Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (66 page)

"Perhaps Marcus is twisting the laws to suit himself!"

"I don't even know if Arthur would heed a call from me, Brangwyn, or if it would even reach him," Yseult said, staring out of a window too small for escape.

Brangwyn broke into tears and knelt before her, laying her head in her lap. Yseult stroked the dark hair. She knew her own lack of emotion was odd, but it was a relief, a kind of protection from the fears that might otherwise have been swamping her.

"How does Kustennin?"

Brangwyn swallowed, lifted her head, and wiped her tear-stained cheeks. "He asks for you constantly and is not to be put off or comforted."

"Promise me you will look after him, Brangwyn."

Brangwyn clenched her fists together. "I promise."

The judgment on them came the next day: death by fire. They would be executed separately rather than together, Drystan to die in the morning and Yseult in the afternoon. For some reason, Yseult was not scared of her own death; she felt strangely dead inside already. But she was afraid of how it would feel when Drystan's life went out in her soul.

The morning he was to be put to death came. Yseult hardly slept the night before. Now she knelt on the floor of the room where she was locked away, praying to Danu and all the gods of her tribe, praying that he would get away, that he wouldn't suffer, that his father would take pity on him and stab him before the flames began to eat him, something, anything, she knew not what.

And waited for his pain to become hers.

Through the small window above, she could see the day grow lighter, and still there was little more in her heart and mind than the fear she had felt when she woke. When she searched for him, she felt aches and pains all over his body, as if her lover had been beaten.

But no fear, and no fire. Drystan was still there, still alive, she was sure of it.

Yseult stared at what she could see of the sky through the slits in her prison. The cold morning air that came through was warmer than a few weeks ago, but it still had the bite of winter in it, stinging her cheeks. She wondered what it could mean that Drystan had not left her yet, and slowly hope began to curl in her belly. She opened the gates of her mind farther and sought the presence of Brangwyn.

Joy. Relief.

Drystan had escaped.

She took a deep breath, and for the first time in weeks, happiness clenched her heart.

"Ah, Danu, thank you." She put her face in her hands and wept.

Brangwyn didn't come, and Yseult assumed they were keeping her cousin from her so that she couldn't share the news. When the time came, it was Andred and Ian who fetched her from her room to lead her to the stake set up on the other side of the chapel at the edge of the village. Andred stared at her, but Ian kept his face averted.

Marcus met her in front of the chapel flanked by churchmen in their long white robes. The church square was lined with people, many weeping. Yseult had a fleeting thought of Patraic, wondering if he would have condemned her to death for the sake of his religion. Somehow she thought not.

The priest Guron stepped up to her. "Yseult of Eriu, Unclean Lioness of Dumnonia, your husband and master has caught you in the act of adultery, fornication and incest. You are condemned to die by fire. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Yseult gazed at him without a word, but she sent him a vision of what she hoped his own death would be someday, and she saw his eyes widen. She smiled.

Unclean Lioness of Dumnonia. She liked that.

Together, they turned to make their way to the hill overlooking the harbor where the stake stood, when a crowd of perhaps a dozen men in shabby clothes moved in front of them, a number with what looked like blotchy red rashes on their hands and dark lesions on their faces.

Lepers.

Marcus and the churchmen started back, as did her guards. Yseult stared at the men. So many lepers, here so suddenly? In all her time in Britain, she had only seen handful of cases of leprosy, and now here, in the small port town of Voliba, twelve men with the irregular lesions darker around the edges and pale in the center, their gaits bent, open wounds on their uncovered skin.

She opened her mind to these men, and what she felt was health and determination.

"We have a better idea," a man in the front of the crowd of lepers said. "Give her to us. We can make use of her, and she will surely die as painfully as on that stake." He jerked his head in the direction of the top of the hill, and at the movement, a dripping sore on his neck became visible over the shabby collar of his tunic.

"My fine men," the priest who had not yet spoken said, his voice trembling. "Judgment has been spoken."

The man next to the first man shrugged. "Judgment is judgment, I say." He raised a hand covered in discolored spots to brush graying brown hair off his forehead.

It was the father of the family who had eaten the spoiled meat. Talek.

Yseult stared at him, wondering that he would risk so much for her sake. If they were found out, these men would surely burn with her. Catching her gaze on him, Talek gave her an almost imperceptible wink from one hazel eye.

"Come," the first man said, moving forward, leering. "It's long since we've had a woman."

Yseult gasped and cringed, pulling away from her would-be saviors. "No, please, let me burn, I beg you!"

"Give her to them," Marcus said harshly, and turned on his heel to put as much distance as possible between himself and disease in the shortest amount of time.

Andred and Ian gazed at the priests. Guron nodded, and they released her, pushing her into the arms of the fake lepers, and turned and followed Marcus as quickly as they could. Talek and his companions grabbed her, hooting and making a great show of greed and lust, while Yseult pulled away from them, screaming. Clutching her arms, they dragged her through the streets of the town to the edge of the forest beyond, where they released her and knelt at her feet.

"There is no illness among us," Talek assured her.

Yseult nodded, for a moment unable to answer.

She would not die this day.

Yseult drew a deep breath and pressed her eyes with trembling fingers. "I saw your sign, good farmer, Talek, and then I recognized you."

"Good. I was afraid you hadn't. The way you were screaming, I almost fell to my knees in the middle of Voliba to beg your forgiveness." Talek grinned, rubbing the discolored spots off his hand while his companion took a rag to the festering lesion on his neck. Yseult stood watching as the signs of leprosy miraculously disappeared and the rags were stripped, uncovering the rough clothing of farmers, simple but in good repair.

"I do not know how I can thank you," she said. "I owe my life to you."

"There are a number of us who owe our lives to you, Lady," a younger man said. Yseult stared at him, remembering a girl almost too young to give birth fighting through so many hours of labor she had nearly given up.

She smiled. "And how are your wife and child?"

A huge grin broke out over his face. "Keyna is well, Lady, quick with child again. And little Yseult just took her first steps last week."

Yseult felt herself blush at the name of the child, and she lowered her head to hide it.

She felt Talek take her arm. "Come, Your Highness. We must get away from here."

She nodded mutely.

* * * *

They brought her to a woodsman's hut, where Drystan was hidden in the back room, his arm in a sling and his face covered with bruises. Her ability to feel had finally returned and she wept on his shoulder until she had no tears left, while the villagers and farmers who had saved her stood by, heads lowered.

When she raised her head again, Talek spoke. "We brought mounts for you and the prince, Lady. They're hobbled out back."

Yseult wiped her face and nodded. "Thank you." Probably the only horses the richest of these poor farmers owned, but she was too emotionally exhausted to turn down the offer.

"There is a cave to the northeast where you could stay until Prince Drystan is recovered," Talek said. "If you care to see it, I will show you the way."

Drystan and Yseult looked at each other. "I think I can travel, but I'm not sure how well I could hunt right now," he said ruefully. "To escape, I jumped out of the window of the chapel to the rocks below, and it was not a soft landing."

In her mind's eye, Yseult saw the chapel perched on the cliffs above the beach and wondered how he had managed to break no more than his arm. "Then we will go to this cave Talek told us of."

Talek gave a business-like nod. "We will have to wait until dark. Cunomorus's men are searching for the prince."

Yseult drew in a ragged breath. "Then how will we even get to the cave?"

Her savior grinned. "You have friends among those searching too, Lady. They will make sure you are not found."

After nightfall, they mounted the dependable workhorses and made their way quietly through the forest, following Talek. It was soon obvious that Drystan was more seriously injured than they'd thought. The cave was about an hour's ride away, in a small valley beside a stream that fed into the River Voliba, but by the time they reached it, he was swaying in his saddle, hardly able to sit up straight. His head fell forward on his chest, and he seemed in danger of losing consciousness. Yseult had seen such symptoms before in those who'd experienced a serious blow to the head; Drystan certainly could not hunt, and he would not be able to travel for a while yet either.

It must have been sheer desperation and force of will which had kept him going for as long as he had. As soon as they halted, he slid off the horse and to the ground.

With Talek's help, Yseult got him into the cave and bedded him down on the blankets the farmers had brought. A pile of firewood already stood next to one wall, and together they got a fire burning, giving them light and warmth.

"You can bring the horses back to their owners," Yseult said. "I will not be able to move him for several weeks yet."

"We will do our best to keep you safe, Lady."

Yseult smiled. It was a wonder to her that she had inspired such devotion among these people in only a few short years. "You have already done so much for us, I am loath to ask yet more of you."

"Your Highness, you have done more for the people of this land than any leader even the oldest can remember."

"Then could you please try to get word to Brangwyn or Kurvenal that we are alive and let them know where we are hiding?"

The flickering light of the fire played on his lined face, emphasizing his worried expression. "It might not be safe."

"Marcus must think me dead by now."

"But he is looking for his son," Talek pointed out.

Yseult nodded. "What if you seek out Brangwyn in the house of healing? Assuming, of course, that Marcus has not yet thrown her out."

"A good idea. I will speak to her, Lady."

After Talek had departed, Yseult settled down next to her lover, weariness and relief and heartache washing over her in a mix impossible to sort out. Drystan was alive, she was alive, the sound of his irregular breathing filled her with joy, and she had never felt anything so fine as the rough blankets against her skin.

But tomorrow was Kustennin's third birthday — and she would not be with him.

Chapter 29

ouch muote sî daz cleine,

daz s'in der wüeste als eine

und âne liute solten sîn.

nu wes bedorften s'ouch dar în

oder waz solt ieman zuo z'in dar?

si haeten eine gerade schar:

dane was niuwan ein und ein.

(They were not troubled that they were alone in the wilds without other people. What need would they have of someone else? They were an even number: one and one.)

Gottfried von Straßburg,
Tristan

Yseult woke up to the sound of birds chattering in the trees nearby; the long drawn-out descending whistle of the starling, the short musical notes of the thrush, the repetitive up-and-down song of the tit. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.