Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur

by Nestvold, Ruth

  She caught his eye, and for some reason, she smiled. Smiled and seemed to stand a little straighter again.

  Drystan's broken heart twisted.

  When they reached the Erainn party, the queen was the first to speak. "Welcome, bard."

  He could have sworn there was friendliness in her voice, friendliness he didn't deserve: not as his father's emissary and not as the man who had killed her brother. Perhaps this was some strange Feadh Ree method of torture.

  He knelt before her. "Lady."

  "It is good to see you again, Tandrys. Perhaps you will give us a song before you leave?"

  Drystan searched her face for signs of madness but found none. "I didn't think to be so well-received by you."

  The queen shrugged. "I have learned much about unwise alliances in the last few years — friends who are none and foes who are friends. Rise, fili."

  He stood, glancing at Yseult the Fair to see how she was taking her mother's odd behavior. She stood frozen, not deigning to look at him. He returned his attention to the queen. "As before, I do not deserve the honor of the title — now even less than at our first meeting. Circumstances have forced me to abandon my harp for a sword."

  She shook her head. "I thought you wiser than that. But we still respect our bards here in Eriu, Tandrys."

  No, she was not mad. She had said those very words to him when he had first regained consciousness in her care, so long ago now.

  Was she reminding him of his debt?

  He examined her face, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I will remember that, Lady," he said.

  The High King stepped forward. "Welcome back to Eriu, Prince Drustanus. Your reputation as an artist and a warrior has proceeded you. You do us great honor by visiting the rath of Eblana."

  Drystan allowed the formalities to wash over him, wondering what it was Yseult the Wise thought he could do for her.

  And determined to do it if it was in his power.

  * * * *

  Although the people of Eriu referred to Eblana as "the Roman Port," there was little here that seemed Roman to Drystan's eyes. The main hall was rectangular rather than round, but it was built of wood and wattle in the Erainn style, with a thick thatched roof. Weapons and woven hangings graced the walls instead of painted frescoes, and even now in summer, the smell of a peat fire from the fire pits on either end of the hall lingered in the air.

  Drystan was given the place of honor and the largest piece of meat at the feast held to celebrate their arrival, with the queen seated to his right and her daughter to his left. Kurvenal was farther down the table, next to Yseult's widowed cousin Brangwyn. There were wheat cakes cooked in honey; salmon with vinegar and cumin; watercress and cheese; wine, mead and ale; and both a haunch of beef and a haunch of pork turning on the spits over the fire pits. The king in Eblana, Tuathal, was not about to appear stingy when the High King claimed the right of hospitality from him, and the feast was better than any Drystan ever had in Eriu.

  But even through the smells in the round-house, through the smoke and the meat and ale and wheat cakes, he imagined he could discern the subtle scent of Yseult the Fair, the woman who had haunted his dreams for so long. He certainly hadn't convinced himself he was over her; but neither had he imagined it would be so hard, seeing her again. She ignored him as much as possible, but he was aware of every time she spoke to the young King Tuathal on her other side, aware of every wheat cake she took and sip of wine she drank. The awareness was a pain in the pit of his stomach, barely allowing him to eat.

  He tried to concentrate on the queen on his other side and Lóegaire next to her. Somehow, Lóegaire reminded him of his father, although they looked nothing alike. Lóegaire was bearded, his braided hair a melange of red and gray, while Marcus Cunomorus was brown-haired and clean-shaven, but both had that calculating look in their eyes marking those with a greed which was never satisfied.

  Sitting between Drystan and the High King, the queen seemed to slowly be coming alive again. He found it hard to imagine that it had anything to do with him, after he had betrayed their trust, but he didn't know what else to think.

  After all had eaten their fill and before the bards began the first songs and tales of the evening, the queen rose and motioned to one of the servants. The serving woman came forward, bearing a woven cape of finest Erainn wool, the color an almost iridescent royal purple.

  The queen took the cape from her woman and presented it to Drystan on outstretched arms. "I made a present for the king."

  Drystan rose and took the bundle from her, and their hands touched. "It is very beautiful, Lady."

  "You will give it to the King of the South for me?"

  He nodded and opened his mind to her. This was what she wanted from him, he saw now, the reason his presence gave her hope and brought some life back into her tired eyes. The King of the South was not only his own father — in Eriu, he could also be the king of the Laigin.

  He would go along with the deception. He owed her at least that much, if not more. "My father will be honored."

  At the thought of his father, who was taking Yseult the Fair to wife, he nearly lost his composure, and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, he could feel the queen's sympathy and regret. He stared at her, the soft purple wool draped across his arms, and wondered if Yseult the Fair had been right a lifetime ago when she thought he must have some blood of the Old Race.

  * * * *

  Yseult the Fair didn't like admitting she was wrong, but when it was obvious, she was woman enough to swallow her pride. And her pain.

  She had been wrong about Drystan.

  Before their Bretain ship even sailed out of the port of Eblana, he had come to her and Brangwyn with the cloak woven with her mother's magic and asked them how they were to deliver it to Crimthann.

  Given his previous dishonesty, she hadn't thought he would be willing to help them now, let alone understand what his mother wanted from him.

  Brangwyn answered in her place. "We've sent callings to Crimthann, and Brigid as well, that we will try to put in at the port of Inber Da Glas, but we don't know if they heard us. If not, there will be someone there who will be able to deliver the cape to the king."

  Drystan nodded. "What if they take us for an enemy?"

  "Brangwyn and I will stay at the prow," Yseult said. "They know us there."

  "Why does your mother want Crimthann to have the cloak?"

  "The magic woven into it will help his warband find and defeat Lóegaire," Brangwyn said.

  And then he said something that tore her protective hatred to shreds. "The two of you could go with this cloak."

  Yseult and her cousin stared at him, unable to believe what they had just heard.

  "I could say you escaped when I had to put into port to repair the ship or some such excuse," he continued. "I'll contrive." And then the grin she had once loved so much lit up his face.

  Yseult slowly shook her head, staring at him. "Lóegaire would take his revenge on my mother if I failed to marry Marcus." With an effort, she turned to Brangwyn. "But you — now that you are free of Lugaid, you could stay."

  They had left the bay and were turning south. Brangwyn looked at the coast to the west, her eyes sad. "No, there's nothing there for me anymore. I will stay with you, Yseult."

  "As you wish." Drystan bowed and left.

  Yseult leaned against the railing of the ship and watched the coast of her native land slip by, deep in thought. She had the horrible suspicion that she had been hating Drystan for her own convenience: simple hatred was so much easier than the complex feelings she felt now. If only she could still hold on to that hatred — she couldn't imagine what life would be like married to Drystan's father if she didn't.

  The wind was at their backs, and they arrived at the Laigin port before the sun was halfway to the horizon, where both Crimthann and Brigid awaited them. When they went ashore with their messages and magic, Crimthann embraced Drystan like a brother. Yseult felt reb
ellious tears teasing the back of her eyelids. She remembered the regret in Crimthann's voice when he had banished the bard.

  What would have happened if she had kept her knowledge to herself? She and Drystan might even have married at Lugnasad, and if they had, she would not be going as a bride to his father now.

  But no, her feeling of betrayal had been too great. Yseult clenched her hands, trying to maintain her composure.

  Brigid embraced her. "Regret is a waste," she murmured in her ear. "All we can ever do is make the best of what has resulted from the choices we have already made."

  And with those words to guide her, Yseult sailed east, to the land of the Bretain and her future husband.

  * * * *

  The weather was good, and Yseult spent most of the voyage at the railing of the ship. When she could no longer see the coast of Eriu, she moved towards the prow to gaze across the rough waters of the Sea of Eriu in the direction of her new home.

  As the sun was setting, Drystan joined her, laying a thick cape around her shoulders.

  "Thank you," she said quietly.

  "Perhaps you should come in out of the wind," he suggested. "It will grow cold quickly when night falls."

  "Soon." She turned around. The sky where her home had been was turning a royal purple laced with orange. "Where is Brangwyn?"

  Drystan smiled. It wasn't the infectious grin she remembered from happier days, but even though it had a melancholy slant, it lit up his eyes in a way that made her throat tighten. She looked away.

  "Kurvenal has coaxed her to tell the men some tales from your island. They are sitting on the other side of the cargo hold, where they're protected from the wind."

  Yseult nodded, unable to trust her own voice. And it had nothing to do with where Brangwyn was sitting and with whom, and everything to do with the music of the false bard's voice.

  "Yseult, we must try to make peace." She heard the strain in his voice, although she couldn't reach his mind.

  Then, surprisingly, he chuckled. "You will be my mother, after all."

  His humor disarmed her, and she found herself laughing too, if somewhat reluctantly. She looked at him again, his wide, lopsided smile, his head tilted to one side as he regarded her. She couldn't help it, she wanted to see that smile grow, see it the way she remembered it from another life, when she had been a princess and he had been her bard.

  Now he was a prince, and she was soon to be his mother.

  A choked sound escaped her throat, and she turned away again.

  "Yseult?" He took her hands in his; broad hands with long fingers, hands that held both strength and sensitivity. "Yseult, are you all right?"

  His hands around hers were warm and strong, and the memory of those hands on her body robbed her of reason. "I — I think I'll go in now."

  "Come." He put his arm around her and led her into the deck house, supporting her as if she were faint or sea sick. He made her sit on the edge of the pallet while he rummaged in the things she and Brangwyn had brought until he found a bottle of wine and two cups.

  "It's nothing, Drystan, truly."

  He poured them each a glass of wine and handed her one, his fingers brushing hers. "Here, drink this."

  "I'm fine now."

  "Come. We'll drink to peace between us."

  "To peace?" There could never be peace between the two of them. Many other things, but not peace, no.

  "To peace," Drystan insisted, raising his cup to hers, his forest green eyes dark, his mind closed.

  She drank the wine, watching him over the rim of her cup. Faint light from what was left of the day stole through the window, casting half his face in shadow. But even in the half-light, she could tell he was staring at her, his pupils dilated. A seductive warmth crept through her body, and her skin tingled where their fingers had met.

  A suspicion, nearly a certainty, took hold of her. She put her cup down and dropped her head in her hands. Drystan fell to his knees in front of her and caught her elbows. "Yseult, are you all right?"

  The touch of his hands sent shivers down her spine. She lifted her head. His face was so close that she could see the fine laugh lines next to his eyes. She flushed.

  It was her mother's magic, and it was meant for Marcus.

  One of the early lessons she had learned from Yseult the Wise was that magic could not transform, it could only assist. Belief and illusion. Then why had her mother sent the wine? Perhaps she had hoped her daughter would be drawn to Marcus, and the wine would do the rest.

  She had been more than drawn to Marcus's son — and she had done her best to convince herself it had turned to hate. Now, her breath was ragged and she could feel his heat, so near. Her skin where he held her elbows burned, pulsed. There was nothing she wanted more than to feel the whole lean length of him again, this man she had called enemy. She saw the same desire in his eyes, no careless smile playing around his lips now.

  It could no longer be avoided, and she no longer cared.

  His hands on her elbows tensed, and slowly he drew her the short distance to him. Their lips touched — again, finally. Yseult heard herself whimper, as a wrench of pain and longing tore through her. No. It was so foolish. But her mother's magic was working in her blood and Drystan's magic was working on her lips, soft lips, tender. She didn't want to stop.

  She fell back on the pallet, pulling him with her, hard against her body. As close as possible still would not be close enough. They pulled each other's clothes off, greedy, and then he was coming down on her, naked, his belly sliding against hers. A welcome weight, covering her, pressing his lust and heat into her. Curling hair against smooth skin, sharp angles against soft curves, his need hard, hers slick. She gasped and clutched him to her as he thrust again and again, passion fueled by desperation and over a year of separation, and bit his shoulder in her frenzy.

  It would never be enough.

  * * * *

  The moon shone bright through the window of the deck house and the smell of sex permeated the small room. Drystan followed the curve of her breast with the back of one finger. "Come to Armorica with me."

  Yseult choked back a sob. "Don't ask that of me."

  He turned away, lacing his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling of the deck house. "How can I possibly hand you over to my father?" he asked, his voice low.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Yes, how could he? How could she? Because there was no other choice.

  "You have to. My mother's safety is at stake."

  She felt a hand at the small of her back, stroking the slope down to her ass. "Lóegaire wouldn't harm her," he pleaded. "She's the kingmaker, he needs her."

  "He doesn't need to kill her to harm her," Yseult muttered. "Besides, I can't take that chance, don't you see?"

  Drystan was silent, his only answer the stroking motion of his hand.

  Finally he said, "And what if Crimthann is successful in freeing her?"

  "You didn't ask me about the future, you asked me about now."

  Drystan curled around her from behind, kissing the sensitive skin where thigh met hip. "Yseult. Reconsider, please."

  She pulled out of his embrace and stood. Oh, couldn't he see how much more miserable he would make her this way? Making her mother go back to the kind of non-life she had been living was no choice at all.

  She found her tunic on the floor and pulled it over her head. "I can't. You've done your duty, and now it's time for me to do mine."

  Chapter 17

  The Lady Iseult, sweet as prayer,

  We hardly dare to pray,

  Pearl-pale beneath her shadow hair,

  Grows fairer day by day,

  The ichor gains her spring-kissed veins,

  Her skies the eyes of youth.

  How should she dream the ichor Love,

  Was hellebore in truth?

  Helen Hay Whitney, "When Tristan Sailed"

  Yseult stood near the prow, watching as her future home came into view. Beh
ind her, she could hear the sounds of sails being lowered, commands shouted to man the tiller and prepare to drop anchor. From a distance, the promontory of Dyn Tagell looked like a barren pile of rock jutting into the sea, pelted by the wind and the waves, but as they drew near, she could make out the buildings nestled into the cliffs and scattered across the almost flat top. Gazing at her future, she felt strangely numb.

  Brangwyn joined her at the railing, holding her hair back from her forehead with one hand.

  "What will you do now?" Brangwyn asked quietly.

  Yseult shrugged. "Marry the king. What else am I to do?"

  "I found the bottle of wine this morning. I'm sorry I left it out. Your mother bid me give it to Marcus for your wedding night."

  "It's not your fault, Brangwyn. I'm not even sure if the magic of the wine would have worked."

  Brangwyn grimaced. "It probably would have worked for Marcus."

  To her relief, Yseult felt herself smile. "Then perhaps it is for the best you left it out for us to find it, hm?"

  Her cousin gave a weak chuckle and laid her hand over Yseult's on the railing. "But it's not going to be easy for you."

  Yseult didn't answer for a moment. "No, I don't think it will."

  Together they stared at Dyn Tagell as the ship angled south-east for the harbor. The rocky promontory loomed larger and larger before them, and Yseult found herself wondering how they had ended up in this place, in this situation. What had set the events in motion to bring her here? So many crossroads: her mother's divorce, Murchad's death, Drystan's injury, their capture by Lóegaire — it all fit together, and Drystan was only one small piece of the puzzle.

  But one thing she had forgotten: she had not gone swimming with Eithne and Fedalma. What if she had?

  She shook her head, as if that way she could clear the unpleasant thoughts from her mind, thoughts that would do no good. Brangwyn squeezed her hand.

  The ship dropped anchor near a rocky outcropping forming a natural wharf. Aiding nature, the farthermost part of the rock had been leveled off and fitted with timber mooring posts. Around them, the crew was preparing for landing, pulling up oars and tying ropes and shouting instructions, but Yseult kept her eyes on the wharf and her future. She saw a tall, beardless man with brown hair laced with gray, cut short in the Roman style. He wore a tunic of white linen, and draped over his shoulders a cape of purple with a border of gold.