Brangwyn didn't come, and Yseult assumed they were keeping her cousin from her so that she couldn't share the news. When the time came, it was Andred and Ian who fetched her from her room to lead her to the stake set up on the other side of the chapel at the edge of the village. Andred stared at her, but Ian kept his face averted.
Marcus met her in front of the chapel flanked by churchmen in their long white robes. The church square was lined with people, many weeping. Yseult had a fleeting thought of Patraic, wondering if he would have condemned her to death for the sake of his religion. Somehow she thought not.
The priest Guron stepped up to her. "Yseult of Eriu, Unclean Lioness of Dumnonia, your husband and master has caught you in the act of adultery, fornication and incest. You are condemned to die by fire. Have you anything to say for yourself?"
Yseult gazed at him without a word, but she sent him a vision of what she hoped his own death would be someday, and she saw his eyes widen. She smiled.
Unclean Lioness of Dumnonia. She liked that.
Together, they turned to make their way to the hill overlooking the harbor where the stake stood, when a crowd of perhaps a dozen men in shabby clothes moved in front of them, a number with what looked like blotchy red rashes on their hands and dark lesions on their faces.
Lepers.
Marcus and the churchmen started back, as did her guards. Yseult stared at the men. So many lepers, here so suddenly? In all her time in Britain, she had only seen handful of cases of leprosy, and now here, in the small port town of Voliba, twelve men with the irregular lesions darker around the edges and pale in the center, their gaits bent, open wounds on their uncovered skin.
She opened her mind to these men, and what she felt was health and determination.
"We have a better idea," a man in the front of the crowd of lepers said. "Give her to us. We can make use of her, and she will surely die as painfully as on that stake." He jerked his head in the direction of the top of the hill, and at the movement, a dripping sore on his neck became visible over the shabby collar of his tunic.
"My fine men," the priest who had not yet spoken said, his voice trembling. "Judgment has been spoken."
The man next to the first man shrugged. "Judgment is judgment, I say." He raised a hand covered in discolored spots to brush graying brown hair off his forehead.
It was the father of the family who had eaten the spoiled meat. Talek.
Yseult stared at him, wondering that he would risk so much for her sake. If they were found out, these men would surely burn with her. Catching her gaze on him, Talek gave her an almost imperceptible wink from one hazel eye.
"Come," the first man said, moving forward, leering. "It's long since we've had a woman."
Yseult gasped and cringed, pulling away from her would-be saviors. "No, please, let me burn, I beg you!"
"Give her to them," Marcus said harshly, and turned on his heel to put as much distance as possible between himself and disease in the shortest amount of time.
Andred and Ian gazed at the priests. Guron nodded, and they released her, pushing her into the arms of the fake lepers, and turned and followed Marcus as quickly as they could. Talek and his companions grabbed her, hooting and making a great show of greed and lust, while Yseult pulled away from them, screaming. Clutching her arms, they dragged her through the streets of the town to the edge of the forest beyond, where they released her and knelt at her feet.
"There is no illness among us," Talek assured her.
Yseult nodded, for a moment unable to answer.
She would not die this day.
Yseult drew a deep breath and pressed her eyes with trembling fingers. "I saw your sign, good farmer, Talek, and then I recognized you."
"Good. I was afraid you hadn't. The way you were screaming, I almost fell to my knees in the middle of Voliba to beg your forgiveness." Talek grinned, rubbing the discolored spots off his hand while his companion took a rag to the festering lesion on his neck. Yseult stood watching as the signs of leprosy miraculously disappeared and the rags were stripped, uncovering the rough clothing of farmers, simple but in good repair.
"I do not know how I can thank you," she said. "I owe my life to you."
"There are a number of us who owe our lives to you, Lady," a younger man said. Yseult stared at him, remembering a girl almost too young to give birth fighting through so many hours of labor she had nearly given up.
She smiled. "And how are your wife and child?"
A huge grin broke out over his face. "Keyna is well, Lady, quick with child again. And little Yseult just took her first steps last week."
Yseult felt herself blush at the name of the child, and she lowered her head to hide it.
She felt Talek take her arm. "Come, Your Highness. We must get away from here."
She nodded mutely.
* * * *
They brought her to a woodsman's hut, where Drystan was hidden in the back room, his arm in a sling and his face covered with bruises. Her ability to feel had finally returned and she wept on his shoulder until she had no tears left, while the villagers and farmers who had saved her stood by, heads lowered.
When she raised her head again, Talek spoke. "We brought mounts for you and the prince, Lady. They're hobbled out back."
Yseult wiped her face and nodded. "Thank you." Probably the only horses the richest of these poor farmers owned, but she was too emotionally exhausted to turn down the offer.
"There is a cave to the northeast where you could stay until Prince Drystan is recovered," Talek said. "If you care to see it, I will show you the way."
Drystan and Yseult looked at each other. "I think I can travel, but I'm not sure how well I could hunt right now," he said ruefully. "To escape, I jumped out of the window of the chapel to the rocks below, and it was not a soft landing."
In her mind's eye, Yseult saw the chapel perched on the cliffs above the beach and wondered how he had managed to break no more than his arm. "Then we will go to this cave Talek told us of."
Talek gave a business-like nod. "We will have to wait until dark. Cunomorus's men are searching for the prince."
Yseult drew in a ragged breath. "Then how will we even get to the cave?"
Her savior grinned. "You have friends among those searching too, Lady. They will make sure you are not found."
After nightfall, they mounted the dependable workhorses and made their way quietly through the forest, following Talek. It was soon obvious that Drystan was more seriously injured than they'd thought. The cave was about an hour's ride away, in a small valley beside a stream that fed into the River Voliba, but by the time they reached it, he was swaying in his saddle, hardly able to sit up straight. His head fell forward on his chest, and he seemed in danger of losing consciousness. Yseult had seen such symptoms before in those who'd experienced a serious blow to the head; Drystan certainly could not hunt, and he would not be able to travel for a while yet either.
It must have been sheer desperation and force of will which had kept him going for as long as he had. As soon as they halted, he slid off the horse and to the ground.
With Talek's help, Yseult got him into the cave and bedded him down on the blankets the farmers had brought. A pile of firewood already stood next to one wall, and together they got a fire burning, giving them light and warmth.
"You can bring the horses back to their owners," Yseult said. "I will not be able to move him for several weeks yet."
"We will do our best to keep you safe, Lady."
Yseult smiled. It was a wonder to her that she had inspired such devotion among these people in only a few short years. "You have already done so much for us, I am loath to ask yet more of you."
"Your Highness, you have done more for the people of this land than any leader even the oldest can remember."
"Then could you please try to get word to Brangwyn or Kurvenal that we are alive and let them know where we are hiding?"
The flickering light of the fire played on his li
ned face, emphasizing his worried expression. "It might not be safe."
"Marcus must think me dead by now."
"But he is looking for his son," Talek pointed out.
Yseult nodded. "What if you seek out Brangwyn in the house of healing? Assuming, of course, that Marcus has not yet thrown her out."
"A good idea. I will speak to her, Lady."
After Talek had departed, Yseult settled down next to her lover, weariness and relief and heartache washing over her in a mix impossible to sort out. Drystan was alive, she was alive, the sound of his irregular breathing filled her with joy, and she had never felt anything so fine as the rough blankets against her skin.
But tomorrow was Kustennin's third birthday — and she would not be with him.
Chapter 29
ouch muote sî daz cleine,
daz s'in der wüeste als eine
und âne liute solten sîn.
nu wes bedorften s'ouch dar în
oder waz solt ieman zuo z'in dar?
si haeten eine gerade schar:
dane was niuwan ein und ein.
(They were not troubled that they were alone in the wilds without other people. What need would they have of someone else? They were an even number: one and one.)
Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan
Yseult woke up to the sound of birds chattering in the trees nearby; the long drawn-out descending whistle of the starling, the short musical notes of the thrush, the repetitive up-and-down song of the tit. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
When the memories came back, she remained bundled in the blankets for a moment, trying to fathom the joy and the pain: of lying here, of being alive, of being torn from her son. Drystan lay next to her, still sleeping — but when would she see Kustennin again?
At least she was alive. She would come up with something.
She sat up, careful not to wake Drystan. He was sleeping the deep sleep of those who had suffered a severe blow to the head. She leaned over him carefully, trying to see if he displayed any discoloration around the eyes, but the light from the mouth of the cave was too dim.
Yseult pushed aside the blankets and rose, leaving the cave quietly. The hideout Talek had found for them was set in the side of a hill marking the incline to the moor to the north. A few paces below the cave was a small clearing. She took stock of her surroundings while collecting wood for the fire, all the while keeping her mind open to detect the presence of others.
Next to the clearing, the stream was dammed in one spot by a tumble of boulders, forming a little natural pool — the ice melted again now, luckily — and over her head arched green pine and bare oak, the buds not yet beginning to show. She had seen many such clearings in her life without giving them a second glance, but this one was achingly beautiful; yesterday at this time, she had thought she would no longer be alive today.
And at the same time, her heart was breaking. She slipped to the ground next to the oak, leaning her back against the rough bark, wondering how she could possibly hold two such conflicting emotions in her heart at the same time. The thought of Kustennin, far away, without her, closed her throat with anguish, but out here in the cold morning air, with the late winter sun in the sky and the birds chattering in the trees above, the relief of still breathing was almost more joy than she could stand. Even her fear for Drystan could not keep her from loving the smell of the damp earth and the sound of the stream, from feeling a hard lump of happiness form just below her rib cage.
She took a deep breath and rose. Misery would catch up with her again soon enough.
After depositing the firewood she had gathered just inside the mouth of the cave, she found a pathway up the side of the hill. Out of the trees, the sun seemed warmer, and she loosened the ties of her cloak a little, letting it hang open. When she reached the top of the incline, she could see a massive dolmen of the ancient ones dark against the sky, three stones with a large, flat stone on top. Yseult smiled. They were in a place of power, a good sign for Drystan's recovery.
Drystan was stirring when she returned to the cave. He pushed himself up, and looked around. "I — where am I?"
Yseult went over to him and pushed him back into the blankets. The light was better now, and sure enough, dark circles had developed around his eyes. "We are in a cave some of the good local people found for us."
She watched as memory began to find its way back into his mind, and his tired eyes widened. "My father — how ..."
"We escaped," she said quickly, not wanting him to tax his tired brain too much. "Now we must hide until you are recovered." She had seen this among warriors who had taken a head injury in battle; they would continue fighting, often for as long as the battle continued, but when it was over or they awoke the next day, their minds would be like a landscape clouded with fog and they would sleep for days at a time.
"I remember so little," Drystan murmured.
"You don't have to," she said, pulling the blankets over him again. "Now what you must do is rest."
She sat next to him, holding his hand, and watched him drift back into sleep. She would not be able to rely on him for anything for a while. When he did finally wake up for any length of time, he would be dizzy and weak.
That afternoon, she had a visitor. She was keeping her mind open at all times, watchful of any threat, and she felt Brangwyn's presence even before she saw her. Hurrying out of the cave, she saw her cousin dismounting from a sturdy farm horse.
"Brangwyn!"
Yseult hurried into her cousin's arms and held her tight, more grateful for her friend than she had ever been in her life. And finally Brangwyn's mind was no longer closed to her, and she could feel pain and joy that reflected her own confused state of mind.
They pushed back and held each other at arm's length.
"How is Kustennin?" Yseult asked, feeling her voice crack on her son's name.
Brangwyn cupped her cheek in her palm and Yseult leaned into the hand. "He misses you and asks for you constantly. But it's not as bad as it was during the Christmas holiday when you went away for Arthur's wedding; at least then he had a chance to get used to not always having you near."
Yseult was glad he was not suffering, but part of her soul wished he missed her as much as she missed him. But that part had no place here, now.
She straightened and looked into Brangwyn's eyes. "And how are things at Lansyen?"
Her cousin let out a snorting sound vaguely resembling a laugh, and Yseult could see her memories of servants being slapped across the room and hear the angry voice.
"Will Marcus cast you out?" she asked.
Brangwyn shook her head. "I think he would have if Kustennin weren't so attached to me — or there were anyone else the child would listen to with you gone."
Yseult sighed and wiped a stray tear out of the corner of her eye. What was she going to do, not knowing when she would see Kustennin again? "I am glad you're still there for him."
"Yes, and for Judual as well." Brangwyn stepped back, and her mind closed to Yseult again. Most likely her cousin didn't want her to feel her reproach, but Yseult knew it was there. Through her obsession for Drystan, she had lost her son, had almost lost her life.
Yseult turned away and stroked the neck of the stocky gray horse. "How did you get away from Lansyen?"
Brangwyn came around the other side of the horse and began to undo the ties on the satchel. "I used my power of changing. Talek met me in our modest house of healing, and we left together — as man and wife. He knows of our powers now."
Yseult nodded. That was the least of her cares at the moment.
"From there, I accompanied him to his home and borrowed Mist." Brangwyn patted the plough horse on the rump. He turned his head and snorted at her gently. She rummaged around in the satchel and drew out several bags smelling of dried herbs. "Talek told me how Drystan fared, so I brought what I could. I have lavender, walnut, sage and rosemary for the affliction of the brain. For Drystan's bruises and external injuries,
I brought comfrey, agrimony and mallow. You must let me know if there is something else you want from among our stores."
Yseult accepted the medicines, feeling her eyes well up with tears. She dashed them away with the back of her hand. "Any other news from Lansyen?"
Brangwyn closed the saddlebag again. "Marcus had all your things burned, and he probably would have left for Isca immediately if he weren't still looking for Drystan. But at least he believes you are dead." She came around next to Yseult and opened the other saddlebag, drawing out a package of tightly rolled fabric. "I brought you some clothes from myself and Sevi. They may not fit well, but at least you will have a change of clothing or can layer them for warmth as you see fit."
Yseult accepted the garments and took Brangwyn in another embrace. Her throat closed up and she couldn't speak for a while.
"What of Kurvenal?" she finally asked.
Brangwyn looked away, her hands clenched in her skirts. "Marcus sent him away. Before he left, he told me he would go to Arthur at Celliwig, tell him what happened and seek his help in getting Drystan away safely."
Her cousin's mind was still closed to her; perhaps that was just as well now. "I'm sure Arthur will help."
Brangwyn could not stay long or her presence would be missed. She often spent hours gathering herbs or administering to the sick and injured, but if someone happened to seek her out while she wasn't there, questions might be asked.
Yseult watched her friend disappear between the trees, wondering how all this would end.
* * * *
The next day was damp and unpleasant, and after Yseult had fetched water, she sat at the mouth of the cave, watching the wet world outside. Given the unpleasant weather, she was that much more surprised when she had another visitor.
Talek dismounted from the same plodding gray draft horse Brangwyn had ridden into the clearing the day before, and Yseult pulled the hood of her cape over her head and went out to meet him.
"I didn't expect visitors in this rain. What brings you here today, Talek?"
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 45