Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (48 page)

"And you think that is enough?" he ground out.

She turned away, gazing out at the clouds of fog above the river. "I have told Marcus I will no longer sleep with him. I have fulfilled my duty as wife and provided a son. Now, with my mother out of danger, if he tries to take his husbandly rights, I can tell him I will return to Eriu, humiliating him. Besides, I made it clear that he is free to take as many mistresses as he wants and I will not stop him. I suspect that is what is keeping him so long in Isca Dumnoniorum, where he has been restoring the old villa nearby, now that the threat from the Saxons is gone."

"And I ask again — is that enough?"

She was quiet for a long time, holding the shapeless bundle beneath her cape, watching the shifting patches of fog in the valley below. "No. But I have to make it so."

He wiped the angry tears out of his eyes, wishing he could hate her, wishing he could at least think she was wrong. But then he would have to know what was right.

"If your father stays away from me, I think I can find a measure of happiness," she said now. "And I reason to think he will. Those who wish to injure me have been bandying the name of Trephina in my presence, in an undertone loud enough for me to hear." She smiled then, a true smile, a smile such as he had rarely seen from her since Eriu, and his heart wrenched.

She finally faced him again. "Drystan, I am ruling here in your father's stead while he plays protector in the former Roman capital and plots with the weakest-willed kings of Dumnonia. I do not
want
to leave now. My fate has become tied to this foreign land. I do not want your father to triumph or his plot against your cousin to succeed. If I leave, it will."

Bitterness tore at him, making him mean. "And you think if you stay it will matter?"

She gazed at him steadily, the brilliance of her hair and her eyes dulled by the effect of the fog. "Yes, I do."

She was right, he knew she was right, but he didn't want to admit it. He had allowed himself to dream, had allowed himself to imagine they could live their own life together, honestly, without subterfuge. Now, after that hope, it grated at him more than he could stand.

The damp air, just a touch removed from rain, smelled like earth and pine and moss. He took her elbow beneath the cape again, imagined he could feel the life and energy that flowed through her, and turned her north along the ridge, to continue walking, to leave the emotions they had just thrown at each other behind.

"Drystan?" came her voice beside him.

"Yes?"

"Will you stay?"

Would he? She said she no longer lived with his father as man and wife, but the fact remained, they
were
man and wife. Was being with her enough for him?

It shouldn't be, but it was. Anything was better than nothing.

"Yes, I will stay."

* * * *

He could not say he was happy, but it was as close as he had come since his days of innocence in Armorica, when heartbreak had meant nothing more than losing a practice battle to Kurvenal, or a string on his harp snapping when he had none to replace it, or no village girl he could in all conscience seduce at the summer fair.

He didn't think he would even be able to seduce a village girl anymore.

During the days, Drystan played the helpful relative, played him well. In Lansyen, no one had heard the rumors of the two of them, and he knew now to look at Yseult differently when they were in company, look at her as if she were his cousin Labiane or his aunt Ygerna. Besides, with his father away in Isca Dumnoniorum, rebuilding it to be his capital again, Drystan had the nights.

It was almost enough, certainly more than he had expected when Yseult told him for the second time that she would not run away with him.

They nearly lived like man and wife. After all, how many married couples were there who gazed at each other with longing during such mundane tasks as overseeing the plowing, or distributing seed to the local farmers, or arranging for fences to be repaired before the sheep and cattle could be moved to their summer pastures? In truth, Drystan treated Yseult brusquely at such times because it was not allowed for him to treat her with tenderness, and not because habit had set in. But he also had the nights.

All the nights.

Brangwyn had a small house to herself near the ramparts of Lansyen, but normally she shared Yseult's chamber, and it was she who made their nights together possible with her power of changing. When he accompanied them to their chamber in the evening, it was Brangwyn who continued on to his lodgings, cloaked in a likeness of himself. In the earliest morning hours, Drystan would leave his love's side again, and Brangwyn return to her own pallet. Kurvenal watched for them, and all went well.

There were even advantages to the life he now lived. One of them was that he was able to see how well Yseult ruled the little corner of Dumnonia in the valley along the River Voliba, with his father away in Isca Dumnoniorum. Drystan saw how people came to her for judgment and cures, how she maintained the defensive forces of the fort despite the new peace, how she organized the fairs and the celebration for the Kalends of May — Beltaine. At that he had to smile. The old festivals were far from forgotten in semi-Christian Britain, but the way in which Yseult subtly suggested more and better ways to give thanks for the renewed life of the land brought those wisps of cultural memory to much more flamboyant life.

Last but not least, there was Kustennin.

He had been born at the end of winter while Drystan waited in Caer Leon for the exchange of hostages. Now he was a small, warm bundle with tiny hands to grab anything that his eyes focused on. Drystan could spend longer than he ever would have thought possible playing the grab-the-finger game, trying to figure out what color Kustennin's eyes would become, running his hand over the down on his son's head.

Officially his brother.

He believed Yseult that it was his son. She was a healer of Eriu, after all, with a knowledge of herbs and cures. She was well able to ensure that she not get with child if she so desired.

Kustennin was his son, but he was not the father.

The times when Yseult intruded on a quiet moment with Kustennin, when he raised his head to see the bright look of happiness on her face, those times were the best. They wrenched his heart with so much joy and pain at once that he didn't know how he could hold it all.

In May, a message came from Isca requesting Yseult to go north to Dyn Tagell for the summer and check into the production of the local tin mines; Marcus would be needing more funds for renovations and didn't completely trust the present overseer.

And so on a bright spring day that was much warmer than it had any right to be, they set out north for The Rock.

* * * *

Yseult was glad to see Dyn Tagell again, the rugged rocks of the coast, the ever-changing ocean; glad to hear the cries of the gulls and smell the salt tang of the sea.

Many of the fighting men who had once been posted here had been commissioned by Ambrosius for the campaign in Gaul, and it was a much quieter place than it had been when she had first arrived. For one thing, with fewer soldiers most of the whores were gone, and a number of houses stood empty. In addition to the caretaker of the fortress, Dyn Tagell held only fifty troops now, when before there had been hundreds. It would have been Marcus's duty to recruit and train new fighting men to replace those who had left, but his resources were going into the rebuilding of Isca Dumnoniorum.

So Yseult assigned the job to his son. With just a fraction of the revenues from the tin trade, she could double the number of fighting men guarding the port.

They settled in quickly. Yseult's only complaint was that a number of the herbs she had planted the year before in her herb garden had not survived. She would ask the Christian wise man Illtud if he might have some cuttings he could spare from the garden behind the church — if she had to start with seeds now, it would high summer before she had any fresh medicinal herbs for the needs of her retinue. Yseult and Brangwyn decided to make a visit to the church the next day.

They crossed the narrow land bridge leading from Dyn Tagell to the mainland. There was barely room for the two of them to walk side-by-side here; it was this that had given the place its name, "fortress of the narrow entrance."

The guard on the land bridge was a soldier Yseult had often noticed watching her, his blue eyes a bit too bright.

"Good day, Andred," Yseult said, closing her mind to his fantasies, pretending she knew nothing of what he wanted from her.

The young soldier bowed. "Good day, ladies."

When they were out of his range of hearing, Brangwyn took her arm. "You must watch out for that one, Yseult."

"Yes, I know." But it was a pleasant day in May, with none of the mist which usually clung to the rocky coast, Kustennin was asleep in his bed in the Lower Hall with his nurse watching over him, and Yseult had no interest in wasting her time with thoughts of Andred.

Yseult gave her cousin's arm a playful shake. "What I do not know is what you intend to do about Kurvenal."

Brangwyn blushed, but a slight smile graced her regular features. "You mean there is something I have been able to keep from you, Cousin?"

Yseult laughed, enjoying the day, the mild sun, the woman at her side.

After passing through the gate on the land bridge, the walk was up hill, climbing a series of steps carved into the face of the rock, and they lifted their skirts to avoid stepping on their hems. The church was only a little way to the south, at the edge of the mainland town which had sprung up in to serve the fortress.

They followed the path southwest, close to the cliffs. "Do you care for Kurvenal?" Yseult finally asked when her cousin volunteered no further information.

Brangwyn gazed out at the blue-green sea to their right, holding her cloak tight around her throat. The sun was shining, but it was May, and there was a stiff wind.

"It has only been two years since Aidenn died," Brangwyn said, her voice low. "Kurvenal is a good man, but I'm not ready yet."

Yseult could feel her cousin's reluctance; lack of caring felt different. "But you are not discouraging him either."

Brangwyn shook her head. "Perhaps I should."

"What does he say?"

"He will wait."

As they approached the church, the first person they saw was not Illtud but Paternus, and Yseult frowned. Illtud, a cousin of Drystan and Arthur on their mothers' side, had been a soldier before he entered the church. He said reason he joined the church was the death of a friend in battle, but Yseult had caught enough fragments of memories to think it had more to do with the woman he had once called his wife. It could have made him bitter; instead, he still enjoyed the company of women and tried to keep whatever rancor he did feel from poisoning his life.

Not so Paternus. The other priest of Dyn Tagell seemed to feed on his own bitterness and considered women inherently evil. He reminded Yseult of what her mother had told her about Palladius, Patraic' predecessor as bishop in Eriu.

Paternus turned at their approach and watched with his hands clasped behind his back, the dark, twisted thing in his soul following her resentfully.

Yseult was glad to see Illtud emerge from the church. He called out a greeting and hurried towards them.

"Welcome back to Dyn Tagell, my lady. I hear you bore the king a healthy son in February. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Paternus joined them. "Yes, congratulations on your son, Lady Yseult."

It did not escape Yseult that Paternus deliberately referred to Kustennin as "her son." Searching his mind, she discovered that he had doubts about Kustennin's paternity, but luckily, his suspicions were vague and seemed to stem more from his general hatred of women.

Nonetheless, it meant she would have to be doubly careful.

* * * *

Several weeks later, a courier arrived: Arthur was making a tour of the defenses in the Southwest and requested lodging for himself and his troops for several weeks. Dyn Tagell would make a good base of operations, he wrote, and it would also be nice to visit his childhood home again.

"Nice?" Yseult asked, folding the thin wood tablet up again and looking at Drystan. "I didn't think Arthur knew how to use the word 'nice.'"