Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

* * * *

  Once the fighting was over, Yseult ordered that Gwythyr be taken to the lower hall and given the largest sleeping chamber. The neighboring king had saved her life, and she would do her best to return the favor. His condition two days after the battle gave her hope. Most men she had seen with wounds like Gwythyr's were dead within a day, bleeding within from internal injuries she could not treat. The angle of the stab must have been fortunate.

  Gwythyr winced as she laid a hot poultice of comfrey and yarrow on the deep wound between his ribs, but the expression quickly disappeared to be replaced by a smile. "Have I told you yet, Yseult, how much I appreciate being cared for by one of the most beautiful women in Britain?"

  Yseult gave a short shake of her head, feeling an answering smile curling her lips. "I think you might have mentioned it," she said.

  The king's bright blue eyes flashed with merriment despite the pain he must be feeling. "Of course, being a fond father, I think Ginevra is a touch more beautiful than you, but you certainly provide her with some competition."

  "She is also much younger than I," Yseult said, trying to maintain the light-hearted mood Gwythyr preferred.

  Gwythyr chuckled. "Beautiful, talented, and quick. If I were thirty years younger, I would marry you and we could rule Dumnonia together."

  "If you were thirty years younger, you would hardly be marrying an older woman to increase your power base."

  The king of Cerniw barked out a laugh that ended in a cough — not a good sign. Coughing after a wound to the chest usually indicated that the lung had been injured. Ginevra had already been informed of her father's injury, but Yseult wondered if she should send an additional messenger to impress upon her the importance of making haste to Dyn Tagell. On the other hand, Gwythyr had not coughed blood. Yseult gave him a draught of barberry and motherwort to help prevent infection and ensure that he rest.

  "Bleah," Gwythyr said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. "Next time give me the stuff with the wine."

  "None left. You drank it all."

  "Heh. So tell me, Yseult, how did you manage to remain unmarried all these years?"

  "Practice."

  Gwythyr leaned back in his bed again, smiling broadly. "Yes, there are worse fates than being cared for by one of the most beautiful and clever women in Britain. People may not remember me generations from now, but they will remember you."

  Yseult took his hand, the cold of prophetic words creeping down her spine. "Don't talk that way, Gwythyr. While your wound was deep, the bleeding was limited and there is no sign of infection or serious injury to an internal organ."

  He raised one bushy gray eyebrow. "Then I may dine in the hall tonight?"

  Yseult shook her head. "What you need is rest to give your body the chance to heal, not dinner with a band of tired warriors."

  The king made a snort of disgust. "If I remain in my bed for dinner, I am the next best thing to dead."

  "I assure you, if you do not remain in bed for dinner, that wound in your chest will kill you much more quickly than a little boredom." She rose. "Besides, the stores have been plundered, and the food is no better at the table at the moment than it is in the sick room."

  Gwythyr laughed again. "I do not believe it, but it seems you insist on damning me to my bed."

  "I do."

  "Then I must have the good grace to submit, must I not?"

  Good grace was something else, but she left his sickbed with a smile. The old king might be stubborn, but at least he was good-natured.

  After Yseult checked in on the other injured, she took up her favorite shawl and left the lower hall. She remembered the Christmas Cador had given it to her. She had run the fine linen through her hands, amazed at the intricate embroidery in shades of blue and silver, designs that suggested shapes and objects but never quite became what you expected them to be, like clouds flitting across the sky.

  She'd looked up at her old friend, smiling. "It's beautiful. Where did you find it?"

  Cador laughed and pressed Terrwyn's hand. "At the market in Durnovaria. But I had help choosing it."

  As Cador and his wife gazed at each other affectionately, Yseult had felt a stab of envy. She should have had such comfortable moments with Drystan; instead, all they'd ever known was passion and pain.

  She headed up the pathway to inspect the repairs being undertaken on the damaged buildings. The summer rains had let up, and while it was not warm, at least the weather was dry. Every available man was chopping wood, hauling stones, and digging ditches — including her son the king and the priest Illtud. Illtud had lost his church in the battle, but he was not rebuilding it. After they had retaken Dyn Tagell, he had informed Yseult that he would be leaving Dumnonia for a monastery near Caer Leon where he had been requested to take over a school.

  Kustennin and Illtud both stopped in their work and waved when they saw her watching. She waved back and moved on. She had tried to persuade Illtud to stay, but she could see that the idea of the school had captured his imagination, and she knew she had to let him go.

  She continued on to the narrow path on the land bridge and the mainland fortress beyond, where the most important work for the defense of Dyn Tagell was underway. Gawain was helping repair the demolished wooden gate, Cador beside him. Gawain tried to catch her eye, but she looked away — this was much too public. Nearby she spotted Kurvenal and hurried over to speak with him.

  "Kurvenal!"

  Her cousin's husband straightened. "Good day, Yseult."

  "I have a proposal for you. You recently lost the hill-fort you held for Arthur. I recently lost a general to betrayal. Under the circumstances, I was hoping you would consider becoming commander here in Dyn Tagell."

  Yseult awaited his answer anxiously. She knew that Kurvenal blamed her for his friend Drystan's death, but in recent years he seemed to have mellowed towards her. If he took the position, not only would she see her cousin Brangwyn more often, she would gain a steward who was as honest as they came. No matter how he might feel about her on a personal level, Kurvenal would never betray her.

  "That is quite an honor," he said finally. "But I must consult with Brangwyn before I make a decision."

  She nodded, doing her best to keep the elation out of her eyes. The answer was closer to assent than she could have hoped.

  "Of course. Thank you."

  She turned away — to come face to face with Gawain.

  "Yseult, I need to speak with you. We have had word from Arthur."

  "What is it?"

  "We must ride for Abona as soon as possible."

  She drew in a deep breath, her gaze straying to the splintered remains of protection behind him.

  "We will not take all the men," Gawain hurried to reassure her. "You will have enough here to continue with repairs and defend the Neck if need be. But the situation to the north is serious."

  Yseult rubbed her forehead. "I could deny you the men."

  "You could," Gawain said. "But your son would not."

  She glanced at him sharply, knowing he was right. With the traitor Gurles on the run, who knew how serious the threat to Dyn Tagell still was. But at least she could enlist the returning villagers in rebuilding the defenses when the warriors moved on.

  Gawain touched her elbow, speaking softly so that only Yseult might hear. "I know you do not want to meet when your son is by, but do you think there is any way we might be able to take leave of each other before I go?"

  * * * *

  Yseult stroked the hard planes of her lover's body and placed a quick kiss on his shoulder. "Be careful."

  Gawain was heading north again on the morrow, and they had agreed to meet in the small hut next to Yseult's herb garden to say goodbye. Yes, she had abandoned her own dictum not to be with her lover when her son was near, all for a makeshift bed of furs and cloaks. But her son was no longer a youth — and given the powers he had demonstrated at the battle of Dyn Tagell, it would not take him long to discover Gawain's feelings for his moth
er. Her lover had no talent for concealing his thoughts against those with the powers of the Old Race.

  Gawain caught her hand in his. Turning his fist, he ran one knuckle along the fresh scab above her jawbone. "I hope you will consider taking your own advice. Besides, I'm always careful."

  "You are not. You are always in the thick of the fighting."

  "I'm a warrior. That's what I do. And I have never taken a cut to the face like this."

  She ignored the reference to her own injury. "Still — watch out for yourself, Gawain. It has been many years since there has been such fighting in Britain."

  He grimaced. "There you are right. This is very different than chasing abductors of maidens." He turned on his side and propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes narrowing. "Have you seen something, Yseult?"

  She shook her head. "Not in the way you mean. I saw for myself how determined the invaders from the north and their allies were in the battle for Dyn Tagell. Caer Custoeint is destroyed and the Mount of Frogs taken. Those signs are more telling than anything I might 'see'."

  Gawain laughed out loud. "You have a point there, my beautiful military analyst."

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her around so that she was lying on top of him. The dark furs that made their bed provided a stark contrast to his golden-blond beauty, several shades lighter than that of Drystan. Really, they were nothing alike; Gawain's eyes were blue, not like the shifting colors of sea and forest in Drystan's gaze; his body was wider, his stature that of a true warrior hero, whereas Drystan had been of a height with her.

  As much bard as warrior — and dying too young to become either. She closed her eyes tightly against the memories. She was saying goodbye to her living lover.

  "I'm glad that you worry about me, my love," Gawain said now. "But I promise to come back to you. And perhaps then you will finally marry me."

  Yseult scooted off him and sat up, dragging her hair out of her face. "Please, Gawain, I told you — I have no intention of marrying again."

  For a moment he looked as if he intended to say more, but to her relief he held his peace.

  "I must return to my room and get some sleep," Yseult said, rummaging through the clothing on the floor of the hut.

  He sat, locking his hands in front of his knees. "Good. I will follow after sufficient time has passed." There was a hollow sound to his voice that Yseult didn't want to examine too closely.

  She stood and pulled the gown over her head, then bent over to give him a light kiss before throwing her cloak around her shoulders and pulling her shawl over her hair. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Good night."

  Yseult let herself out of the hut and strolled towards the path to the lower hall. The cold night air felt good against her hot cheeks. Since the death of Drystan, she had tried to keep passionate love and the pain that came with it out of her life. For herself, it had worked. Her heart remained whole — what was left of it, that is.

  Not Gawain's, however.

  Patches of night fog swirled around her ankles as she took the steps back down to the lower hall. The honest thing to do would be to break off her relationship with Gawain.

  She held her cold hands to her cheeks, overcome for a moment by a strange impulse to cry. But she mastered it before she reached the hall and slipped in through the back way.

  Chapter 8

  Then the king commanded Sir Cador to take the rearward, and to take with him certain knights of the Round Table.... Thus the King Arthur disperpled his host in divers parties, to the end that his enemies should not escape.

  Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur

  To Cador's relief, the trip north was uneventful — but that did not mean it was pleasant. They had won a battle, but not a war, and the evidence of it was everywhere in the many villages raided and plundered by Picts. As they rode through destruction, Cador realized that he'd never thought to be in the midst of another war after Arthur had won peace from the Saxons.

  Next to a burned out house, they spied the spread-eagled corpse of a girl who could not have been much more than ten years old. Cador closed his eyes and then forced himself to open them again. This would not be the last time he would see such a sight in the months, perhaps even years to come.

  But he still did not have to pretend it meant nothing. He pulled up his mount and wheeled around to face the warriors behind him. "Gaius, Sinnoch, choose as many men as you need and make sure that the dead in this village are buried."

  Beside him, Kustennin, too, had stopped and was staring at the girl's corpse. Cador thought he saw the young man swallow.

  Illtud swung down from his mount. "I will help. I can speak a few words over their graves."

  Cador nodded shortly, his throat closing tight with the senselessness of it all. "You have my gratitude."

  He rode slowly through the village, searching for survivors, while his bitch Regan bounded ahead, sniffing through the ruins. But anyone or anything who had survived this attack had fled. Once the graves were filled, they continued on their way.

  When they came to the Aquae Sulis crossroads, Illtud and his party continued north, while the rest of them took the road to Abona, reaching Arthur's camp in the early afternoon. The sun lit up a sea of tents and banners, blues and purples, reds and golds, so colorful it almost looked festive.

  The first impression was misleading. The fighting here in the past few days had been heavy — dozens of injured men lay on pallets and bedrolls, their moans filling the camp. As they cantered between the tents in search of Arthur, Cador wondered if Morfael, the regional king in these parts, was here. His father had been notoriously reluctant to contribute to the defense of Britain — until his own seat had been directly attacked by the Saxons.

  Gawain's brother Gaheris rode forward to meet them. "We had word you were near. What news of Dyn Tagell?"

  "Safe in British hands," Gawain said.

  Gaheris glanced over at the injured, his lips pressed thin. "Would we could say the same for Abona."

  * * * *

  A week later, Cador leaned on the pommels of his saddle and gazed at the destruction around him, the charred remains of what had once been a small settlement of wood and thatch roundhouses, probably a fishing village. He had lost the trail of the band of Pictish warriors they'd been pursuing; there was no sign of them here.

  Although the destruction of the village must have been weeks ago, Cador felt as if he could smell death in the air, and he longed for his villa. It would soon be plum harvest, and his mother would be drying and preserving the fruit that was not eaten fresh. He'd missed the cherries and the raspberries, Cador's favorite. It looked as if he would miss the blackberries as well.

  With one last glance around, he straightened and raised one arm. "Come men, back to Abona!"

  They wheeled their mounts and galloped in the direction they had come. As they neared the town, they heard battle sounds, and Arthur's name being called out above the din.

  "Arthur! Arthur is surrounded!"

  Cador searched for the Pendragon banner. There, perhaps twenty soldiers wearing Arthur's colors, cut off from the main force.

  And Kustennin was with them.

  He kicked his heels into Wyllt's flanks, spurring him to more speed.

  As he and his men tried to fight their way through to Arthur and Kustennin, he saw a detail of cavalry sporting a device that appeared to be Medraut's blue spears break away from the main battle to attack the enemy troops encircling the Dux Bellorum. If Cador and his men could come around from the other side, they would have the Pictish soldiers in a trap.

  He raised his sword above his head. "To the west, men! Britannia patria!"

  They swerved away from the main fighting and circled around to the left, to clash with the enemy at the western edge of the battlefield. Beyond the Pendragon banner, Cador could see Medraut on his dark brown war horse, hacking away at Pict foot soldiers. Then Medraut broke through and rode straight to where Arthur had taken shelte
r behind his injured mare Llamrei.

  Reaching down a hand, Medraut pulled his uncle up behind him on his stallion, while Cador and his troops fought the enemy on the other side. Wyllt's hooves were an added advantage in the battle. Kustennin was still mounted, and Cador had almost reached him when the band of Picts lost heart and began to flee the battlefield.

  "After them!" Bedwyr called out.

  "Britannia patria!" yelled Cai as he spurred his mount after Bedwyr.

  Cador had no more interest in pursuing retreating enemy warriors this day. He galloped up to Kustennin, who still held the Pendragon banner high.

  "Kustennin!" he yelled. "Are you well?"

  "I have taken no injury," his foster son replied. Then he gazed down at the body of Arthur's mare Llamrei, bleeding her life out onto the muddy grass. "I just hope you have a new mare good enough for the Dux Bellorum somewhere. Arthur fighting on foot is unthinkable."

  To Cador's surprise, he found himself laughing — with the smell of blood and death all around him, with the fear for Arthur and Kustennin still chasing the blood through his veins.

  * * * *

  The battle proved to be the turning point in Abona. The northern invaders were desperate and did not give up easily, even when trapped between Arthur's forces and the remaining defenders of Abona, but they no longer fought with any confidence of victory.

  That did not mean the Picts were unable to do any more damage.

  While Arthur had been fortunate enough to survive, the king of Glastenning, Morfael, was among the casualties. Cador found himself wondering how many more sub-kings of Dumnonia would be lost in this war. He hoped he and Kustennin would not be among them. He wanted to be at his villa when the raspberries were harvested next year.

  Morfael was not to be the last. Less than a week after they beat back the Picts and retook Abona, urgent news was brought from Dyn Tagell.

  Gwythyr, King of Cerniw, was dead.

  * * * *

  Yseult gazed at the body in the casket, while Ginevra's sobs echoed in the empty spaces of the lower hall of Dyn Tagell. Loholt stood next to his mother, his back straight, bravely enduring the painful grip of her hand.