"It was your words which provided Lóegaire his justification for capturing my mother, your ideas of marriage which allowed him to abandon the teachings he grew up with, to lock up the Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann and treat her like a slave until she has become what you see now."
"He told you this?"
"He told me that according to Christian law their marriage is not dissolved. That those were your words."
"Marriage is a sacred institution," Patraic said, but his voice was empty of conviction, the statement made by rote.
"You have too much generosity in your soul to think that this is sacred," Yseult said, but she couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.
The Christian holy man didn't reply, still gazing on the motionless form of her mother.
Yseult clenched her hands at her sides. "I try not to blame your gods, although I admit, it is hard for me. You have encouraged Lóegaire and others like him to abandon their own beliefs. Now they follow the old ways only when it is in their best interests, choosing the new when it suits them better. They are between beliefs, with no morality to guide them, led only by their own greed and ambition."
"You speak of the selfish ones, the ones with no sense of good and evil."
"Yes."
Patraic lifted his gaze from her mother and looked at her, eye to eye. "You are wise beyond your years."
Yseult snorted, holding back the tears clogging her throat. Right now, she was very close to hating this man who had given Lóegaire the justification for what he had done, although she knew Patraic too thought it wrong. But she needed him.
"Wise? I merely wish to gain allies for my mother."
The Christian wise man nodded and offered her his hand. She ignored it and he lowered it again, shrugging. "Good. Even if there is to be no peace between us, I will do what I can to relieve the queen's suffering."
Yseult didn't feel obliged to thank him — she blamed him too much for that. But she was glad of the sincerity she saw in his eyes and felt in his heart.
* * * *
Her mother was so weak that she didn't regain consciousness again until the late autumn sun had nearly reached the horizon, and then only to cough up most of the gruel and broth they tried to force down her throat. Yseult sat at her side, fighting back tears. Yseult the Wise now looked like many another woman nearing her fortieth year, the skin hanging from her arms in loose folds and the sheen gone from her bright golden hair —the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, one of the Old Race, blessed with youthful appearance and long life. No longer. As dull as it was, the gold of her hair could almost be taken for gray, and wrinkles had appeared where once the skin was smooth and healthy.
Yseult gripped her mother's hand in both of her own, her thumb gently caressing the cold, dry skin.
The next morning when the queen awoke, she was rational, but it was not for several days that she seemed fully aware of her surroundings. Yseult was brewing a tisane of lavender, milk thistle, and meadowsweet, when her mother suddenly spoke with her accustomed energy. "Where is Brangwyn?"
Yseult hurried over to her mother's bedside, smiling. "This time of day, she is probably helping teach the young ones."
"What of Lugaid?"
"He has left her alone, although he no longer has a wife to warm his bed."
"I have been having dreams of your cousin. She must leave here."
Yseult's joy fled. How were they to leave? They were guarded constantly. Even now, Trian stood watch at the door of the round-house.
"You must find a way," her mother said.
Yseult took one of the pale hands. "At least some of your powers are returning to you."
"Not enough. It's up to you now."
"And what of you?"
"Lóegaire will not harm me any more. There is little enjoyment in it for him. But Lugaid — Lugaid enjoys inflicting pain. He's afraid now, but eventually his fear from the spell Brangwyn cast will pass."
"What should we do?"
The queen shook her head weakly. "I don't know. My wisdom has deserted me."
No. Her mother was Yseult the Wise.
And her mother was starving herself and needed her daughter to be wise.
"Perhaps I can go to Lóegaire, ask him if he would let Brangwyn go. She means nothing to him, only the two of us."
Her mother smiled and pressed her hand. "Yes, do that for me, please."
Yseult nodded, and her mother closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep. She brushed the dull, golden-blond hair back from the queen's pale forehead. "If I am to be wise for you, then you must be strong for me," she whispered.
She waited by her mother until Brangwyn returned to the round-house, and then left in search of the Ard Ri, her constant companion Trian close on her heels. She found the High King on the practice grounds, overseeing weapons drill. The autumn air was crisp, but the sun shone, and the enemies of the Ui Neill were — hopefully — still abroad.
When Lóegaire noticed Yseult approaching, he came to meet her. "How is she?"
"She is rational again, no thanks to you." She felt his concern; it was clear he thought he loved her mother, did love her in his own possessive way.
The High King motioned her guard to stand back. "She did not seem ill, just — listless."
"You cannot tell me you didn't see a difference in her. You should have sought help earlier." Yseult regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She had promised her mother she would be wise for her.
The king was silent a moment, gazing at the fine leather shoes encasing his feet, and Yseult used the opportunity to try to send conciliatory feelings to his mind. She was going about this all wrong. She had a favor to ask of the High King — she shouldn't start it by throwing accusations at him.
Lóegaire looked up at her. "You're right, I should have sought help earlier. But I wanted to keep her to myself, wanted no one to take her away again."
She gazed at him in surprise, wondering if the feelings she had sent were more powerful than she thought — or if he was merely becoming sentimental.
"She would still leave you if she had the choice," Yseult said softly.
The Ard Ri nodded. "The wise man Patraic has spoken with me, you know."
Yseult repressed a start of surprise. "No, I didn't know."
"After he has completed the house of worship outside the rath, he will move on, probably north."
The information he was giving her didn't exactly follow, but she thought she understood what he was saying. "And will you allow my mother to remain in the house with us as long as you keep her here?"
Lóegaire turned away. "I will move her to the queen's house again."
The queen's house was one of the largest and finest round-houses in Tara, the one her mother had occupied when they had lived here previously — while Lóegaire lived in the great hall next to it.
It was enough. Yseult nodded.
"I have a favor to ask," she said.
"And that is?"
"You have no need of Brangwyn's presence here. Perhaps you could ransom her to her relatives among the Tuatha Dé or her former husband's relatives among the Laigin?"
"Why do you want her to go?"
"I do not want her to be a captive. I ask nothing for myself or my mother because I know you won't give us up."
The Ard Ri's face took on a calculating expression. "My son was granted possession of her as his slave. It is for him to decide if she is to be ransomed."
Memories of Brangwyn's rape washed over her and she had to clench her fists at her side to keep from showing her disgust.
"There might be a way for her to leave Tara," Lóegaire said thoughtfully.
"And that is?"
"If she were to accompany you to Dumnonia."
Chapter 14
Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her.
I would that I were as the winds which play about her!
For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair
To mine eyes: nor nigh
t with stars in her clouded hair,
Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas,
Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees:
But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight,
My mouth for her mouth, mine eyes for her foot-falls light,
And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense,
Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense,
For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain.
But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain,
Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves,
And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.
Frederic Manning, "Tristram"
The journey from Ard Ladrann to Dyn Tagell took Drystan over three weeks, when a ship from port to port would have taken no more than three days. And when he finally arrived, thin and sad, his eyes hollow and a beard gracing his chin for the first time in his life, his father's soldiers would not send for the king or even allow him to cross the land bridge to the Rock. They said the prince was dead, and it would do no good to claim he had returned to the living.
Drystan wasn't sure himself how he had managed to survive, where he had come up with enough will to run and hide, slowly making his way in disguise north to Ath Cliath, the closest port of the Ui Neill. Geographically it would have made more sense to go south, but he didn't know what his chances were of finding a ship out of Eriu from a Laigin port. If anyone recognized him as the bard turned Dumnonian prince who had killed the hero Murchad, he wouldn't even have bet on his chances of being taken for ransom.
And so he disguised himself as a Christian scholar, on a pilgrimage north to hear the great Patraic speak. He'd always had a good ear for the rhythms and sounds of language, and if he kept conversations with other travelers short, he was able to fool them into thinking him a native of Eriu. When someone heard the patterns of Armorica in his speech, he claimed his mother had been captured and brought across the Erainn Sea.
Somehow, through it all, his will to live drove him, refused to let him give up, even when he was soaked through with an unseasonably cold spring rain and the wound in his thigh began to ache again, when his shoes fell apart around his feet and his toes turned whitish-yellow and numb. Drystan almost welcomed the physical pains; as long as he needed to find the next meal to stop the ache in his belly, he was distracted from the pain of thinking of Yseult. Her presence was always there in the back of his mind, a dark cloud threatening to engulf him, but the difficulty of survival kept her memory at bay. He didn't know what he would have done if he'd had the leisure to think.
"Is the Armorican soldier Kurvenal still here?" Drystan asked the guards. They looked at each other and nodded. "There can hardly be any objection to sending for him, can there?"
Bless Kurvi as the truest of friends, he recognized Drystan before he even made it a fraction of the way across the land bridge.
"Drys, Drys! Thank the gods that you made it back from that heathen island alive!" Kurvenal turned to the nearest soldier. "Go man, fetch the king. This is his son!" He hurried across the land bridge and took Drystan in a painful hug, and suddenly Drystan found himself weeping on his friend's shoulder, holding him as tight as his weakened state would allow. Yes, there were other things in life than a woman with hair as bright as the moon.
"Are you cured?" Kurvenal asked, holding Drystan at arm's length and examining the gaunt, pale face covered with a ragged beard. "You hardly look it."
Drystan laughed and wiped away the tears. His friend's eyes too were damp. "It's been a long journey. Before I left, they discovered my identity."
Kurvenal gave a start, and his mouth tightened. "Then we are very lucky to have you among us again."
"I had the good fortune to save the life of the queen's new consort, Prince Crimthann. Who is probably king of the Laigin by now," he added thoughtfully.
"We will talk of all this later. Now I'm sure you would be grateful for a warm bath."
Drystan could feel his abused toes curl in anticipation. He closed his eyes with a sensuous smile and opened them again. "Ah, Kurvi, if you could do that for me, I will throw myself at your feet and swear fealty."
Kurvenal shook his head, chuckling. "Drys, I have missed you more than I can say."
Yes, there certainly were other things in life than a princess with moonlight hair. A friend — who had been with him for nearly half his life. Finally, the will to live that had been driving him did not seem quite so senseless anymore.
* * * *
Kurvenal could hardly take his eyes off Drystan. He stared at him over and over, like a love-sick dog, a grin he was quite sure was silly pasted to his face, although he was utterly, completely sure there was nothing the Christians would call perverse in this joy. Drystan had been the center of his life ever since he had gone into service with Riwallon when he was thirteen. His young master, four years his junior, was much more than his livelihood, he was the best friend he'd ever had, the closest to family left to him.
Kurvenal attempted a serious frown. And soon found himself grinning again. Drystan had cleaned up astonishingly well, given what he'd looked like when he met him on the land bridge to Dyn Tagell. But there was a sadness around his eyes, eyes that had always laughed so well, that Kurvenal didn't like at all.
Another day or two, and he might not have been here when Drystan arrived. He had refused to give up on his friend, but he had no loyalty to his friend's father. When High King Ambrosius's young general Arthur had arrived at Dyn Tagell a few days before on a recruiting mission, Kurvenal had decided to volunteer to fight the Saxons. But it hadn't come to that; Drystan had arrived first.
Now they lounged with Arthur, Marcus, Geraint, Bedwyr, and Cai on upholstered couches in the Roman style, exchanging stories and memories, while Drystan chased the sadness out of his eyes with fine Mauritanian wine in imported glassware from Gaul. Kurvenal had taken to Arthur and his companions quickly, as different as they were. Cai was big, strong, and very handsome, known among Arthur's elite cavalry troops as Cai the Fair. While he was hugely heroic in a way that suited Drystan's young cousin Cador very well, he was a bit prickly about his own honor and had little sense of humor. Bedwyr, on the other hand, was rarely without a sarcastic glint in his eyes. Cador's father Geraint was the oldest of the companions present, earnest and straightforward, honest and strong-willed and on the exacting side. Then there was the great general Arthur himself, not much older than Kurvenal himself and also beardless in the Roman manner; a straight arrow, a man with a purpose, serious and with a hint of sadness around his eyes, but yet capable of a smile. Kurvenal had heard he was a recent widower, having lost a wife from the northern tribes in childbirth, a princess he had met during his campaigns against the Picts.
"Your fame has reached even to the island of Eriu, Cousin," Drystan said, toasting Arthur.
"And what of the situation there?" Arthur asked, ignoring the compliment. Kurvenal could hardly believe that someone who had achieved so much fame in such a short period of time could be so modest. Or perhaps modest was the wrong word. Arthur obviously knew his own worth, but he had no personal vanity, no need for praise, especially not when there was work to be done, enemies to be pushed back or kept from the coast.
"There should no longer be a threat from any united Erainn tribes," Drystan said. "But the tribes of the south have no interest in peace. If we truly wish peace to our west, Coroticus's raids should be checked."
"I have been trying to negotiate a peace for some time now," Marcus said.
Kurvenal saw a flash of irritation pass over his friend's features before he downed the rest of his wine.
"And the Erainn attack our coasts more than they did before," Bedwyr said lightly.
Drystan put down his glass and poured himself another. "More than one peace would be necessary now."
Arthur stroked his chin and gazed at his cousin. "Who is the true ruler in the south, King Crimthann or Queen Yseult?"
"The king is the military leader. The queen's authority is more of a religious and ritual nature."
"And what of the princess?" Marcus asked. "What is she like?"
Within a space of seconds, Drystan finished yet another glass of wine and leaned his head on the back of the couch, gazing at the other men dreamily through half-closed eyes. "She is as beautiful as they say and more. Feadh Ree. Tall and strong, with hair like white gold and eyes the color of a frozen lake in winter — like an Otherworld spirit."
"To steal a man's soul?" Bedwyr asked with a wry grin.
"What need has a man of a soul when he can have a woman like that?" Drystan replied. "Yseult the Fair, more beautiful in face and body than any woman I have ever seen. Long, supple limbs, skin with the glow of moonlight, hair reaching past hips that would make a man want to reach out and touch. But she is also a gifted healer and I have seen her fight like a man to save her rath."
Kurvenal repressed a sigh. If only his friend would keep his drunken fantasies to himself. Drystan may have had too much of the foreign wine to notice the effect his words were having on his father, but Kurvenal was neither drunk nor blind, and he could see the way a kind of greed was entering Marcus's eyes. In the long months waiting for Drystan, he had come to the conclusion that greed was the King of Dumnonia's most dominant trait — greed for riches, greed for women, greed for power.
Kurvenal suspected that was the true reason Arthur was here now. Whatever the kings of the south who were conspiring with Marcus thought, gray hair and failing health had not deprived Ambrosius of his shrewdness. He and Arthur were probably as aware of the frequent visits between Marcus and the Dumnonian kings Gwythyr, Cynan, Gurles and Idres as Marcus was himself.
"I knew an Essyllt of Venedotia once," Cai said now in his rumbling bass, falling under the spell Drystan was weaving with words, the image of desire he conjured.
"Sounds as if a soul would be a good trade for one such as this Yseult," Arthur said with a faint smile. "Assuming, that is, that she regards your rath as her own."
"And what of you, Artorius?" Marcus asked. "Have you found any likely prospects in your search for a new wife?"
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 21