Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (46 page)

"Shhh!" Ruan said, joining them. "We're not to draw attention to ourselves, remember?"

Drystan and Kurvenal grinned at each other and continued washing in silence.

* * * *

Too soon, Drystan had to make his way back into the dank hole, a fresh change of clothes confiscated from a captured Erainn warrior in a satchel slung over his shoulder. As they had suspected, the Erainn who had taken over the fortress didn't know how to keep the hypocausts working, so while the walls still held a certain amount of stored heat, Drystan was in no danger of steam from the furnaces.

He threw his satchel and the Erainn weapons through the hole in the stone wall and then wriggled through. Darkness surrounded him.

Kurvenal reached a lighted candle through the hole. "Good luck, Drys!"

"Thanks."

He stuck the candle between two stones on the floor of the hypocaust and changed into the Erainn garb. Next, he had to figure how to get from below the floor of the baths to the city proper. In order to find his way out, he went in search of the furnace. The caldarium, the hot room, was the closest room to the garrison walls, so it could not be far. Bedwyr had shown him some plans, and with the map he had memorized in his head, he found it and the stairs leading up to the service area.

This was the easy part. From here on out, he was at the mercy of his own luck and ingenuity.

As he came up out of the underground heating system, he could hear the sounds of attack: yells of warning, running feet, calls for help. Arthur must have launched the night assault with the catapult to the west, which would mean everything was going as planned.

The Via Praetoria was a scene of commotion and uproar: Erainn soldiers were running toward the northwest wall, shouting orders and questions, shouldering arms and shields, belting armor of stiffened hide around them as they ran.

"The monster is attacking!" a warrior yelled at him as he passed. Drystan nodded and joined the crowds dashing through the night streets.

Before he reached the Via Principalis, he ducked into the portico of one of the officer's houses.

"Psst!"

Drystan whipped around, hand on the hilt of the Erainn short sword at his hip.

"Come this way," a female voice whispered to him from the shadows of the atrium. Drystan hesitated only briefly — while the Erainn forces might well have woman warriors in their midst, it was unlikely they would be lurking in the shadows. And the dialect was British.

He followed the voice.

When he came out into a dimly lit courtyard, he thought he recognized a whore whose charms Cai tended to favor, but he couldn't remember her name.

"I am Talwyn of Caer Leon," she whispered.

"And I am Drystan of Dumnonia."

He could see her smile in the faint light. "Yes, I know. The prince who has no taste for whores."

Drystan blinked. It hadn't occurred to him that he would become known among the women of Caer Leon for
not
visiting them. "I need to get to the southern gate," he whispered. "Can you help me?"

She nodded and led him through the town house to the next alley. The procedure repeated itself until he reached the southern gate at the end of Via Principalis.

"Thank you," Drystan said.

Talwyn wrapped his braid in her fist and drew him close to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. "I will not ask you to visit me. It will be enough if you save us."

With a merry grin, she disappeared into the shadows.

Alone, Drystan turned to the fortress gate. Now for the guards.

He watched for a moment to gauge what he would be up against. It appeared that there would only be two to deal with; the rest must have joined the battle on the western wall. Drystan waited in the shadows until the one nearest him turned his back. It was dishonorable, but it was war, and Talwyn and Indeg and the others had to be saved. He crossed the space between them in one fluid move and plunged his sword into the guard's back.

At the man's grunt and death gurgle, the other guard turned. In the light of the torches above the entryway, Drystan saw a pair of wide-set blue eyes he had once known.

Ronan.

"Tandrys," the other man said, no surprise in his voice, his sword already drawn.

Drystan remembered racing after the plough at Imbolc, the sound of this man's laughter in his ears. "Will you open the gates, Ronan?"

Ronan shook his head.

"Bretain within the walls!" Ronan yelled at the top of his lungs as he charged. Drystan parried the blow, but the force of the other man's attack almost knocked him over. He was fortunate that the confusion on the northwest wall kept anyone from coming to Ronan's aid.

They fought bitterly, steel on wooden shield, steel on blade. They were too evenly matched for the battle to end quickly. For every blow Ronan parried, he delivered a blow of his own for Drystan to block. Drystan's shoulders began to ache. In the distance, they could hear the screams of the injured and the dying as the sky became brighter, and the smell of smoke drifted over to their death dance. Drystan tried not to allow surprise to distracted him. Had Arthur ordered fire to be used on his own fort?

The smell of smoke grew stronger, while the crackling sounds to the west began to drown out the sounds of battle, the screams and the ringing of steel. It appeared the wooden barracks in the western corner were on fire, making the night bright with war and death. If they didn't defeat the Erainn soon and put out the fires, the flames would spread to the granaries and their winter stores would be gone.

Sweat stinging his eyes, Drystan redoubled his efforts. The man on the other side of the blade was not a former friend, he was what was standing between Drystan and his comrades. He realized he had been looking for a way to disable Ronan without killing him, but who knew how many other lives he was sacrificing?

Finally, he saw an opening, and he thrust his sword up and into the unprotected side of Ronan's neck. The blue eyes went wide, and Ronan clutched and clenched and gurgled.

Drystan yanked his sword out of the wound, and Ronan fell at his feet. There was no time for mourning. He pushed up the bar holding the gates closed and threw them open.

"I'm through!" he yelled as he began to pull the chain to open the outer portcullis. Soldiers in the amphitheater had been waiting for such a sign and began pouring out, a sea of shields above their heads. An Erainn guard still on the walls noticed what was going on and tried to give the alarm, but his call went unheard in the confusion of the fire.

As soon as Drystan had the heavy portcullis all the way up, British warriors poured back into their own fort. Drystan leaned against the garrison wall, breathing deeply, giving himself a chance to regain his energy before he joined the battle. He was bleeding from cuts in a dozen places, and at his feet lay Ronan, his eyes wide to the smokey night.

It was not always good to know your enemy.

* * * *

The fighting lasted through the night. One century of soldiers concentrated on putting out fires they themselves had set. By the time dawn began creeping above the hills on the opposite side of the river, the leader of the Erainn forces, Illann, had been taken. Shortly thereafter, it began to snow, cooling the smoldering barracks.

Indeg and Anir were unharmed, and Drystan could see the tension go out of Arthur when they were found.

The captured Erainn warriors would be held for ransom, but with winter setting in, messages sent across the sea would have to wait. Gwythyr was eager to exchange captives and have his daughter back, but even he knew that Ginevra was probably in greater danger on the winter seas than in the hands of the Erainn.

Drystan was eager to return to Yseult for the Christmas season, but Arthur would not allow it. Drystan had the most experience with the Erainn and knew their dialect best — he was to remain in Caer Leon until the seas were calmer and contact could be made with the Laigin.

Which meant he would not see Yseult again until the spring.

* * * *

On a cold day in February, with snow deep on the ground and the River Usk frozen over, Drystan awoke from a nightmare, his body wracked by pain. Yseult was calling out to him, he could hear her voice; the deep tenor, the rough edges. He had to get to her, he knew it.

It had not been merely a dream, he was sure. He could see the wall hangings at the hall in Lansyen, could see them through Yseult's eyes, a part of her prison, foreign and despised. Yseult had used her power of calling to reach him. She was in trouble, and she wanted him with her.

He had to speak to Arthur.

After breaking his fast with bread and dried fruit, he sought out his cousin, who was overseeing the rebuilding of the barracks in the western corner of the garrison. He found him in consultation with Bedwyr and Gethin Saer. Despite the snow lying on the ground, a charred smell still clung to the air from the discarded planks piled to the side, no longer good for anything but adding to the hearth.

"Arthur, may I talk to you for a moment?"

Arthur looked up from the plans Gethin held in his gloved hands. "Hello, Drystan. I need to talk to you too. Myrddin claims the weather is changing and we will soon be able to send to Eriu to arrange for an exchange of hostages."

Drystan saw his hopes of being able to get away plummet. "Could not one of Aircol's clan act as contact with the Erainn for a time?"

Arthur glanced at him sharply. "Why?"

What was he to say? He had a dream? "I thought I could visit my father's court before we send to Eriu."

Arthur's lips grew thin and he clasped his hands behind his back. "Walk with me."

Drystan suppressed a grimace. He was going to get a lecture from his commander, not a conversation with his cousin.

He nodded.

Together they strolled away from the barracks, south along the wall in the direction of the granary. The snow on the roads and paths had become a cold brown muck.

"You want to see your step-mother," Arthur stated when they were far enough away that no one could overhear.

Drystan winced at the word but couldn't deny it. He would never be able to think of Yseult that way, but that was the way the world saw her now.

"Yes."

"I don't know if that would be such a good idea yet. We need you here in Caer Leon, you know. As soon as the seas permit, we must send to Eriu, and a party will arrive for the exchange of hostages."

Drystan pursed his lips, holding back his resentment. They both knew that Arthur's reason for keeping him here was a pretense. He could easily get to Lansyen and back before a message reached Crimthann and the exchange of hostages could be arranged.

The problem was that Arthur did not want him to see Yseult.

When Drystan didn't respond, Arthur continued. "You know well enough that no one in Aircol's clan could really take your place. Half a century ago, they were Erainn, but not now. You are the one who knows the language and the ways of the Eriu best. And you know Crimthann, King of the Laigin, personally. I forbid you to leave until the meeting has taken place."

Drystan took a deep breath and nodded. The need to go to Yseult was overpowering, but he could not go against a direct order from the Dux Bellorum.

Drystan began to realize that he would have to learn to dissemble with his cousin.

* * * *

The end of March, Erainn ships docked at the wharf of Caer Leon, bringing hostages in exchange for Illann and the other captured princes.

The party was led by none other than Crimthann himself.

At the sight of the king who had offered him a position as bard, Drystan couldn't help the swift, glad feeling that turned up the corners of his mouth.

Crimthann raised a hand in greeting and returned the smile. It was followed by a frown and another smile.

Drystan decided to ignore the frown and strode to the end of the wharf ahead of the others. "Crimthann! It's good to see you again."

The King of the Laigin nodded and took Drystan's hand to climb out of the boat. "And you, bard. Although the circumstances could be happier."

"Do you think so? I am quite relieved we turned back your invasion."