A definition she had been trying to escape ever since.
The butterfly was now on an orangish yellow bird's foot trefoil, creating another lovely combination of colors as it fluttered its nearly iridescent wings. She sighed, surprised at the relief the simple gesture brought.
Perhaps she should go to Brangwyn with her doubts. They had once been best friends as well as cousins, but in the years Brangwyn had spent at Caer Custoeint, they'd grown apart. Brangwyn's husband Kurvenal still blamed her for Drystan's death.
No, she shouldn't be thinking about Drystan now — not when she would be soon be marrying his cousin.
A shadow fell across her legs and she looked up. Cador.
"What is putting that bleak expression on your face?" he asked gently.
If they didn't have honesty, they had nothing. Still, she couldn't bring herself to say the name.
So he did. "Is it Drystan?"
She nodded.
"May I join you?"
Yseult scooted over on the bench to make room for him. "Certainly."
He sat down and took her hand. "Never think I would blame you for having thoughts of Drystan at a time like this. I suspected you would."
How did Cador always manage to be so good? "Nonetheless, I'm sorry. I do not envy you, marrying a woman with ghosts like mine."
He squeezed her hand. "I too have my ghosts, remember."
It was true. He had buried two wives — both with the children they carried, his children. "Yes. Perhaps we can help each other lay our ghosts to rest."
"Perhaps." He smiled. "That would probably be the best possible outcome for both of us."
She nodded, feeling guardedly optimistic again.
Cador slipped his hand out of hers and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her head to his shoulder. It was an unfamiliar gesture for her, leaning her head on a man's shoulder, but it felt surprisingly pleasant. If they didn't allow their ghosts to get the better of them, this marriage might be a very good thing for her, for Cador, for Kustennin, for Britain.
Perhaps she and Cador could even make it up to each other a little for all the wrongs in their own lives. She would try to hold on to that.
* * * *
A week later, the weather was better than it had been for years during Whitsuntide, with a touch of summer warmth in the air. Yseult hoped that was a good sign for her second marriage.
They stood in front of the basilica of Isca, the largest building in the city, the witnesses and guests behind them. The basilica was an impressive sight, with its three rows of windows and its red-tiled roof gleaming in the warm June sunlight, still imposing despite the damage it had taken in the wars. An adjacent wing of the forum colonnade had been torn down after several columns were destroyed in raids by Saxons and her own people, the Erainn. What used to be the southeast end of the forum now served as churchyard and cemetery. In an unusually generous gesture, Marcus had bestowed the basilica on the Christian church and built a new administrative center to the west. Of course, his ulterior motive had been to gain church support in his power struggle with Arthur and the kings who supported the Dux Bellorum. With Marcus, everything had an ulterior motive.
She shook herself; she did not want to bring Marcus into this new marriage, although of course it would be unavoidable. Her fear of entering into matrimony again had everything to do with her previous experience. While her fear of involvement — of searing passion and losing her heart and no longer being mistress of her own mind — had everything to do with her love for Drystan. Gawain had been wrong: she was not a woman between two men, she was a woman between four men.
Yseult glanced at the one who stood beside her. Cador, her friend who was neither Marcus nor Drystan. The pleasant, unambitious farmer king of the Durotriges, foster-father of her son, handsome in his unassuming way. Gazing at his profile, she knew there was no real need for the doubts she harbored.
Cador turned his head and smiled at her, patting her forearm where it lay on his. "Courage," he whispered — as if he could read her mind, as she couldn't read his.
The wide doors of the basilica opened, and Illtud stepped out, flanked by Gildas on one side and a youth Yseult didn't know on the other. With the sons of Caw driven back to the north, Gildas no longer had any value as a hostage; besides, Illtud was developing a particular affection for the boy, whom he regarded as highly intelligent and quick to learn.
Illtud and his two acolytes descended the steps and passed under the colonnade to the open area of the forum. Stopping in front of them, Illtud addressed the crowd. "The witnesses to the ceremony are present?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Yseult saw Arthur, Kustennin, and the others nodding.
"Then we may proceed." Illtud began reciting a rapid tangle of words in Latin, many of which Yseult didn't understand. She had never become fluent in the language of the Romans.
Illtud paused and then turned to Kustennin. "Does the King of Dumnonia recognize this marriage?"
Her son stepped forward and nodded. "I do."
Next Illtud faced Arthur to the other side of Cador and Yseult. "Does the Dux Bellorum recognize this marriage?"
Arthur too stepped forward. "I do."
Illtud scanned the other witnesses behind them. "Do the regional kings and queens of Dumnonia present recognize this marriage?"
"We do," came a handful of voices.
Illtud raised his arms above them in a Christian gesture of benediction. "The church, too, recognizes this marriage. As there are no objections among the secular authorities, we herewith give our blessing to this union."
Cador faced her, lifting the chain over his head from which his half of a silver coin dangled. "Today we fulfill our pledge and make what is broken whole."
Yseult lifted her own chain with the half coin he had given her for their betrothal, wishing it were so easy to make something whole. But she smiled and matched her half of the coin with his. "Thank you for returning the other half."
He draped both chains across her palm, took her shoulders in his wide hands, and kissed her. It wasn't quite chaste, firm and lingering at the same time, pressing hard one moment and drifting gently across her lips the next. Sweet, indescribably sweet.
She opened her eyes wide and looked at him, but already they were being crowded by well-wishers, and the moment passed.
Her new husband laughed and tried to shake all the hands stretched towards him at once. Yseult had her share of kisses of peace and shaking hands to reciprocate as well — so many she could hardly recognize whose cheek was pressed against hers, whose lips or whose hand she now felt against her skin. It was the physical equivalent of opening her mind in a large gathering, an onrush of too many words and sensations to make sense of them all.
Behind her she heard giggles, and then her head was showered with cake crumbs. "For fertility!" Ginevra called out.
She was relieved when Cador laughingly began to lead the enthusiastic wedding guests across the square and towards the entrance to the forum, coaxing them in the direction of the feast that had been prepared.
Yseult could almost feel happy, could almost forget the anxiety that had been troubling her in recent months and laugh along with her new husband and her enthusiastic guests.
Until her gaze lit on Gawain.
* * * *
Gawain could barely keep his anger in check. This must surely be the demon he had to face, seeing Yseult married to another man in front of the church, seeing Cador's laughing triumph, this man who had once called him "friend" — the man who had been but a boy-king at the battle of Caer Baddon.
How quickly the times changed. Now Cador had stolen the woman Gawain loved — on Arthur's recommendation.
It was enough to make any man bitter.
The wedding guests followed the newly married couple across the square to the forum. "She's a fool," Gaheris muttered under his breath so that only his brothers could hear.
Gareth shrugged and punched Gawain playfully in the arm. "That m
ay well be, but I think it's time you call to mind that you can have any woman in Britain."
"Except Yseult," Gawain murmured with a reluctant smile. This time, his younger brother's teasing was more helpful than Gaheris's sympathy.
"And hopefully Lyonors," Gareth said with a laugh.
Gawain obliged him with an answering laugh. Not that he would have the least inclination to seduce his brother's wife; while Lyonors was certainly beautiful, she was cursed with a tongue sharp enough to reduce any man's feeling of self-worth to rags — except of course the good-natured Gareth. Luckily Gareth had not ended up with Lyonors's sister, whose tongue was even sharper, if such a thing were possible.
Through the colonnade surrounding the forum, they entered wide double doors of carved wood, the swirling designs reminiscent of Erainn jewelry. Yseult's contribution, Gawain suspected.
He and his brothers were seated near each other close to the center of the table, with a good view of the other guests. Yseult, Cador, and Kustennin were at one end, while Arthur and Ginevra were at the other. Apparently Yseult had been at pains to avoid the impression of hierarchy in the seating arrangements. Where the Dux Bellorum sat could hardly be considered the foot of the table, and it was unlikely that anyone would complain. The major kings of Britain were seated at regular intervals, as were Arthur's closest companions — an even distribution of power.
Between Gawain and Gareth was Arthur's cousin Modrun, daughter of the legendary Ambrosius Aurelianus and widow of Honorius of Gower. For Gawain and his brothers she was almost like an aunt, cousin of their deceased mother Margawse. Modrun was of an age with Arthur but looked much younger, with very little gray in her dark hair yet.
"You are making it much too obvious that you are not happy," she murmured while leaning past him to help herself to the smoked duck. Modrun had never been famed for her diplomatic skills, and this painful wedding feast was no exception. "I may consider Yseult my friend, but you are dearer to me, and she was not always fair with you. I think that for you, this marriage is an opportunity rather than a loss."
Gawain stared stonily at his plate. "How so?"
"You know as well as I that Yseult never would have married you. Now you are free to move forward with your life."
"I know no such thing!" he lashed out — too loud for a wedding feast, given all the heads that turned in their direction. He lowered his voice. "Have you seen something in my future?"
Modrun took a sip of wine, smiling enigmatically. "Given my reputation, I can claim anything, and my audience believes me or not, depending on religion and inclination. What are you inclined to believe, Gawain?"
"It depends on what you are inclined to tell me."
"I think you will find comfort much sooner than you expect. Now if that does not make you believe in my magic, I do not know what will."
Finally Gawain too smiled. "For a prophecy it is very vague."
"Is that not the nature of prophecy?" she said, shrugging.
Gawain chuckled. "I doubt Myrddin would agree with you."
Modrun glanced around the banqueting hall, grimacing. "Do you see Myrddin anywhere here? I think not. And even if you did, who knows what kind of answer you would have. He is losing his famed wisdom between a pair of young legs."
Although he knew Modrun well enough, and knew that she spoke her mind more bluntly than many, Gawain still shot her a sharp glance. "You are not the only one who is irritated that Myrddin is spending more time paying court than advising Arthur."
She gave an unladylike snort. "Paying court? Fucking, more like."
"Modrun!"
"What, don't tell me you wouldn't have used the exact same word if you had been among other men."
"But I am not, and this is a wedding banquet."
"Yes, for the woman who threw you over for a good friend."
He realized that she had very effectively distracted him from his brooding. He shook his head, smiling. "Nonetheless, there are too many here to overhear your words."
She waved his objection away. "I am too old now to bother worrying about such things."
"You are hardly old, Modrun."
She chuckled — someone who did not have as much affection for her might have heard it as a cackle. "Any woman past fifty is old, my dear near-nephew. Men past fifty can buy themselves wives in their teens for the price of a treaty, or with the promise of a kingdom, but those times are over for women." Modrun nodded towards the end of the table where the newlyweds sat. "If Yseult had remained in Eriu, and if things had not changed so rapidly there since she was carted to Britain to marry Marcus, a marriage to her would have meant inherent power, a marriage to the land. Her stepfather Crimthann knew well enough what he was doing when he courted her mother, the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Did you know what you were doing when you courted her daughter?"
Gawain shook his head, surprised at the odd lecture. "I'm not sure if I ever 'courted' her."
"No, you just fucked her, did you not?"
Despite himself, he felt anger growing. "That's what she wanted."
"You wanted to marry her, though."
"Yes, I did," he hissed. "But this is not the place to discuss this."
"Where else?" Modrun asked. "What better time to begin accepting that you lost Yseult than at her wedding? Besides, do you see anyone taking note of our conversation?"
Gawain glanced around the table. Across from them, Peredur flirted with a young princess of Powys, oblivious to anything improper going on nearby. On Modrun's other side, Gareth was having an animated discussion with Yseult's cousin Brangwyn. Near the newlyweds, Kustennin was head to head with Cai's daughter Celemon. Beside Gawain, Bedwyr's daughter was debating political developments to the north with Gaheris — and not even Gaheris seemed to notice anything amiss in his brother's conversation with Modrun.
"Yes, I have disguised us a little," Modrun admitted, and he could hear satisfaction in her voice.
"I presume I should be grateful," Gawain ground out. But once he voiced the words, he realized he was grateful; Modrun had given him an opportunity to vent his anger.
* * * *
Kustennin could tell already that he had partaken too much of the wine that was flowing freely at the wedding feast. "Sometimes I hate being the result of a legend," he murmured to Celemon, the next best thing he had to a sister. She too had been in fosterage with Cador for several years before returning to her father Cai, and they had grown close as a result of their mutual passion for horses.
Celemon shrugged her skinny shoulders. She had turned fourteen in the spring, the age of choice for a woman. But she still had the figure of a girl — a very tall girl. "Look at me — my dad's a legend too."
Her father truly was a legend; Cai, Arthur's Master of Horse and one of his closest companions beside Bedwyr. "Yes, but —"
She leaned into his shoulder, shaking her head. "Stop whining, Kustennin," she whispered. "And keep your voice low. It cannot have been easy for your mother, being married across the sea to a man over twice her age. Be glad you still have a mother."
Kustennin drew a deep breath. Celemon had already lost two mothers. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."
"No, you weren't," she said, taking a modest sip of her wine. "You should think more often, Kustennin."
"You're right, I should."
When Celemon said things like that, they didn't offend him at all. The tone of her voice when she teased him was playful and serious at the same time; she didn't do it to hurt, like Gildas had.
Luckily, Gildas was no longer part of his life — except during events like this. He glanced down the table to where Gildas sat with his sister and her husband Medraut. Kustennin should be above such petty feelings, he knew, but he suspected he would dislike Gildas for the rest of his life.
And that the feeling was mutual.
* * * *
As Medraut helped himself to the sweet wine cakes, he was thinking about his own wedding nearly five years ago. He'd been so hopeful then; Cwylli wa
s young and charming and full of life, her father Caw old, and her brother Gildas young — a perfect constellation for Medraut to take over power in Bro Leon. But then her kinship group had passed him by.
Nothing had gone as he planned, and his advantageous marriage had become a liability. Burdened as he was by a wife who not only had no inheritance, but who had dragged him down through the actions of her brothers, how was he ever going to turn his life around again? If not for Cwylli, surely Arthur would have been more forthcoming with advancement; Medraut had saved his life, after all. But it had been for nothing, it seemed. They had been told (if not in so many words) to stay away from Gwythyr's funeral, and Medraut was still second tier among Arthur's companions — at best. Instead of being a king in his own right, he was a poor relation, condemned to mediocrity. He could return to Armorica, but his father Budic's seat was little more than a fortified farm compared to what Arthur commanded.
He glanced over at his wife. Not far from Cwylli sat Ginevra, surely one of the most beautiful women in Britain, although she was now over thirty and mother to a son of an age with Gildas. By contrast, Cwylli had not regained her figure after the birth of Melehan and was growing practically matronly, although she was ten years younger. He wondered if Arthur's wife and Arthur's companion were sleeping together yet. Cai acted immune to Ginevra's advances, but Medraut suspected that was for Arthur's benefit — assuming his uncle even cared at all.
As he watched, Cai rose and moved down the table to where Gawain and his brothers sat. Lot's brats were yet another sore point. They were not even Arthur's blood relations as Medraut was, yet they had all the honor.
For some reason, things never went Medraut's way — and he doubted his luck would turn again any time soon.
* * * *
Had Gawain really thought he'd faced his demon when he'd watched Yseult and Cador wed? What a fool he'd been! The true torture was now, as they rose and he knew they were leaving the banquet to seek their marriage bed.
"Do not stare so," Modrun admonished him. "I can only cloak you in illusion for so long."
"How long is 'so long'?" Gawain asked, knowing his voice sounded bitter. "For the life of me, I cannot help myself. It was a mistake to come to this wedding."
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 17