At least she knew where she stood with him, even if she could not read his mind. She would go to Lindinis for the Midwinter holidays, plan her politically expedient marriage, and be an exemplary guest. All very calm and practical, just as she wanted.
Then why did she feel a mild disappointment?
* * * *
At first, Gildas prayed daily that his sister would fulfill her promise and come to take him away. When the news arrived that the Mount of Frogs had been retaken and the Picts driven out of Dumnonia, Gildas was sure his release would be soon.
But Cwylli did not come.
He tried not to be resentful, tried to keep in mind that she had a new baby to think about. It was logical that her own child took precedence over her brother.
It was nearly Christmas when visitors for him were finally announced. By that time, it had been so long, Gildas had almost given up. But his sister had come after all, with a whole retinue, including her husband and a nurse for the baby.
They met in the common room. When Gildas entered, Cwylli handed the baby to the nurse and took him in her arms. "It is good to see you again, little brother!"
"And you, Cwylli."
Behind Cwylli, Medraut stepped forward, hand extended. "Hello again, lad. I hope you are well."
Gildas took his brother-in-law's hand, and to his surprise, Medraut pulled him into a hard embrace.
"Thank you for coming," Gildas said when his brother-in-law released him.
Medraut shrugged, smiling. "Ever since the Picts were driven out, I've had little peace. Nearly every day, Cwylli has been pestering me about when we could come visit you." At Medraut's words, Gildas found himself much more reconciled to the baby he'd been resenting from afar.
Cwylli laughed, kissing first her husband and then her brother. Gildas gazed at them; he'd never noticed before what a handsome couple they were, Cwylli with her bronze-gold hair and green eyes, and darker Medraut, his hair lightened with hints of chestnut.
Medraut smiled at Cwylli's show of affection, but his eyes were on Gildas. "We couldn't risk taking you away from here until your relatives were defeated. And then we had to make a show of searching for you. If we'd come for you immediately, it would have looked suspicious. I hope you understand."
Gildas couldn't explain exactly how it happened, but a flash of resentful affinity passed between him and his brother-in-law, a spark of understanding that forged them together in a moment.
"I understand."
"I'm working on finding a better place for you," Medraut said. "Someplace where you will be closer to your sister and will not have such onerous duties."
"There is a monastery school near Caer Leon," Cwylli added. "We were thinking perhaps you might like to join it? It's said to provide the best education in all of Britain."
Didn't Cwylli want him to be with her? But no, he should not think that way. She had a new baby to care for. Besides, seeing as he had lost his patrimony, Gildas would eventually have to make his own way in the world. He had no aptitude for warfare — why not the church?
"Will I have to feed the pigs?" he asked.
Cwylli and Medraut both laughed — as if he were joking.
Medraut laid a hand on his shoulder. "Of course, if you wish to return to fosterage with Cador, I'm sure that could be arranged."
"No!"
His brother-in-law smiled. "I thought as much."
They spent the day together, and while it was pleasant, Gildas couldn't repress his disappointment that they would be leaving again without him. He'd waited so long for his sister to come and take him away from this life, and then all she'd brought were more empty promises.
But there was something comforting about it too: his conviction that he would always be betrayed had been confirmed once again.
* * * *
When the party of soldiers arrived from the west little more than two weeks later, Gildas could not believe the escort was for him.
"We come to offer the Armorican prince safe passage to a monastery southwest of Caer Leon," their commander said after he dismounted in the yard in front of the church.
Despite himself, Gildas's heart swelled. It had been years since anyone had referred to him as a prince — a title that should have been his by right of birth.
"How do we know you are who you say?" Dafydd asked. "We have heard that there are those who mean the boy ill."
"Not anymore, Dafydd," Gildas hurried to reassure him.
"We come from the holy man Illtud, who has taken over the monastery there," the soldier said, taking a scroll out of his saddlebag and handing it to Dafydd. "Illtud does not make war on children."
Even as he unrolled the scroll, Dafydd remained stubborn. "I do not believe that the Dux Bellorum makes war on children either. Nonetheless, I understand that this child requires protection."
"Not now that the war is over."
"This war perhaps," Dafydd insisted. "But what of the next?"
Something else exchanged hands between the head of the monastery and the commander, but Gildas could not see what it was. It apparently convinced Dafydd. He nodded shortly and motioned the visitors to enter the church.
The next day, Gildas was on his way west.
Book III
Love Discovered
Chapter 12
"And this Yseult had but one
To love well beneath the sun
Till her very love were done."
And he praised her as he can
For the love that him began
That she loved no other man.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Queen Yseult"
Gawain had briefly considered not coming to the wedding, but that would have been cowardly. He was not a coward.
And so here he was, riding through the gates of Isca Dumnoniorum with his brothers, over half a year after Yseult told him she was considering marriage to Cador, his heart still sore. He had not seen her since Gwythyr's funeral last fall. Now it was June, and she would be married by the end of the week.
Gareth rode up close, the infectious smile he usually wore replaced by a wry expression. "Brother mine, I suggest trying to look a little less glum. This is a wedding, remember — and you do not want people feeling sorry for you, do you?"
He certainly did not. He took a deep breath and gazed around him at the bustling life of the city, once the Roman capital of the province of Dumnonia. Now Dumnonia was a kingdom rather than a province, and young Kustennin its king. As opposed to Gawain and his brothers, Kustennin had been lucky enough to inherit most of his patrimony. It was true, the territories of Marcus Cunomorus in Armorica were lost to him, but they were farmsteads compared to the former Roman province of Dumnonia. And this marriage would cement Kustennin's kingship.
Had that been the reason Yseult had left him for Cador? Yes, Gawain was a prince of the Gododdin, but after his father's death, the Gododdin kinship group had elected Lot's half-brother their new leader, bypassing Gawain, Gaheris, and Gareth — who had fought with Arthur. Ever since, the land of the Gododdin had been a province apart from Britain.
Trying to repress bitterness at the thought, Gawain concentrated on his surroundings. He had not been to Isca for many years, but like most of the cities of Britain, it showed signs of both decay and growth. The southern end of the forum had been torn down when the basilica was converted to a church, making room for a Christian cemetery. The precisely cut Roman stones had been reused for new buildings: shops near the western gate, modest dwellings built against the forum walls, pens for livestock. With the Saxon threat gone, Isca had once again become an important trading center. Dumnonian tin was in demand throughout the world, and the large harbor to the south was the nearest British port where commercial vessels from the Mediterranean could dock.
As they trotted along the cobblestones, their horses' hooves ringing between the proud whitewashed buildings, he noted evidence of Isca's prosperity; in the rebuilt houses, which even in wood emulated the Roman style; in the richly dressed me
rchants and well-fed goats; in the jewelry from many lands adorning the women: elaborate enamel earrings from Byzantium, silver torcs and bracelets from Eriu, exotic necklaces of amber in a style he didn't recognize. It was as if the cold summers and poor harvests of recent years had left Isca untouched — which was probably the case, since its wealth came from distant lands.
Gawain examined a fine collar of pearls and semi-precious stones on a fine neck; he would have to find a present for his latest mistress before he returned to Caer Leon.
"Much better," Gareth murmured beside him, laughter lurking behind the words.
Yseult's townhouse in Isca was centrally located near what remained of the forum. They rode into the courtyard in front of the house and dismounted, and stable hands hurried forward to take their horses. As they approached the entrance, Yseult emerged.
Gawain nearly stopped in his tracks, but Gareth's friendly shoulder next to his reminded him to keep moving. He glanced at Gaheris on his left; his middle brother's expression was as dark as Gawain's mood. Gaheris was very protective of him, even though he was younger. Perhaps his tight-lipped disapproval was a good thing; next to Gaheris, Gawain must surely appear in the best of moods.
Slowly Yseult approached, unusually tentative, and he remembered his words when last they saw each other: "You already are a woman between two men."
Of course, it wasn't really true. She had avoided all contact with him since her betrothal to Cador. But maybe she was remembering those words as well.
The thought was somehow comforting, and he smiled.
Yseult held out a hand. "Welcome to Isca Dumnoniorum, Gawain. Thank you for coming."
He stepped forward and took the proffered hand, bringing it to his lips for a brief kiss. "I almost didn't, but that would not have looked good," he murmured so that only she could hear. "This still is not easy for me."
She dipped her head, just barely — not enough so that he could interpret it as a gesture of real regret. "I'm sorry," she said. "Believe me when I say it is good to see you again."
Gawain tipped her chin up with one knuckle, but she lifted her head even higher, moving away from the intimate gesture, and he dropped his hand. He had not seen what he wanted in her eyes anyway.
He pulled her forward to greet his brothers. "I brought my brothers along. Unfortunately, Gareth's wife Lyonors is pregnant."
"Again," Gaheris threw in.
"She didn't feel up to the journey," Gareth explained.
Yseult held her hand out to his brothers in turn. "It's good to see you again, Gaheris, Gareth. Welcome to Isca."
Gareth grinned and kissed her hand readily, but Gaheris merely brushed the air above her skin, his expression stony. To Gawain's surprise, he nearly felt like laughing at his brothers' typical gestures and attitudes.
But then Cador entered the courtyard from the direction of the stables, and any temptation Gawain had felt to laugh died completely. This was the moment he had dreaded most, seeing Yseult and Cador together, a couple; something he and Yseult had never been, not really.
Cador shook their hands and welcomed them, but instead of being demonstratively possessive of Yseult, he merely exchanged a handful of words with them all and then excused himself, saying he would see them again at the evening meal.
And Gawain knew that he still had not faced his demon.
* * * *
Yseult gazed down at the wax tablets, lists of dishes and ingredients for the wedding feast to be held in the north wing of the forum. There would be too many guests for the townhouse, even though it was the size of a small villa; besides, the forum had the additional advantage that it was next to the church. She was not completely comfortable with a Christian wedding, but it was the ceremony deemed binding in Britain these days, and since her marriage to Cador would be a political alliance, a Christian ceremony it would be.
And her mind was wandering again. Yseult had gone through the last few days and weeks as if she were watching herself from afar, strangely detached from the preparations for her own wedding. It was as if she had retreated to a small corner of her mind, while someone else was active and organized: checking the work in the kitchens, haggling with merchants and fishermen for wine and salmon, having rooms made up for the guests and other accommodations arranged when the inns in Isca filled to capacity, consulting with Enid and Brangwyn, discussing the ceremony with Illtud.
Gawain's arrival had temporarily shocked her out of the shell where she'd been hiding.
She hadn't been sure whether he would come, but she'd thought herself prepared. She didn't know why she had reacted to him so strongly; in the last half year, she had grown accustomed to the idea of marrying Cador, had spent a very pleasant Christmas with him and his family at Lindinis. He had visited her several times in Lansyen as well, and had lent a hand in the rebuilding of Dyn Tagell.
In the last weeks, however, she had seen less and less of her betrothed. Their marriage was to be an affair of state, a demonstration of power, and the preparations were appropriately elaborate. Most of the major kings of Britain would be here, as well as many of the minor. The ceremony was to coincide with the traditional Whitsun festivities, when the kings of Britain held their annual council, which meant there were also games and competitions to be organized, playing fields to be cleared away, and additional help, cooks and bakers in particular, to be lured to Isca for the week the city would be full to overflowing.
As a result, she now barely had time to spend with the man she would soon marry. And despite the fact that they had been good friends for years, she was occasionally overcome by the strange feeling that she didn't know him at all. She often found herself wishing she had never taught him how to veil his thoughts and feelings.
Perhaps she would not have reacted to Gawain so strongly if she weren't feeling so distant from Cador. She hoped that was the case.
"Yseult, you must decide which starting dishes you think would be best for the informal feast tomorrow," Brangwyn said, a bit impatiently, and Yseult realized that she must have been lost in her own thoughts for too long.
"Mussels in wine and herbs is a favorite of Cador's," she said, giving herself an inner shake. "The weather is not too warm for it. I think we will have that — and sausages with prunes and onions."
"Good. And for the main course?"
Yseult squared her shoulders, determined to banish the thought of Gawain from her mind and apply herself to the work at hand. She had made her choice, after all, and when it came down to it, she had never considered marrying Gawain. But recently she had often felt tentative, edgy, anxious — characteristics that did not fit with her self-image. Perhaps her reaction to her former lover had been no more than another symptom of her unusual mood.
Part of the problem was that she didn't want to make any more decisions, didn't want to greet any more guests, didn't want to organize any more accommodations. And there it was again, the strange fear that had been creeping into her soul, the fear that at times seemed to make her incapable of action, like a lame draft horse, so that she had to push herself forward through sheer force of will. Did it have something to do with the message her mother had sent, that she would not be able to attend the wedding because the political situation in Eriu was too precarious? But no, Yseult had already begun to have these moods before the message arrived.
Maybe she just needed a little time to herself. Once she finished organizing the informal dinner with Brangwyn and discussed the menu with the cook, she sought out a semi-hidden bench in the garden. The arbor was not yet covered with vines and leaves as it would be later in the summer, and warm sun touched her face. Yseult leaned her head back and let out a sigh of pleasure. There was no need to feel any special anxiety — the political situation in Eriu was nearly always unstable, the petty kings always warring with each other. Despite the battles against the invading Picts last year, Britain was an oasis of peace in comparison.
On the other hand, perhaps her mood had something to do with her upcoming
marriage itself. But that was silly. Cador was her friend, after all. Yes, there was still the insecurity where Gawain was concerned — the attraction she still felt, not to mention the guilt at having ended their relationship so abruptly.
She rolled her neck on her shoulders to loosen the tension and turned her head to gaze at the roses that had begun to bloom.
Just beyond the roses, she watched a pale blue butterfly flit up and down and light on a patch of pinkish-purple bell heather. Suddenly, the beauty in the contrasting colors threatened to crush her heart. She didn't want it, that kind of simultaneous pain and pleasure, no, never again, it was too much.
As if it heard her thoughts, the butterfly fluttered off, and Yseult realized that she was afraid. Not of Cador — no, never. Not even of Gawain and what he might still mean to her.
It was simple: she was afraid of marriage.
Here she was in Isca, which had been Marcus's favorite seat, preparing for her wedding. She had converted the villa outside of town to barracks after his death, had commissioned or approved numerous rebuilding projects within the city itself, but even after over ten years, she still could not be completely comfortable here. Isca was her son's capital, but it had never been hers. Perhaps that too had something to do with her discomfort in recent months?
The butterfly approached again, landing on a lily this time. Yseult could identify with the butterfly, staying only for a moment and flitting away again: on a level that had nothing to do with logic, she didn't want to stay either. For her, "staying" implied the physical and emotional abuse she had experienced with Marcus. Her panic now had nothing to do with Cador or Gawain. What she was reacting to was the period of terrible tragedy and joy while she was married to Marcus Cunomorus — and in love with his son Drystan. The half dozen years that she had been caught in a passionate and violent triangle between father and son were the defining years of her life.
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 16