Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (79 page)

He dropped her hand, shrugging, and she almost wanted to whimper as his lips left her skin. "Forgive? I don't know if it's forgiveness. For some reason, I need you for my peace of mind, and I have to live with the choices you've made. It makes it easier that I can understand them. Who would want to give up Kustennin?"

How had she deserved this? She had to make it right, had to admit to her mistakes.

She shook her head. "It need never have come to that. I should have left Marcus as soon as I learned that my mother was free, the spring after Kustennin was born. You begged me then, but I thought some possible future status for our son might be more important than living a life without lies."

The laugh she loved so much sounded again, adding its music to the waves and gulls. "What life is without lies?"

She grimaced. "True."

Drystan gazed out to sea, his expression growing serious again. "Besides, we don't know if it would have been better if you had run away with me. Who knows what Marcus would have done then? At least now he is far away in the north, too busy planning rebellion to come after you."

Yes, she trusted her husband less than any person she knew, with the possible exception of Andred. But it still did not exonerate her for what Drystan had done to himself, what he had gone through.

"True," she said. "I wasn't thinking of that at the time, though. I was only thinking of the petty kings who styled themselves greater than Arthur because he is a bastard. I saw his talent as war leader, saw the esteem High King Ambrosius held him in, and couldn't understand that he was not in the line of inheritance. I did not want that for our son."

"That's not wrong —"

"Wait, hear me out. I see now that I
was
wrong. Despite being a bastard in your world, the world of the Britons, Arthur has carved a place for himself as the most important leader on this island, whether he bears the title of king or not. There will always be room for those who can achieve something on their own, even if the laws are against them. And I cannot make my son's life, he must make it himself. I must make my own life, which I want to make with you. Do you think we can still find a way?"

She could feel his disbelieving joy before he spoke, and once again she was shamed. Had she always only made the wrong choices? But without a number of those wrong choices, there would be no Kustennin, and how could she regret that?

She lifted her head. He stared at her, battling with himself. He had returned to Dumnonia for what she was offering him, she knew that, but neither of them was free, and his responsibilities tore at him despite what he wanted. Her situation was easier: to betray Marcus, egocentric and amoral as he was, called for few moral scruples, but she could feel in Drystan's guilty eagerness that Yseult of Armorica was another matter entirely.

What she asked of him was his waking dream turned reality, but he still couldn't accept it.

Her head dropped to his shoulder, and she could smell the tang of nervous sweat. Nervous sweat? How could it be this way between them after all they had been through together? With a pang of envy, she thought of the comfortable love that had developed between Brangwyn and Kurvenal, slowly, carefully, dispensing with the areas of conflict before they came to full bloom, a love discursive and patient. While she and Drystan had been in each other's arms before they barely knew there was any such thing as a future.

And now all those aspects of reality the future had brought encroached, making sharing the rest of their lives together still seem little more than fantasy, even though they both wanted it. They had been living so long with disappointment —disappointment coming from their own rash acts — that they couldn't trust hope.

A choked laugh finally escaped him. "I came here for this, but I don't know what to say. Odd, isn't it? I would have to return to Yseult of the White Hands and at least try to get an annulment from her, but I don't know if she will agree. Before the wedding, I came to my senses and offered to let her call the marriage off, but she refused, even when I told her I still loved you."

Yseult turned away. "I have waited too long to come to my senses."

She heard the way her voice caught and so did he. His arms slipped around her from behind, and peace and joy filled her as she gazed at the gentle waves out to sea.

"We can find a way to work it out," he murmured against her ear. "If all else fails, we will live together in sin, as my father did with Trephina, or as Diarmaid did with Grainne."

At his mention of one of the famed tales of elopement from her homeland, Yseult's hope surged illogically. Perhaps with the small talent he had, he could feel it too, because his lips curled in a smile against the back of her neck.

"But first we will see if there is an honorable way," she said.

He turned her around in his arms and trailed one finger down her cheek, allowed it to drift to the nape of her neck and tangle in her hair. "No, first I must go to war again."

She tried to look away at that, but he pulled her face to his, took it in both hands, rough from his months of madness, his life on the edge of reality and existence, and kissed her soft lips.

Chapter 34

Iseult! One wild, unmated word,

Iseult! No sound so sweet is heard

In all the lyric speech of bird.

G. Constant Lounsbery, "An Iseult Idyll"

Drystan laid his harp aside. Among the hardened warriors in the hall of Cambodunum, a northern fortress once built by the Romans to hold back the threat of the barbarian Picts, there were few dry eyes. Thinking of loved ones they had left behind or lost, they rubbed their temples surreptitiously with callused fingers or rough knuckles, trying to erase any clue of deceptive moisture; only then did they seem to remember the recognition due the artist and clapped their hands or stomped their feet or banged their tankards on the table.

"More!"

"Give us another song, Drust!"

Drystan smiled and took up his harp again. These men deserved their entertainment after the hard ride north with the vanguard of Arthur's forces. Foot soldiers were on their way by ship to the port of Calunium, the last port south of Rheged and the territories of the northern rebel kings. He glanced over at Gawain, Gaheris and Gareth; they too were riding to war against their father, as Drystan was. They had sided with Arthur and their mother Margawse, against Lot, king of Gododdin — against their patrimony and their heritage, and against their brother Agravaine as well. Their expressions were serious. They sat together, not mixing much with Arthur's other companions. Drystan plucked the strings of his harp, wondering if they were feeling guilty at their choice. Drystan was not; it was interesting how liberating it was to have been sentenced to death by one's own father. Marcus Cunomorus was his father no more, only an enemy to be faced and conquered.

The king of Elmet, Mascuid, rose and limped over to Drystan's table to fill his tankard. "Excellent playing, young man. You should have been a bard."

Drystan smiled. "I was, more than once."

The king chuckled. "Perhaps a more cheerful tune this time, bard?"

"Gladly."

Mascuid limped back to his seat next to Ludd Ogryn, his brother and Arthur's former father-in-law. Next to them sat Arthur himself with his twelve-year-old son Llacheu. It was interesting to see hints of this earlier life of Arthur's, when Arthur had been Ambrosius's general in the north.

Gazing at Arthur's son, Drystan realized that he didn't even know how Arthur's first wife had died.

But it was no time to think of death now — they were heading to war again, and death would find them soon enough. He smiled at Kurvenal beside him and launched into a happier song this time, a song that reflected his own mood, of being reunited with loved ones rather than leaving them. Here in the north, the night was colder than it had any right to be in summer, but when this campaign was over, he would be returning to Yseult.

This time, somehow, they would find a way.

* * * *

It was another rock, this one jutting up from the land rather than from the sea. The man he had once called father was there, trying to persuade other disaffected kings and would-be kings of his suitability for High King of Britain, many of whom had the same ambition.

Even from this distance, the riders could see the drawn gate and guards at their positions on the walls of the hill-fort. Since bursting from the woods to the west and the south, they had slowed their pace nearing the massive fortress, the thousand horse Arthur now commanded efficiently surrounding Din Eidyn at a safe distance. The foot soldiers behind them would arrive soon to strengthen their position.

Arthur shot Drystan a wry look. "I do not think we can use your tunneling abilities this time, Cousin."

A surprised laugh escaped Drystan. "I think you're right."

Myrddin shook his head. "Perhaps you should have had yourself elected High King first, Arthur."

Arthur's lips grew thin, but before he could say anything, Madoc spoke. "What need have we of a High King? Arthur is Dux Bellorum, head of the fighting forces of Britain." At the looks Cai and Bedwyr gave him, Madoc shook his head. "And no, it is not because I have any ambition to be High King — at least no longer," he corrected himself with a slight smile that suddenly made him look much more like is younger half-brother. "I have realized now that there is no other person on this island better suited to lead the defense of Britain than Arthur. He has defended Britain against her enemies for almost two decades, something none of these claimants to the title of overlord have ever done. What difference does it make if we call him High King or Dux Bellorum?"

"Perhaps more than you think," Myrddin said.

"And perhaps Madoc is right," Cador added. "Can not a council of kings and a Dux Bellorum accomplish everything a High King could?"

Several of the other regional kings among them nodded, but staring at the seemingly impenetrable fortress of Din Eidyn, Drystan was inclined to agree with Myrddin. Not having a High King would create a power vacuum that those with more ambition than sense or responsibility would always seek to fill — like Marcus Cunomorus.

His father.

"When this is over, I intend to go in search of Ambrosius," Arthur said.

At that, the rest of them were silent.

A standard-bearer appeared on the ramparts of the hill-fort above them, followed by another: the hound of Cunomorus and the eagle of Lot. "Now we will see whether they are satisfied that they lured you into their territory, Arthur," Bedwyr said with a grin.

Arthur wheeled his mare Llamrei around and faced his commanding officers. "Cador, Madoc, you will come with me to negotiate with them. You represent the lines of Constans and Uthyr; they have no one as close to the line of Ambrosius."

They nodded and rode forward to join Arthur. Just as Drystan was thinking he was glad he would not have to face Marcus, Arthur spoke again. "Gawain, Drystan, I would like you to join us as well."

Together they watched as the standards made their way down a grassy section between the steep, rocky sides of Din Eidyn. Although it was almost June and the sun was warm on his shoulders, there was still a bite of cold in the air. It had been much warmer when Drystan had last seen Marcus — at his wedding to Yseult of the White Hands, a year ago now.

"Common enemies make for strange bedfellows," Madoc commented, as their groups drew near each other. Besides Marcus and Lot, Lot's son Agravaine, Cadwallon of Gwynedd, Urien of Gore, Huail son of Caw, and Arthur's former general Cerdic, the traitor who had fought against them last year at Baddon and now self-styled prince of the Isle of Vectis, made up the rest of the "welcoming" party.

"If any of them ever manages to become High King, Britain will be torn apart," Myrddin said.

Arthur reined in his mare. "Then we will just have to prevent them, won't we?"

Lot rode forward. "By what right do you surround my castle with your army?"

"We had word that a number of kings were meeting here, intending to take over the authority of the council of kings and name a successor for Ambrosius." Arthur looked from one to the other of them. "It appears the word was true."

"If we want to meet and discuss politics before the council convenes, what harm is there in that?"

Arthur answered with his own question. "How many troops have you amassed within the walls of your fortress, Lot?"