromas into the air. In the fields beyond, foot races and wrestling matches were being held. Already, the army Ambrosius would take with him to Gaul gathered, and tents for the fighting men who no longer fit in the barracks lined the horizon.

Despite the festive atmosphere, Drystan imagined he could discern an undercurrent of discontent. In order to get the support he wanted for the campaign to Gaul, Ambrosius had excluded several regional kings from the council at which the final decision was made, and a number had left in protest before the Whitsunday feast. Drystan had even heard some of the high king's supporters grumbling about the high-handed way in which Ambrosius had acted. Not Arthur, of course; where Ambrosius was concerned, he was utterly loyal. But the tone of his voice when he spoke of the troops being taken to foreign shores led Drystan to believe that not even he regarded his uncle's actions uncritically.

As they approached the crowds surrounding the church and the tables groaning with food, Ambrosius spotted them. He broke off his conversation with the Bishop of Verulamium and came forward to greet Marcus's party.

"When will the preparations be concluded for your trip to Gaul?" Marcus asked.

"We should be able to break camp by the end of the week," Ambrosius said, his sharp eyes on Drystan's father.

To Drystan's relief, Ambrosius drew his father away, into a circle of several kings known to be loyal, including Modrun's husband Honorius. Drystan, Yseult, Brangwyn and Kurvenal walked together to the fields where the games were being held, but he still had no luck in drawing Yseult aside. The crowd wasn't thick enough, and he could feel his father's eyes on them.

"Arthur wants to leave about the same time as Ambrosius," Drystan said. "We will not go straight to Caer Leon but north first, to inspect the defenses there and recruit new soldiers."

Yseult stared fixedly at the foot races, not replying.

Brangwyn took pity on him. "We will be returning to Dyn Tagell at the end of the week, in a party with the other kings of Dumnonia."

"I wish there were some way I could write you," Drystan murmured to Yseult so that no one outside the four of them could hear. Finally she turned to look at him, her winter-bright eyes shadowed, and gave a short shake of her head.

Kurvenal took Brangwyn's hand and she looked at him in surprise. "I hope you would not be offended if
I
write
you
, Brangwyn?" he asked. "I know your cousin has mastered the Latin script and she could read my letters to you."

The four of them looked at each other, and Drystan drew a quick breath, surprised at the cleverness and deceptive energy of the move. He could dictate to Kurvenal, and the letter would be read by Yseult. Under the cover of letters between Brangwyn and Kurvenal, they would be able to correspond.

"I would not be offended," Brangwyn said. "As long as Yseult would not mind reading the letters to me."

Yseult's gaze drifted back to the races, where Cador was handily beating a number of other fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds.

"I will be happy to read the letters," she said.

* * * *

By Thursday of the following week, the sea of tents disappeared from the fields to the west, and the army of Ambrosius headed south, accompanied by Cerdic, Count of the Saxon Shore. Cerdic would remain in Venta to reorganize the defenses there, but two more centuries stationed in the south would join Ambrosius and his troops before they sailed across the channel, where they would be met by Syagrius to march against the heathen Euric.

Verulamium seemed unnaturally quiet with the majority of the soldiers gone. Yseult was surprised at how quickly she had gotten used to the constant bustle of a British city. Compared to the wide pathways between the round-houses and halls in Tara or Dun Ailinne, the streets of Verulamium were a sea of people, but compared to what they had been in the days leading up to the departure of Ambrosius, they seemed empty.

Yseult bought a fresh loaf of bread from the baker on the corner, paid with a worn copper coin, and added it to the cheese and fruit in her basket. The smell of fresh bread wafted up pleasantly. The difficulties of the economy was a topic Marcus loved to gripe about: how fewer people trusted coin and would accept only barter, making it harder to come to terms with a merchant when buying something. Such lectures always ended with the complaint, "Not like when I was a boy!"

Perhaps it was different in the villages of Dumnonia, but here in Verulamium, the ease with which all the necessities of daily life could be bought with coin amazed Yseult.

When she entered the townhouse, a sound she had not heard for over a year greeted her.

Drystan was playing the harp.

Yseult leaned her head back against the plaster of the wall and closed her eyes. She held the basket of cheese and bread and fruit in front of her, and the smell of fresh bread mixed with the music, combining to make a perfect moment, bread and song, song and bread.

And longing.

How could pain sound so sweet and smell so good and be combined with such happiness? Yseult didn't understand it, she just knew this was one of those moments that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

And then Drystan began to sing.

It was the Armorican tune he had first sung by the fire in the round-house of Crimthann, the song of Melusan, the water-woman loved and betrayed. Yseult's pain and happiness grew to a sharp point, like the tip of a sword to the hollow of her throat.

She heard steps on the flagstones of the hallway and turned, the moment shattering. Marcus eyed her suspiciously.

"Your son plays well, husband," Yseult said lightly. "Perhaps he should have become a bard."

For some reason it was the right comment, because Marcus's expression cleared. She caught the impression of frivolous amusement.

"At least it hasn't ruined him for his duties."

"Yes, Arthur seems to set high store by his military abilities."

Marcus nodded. "I see you brought bread and cheese for lunch. I need to speak with Gwythyr about the details of our return journey, but I will be back before noon. We can eat then."

He gave her a quick kiss and strode down the hall and out of the door.

Yseult watched until he was long out of sight and then turned and followed the sound of the music into the courtyard. Drystan sat on a wooden stool in the sun, his bronze braid draped over one shoulder, his fingers playing over the strings. As Yseult watched from the shadows of the atrium he hit a wrong note, and she had to smile.

He stopped playing and looked up. They stared at each other for a long moment. Yseult saw the way shadows beneath the planes of his muscles, the shades of gold and brown in the bronze of his hair, how the green of his eyes was even more intense in the bright June sun.

"Yseult."

She nodded. "Good day, Drystan."

"I told Arthur I would sleep at his house tonight. We will be leaving early in the morning."

Her throat closed. "I wish you pleasant travels."

"Thank you. Perhaps I will see you at Lansyen when the training season is over. My father's winter seat," he explained, obviously remembering she had not yet been there.

"I have heard of it."

"Yseult," he repeated.

"I must bring these things into the kitchen," she said, indicating the basket she carried, and turned to hurry down the hall. No, this wasn't her, miserable, aching, wounded, at the departure of a man. A man who had betrayed her, lied to her, a man who had hurt her more than any other. She had to regain her composure, couldn't reveal the way she felt when some slave or Andred or even Marcus himself might walk in on her at any time. She would put away the bread and cheese and gather her strength and go back to wish Drystan farewell.

But when she returned to the courtyard, he and his harp were gone.

Chapter 19

The hawk in the cliff of Ben Edair

Knows that I am stricken.

The otter knows

In the pool by the hurdles.

Love has a short blossoming—

But the dead remember it.

Ella Young, "Trostan Made This"

Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.

My dear, (I hope I may call you that?) I have been reluctant to write given the terms on which we parted. We have been traveling north for two weeks now, making good time with Arthur's mounted forces. He sets great store by the quality of the horses, saying it can make or break a mobile unit, even win or lose a war. His success on the battlefield in the last ten years surely speaks for itself.

But you probably do not want to hear of Arthur's military strategy. I am not sure what you would like to hear at all, which is why I write of such a harmless thing. Many times I have begun a few lines to you with stylus in wax before putting them down in ink, only to smooth the words out again, never setting pen to wooden sheet. But now a courier is heading south, and I must finally see if my words are welcome.

I pray that you are enjoying the best fortune and are in good health.

Your Kurvenal

Postscript. I hope you will understand the words written here are for you and only you and come from a sincere heart.

Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.

The terms on which we parted were dictated by circumstances, not my own feelings. And I would remind you that it was you who fled from a final meeting, not I.

It is good to hear from you, good to hear you are well. Your first letter took its time in reaching us here in remote Dyn Tagell, but so long as we hear of no new outbreaks of war, we will be happy to assume that you and the rest of the Companions traveling with Arthur are well. Has the Dux Bellorum had any success in recouping his numbers after Ambrosius took so many fighting men with him to Gaul? Have no fear, you will not bore me with military details. You must remember, my cousin and I have fought side-by-side with the men of our tribe to defend our rath.