No, her hounds were closing in for the kill — not now!
The shaking grew stronger. "Yseult, wake up!"
The smell of loam and forest mist, the excited barking of her hounds, a perfect moment of chase and imminent death — who could touch her here?
No one. She had to wake up, return to the present.
Yseult pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking and shaking her head, trying to banish the dregs of her dream. Bran and Ossar were long dead, and she was not in Eriu, she was in Britain — the place she had lived for almost twenty years now, the place that had slowly become home, despite the fact that she had not come here of her own free will.
Illtud knelt next to her pallet in a corner of the church. The scraps of moonlight coming through the high windows were not enough for her to see his expression, but as consciousness returned she could feel his fear.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "Illtud. What is it?"
"We just had a visitor, one who found it necessary to seek us out under cover of night," the Christian priest said. "It appears the Pictish invaders have received word of whom we are harboring and are intending to attack holy ground to take you, Lady."
Yseult chafed her arms, trying to wake up faster. "Then I must leave. I hope you will forgive me for putting your church in danger."
The warrior-turned-priest shook his head. "The danger came with the raiders themselves. It is a wonder we have been spared so long."
"The fear of holy places," Yseult murmured.
"Yes. But now we must flee, all of us."
Yseult thought quickly. "To reach the nearest woods, we would have to go past the town."
"We will have to risk it."
She stood. "Perhaps not. They will expect us to run away. But what if we were to move closer to the Rock?"
In the faint light, she thought she saw him smile. "The caves?"
"Precisely."
"But how do you propose we get down to the beach with the enemy in control of the land bridge to Dyn Tagell?"
Illtud had a point; the easiest path was from the Neck, not available to them now. There were other paths down the cliffs, but they were perilous enough in the daylight — what chance did they have negotiating them at night?
Sighing, she pushed the strands of hair that had escaped from her braid back from her forehead. "We will have to take one of the other paths."
"Wouldn't that be too dangerous?"
Yseult looked at the priest who had once given her the cuttings for her first herb garden here in Britain. "What would be more dangerous — attempting the cliffs or remaining where we are?"
Illtud's chuckle was a welcome sound in the dark, given the threat morning might bring. "By all means, let us attempt the cliffs."
* * * *
There was little moonlight, but perhaps that was for the best, in case a Pict watchman chanced to glance towards the open fields between the church and the cliffs. Here on this empty, windswept space, there was nothing for them to hide behind: no bush, no tree, no house. They wore their darkest clothes and crouched low to the ground as they scampered from the protective walls of the churchyard to the nearly hidden pathway down to the beach. Yseult did her best to cloak them all in an illusion of shifting shadow in starlight, but she didn't know how far her powers would reach for a jumble of three dozen refugees.
Even when they dropped down below the rim of the cliff's edge, they did not dare light a torch — it would be immediately visible from the promontory.
"There are a number of caves in the cove," Yseult whispered to Illtud. Drystan had hidden somewhere in these caves during his period of madness after his marriage to the Armorican princess — one of the many times in their relationship that they had done their best to make a future together impossible. She pushed the memory away, concentrating on what was necessary here, now. "There's a very large cave beneath Dyn Tagell that is only accessible at low tide. We would be safest there."
She felt him nod. "I have heard of it," he said. "But I have never had any need to hide in caves before."
"Lucky for you," she said, smiling.
For the dangerous descent, they tied lengths of rope around their waists, hoping that the group could save the individual if one of them slipped. Of course, it was always possible that one false step might rip all of them to their deaths on the rocks below. Yseult wished she had a power that would help in a situation like this. Instead, she would have to lead the way with little more than the senses given to any man or woman, while Ricca held up the rear, watching for pursuit and ensuring that no one on his end of the rope chain would plunge to a rocky, wet death.
The surf loud in her ears, Yseult stepped sideways along the path, her back flattened against the cliff. "Follow me, slowly and carefully," she called out, no longer worried about being to loud — she had to compete with the sound of the waves crashing just to be heard by the few dozen people behind her. "As I move forward, I will give a slight tug to my rope. Each of you are to do the same."
She felt their fear, but also their willingness and trust. She glanced down at the dark ocean churning beneath them and hoped she would be able to earn that trust this night.
Book II
Love Ignored
Chapter 6
"And who shall give thee any counsel that may avail, seeing that there is no force that may prevail whereby to come unto her in the Castle of Tintagel? For it is situate on the sea, and is on every side encompassed thereby, nor none other entrance is there save such as a narrow rock doth furnish, the which three armed knights could hold against thee, albeit thou wert standing there with the whole realm of Britain beside thee."
Geoffrey of Monmouth, History of the Kings of Britain
Cador's feet were cold. His hands too. And he couldn't get comfortable on the thin bedroll, the only cushion between his back and the hard ground. It had been half a lifetime since he'd last ridden into battle and endured the discomfort of sleeping in a tent each night. At least as the ostensible leaders of this campaign, he and Gawain had a tent, while many of their men were wrapped in their cloaks near the embers of the fire.
They were camped outside Uxelis — only three hours hard ride to Dyn Tagell. What would they find? Was Yseult safe?
Given his worry over Yseult, Cador would have thought himself immune to physical discomfort, but there it was — his back ached, pushing the existential fear for her to the back of his mind. Ever since he had recognized Dyfyr as one of Yseult's men, Cador felt as if his mouth had turned to straw and his stomach to splinters of glass. Now the numbness in his fingers was more immediate than imaginary disaster. Nonetheless, he stared into the darkness of the tent he shared with Gawain and worried. About Yseult. About Kustennin. About the future. About Arthur. About Britain. About his life.
Saying goodbye to Cwylli had been painful and awkward; he would have avoided speaking with her at all, guilty coward that he was, but she had sought him out in her shy and tentative way. He hoped he had not been too harsh. Knowing how to treat a former "lover," however brief the interlude of sexual congress, lay totally outside his experience. And then there was her swelling belly. He trusted she was right that the babe she carried could not be his.
He turned on his side, hoping that his left hip could take the cold better than his back and he would finally be able to sleep. If only they could have anticipated the attack from Ystrad Clud, could have prevented the northern warriors from getting a foothold in the rich lands along the Sabrina Estuary in the first place. But no one had expected such a move — despite the fact that a generation before Picts had regularly raided the richer lands of southern Britain; despite the fact that famine was growing in the northern kingdoms with the bad harvests of the last years. Recent harsh winters and wet summers had affected the affluent south less than the north, where the growing season was shorter to start with.
"Cador, could you not find it in your heart to stop tossing and turning?" Gawain murmured beside him.
"Good, then sighing. Heavily. Would you care to share a wineskin?"
Cador threw back the covers and sat up on his bedroll. "Excellent idea."
He crawled out of the tent, his back aching. He was not meant to be a soldier. It was hard to believe that as a youth he'd dreamt of glory fighting with Arthur. Stretching in the cold night air, he remembered how he had once innocently asked the newly appointed Dux Bellorum, "Which battle was your favorite in your northern campaigns?"
"There is no such thing as favorites when it comes to battles, Cador," Arthur had said. "Friends die in all of them."
At the time, he'd found Arthur's words hard to believe, but all too soon he learned how true they were.
Gawain followed him out of the tent and tied the flap closed. Silently, they made their way to the edge of the camp where they would not disturb anyone. They found a pair of trees bordering the clearing and sank down on the grass, leaning their backs against the trunks.
"I have at least as much reason to worry about her as you, my friend," Gawain said, passing the wineskin to Cador.
Cador took a long draught and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I know." That was part of the problem. "Don't worry, you've been discreet enough — but I know both of you well."
Gawain grunted. "It would not matter to me if all of Britain knew. She is the one who wants our relationship kept a secret."
How had he gotten into a discussion of the woman he loved with the man who fucked her? Cador sighed; perhaps it wasn't that far-fetched at all, since they were on their way to Dyn Tagell — and her.
He had to change the subject. He leaned his head back against the cold bark of the tree. "Tell me, Gawain, do you have a favorite battle?" he asked, the old memory still fresh in his mind.
In the pale moonlight, Gawain cocked his head to one side, considering the question in a way Cador never would. "It wouldn't be Din Eidyn."
Cador nodded. With his brothers Gareth and Gaheris, Gawain had fought against their father Lot and their brother Agravaine at the battle of Din Eidyn. Just as Drystan had fought against Marcus.
"There is little glory in siege," Cador said, remembering the bodies dumped from the high walls, their skulls splitting open like eggs on the rocks below.
"That there is not." Gawain took the wineskin and tipped his head back for a long drink, then lowered it again. "I think my favorite battle would have to be Caer Baddon. I still remember riding down the hills of the downs towards Cerdic's forces, leading the charge on one side while Arthur led it from the other, catching the enemy between us and putting that traitor to flight."
"You saved our asses that day."
In the moonlight, Cador could see the trace of a smile flit across Gawain's wide lips. "What about you, Cador? Is Baddon your favorite battle as well?"
"Baddon was my first major battle with Arthur's forces," he said in lieu of an answer. He could still feel the fear when the enemy army advanced. Cador's men were to provide the shield for the archers, and had sent their horses behind the lines. If they'd had to retreat, Cador and his men would have been without mounts. Then the command from Arthur: "Shields up!" They knelt on the paved road shoulder to shoulder, bright spring grass sloping away on either side.
And the dying had begun.
"Ah, yes," Gawain said. "I forget sometimes how young you are. A man's first real battle is never his favorite."
"Probably not."
Cador was not young; he was over thirty now, a widower twice over. Besides, his first real battle had been before Caer Baddon, but with Drystan rather than Arthur. They had freed Yseult from the Erainn raider Gamal, a battle at sea, the decks slippery with blood before it was over, the metallic smell of it stronger even than the sweat of the living and the emptied bowels of the dead.
Cador took the wineskin, leaned his head back and squirted a shot into his mouth. His ears were growing warm from the wine and the taste was pleasant on his tongue. He turned to Gawain. "What do you think, will we be able to drive the Picts back to the frozen north?"
His big friend clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course we will, Cador! We are Arthur's men, remember?"
Cador nodded, wishing he had the same bravery and confidence as Gawain.
Not to mention the same woman warming his bed.
No. He would not allow his thoughts to go in that direction. Thank all the gods of Britain, native and Christian alike, that Gawain did not have the kind of power Yseult possessed — the ability to read a man's soul.
* * * *
In the early morning hours, Cador was shaken awake. "A messenger has arrived."
Cador shot up from his bedroll, shaking his head to rid himself of the dregs of sleep and dreams, nightmares of emptiness and shadows. Yseult?
"Gwythyr," Gawain murmured, as if he heard Cador's half-formed thoughts.
"Gwythyr?" Cador echoed. What did Ginevra's father have to do with anything?
"He has marched north from Celliwig with a force of two centuries. He received a messenger from Yseult, just as we did." The joy in Gawain's voice was not lost on Cador, despite his half-awake state. "She has taken refuge with the priest Illtud and is awaiting reinforcements."
Cador rubbed his eyes between thumb and forefinger, doing his best to wake up. Gwythyr was not only Arthur's father-in-law, he was the sub-king closest to Dyn Tagell. Ties were strong; Yseult had sought shelter with Gwythyr and Ginevra when she'd fled Marcus, and later had assisted in the birth of Arthur's son Loholt. Relationships between kings and subject kings were growing less well-defined every year, it seemed, but Gwythyr was indebted to Yseult through more than just custom.
"Gwythyr will wait for us inland from Dyn Tagell. His messenger will take us to the spot."
Cador pushed himself up in the confined space of the tent and dragged his hair out of his eyes. "I'm ready to ride."
* * * *
Gwythyr's fighting forces were awaiting them in a protected dale a few miles east of Dyn Tagell. Somewhere nearby, Cador thought he could hear a waterfall, or maybe it was just rapids from a stream.
They dismounted, and he and Gawain greeted the gray-haired king of Cerniw.
"Do you know if Yseult is safe?" Cador asked once the formalities were over.
Gwythyr shook his head. "We've had no further news. But that could be a good sign — if the sons of Caw had her in their power, we would have heard."
"What we don't know doesn't help us either way," Gawain said impatiently. "What do you know?"
"My scouts reported a force of about two hundred men who laid siege to Dyn Tagell. When they attacked, they burned the mainland barracks and killed the soldiers there."
"Two hundred," Cador said, nodding slowly. "We have that many already, half in cavalry. The question is, do we wait for the reinforcements from Lansyen and Isca to attack?"
"No," Gawain said. "Yseult is there and may be in danger."
"We should send a messenger to Illtud's church," Gwythyr suggested.
"What if the messenger doesn't get through?" Cador asked.
Gawain's expression was grim. "Then we know we need to move against the enemy."
* * * *
The messenger they sent to the mainland church of Dyn Tagell did not get through, or at least did not return. There was fear in the faint trembling of Cador's fingers as they broke their bread the next morning. He looked up, his gaze locking with that of Gawain, where he saw the same fear.
After breaking their fast, they set off for Dyn Tagell, keeping to the protection of the wooded valley. Soon, however, they would have to come out onto the flat fields along the coast, where their approach would be spotted. They were perhaps halfway there when it began to rain. Not the mist-like rain for which Dumnonia was famous; instead, it was an early summer downpour, drenching them to the skin. His men began to curse quietly.
Then Cador heard the sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards, a
nd the woods ahead of them were full of warriors.
"Halt!" Cador called as he saw Gawain and Gwythyr ready to charge. Through the rain dripping from his forehead, he thought he recognized one of Yseult's men-at-arms. "Marrek?" he called out. "Tell your men to stand down!"
To his great relief, Marrek recognized him as well. "Lord Cador, thank the gods you're here! Men, weapons down!"
"Where is the Lady Yseult?" Gawain barked out.
Marrek shrugged. "She sent me for reinforcements and continued on to Illtud's church with only three men. When we returned, we were to send a messenger under cover of night, but the church has been taken over by the Pictish invaders. There was no sign of my lady, or Illtud either."
"And you have been camping in this valley since?" Gawain roared.
"No, my lord. We've sent scouts out regularly, trying to learn what happened and find word of Queen Yseult."
"Have you had any success?" Cador asked before Gawain could explode again.
Marrek nodded. "Dyn Tagell is fallen, the enemy on the other side of the land bridge. Fallen with very little fight, I am told."
Betrayal again, just as they suspected at the Mount of Frogs.
"What of Yseult the Fair?" Gwythyr asked.
"A villager told us she made it safely to Illtud's church. But three days later everyone in the church disappeared."
Cador had to believe that they'd escaped. Not only did Yseult have magic to aid them, she was clever. He pushed the wet hair out of his forehead. "Your news is not good, but at least you are here with more men." He glanced from Gawain to Gwythyr and back. "We are the stronger army now."
"Yes, but Yseult has disappeared," Gawain ground out.
Cador rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, hoping the gesture would hide the sudden moisture that sprung to his eyes. Yseult had disappeared.
Well then, they would just have to find her.
* * * *
Yseult was growing more and more certain: she felt the presence of her lover nearby. Gawain had come to help them take back Dyn Tagell from the northern pirates and the traitor Gurles.
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 7