Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (84 page)

"But Drys, Yseult will not refuse you."

Ah, how could he know that? She had refused him ever and often, she could refuse him now. "Promise me."

"I promise. Rest now, Drystan. We must fetch a healer."

Kurvenal had promised. Good. He would know. He laid his head back on the grass next to the pen. Other people were gathering around him now, and little Cwylli threw herself on his chest, making strange hiccoughing noises. He put one arm around his little sister and gazed at the branches of the yew tree above his head, smiling.

* * * *

Every movement he made was accompanied by wrenching pain. He tried to remain as motionless as possible, his eyes closed. He didn't know how long he had been lying here, but he did know what he was waiting for. Yseult of Armorica — his wife —daintily wiped his hot brow with a wet rag. He was feverish, but he knew which Yseult was with him now, and it was the wrong one.

How could he have imagined he could substitute one Yseult with the other? How could he have been so naive to turn to Yseult of Armorica, Yseult with the unblemished hands, yearning for a love without complications? Now he was dying, and he knew there was no such thing.

The wound, just below his heart, throbbed painfully. When they thought he couldn't hear, the doctors and healers expressed the opinion that he should have died days ago. But he couldn't die yet. He was waiting for her.

He opened his eyes, and Yseult leaned over him eagerly. "The ship," Drystan mumbled. "Can you see it yet?"

The eagerness in her eyes vanished. "I'll check."

He watched her move slowly across the room to the arched window. His wife, a pretty decoration. Yseult of the White Hands hated the sight of blood, hated sickness and disease; she couldn't get those famous hands dirty. His beloved, his Yseult, was a wise woman and a warrior. Perhaps if she had been here when his father had stabbed him, she could have saved him, as she had saved him before.

But now it was too late. All he desired was to see her one more time.

"Is it coming?" he asked again.

Yseult shook her head and Drystan turned his face to the wall. Perhaps she wouldn't come. Yseult had begged him to remain with her in Dumnonia, but he hadn't listened. So many things she'd had to forgive him for over the years: killing her uncle, lying to her, bringing her to his father, marrying the woman who now tended him ...

Cwylli stormed into the room, followed more sedately by Labiane and little Gildas. "Gently, Cwylli," Labiane said.

Cwylli sat down on the edge of his sickbed. He tried to lift a hand to ruffle her golden-brown curls, but his arm would not obey his thoughts.

"Are you better yet, Drystan?" she asked.

"Almost." With Cwylli here, he tried to keep his eyes open, tired to concentrate more on his surroundings. The figure of Labiane wavered and shimmered, but he thought her expression looked grim.

"Marcus Cunomorus has not yet been found," she said.

Did she want him to be found? Drystan didn't know. There was so little he knew these days, while he lay here, more asleep than awake. Dreams had become his life, interrupted by short, hazy snatches of reality. The haze in the reality was too thick for him to be able to tell if Labiane's former lover was more important to her than a mere cousin.

"Come Cwylli," Labiane said. "Drystan needs to sleep."

And sleep he did.

* * * *

The moment Drystan opened his eyes again, Yseult of the White Hands knew what his first words would be.

"Is the ship come yet?"

She looked away, gazing at the faint outline of the frescoes that could been seen through the whitewash of the walls, like ghosts, or figures behind a gauze curtain. "I don't know."

"Would you look for me?"

She nodded and rose, moving to the arched window facing towards the town of Leonis and the harbor below.

Yseult started. There, between the harbor and the horizon, was a ship. She darted a glance at her husband. His eyes had drifted shut again; he hadn't noticed her reaction.

She turned back to the view out the window and squinted at the brightness of the water glinting in the sun, at the vessel heading for port.

"Can you see it?" Drystan asked from his sickbed.

She was silent for a moment, wishing she didn't have to give him the good news. "Yes."

She heard him gasp. "The sail," he asked. "What color is the sail?"

Yseult continued to gaze out of the window at the ship her husband had sent for, not wanting to see his impatience and his pain. Impatience for another Yseult, the one he thought he loved rather than the woman he had married.

She placed one hand on the cold stone ledge and leaned forward. "I think it's black."

"Black? Are you sure?"

She hesitated only briefly before repeating the lie. "Yes, I see it now. It's black."

* * * *

Black.

She wasn't coming. He would never see her again, he knew that now. The poison of his wound and his life welled up within him and he began to cough, great wrenching coughs that brought up blood. Yseult — the wrong one — ran over to within feet of the bed, her eyes wide and full of fear. Drystan saw his death reflected in those eyes. They were the wrong eyes, but they were the last thing he would ever see.

* * * *

Yseult wished she could run across the water to where Erim was waiting on the docks. Even before their landing boat drew up alongside the pier, before she could see the tracks of dried tears on his face, she knew — they were too late.

The sudden emptiness she had felt within sight of Leonis had been what she feared.

She gasped, gripping the rough wooden side of the small boat. The knowing was so much worse than the fear. She had lived too long in the land of the Britons; she no longer completely believed in her own powers, and she had allowed herself to hope that the feeling had been nothing more than anxiety. The sudden knowledge she could no longer avoid ripped a gaping hole in her soul, and she found herself breathing deeply, her shoulders moving forward with each ragged breath.

She felt rather than saw Kurvenal's eyes on her. "No," he murmured under his breath. As low as it was, the tinge of panic was audible.

He stood up, and the little boat rocked dangerously. "No!" he repeated, louder, darting a look at Erim on the pier.

She was still dragging in breath after painful breath when Kurvenal sat down hard again on the seat beside Brangwyn. "No," he said, his voice breaking, the tears bursting forth and streaming down his cheeks.

For her there was no such relief. She tried to suck in the air she needed, but the world was playing games with her. Somehow, every huge breath she dragged in left her in need of more. She couldn't think, couldn't react, couldn't get past the heat in her face and the emptiness in her soul. She clutched the side of the boat, the only support she had.

No, not the only support. Brangwyn was next to her, her arm around Yseult's shoulders, murmuring soft, comforting phrases.

"Your husband," Yseult choked out between the painful breaths. Kurvenal had his head in his hands and his racking sobs filled the air.

"You need me more," Brangwyn said, stroking her hand.

They drew up alongside the pier, and strong arms were lifting her out of the rowboat. She was still breathing deeply, each breath an effort, and her head felt light and hot.

She never knew how she made it up the hill to the fortified villa perched above the bay. Drystan's cousin Labiane was there to meet them, the one who hated her so — hated her for the sake of Marcus, who had killed his son.

Marcus had killed his son.

Marcus was the reason for the warriors Arthur had sent along, led by Cador and Bedwyr: they were to find Marcus and bring him back to Britain to face justice. Finally, Yseult's breath began to come easier.

She would ride with them.

They were led into the room where Drystan's body lay, still warm. Yseult of the White Hands was kneeling next to the bed, sobbing. Yseult moved forward as if in a dream. Her dear, dear love was pale and thin, and there were splotches of blood on his tunic, but there was nothing about him lying there, his eyes closed as if in sleep, that indicated death. Only the telltale scent of urine from when his body had emptied itself.

Oh, why was breathing so hard?

The woman Drystan had married shot her an accusing glance, but Yseult ignored it and her. He lay there so peacefully, wisps of hair escaping the thong at the back of his neck. She brushed a strand aside with the back of her fingers, feeling as if she would choke.

How could he be dead?

"Yseult," Brangwyn said, taking her free hand. "Think of Kustennin."

Yseult closed her eyes, called up her son, their son, in her mind's eye, the curly-haired terror of Dyn Tagell.

"Think of Marcus," Bedwyr muttered, somewhere behind her in the room.

She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes again. It was true, she had to think of them both, Kustennin and Marcus, Drystan's son and Drystan's father, had to protect the future of the one and end the future of the other. Drystan's soul would not be able to travel on until she did.

But, ah, why did she have to live to see this? Why did she have to know that it was her fault?

Only there was more guilt in this room than her own. Behind her, Kurvenal was hating himself for not somehow stopping Drystan from setting his father free at Din Eidyn. And beside her, Yseult of the White Hands was hoping fervently in her grief that no one ever discovered that she had told her husband the sail was black.

So many mistakes.

She touched her fingertips to his warm lips and then to her own. "Goodbye, my love."

It was as if the breath still on his lips gave her strength. She turned to Yseult of the White Hands. "We will take Drystan's body with us when we return to Dumnonia to be buried there. Please see that servants wash the body with oil and water daily." She faced the warriors behind her, many of whom had fought beside Drystan. Only Bedwyr's eyes were dry.

"But first we will find his murderer," she said.

Erim shot her a surprised look. "You too, Lady?"

"Certainly." She glanced over at Brangwyn. "Will you accompany us, Cousin? We might have need of your skills."

Brangwyn nodded shortly.

* * * *

He was with her, she could feel him. He didn't speak to her, but he was there, part of her, as they rode hard for Caer Haes. She knew things that he knew. He had unfinished business here in the world of men, and he couldn't continue on to the Otherworld until he had completed it.

With her help. Without speaking, his presence told her that the direction they took was right.

They came within sight of Caer Haes on the second day, after crossing a small mountain range. They had been following a Roman road most of the way inland, and the walls of the town too were recognizably Roman.

Bedwyr pulled up next to her. "Is Marcus there?"

She nodded. Somehow, none of these soldiers, raised according to Roman ways, seemed now to question her powers. Magic was rare in Britain, but it did exist, and these men were well-acquainted with Myrddin and Modrun.

"How are we to get past the walls?" Erim asked.

"That is Brangwyn's job," Yseult said, turning her gelding to exchange glances with her cousin, where her mare had halted next to Kurvenal's stallion.

Erim looked confused but didn't dare contradict the Queen of Dumnonia. Yseult smiled to herself, feeling Drystan smile with her: it seemed not all of these soldiers were aware of the powers of the Feadh Ree.

"Were you not with us when we retook the queen from the Erainn pirate?" Kurvenal asked Erim.

The other man nodded.

"And you remember the fog that hid us until shortly before we boarded the enemy ship?"

Erim nodded again, gazing at Brangwyn and crossing himself.

Brangwyn ignored the gesture. "I have the power of changing. While it will be difficult to cloak so many men in illusion at once, I think I can sustain it long enough to get us into the walls of the city."