Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (8 page)

The house of the druids was empty when she passed. Normally at this time, she would have been in the groves with Lucet and Lochru and the other filid of Tara, teaching the youngest ones the ways of logic and the wisdom of the trees. Recently, however, she'd been too busy with the preparations for the festival of Lugnasad.

Queen Yseult had made her decision, unwise as it was: she would not be responsible for her daughter's misery. She'd found an unlikely ally in Lóegaire's brother Coirpre. Coirpre cared nothing for what happened to young Yseult, but neither did he care for the peace his brother was trying to make with the kingdoms of the Bretain or the growing influence of the Christian wise man Patraic. He didn't care much for Yseult the Wise either, but common enemies made for strange allies.

As the queen hurried past the Lia Fail, she wondered what the Stone of Destiny would have to say to Lóegaire's kingship now, with the regional kings disgruntled and his consort and his brother plotting against him. She gave a wry smile. It was foolish of him to put all his efforts into reversing a prophecy — and just as foolish of her.

After leaving the ramparts of Rath na Riogh, she headed for the sacred sidhe hills near the entrance avenue to Tara. Coirpre was waiting for her in a stand of birch trees past the training grounds. He looked much like Lóegaire but with less gray in his hair and beard and a cast of discontent about his hard, unsmiling eyes. When he did smile, it was not as sincere as his younger brother.

"You were right," he said with satisfaction when she joined him, his gaze sliding up to hers but not quite meeting her eyes. "There is considerable grumbling among the local kings and their warriors about this peace."

She nodded, doing her best to suppress her dislike of the gloating tone in his voice. Coirpre was so transparent, it would take no magic at all to read him. "The raids along the Bretain coast have made many warriors rich. I have heard it is not uncommon for them to achieve a higher honor-price than a chieftain of the Fortuatha Laigin." The Fortuatha Laigin were the unfree tribes living in the wild, infertile hills to the south.

"That should not be hard." Coirpre chuckled, a sound that carried amusement but no humor. The heat of his hatred for the Laigin, the time-honored enemies of the sons of Niall but now their allies, was so palpable it made her vision blur. With him, it was more than hereditary hatred; when Lóegaire had promised never again to levy the Boruma, the traditional tribute the tribes of the Laigin paid to Midhe and Brega, they had supported him for the kingship, bypassing Coirpre.

"If peace is made with the Bretain, it will no longer be possible to grow rich from raiding," she said.

The pulse of his hatred grew. He was so full of it: hatred of the Laigin, hatred of the Bretain, hatred of the Christians. She wished he possessed at least a little of the ability to shield his thoughts that his brother had learned. It was difficult to keep up the conversation, overrun by the intensity of his feelings.

"That will never happen," Coirpre swore.

Queen Yseult began to slowly pace the perimeters of the clearing, as much to get away from the force of Coirpre's emotions as to work off her own. "Your brother counts himself strong enough to do as he pleases, regardless of what the Oenach might demand."

"I have spoken with Dunlaing. While there is no support for peace with the Bretain, neither do the tribes of the Laigin want to turn against the consort of the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann."

A contradictory mixture of deference and disdain washed over her, and she realized it was his attitude towards her. She stopped and faced him, surprised. On the one hand, Coirpre saw her as soft because she was a wise woman and not a warrior, but at the same time, he felt an ingrained respect for the Feadh Ree and her own magic. Coirpre was a warrior to the core, and he would always reserve his greatest respect for fighters and fighting ability. Druids, women and Christians were inferior in his scheme of things.

It was interesting to find herself equated with her enemy in this way.

"I do not intend to stay with Lóegaire if he insists on marrying my daughter to Marcus Cunomorus," she said.

"Would you be willing to repudiate your marriage at Lugnasad?"

"I had already considered it."

"Good."

"We will need to find out how the kings of the other provinces feel."

Coirpre nodded. "Although Ailill Molt did not approve when his foster daughter was to be married to Cunomorus, I fear he may yet support Lóegaire. Connachta has less to lose if peace is made with the Bretain. For Ulaid and Mumu I will need spies. I do not have many friends there."

Yseult doubted if Coirpre had many friends anywhere. But if he would help her ruin Lóegaire's plans to send her daughter to a foreign king, she would be his "friend" for as long as was necessary.

Chapter 4

The year after he became king, Eochu ordered the people of Eriu to hold the feis of Tara, so that taxes and assessments might be reckoned. The people of Eriu replied that they would not hold the feis of Tara for a king with no queen.

"The Wooing of Etain"

The morning before the festival of Tara dawned clear and warm, and soon the five roads to the Hill of Kings were full of horses and carts and people on foot, all hoping to arrive before the heat of the day. It was one of the biggest events in Eriu and took place only once every three years; a celebration lasting six days, ending on Lugnasad, the summer festival dedicated to the god Lugh, greatest of the gods of the Gaels. The final event was the Oenach, an assembly of all the kings of Eriu. Everyone who had some leisure and their health came, from the
bo aireg
, simple peasants and freemen; to goldsmiths and blacksmiths and traders, who did excellent business at the fair; to warriors and nobility and filid. The druid in charge of record-keeping kept track of the arrivals of the most important guests to compose a poem about the event when all had departed again.

Yseult and her cousin Brangwyn sought out the stalls of the merchants in the early afternoon, a modest assortment of ring money and Roman and Bretain coins in the purses at their belts. If they wanted anything of greater value, they could barter for a cow or a slave. The festival would not officially start until sunset signaled the dark half of the new day, but the merchants were happy to begin business early.

The artisans and merchants had set up their stands and tents below the Hill of Tara to the east of the ceremonial entrance, opposite the training grounds where the horse races were to take place. The cousins strolled between the stalls, eagerly examining the offerings spread out before them. Tara had craftsmen for everything they needed, from fine goldsmiths to stone workers to enamel workers famous throughout the five fifths of Eriu, but it was only at fairs like this that such a wide variety of specialty wares from other regions were available — musical instruments from the master at Emain Macha, intricate bronzework from Rath Bile, decorative bridles from Uisnech. Not to mention the exotic goods from across the sea, jars for cosmetics and goblets of glass from the lands of the Mediterranean, flagons of fine wine from Galicia, and Bretain-Roman fibulae. Young Yseult did not care for the Roman style of decoration, but she was drawn to the stands anyway. It was a symbol of something so foreign and distant, it attracted and repelled her at the same time.

She stopped in front of a stall selling Bretain trinkets, elaborate beakers of glass from Gaul and pottery from the lands to the south where it was never winter, and stared at a silver platter decorated in the Roman style. What was the world like that created these things, so different from the art of her own country? She knew about the world beyond the sea, knew of the different lands which had once been a part of the vast empire of Rome, even knew a smattering of Latin, but their way of life existed only in her imagination.

"It will work out somehow," Brangwyn murmured softly.

Yseult took her cousin's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Brangwyn's talent was for changing, not for knowing; her words were comfort, not prophecy. Both had that talent to a lesser degree, but neither could see what would come of the events now unfolding. "I worry what Lóegaire will do."

Brangwyn nodded. They could hardly speak openly in public about the queen's plans to repudiate her marriage to Lóegaire on the marriage day, the day before the Oenach. Many couples would be reaching their hands through the stone and saying their vows, among them Brangwyn and Aidenn — but other marriages would be ended.

Yseult picked up the platter she had been staring at and examined the raised design of a prancing horse and rider, so much like life it was easy to imagine them jumping off the plate and cantering to the race grounds nearby. She traced the horse with her finger. "It leaves nothing to the imagination, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." There were many at Tara who preferred Roman wares, seeing them as a sign of status, but Yseult was not among them.

"You like?" the merchant asked in poor Gaelic. He must be from farther away than Alba or Armorica; Gaul or Galicia perhaps.

"No." Yseult returned the platter to the table and took Brangwyn's elbow. "Come. Shouldn't you be looking for a wedding gift for Aidenn?"

A faint blush touched Brangwyn's pale cheeks. "I thought to get him a scabbard," she said with a wicked smile, and the two young women broke out in peals of laughter.

* * * *

The horse races were on the third day of the festival, first with riders and then with chariots. They were normally one of the high points of Lugnasad, but this year conflict between Laigin and Ulaid, Connachta and Ui Neill was simmering just below the surface, and the crowds were tense and on edge. As useful as it might be to determine the moods of those she met, Queen Yseult had to shield herself from other minds. The sun shone just as brightly, the ale was just as rich, but more people noticed the scorching heat rather than the warming rays, more drank the ale for oblivion rather than refreshment. Spirits were strained and tempers high. Several times fights had almost broken out between members of the Midhe and the Laigin, or Mumu and Connachta, although the raising of weapons was forbidden during the celebration of Lugh.

The crowd gathered at the practice grounds was so huge, Queen Yseult could barely see beyond the sea of heads. Blond, red, brown, braided, bleached, shaved, flowing free, caught by the wind, a checkerboard of colors and styles. The visitors had decked themselves out in their finest, and precious metals glinted in the sunlight: torcs, bracelets, armbands, fine beads woven into braids, clasps, pins, brooches. They were festive, beautiful, a feast for the eye, and despite fears of what would come to pass during the next few days, the queen found a smile catching her lips at the sight of so much beauty and finery.

Her daughter looked particularly striking in white breeches and tunic, with a belt of silver and a torc of gold. Her white-gold hair was bound back in a thick braid decorated at the end with beads of silver. Yseult's white mare, Duchann Bhan, was nearly as fine as she, tossing her head proudly, new bronze headgear glinting in the strong morning sun. Together, they were a bright medley of white and gold and silver.

The queen smiled proudly as she watched her daughter swing onto the back of her mare. No, it wasn't wise, the course she was taking for Yseult's sake, but she could not willingly allow her own prophecy to be fulfilled and send her daughter to a life the girl would abhor.

Yseult the Wise noted without surprise that all eyes were on her namesake rather than any of her opponents. The queen scanned the crowd, and her gaze locked with that of a young man staring at her instead of her daughter. His eyes reflected the intense blue of the summer sky and his hair was the color of Duchann Bhan's new headgear. He nodded in her direction and the queen nodded back, trying to remember who he was. He was standing with Dunlaing and Enna Cennsalach, two of the most powerful kings of the Laigin, and a girl of about seven was holding his hand.

Queen Yseult spotted Boinda in the crowd and made her way over to him. "Who are the young man and the little girl in the party of the Laigin kings?"

Boinda looked in the direction she indicated. "That is Crimthann, son of Enna Cennsalach, and his daughter Edain."

"A young father."

Boinda nodded. "He was married at sixteen to Mell, daughter of Erebran of Mumu." Most men who could afford it were married by the age of twenty, but sixteen was young even for a prince.

"I remember now. Mell died in childbed." The queen glanced in the direction of the widowed prince again, only to find that he was still regarding her steadily. Among the turmoil of so many minds, she didn't dare try to open up her own to find him, but she suspected he might have heard from one of the Laigin kings of her plans to divorce Lóegaire at Lugnasad and was speculating on taking a chance at the kingmaker. An ambitious young man, he had led a number of raids against the Bretain, particularly after the brutal attack on Bend Atair by Coroticus.