Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (76 page)

The ships leaving Kemper would be the first place they would look for him, so he made his way on foot to the port of Rhu, a day's walk. It was there that he found passage to Isca. Now he stood on the streets of a city coming back to life again after years of Saxon raids, a city that in places still resembled such fine Roman towns as Verulamium and Aquae Sulis, and in others was being rebuilt of wood from the rubble. Sheep grazed in empty spaces where grass had taken over, and humble dwellings were built into the remains of sturdy Roman walls.

No one remarked him, a simple minstrel with a harp on his back. He had even cut off his long braid for the journey, and his shoulder-length hair curled around his face as it hadn't since he was a boy. His clothes were not shabby, but they were not those of the son of the Protector of Dumnonia either —simple woolen breeches against the increasing cold of late October and an unlined cape over a gray tunic, also of wool.

Now that he was here, the first step was to find Kurvenal. He knew from their infrequent correspondence that his former armsman had a modest shop selling knives and weapons and armor near one of the city blacksmiths on the outskirts of Isca. He found it hard to imagine his friend as a merchant, but when Drystan finally found his shop, there he was, balancing a fine blade on his fingertips, demonstrating its quality to a prospective customer. Drystan waited on the opposite side of the street until the deal had been closed before he walked over.

Kurvenal looked up, words in praise of his wares dying on his lips when he looked into Drystan's face. He took his hand and pulled him into the darkness of the shop, closing the door behind him.

"Drys! Do you have these strange powers that Brangwyn and Yseult have too? You cannot have gotten my message yet. And where is the braid you were so proud of? What is with this strange garb?"

Kurvenal was shaking him by the shoulders in a friendly way, and Drystan was laughing. He had hardly realized how much he had missed his friend. "I got no message."

"Brangwyn has finally agreed to marry me."

Drystan took him in a hard embrace. "Congratulations, Kurvi! So I have come for your wedding although you did not come for mine. But will my father allow it?"

Kurvenal's smile disappeared and his expression turned serious. "Your father is in the north — planning treason, rumor has it."

"So it has finally come to that."

"The disaffected kings have done nothing yet except meet, but Arthur is preparing for war in the spring." Kurvenal gave him a sharp look. "But if you did not come for my wedding, why are you here?"

"I think you know."

His friend's expression changed from serious to sour. "Drys, no. You have caused enough heartache. Don't go to her."

"So you are taking her part now?"

"No, of course not. But she took the news of your marriage hard. You can't mean to ... "

Drystan cut him off. "I never consummated my marriage with Yseult of Armorica."

Kurvenal expelled an impatient huff of air. "You are both fools. Fools. Why could you not have forgotten the vanities of this world and run away with each other long ago?"

"Her mother's life was at stake. And then there was Kustennin."

"I still think you are fools." He gave a snort of disgust. "What need does Kustennin have for Marcus as a father? I never had Riwallon as father, and yet I am happy with my life. Aside from the fact that my best friend is a fool."

"Kurvenal, I have to see her again. Can you help me?"

Kurvenal turned away, his fist clenched. It looked to Drystan as if he wanted to hit something. "Of course I can help you, because Brangwyn can help you. But I don't know if I should. This madness must end."

Drystan dragged in a deep breath. "Don't you see? It can't. I tried to make it end by marrying Yseult of the White Hands, and now I have only made it worse. The only way to make it end is for the two of us to run away from everything — my father, my wife, anyone and anything that would separate us. It is driving me mad."

Something in his words or the tone of his voice or his expression must have convinced his friend. Kurvenal pressed his eyelids shut with thumb and forefinger and then dropped his hand to look at Drystan. "I will help you. God help me for doing so."

* * * *

At least his rags didn't stink as much as those of the real beggars in the streets of Isca. And no one seemed to notice. He looked dirty enough, so they pulled their robes and their cloaks to the side when they passed, their faces turned away.

Which was all for the best, in case there was someone here who might recognize him. But as Drystan had learned long ago in Eriu, people often did not see what they did not expect to see.

He huddled in the lee of a wall still standing on the site of the former basilica. The building had seen too much destruction after the Saxon attacks over a decade ago to be saved. Much of the rubble was carted away when his father had returned to devote himself to the reconstruction of the former
civitas
, and the area was now a public market. Isca might well be what Marcus most loved in the world — once the Saxon threat had been banned, he had devoted an enormous amount of time and profit from the tin trade to keep the city from falling to ruin.

A mild October had given way to a bitterly cold November, and Drystan pulled his beggar's rags tighter. Finally, he caught sight of Yseult's party approaching the market. Aside from Brangwyn, she had only two guards with her, and neither was Andred. Drystan heaved a sigh of relief.

And one was Ian, who had fought beside him a lifetime ago. Would he recognize him? And if he did, what would he do?

Drystan shuffled out in front of them. "Something for the poor, great lady?"

Drystan saw her start, even though Kurvenal had assured him she would be warned.

Ian moved between them. "Back, beggar!"

Yseult put a hand on his arm. "Stay. This man looks as if he is ill and needs treatment. There's a festering wound on his face. Brangwyn, do you know which stalls in the market sell the right medicines?"

Brangwyn nodded. "I think so."

Yseult pressed a combination of coins and ring money into Brangwyn's hand. "Find what we need, please. I will examine this man." She turned to Ian and the other soldier. "You will stand guard here near the wall."

"Lady —" Ian began to protest, but Yseult cut him off.

"It is little good I can do behind the walls of the villa. I would help at least one pour soul today."

The other soldier took his position obediently, but Ian's gaze wandered to Drystan as he hesitated. Then his eyes widened.

He blinked and bowed. "Yes, Lady."

Yseult approached Drystan, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. "Ian recognized me," he muttered.

She nodded. Then her hands touched his face, turning his cheek to cast cold November sun on what he hoped looked like a beggar's sores.

Her hands again, after over a year, the fingers long and cool and competent, touching his skin. He closed his eyes at the ecstasy of it.

"Will he betray us?" Drystan asked, his eyes still closed. He could hardly believe the effect her innocent touch on his face was having on him.

Yseult sighed. "It does not feel as if he will. His emotions now are a mixture of regret and guilt."

Drystan opened his eyes again and looked into the intelligent face of moonlight and winter that haunted his days and nights. "Then perhaps he will help you run away."

Yseult raised her voice. "If you would only wash more often, such sores would not become as angry as these." She turned back to the two soldiers. "Benesek, I would have you fetch some water from the well in the middle of the market. I need to clean the sore before I can treat this man."

The second soldier bowed and hurried away.

"Run away?" she repeated at a whisper. "With you, I take it, a man only recently married?"

"That was why I had to see you," Drystan said, his voice barely louder than hers. "It was a mistake. I can't live with her, I can't live with myself."

Yseult drew a deep breath, a catch of pain in it. She clenched one fist briefly and stretched the fingers out again. "And you must tell me this now?"

The foot traffic of Isca on market day flowed past them, but at a safe distance afforded them by Ian's armor and Yseult's position as queen. It was a strange kind of intimacy in the middle of such a public space.

Drystan sighed; his breath seemed to be coming with difficulty and only sighs provided him enough air.

"Yseult, I never consummated my marriage to Yseult of the White Hands. I couldn't."

A little whimper came from between her lips, and now it was her eyes she clenched shut before opening them again. "And I need to know this why?"

"Because
I
need to know if there's a future for us."

She let out a violent breath. "No."

His world died faster than he would have believed possible, in the space of one small word. The pain was like a giant fist clenching his chest. How could he have thought she would give him any other answer?

"I haven't been able to stop loving you, it's not that," she was saying now, but it was no comfort. "It's been so long, it's part of me now. It just hurts even more than it used to. You're
married
."

"And you are married to
my father
. You always have been."

Yseult shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "Not always. The last five years. You have only been married what, four months?"

"Five."

"Five months. It was seven months ago I learned that you no longer loved me, that you had decided to marry another."

Any chance he had of changing their fate was slipping away, and he didn't know how to hold on to it. "I was angry."

"And because you were angry, you punish both me and Yseult of the White Hands. And yourself."

"And myself," he whispered.

"I love you as much as my life, as much as the son you have given me, but this is too sudden. I have spent the last half year trying to kill any feelings I have for you. And then there is your other Yseult."

Drystan nodded. His head felt light. He had attempted and lost. She ministered to the false sores on his skin, and he knew that his whole life was just as false, play-acting to hide the real pain beneath.

* * * *

Yseult could hardly explain to herself why she had reacted to Drystan the way she did, what had possessed her. Since spring, her plans for running away from Marcus had slowly become more concrete. Most important was to arrange the escape so that he could not take her or her son back. His plot with Lot and the other rebel kings would provide the perfect opportunity. Why hadn't she told Drystan that?

Because she had wanted to hurt him, that was why. She had wanted him to feel the kind of pain she had felt when Andred had brought her the news of his betrothal.

But the fact remained that she couldn't run away with him, not now. Not only was her pain still too fresh, she did not want Marcus distracted from his plan to take over the leadership of Britain: if he became an traitor, she would be free.

Before the winter snows made travel impossible, Marcus returned to Isca, claiming the crossing from Armorica had been too rough to make the trip sooner.

"Did you visit your son?" Yseult asked, her head bent over a fur-lined cape that she was making for Brangwyn as a wedding present.

"I have no need to visit my son," he said shortly, pulling her up from the stool on which she sat and shoving her towards their bedchamber.

She wondered why she couldn't learn to stop provoking him.

* * * *

Yseult tried to be happy for her cousin, and on some level she was. Brangwyn and Kurvenal were to have a Christmas wedding, as Arthur had, small and intimate, and the Dux Bellorum had even promised Kurvenal the command of a fort on the Sabrina Estuary for his years of service in the defense of Britain. Yseult could only hope her own plans to escape in the spring would be successful — without Brangwyn, life with Marcus would be hell.