Drystan retreated a few steps and the giant followed, stumbling on a patch of rocks at his feet. Then Drystan saw an opening high and swung his sword up and down, aiming for Murchad's unprotected head. There was a dull thud on contact, and blood reddened Drystan's sword and flowed down his opponent's shoulder and arm. The giant's eyes widened in shock and his grip on his weapon loosened. The sword slipped out of his hand to clatter on the rocky patch where they fought. Appalled, Drystan jerked his sword back, wrenching it uncleanly out of the mess of hair and bones and blood.
"You've slain me, boy," the giant croaked, and then his eyes turned up in his head and he pitched forward. Drystan stumbled out of the way, fell to his knees, pulled off his helmet, and retched acid bile into the grass and dirt.
The Erainn warriors in the crowd rushed over to their fallen leader and were immediately surrounded by soldiers in Marcus's employ. Drystan raised his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Call them off, father."
Marcus motioned the soldiers back, and one of the Erainn warriors turned to Drystan, who was getting up again shakily with Kurvenal's assistance. The wound in his thigh ached abominably.
"We claim the head of our champion," the warrior said formally. "It must be brought back to his relatives to be given the place of honor he deserves."
Drystan nodded without waiting for confirmation from the king, and one of the warriors pulled out a heavy battle ax and swung it high. Drystan looked away, but he could still hear the crunch and splat of metal cutting through blood and bone. He would have gone to his knees again if Kurvenal hadn't been holding him up.
"Barbarians," Marcus muttered beneath his breath.
* * * *
The members of Murchad's party took the head and released their hostages, but kept the ship they had captured, sailing out of the harbor of Dyn Tagell before the sun set to return their bloody memento to the giant's family.
That same week, Marcus celebrated by having a great feast prepared for his son. The nearest of the seven kings of Dumnonia came, as well as many of those whose relatives had been among Murchad's hostages. There was Cador's widowed uncle Gwythyr and his only daughter Ginevra from Celliwig, Cynan of Caer Tamar with his second wife and four sons and three daughters, and Marcus's cousins Gurles and Idres, who together held a fort to the south. Cador's father Geraint was off fighting with Arthur and Ambrosius and was unable to come, although his own niece Elen, daughter of Dywel, had been one of the captives Drystan had freed. The colorful tents of the guests dotted the outskirts of the mainland settlement, and the happy cries and laughter of relatives united after years of fear and uncertainty filled the air. The festivities lasted three days.
Before the last of the local nobles left, Drystan had taken to his bed and could no longer get up.
The best doctors from every corner of Dumnonia were called, but none could help. The wound in Drystan's thigh was deep and had begun to fester.
"Perhaps it is poisoned," one doctor suggested.
"Perhaps we should amputate the leg," another proposed.
"Perhaps it is witchcraft," said a third.
Marcus sent them away.
A wise woman from the north was called. She looked at the gaping hole in Drystan's thigh and shook her head. The wound had begun to stink. "If it had been treated correctly from the beginning, the inflammation could have been avoided. Of course, given how quickly your son fell ill, the weapon may have been poisoned. But whatever the cause, this wound is now beyond my ability to cure. There is probably only one person who can save your son at this point."
"Who is that?" Marcus asked.
"Yseult the Wise. It is said she is the greatest healer in the known world."
The king sat back, silent. Drystan opened his eyes and looked at his father, giving him a pained grin.
"Then I must go, mustn't I?" His voice was weak, but the smile lingered around his lips.
"You killed her brother," Kurvenal said.
"She will surely kill you," his father added.
Drystan shrugged. "And if I don't go, my wound will kill me more surely than she will."
It was a choice between certain death and less than certain death. Drystan chose the latter.
Chapter 8
A winde thider him gan drive;
Schipmen him seighe neighehand.
In botes thai gun him stive
And drough him to the land.
A wounded man alive
In the schip thai fand....
No man might bi him stand
For stinking of his wounde.
Sir Tristrem
Marcus paced back and forth in a small room of the Lower Hall, in his long-limbed, caged impatience resembling the British name for him: great hound. Drystan watched from his sickbed, Kurvenal beside him.
"We will have the rumor spread that you are traveling to Alexandria to consult the medical experts there," the king said, a worried frown making an irregular slice down the middle of his forehead.
"What's the need?" Drystan asked.
Marcus halted in his pacing and fixed his green eyes on his son. "News does travel between here and Eriu. And Queen Yseult is said to be ambitious and unforgiving. If she sends anyone to find you, that will put them off track."
Drystan gave a weak grin. "But I am going to look for her."
Neither of the other two men laughed.
"Your father is right, Drys," Kurvenal said. "It's best no one wonder why you're not here."
"Murchad was killed in a fair fight."
"What do the Erainn barbarians care for that?" the king said.
More than you, it seems, Drystan thought but said nothing. He shrugged. "Do whatever you want when I'm gone. It will hardly matter to me."
* * * *
Kurvenal slid his arm carefully beneath Drystan's shoulders and helped him onto the litter. Then the small company slipped out into the night to take the path to the harbor of Dyn Tagell, where the ship which had been prepared for their journey was waiting offshore.
"Good luck, my son," Marcus said. He pressed Drystan's hand and stepped back. Drystan attempted a weak smile. Kurvenal and Iaen took either end of his litter and lifted it into the landing boat, while Gormant carried his harp and sword. The rocking of the boat was nearly indistinguishable from the rocking of the litter, and the fever in Drystan's head made such niceties even harder to track. Over the last few days, the world had become little more than a blur of hot pain, and if it had not been for the moment during the fight when he realized how much life still had to offer, Drystan would have found it hard to care whether he lived or died. His greatest wish now was that the pain would finally be over.
It was not yet dawn when they struck north in a small ship with only six men on board. From a bed they had made for him on deck, Drystan watched the coast of the home that was no home recede. He only hoped the Queen of the South would find him, since he was not likely to find her himself in his condition.
* * * *
For most of the journey, Drystan slept, and Kurvenal cared for him as best he could, bathing his wound and his forehead, forcing him to take food. From the Erainn warriors who had come ashore with Murchad they knew that Yseult the Wise was at the coastal town of Ard Ladrann with her new consort Crimthann. It was one of the southern ports of the island and not an inland rath. Kurvenal clung to that fact, hoping it might mean Drystan's survival. A world without his friend's laughter, without his voice lifted in song above the melody of his harp, was a world he couldn't imagine. He believed his friend would return to Dumnonia in good health because he had to believe it.
They sailed close to the coast of Britain as long as possible before turning west to cross the Erainn Sea. Britain and Eriu were factually at war, even if the tribes of the north were not taking part, and these waters were dangerous for a Dumnonian ship. If they met any other vessels, they would claim they were Armorican, a claim which Kurvenal's dialect would support, but if any of the others were questioned, they might not be believed
.
After two days at sea, the coast of Eriu came into sight a little before sundown. Kurvenal stood at the prow, observing the thin strip of enemy land on the horizon.
Iaen came up behind him. "What now?" he asked quietly.
"Reef the sails, and we'll wait for nightfall," Kurvenal said. "When it gets dark, we sail in as close to the coast as we dare. We will have to set Drystan out before it grows light."
"We are there?" a voice called out behind them.
Kurvenal hurried over to where Drystan was trying to prop himself up on his makeshift bed and pushed him gently back down again. "Save your strength, Drys. You'll need it."
"But I must dress in the rags we brought."
"There is time enough for that."
"Is the coracle ready?"
"We still need to pack food for a few days, but your harp and sword are on board."
"Good." Drystan stopped resisting Kurvenal's hand and closed his eyes again. Kurvenal gazed down at the handsome face of his friend, the fine features marred by dark rings under his eyes, wisps of hair dark with sweat clinging to his temples.
Kurvenal brushed away a tendril of hair. "Sleep, my friend." The hint of a smile touched Drystan's cracked lips.
With the cover of night upon them and all ready, they woke the prince again and helped him into his beggar's rags. Before they lifted him into the coracle, Drystan grabbed Kurvenal's hand, his grip surprisingly strong.
Kurvenal returned the pressure, glad of the dark to hide the tears he could feel collecting in the corners of his eyes. "You will make it, Drys. You were blessed with the cleverness of a cat."
"Odd in the son of a dog, don't you think?" Drystan chuckled weakly.
Kurvenal swallowed a sob. "Take me with you."
His friend shook his head. "You know I can't do that. If I don't come back within a year, you can give me up for dead and return to Armorica."
"Don't talk that way. You'll be back."
"I hope so."
They lowered the coracle into the water and waved as it drifted slowly away from the ship. All too soon, they had to turn east again; their own ship would have to be out of sight before anyone found Drystan. Kurvenal watched where the coracle bobbed on the ocean, a dark spot on the shimmering waves, watched until long after he could recognize anything anymore.
* * * *
When the first rays of sun flooded the sky, Drystan checked the horizon to make sure the Dumnonian ship was out of sight. Then he gathered his remaining strength, took up his harp, and began to play a mournful tune, a song of loss and longing. With every rock of the small boat, his leg was jolted, and pain shot through his body, but he continued to sing and play, putting all the energy he had left into the music. It was easier than he had thought. The music soothed him, the sound of the harp strings, the joy of lifting his voice to the sunrise.
He was young, and he was playing for his life.
He didn't know how long he sang — soon all he was aware of were the strings beneath his fingers and the music in his ears.
"Ho, bard!"
Drystan stopped playing and raised himself up on his elbows as well as he could. A small fishing boat manned by two weathered fishermen was nearing his coracle. To his surprise, he could feel tears of relief rolling down his cheeks.
The boat drew up alongside his. "Why in the name of Dagda are you out here so far from shore playing the harp?" one of the fishermen asked.
He choked back a sob of joy. "Gods be praised! I had given up hope anyone would find me."
The second fisherman wrinkled his nose. They were close enough now to notice the stench of his wound. "I think he's injured."
Drystan nodded. "Please, get me to shore and to a healer, and I will tell you my story." As soon as they heaved him on board their own boat, he fainted with the pain of it. Or perhaps relief.
* * * *
Yseult the Fair had brought the news of Murchad's death to her mother herself, and decided to remain in Ard Ladrann through the dark half of the year. Enna Cennsalach assured her that she had made a place for herself at Dun Ailinne, and Illann had begged her to stay and continue accompanying his war band on their forays to the north, but at the sight of her uncle's lifeless eyes and the deep wound at his temple, Yseult's taste for battle had fled, at least for a time. The only battle she cared for now was the battle against the man who had murdered her uncle, but he was far across the sea.
As Murchad's nearest relative at Dun Ailinne, it had been her duty to clean and prepare the head before it was given a place of honor in the sanctuary of the war goddess Morrigu on the ramparts of Dun Ailinne. She now wore a small linen pouch on the belt at her waist, a pouch containing a scrap of metal she had found in the mess of flesh and bone on the side of Murchad's head. That pouch was always with her, to remind her of the man who had killed her uncle. Someday she would fight again, would find and defeat Drustanus of Dumnonia.
But not now.
Now she would wear the scrap of metal at her waist — and recover. Life at Ard Ladrann was calm and quiet. It was not a large rath, only six houses inside the walls and the same number without. Closer to the sea were the fortified houses of a merchant, a shipbuilder, and several local fishers. It mattered not that Ard Ladrann was so small; important was that Yseult was united with both Brangwyn and her mother.
The three of them had spent much of the fat month stocking up on late-season healing herbs and plants, the leaves and acorns of the oak, the flowers and stems of the agrimony, the roots of the comfrey, the haws of the hawthorn, the petals of the birthwort. Now, however, they were busy with preparation for the harvest festival of Alban Elued, for the guests expected to participate in the games and horse races. The harvest festival was shorter than Lugnasad; there was so much to be done, little time could be spared for thanksgiving. And this year, the weather had been amazingly warm, meaning there might still be an early winter sowing.
But in the last few days, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, driven by a freak cold wind from the north. Yseult was reminded that it was the last half of the month, a time of foreboding when nothing good could come of anything begun, a time meant for endings and not beginnings. If they were to do any planting, it would have to wait until after Alban Elued.
Yseult clutched her cloak around her shoulders as she entered the storehouse where a slave was checking the supplies. She was kneeling before a pile of pelts, sorting out some for bedding for their expected guests, when Brangwyn found her. She looked up with a smile.
"Your mother wants you in the house of healing as soon as possible," Brangwyn said. "She needs our help."
Yseult gave the pelts she had chosen to the slave assisting her and stood up, brushing off her checkered green tunic. "What is it?"
"Some fishermen found a bard in a boat off the coast of Rath Inber and brought him here. He is seriously injured."
"Why here?" Yseult asked, hurrying after her cousin. "Is there no healer in Rath Inber?"
"They say they did not want to anger the Dagda by letting such an excellent minstrel die — his talent must be extraordinary. And his condition is so serious, they thought only Yseult the Wise could heal him."
When Yseult and Brangwyn entered the house of healing, her mother was examining the bard's wound while two fishermen stood nearby. The injured man was lying on a pallet near the open door, but the stench of his wound filled the round-house. Yseult paused briefly in the doorway, trying to become accustomed to the awful smell. Healing houses generally had at least two doors and sometimes four in order to ensure proper ventilation, but in this case, the extra door was not enough.
"You know nothing else about him?" her mother was asking one of the fishermen.
"He fainted as soon as we pulled him into our boat. He hasn't woken up since."
"He played with great skill," the other fisherman said. "And his voice was as pure and sweet as the god Dagda's. If ever a bard deserved to be saved, it is he."
"So you have said."
"These rags can tell us nothing," the queen murmured.
"But you will save him?"
"I will do what I can." She nodded dismissal to the two fishermen and turned to Yseult and Brangwyn.
"The bard is in great danger," she said to them quietly. "The wound has festered badly. Luckily, I see no black tissue, and I don't think the blood is poisoned. Brangwyn, heat some water. I need an infusion of chamomile, beech, wormwood and elm to clean the wound. Yseult, make me a poultice of birch, mallow, and bread mold. Don't forget to use both the bark and leaves of the birch."
"Yes, mother. Should I fetch some moss?" Yseult asked.
"Yes, but make me the poultice first. We will also need yarrow, borage, and mandrake root, quickly. It will take all our skill to save this man."
It must be serious with the bard if her mother asked for some of her precious imported mandrake. Yseult the Wise had tried repeatedly to cultivate it in her own gardens, but it did not grow well and she had to buy it from traders from warmer, drier regions such as Hispania and Gaul.
When Yseult returned to the pallet with the poultice requested, her mother was passing a small dagger through the fire. It was not the one she always wore in the belt at her waist — for healing she had a special knife. "I will need you both to hold him for me while I open the wound," she said, looking up. "It won't be pleasant."
Yseult felt a twinge of irritation at her mother's lecturing tone. "I know. I have been treating the wounds of Illann's war band for a year now."
The queen nodded shortly, obviously distracted. "True. But I assume you have not allowed any of your patients to reach the state this man is in. Take his shoulders."
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 12