Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (74 page)

She could feel Andred's malicious joy fading, to be replaced by consternation. He had not noticed her despair then. Good.

"Certainly, Lady," Andred said.

"Has a date been set for the wedding yet?" Yseult asked. "Marcus will surely want to be there, and travel arrangements will have to be made."

"The messenger said that the wedding is set for June." By this time, Andred's voice had grown flat, and his frustrated wish to see her suffer was twisting back into hate.

Yseult gave him a wide-eyed look she hoped held surprise. "June? Then there is no time to be lost. See to it."

Andred bowed and headed back to the villa.

Yseult watched him go until he disappeared around the corner of the new buildings. When he was out of sight, she sat down heavily on the stone bench beneath the cherry tree. The white blossoms above her were much too beautiful for this moment. The sunny spring day was a mockery: the birds singing to each other in the trees, the hopeful green of growing things, the happy sound of her son calling out to her to look — look, Mama, at the beetle he found!

Drystan's son too.

She turned to watch Kustennin, glad of a distraction, and felt Cador sit down on the bench beside her, felt his hand on her elbow and his concern touch her mind.

So he did have some talent for knowing.

"Yseult," he said quietly. "Perhaps you should go, try to stop it. It will only bring misery."

She gave a choking laugh. "
Bring
misery? Perhaps this marriage will end it, perhaps it is the only way."

"You don't believe that."

At this moment, there was nothing she believed. She realized with a start that she
had
believed in Drystan's love, had imagined that no matter how hopeless the circumstances of their love, he still would not trade it for another.

She felt suddenly as if all the air had left her body, and she took a deep breath. It was as though the foundation of her life were gone.

"You can't let this happen," Cador said urgently when she didn't answer.

She shook her head. "How am I to stop it? I am watched constantly. And I am to take ship for Armorica to put an end to the engagement of the man I never had an affair with? How do you propose I accomplish that?"

Cador looked away. "It should not happen," he said finally.

Yseult wiped a tear from her eye angrily. "Perhaps he loves her."

"No."

That surprised another choked laugh out of her. "How do you know?"

He shook his head, not answering.

His conviction mystified her, but it comforted her too. She rose and called to Kustennin and Judual again. "Come boys, it is time to go in!"

Together they walked back towards the villa, the boys dashing in front of them, Judual often falling, but Yseult and Cador silent, occupied with their own thoughts.

Then, from out of the misery came a sudden realization: she could no longer stay with Marcus. Somehow she would have to find a way to escape with Kustennin, even if it meant stealing his birthright from him. A fire of despair had burned away everything but the supporting structure, the final truth — she could not live like this, no matter what might be best for Kustennin.

And in the midst of heartbreak, she felt a small sliver of hope.

* * * *

Drystan pulled up his mount near the ocean cliffs, waiting for Yseult of the White Hands to catch up with him. His wedding was ten days away and the weather was perfect, warm with just a hint of a breeze.

It seemed as if he could finally find happiness.

Yseult was laughing as she brought her gelding up next to his mare. Her eyes sparkled, and the fresh ocean air put bright color in her cheeks.

Yes, it would work out. She loved him and she was his. He'd been through so much, he deserved this, something he didn't have to give up or hide.

"Will we stay here in Bro Leon, do you think?" Yseult asked, gazing over the wild landscape.

Drystan didn't want to think, he just wanted to experience the day as it was, sunny and mild, with the sound of the sea below them and the smell of salt in the air.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

She leaned over and stroked the neck of her gelding. "There isn't any future for you here to speak of, is there?"

He
certainly
didn't want to think of the future. "As long as Blodewedd needs me, I think we should stay."

She nodded in a way that made him suspect they were going to talk about it again later. They turned their mounts back in the direction of Leonis and the villa-turned-fortress that Drystan still thought of as Riwallon's.

As they were riding through the gates, Drystan saw pennants with his father's seal, the snarling hound in blue on a field of gold, and he drew in a ragged breath, surprised. Had his father truly come for his wedding? Marcus hated him now — but Arthur
had
made the advantage of keeping up appearances clear to him last year, clear to them all.

But what of his mother-in-law — what of Yseult?

Yseult.

No, he couldn't be feeling this fear, this anticipation again. A woman who loved him was beside him, a woman with no chains. He was to be married in ten days.

And he desperately hoped Yseult had accompanied his father.

He gave the reins of his mare to the servant, hardly knowing what he was doing.

"Who is it?" Yseult of the White Hands asked beside him.

He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. "My father."

"Your father?" She shot him a sharp look. "But I thought he had sent no word that he was coming?"

Drystan shook his head. "He didn't."

She took his hand. He wondered if she noticed how sweaty his palms were.

"Come," she said. "We must greet him."

There he was, a tall man, imposing, his brown hair laced with gray, his eye sharp. He moved towards Drystan and his future bride, a false smile on his lips.

They met in front of the arched entranceway leading into the central courtyard. "So this is Yseult of Armorica, Jovelin's daughter," Marcus said, taking her in a fatherly embrace. He pushed her back to arm's length and inspected her more closely. "A very pretty child indeed. You chose well, son."

"Thank you, father." With effort, he swallowed the question he was burning to ask. But either way it would be suspicious, whether he asked or whether he didn't.

Yseult beside him came to his aid, although he suspected that was not her intent. The look she had given him earlier seemed to indicate instead a similar anxiety — for the opposite reason.

"Is your wife attending you, my lord?"

Marcus dropped his hands — which had lingered rather long on young Yseult's shoulders, Drystan noted — and shook his head. "Kustennin has some childish ailment, and she did not want to leave him alone with his nurse. She is a very doting mother."

Drystan could almost feel Yseult's relief. She lowered her eyes. "Of course, the health of a child must always take precedence."

Drystan could hardly follow the train of the conversation after that. Yseult, his Yseult, Yseult of Eriu, wasn't coming. His gut twisted, cramped; his throat closed with pain. And suddenly the lie he had created for himself shattered. He didn't want peace or a love he didn't have to hide — not if that love wasn't Yseult the Fair.

What was he going to do?

For the moment, all he
could
do was attend to the needs of their guests, including his father. There was yet another banquet to be got through, more wishes for his happiness, more toasts and lewd jokes and blushes on the part of his betrothed. Finally there was a moment of peace, alone with Yseult, slipping away into the concealing darkness of a warm summer night.

When they were far enough from their guests so as not be heard, Drystan turned to Yseult. "I have to tell you something."

She shook her head. "No, you don't."

Drystan blinked. "You don't understand."

"Yes, I do. You want to tell me about your affair with Yseult of Eriu."

The darkness concealed her expression from him; all he saw were the stark shadows and lines of her profile, none of the nuances.

He sighed. "That's not all."

"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it."

He took her shoulders so that he could turn her to him and see her face. "Yseult, you must listen. It's a matter of our future. I'm still in love with her, that other Yseult."

Her face seemed frozen, and she wouldn't look at him, wouldn't answer.

"You can still get out of this marriage if you want to. I deceived you, deceived myself. If we wed, we will only be miserable."

Finally she looked at him. "Why? Why should it make us miserable? She is far away and married to your
father
, no less, while I am here, promised to you. You already pledged to honor and care for me at the betrothal ceremony. Would you go back on your word?"

A cold hopelessness took hold of his heart. "I did not want to go back on my word. I wanted to give you the chance to undo a mistake before it is made."

"I do not think it is a mistake, and I will not betray the promises I made. If you want to break off our betrothal and humiliate me throughout all of Britain and Armorica, that is your decision, not mine."

Drystan dragged a hand through the hair that had come lose from his braid, pulling it back from his forehead. "No, I will not do that. We will be wed."

But how could he go through with it? Simple, he would mimic the gestures, murmur the words, and in ten days time he would be married to a beautiful young woman who deserved better.

* * * *

The days crept by. Drystan did his best to be a good host, make everyone think he was still happy about this wedding. Judging by the satisfied look on his father's face, it appeared he was succeeding.

By contrast, Yseult's expression had taken on a stubborn cast, her mouth set and her blue eyes watchful, that told Drystan she was determined to fight for him, to steal him away from her absent rival. She seemed to see his confession as a challenge; unfortunately, she didn't know that it was one she couldn't win.

How could he have been so foolish? All he had wanted was some normal happiness. And now that was farther away from him than ever.

The day set for their wedding dawned clear and sunny. Drystan rose with a sick feeling in his belly and the conviction that the future was over.

They were to be married in the church between the villa and the town of Leonis, a small stone chapel that could hardly hold all the guests. Drystan allowed Erim to help him dress in a fine tunic of green silk and breeches of white linen. He wore a torc of gold around his neck and bracelets on his arms, and his hair was freshly washed and braided. He would go to his doom richly dressed, as befitted a prince.

The church was decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and the scent of roses filled the air. Yseult of the White Hands entered with her brother Kaedin, wearing a shimmering gown in shades of white and blue which seemed to change colors in different lights. Drystan gazed at it as she approached him, wondering how the effect of the cloth had been achieved, concentrating on that instead of the woman who would soon be his wife.

As the priest spoke the words, Drystan let them flow over him, hardly hearing. The smell of the roses was no longer pleasant; instead, it was cloying, overpowering. He said what was necessary, and then Yseult was turning to him for a kiss. He bent down (she was so much smaller than his Yseult!) and pressed his lips to her warm ones, lips that opened beneath his, wanting more. Ah, how could he do this to her, how could she do it to herself?

And then they were being congratulated by Ygerna and Hoel, by Blodewedd and Labiane, and Cwylli was begging to be taken up and Kaedin was pumping his hand and telling him that he had better take good care of his sister.