Yseult shot up from the couch, and the goblet of Gaulish wine at her elbow teetered and fell, smashing on the tiled stone floor.
Brangwyn rose too and took her hands. "Yseult, what is it?"
"Crimthann. I have to go to Eriu. My mother will need me."
"What did you see?"
"A battle. Crimthann is wounded, perhaps dead. I don't know —"
Brangwyn gave her arms a shake. "Yseult, come back. If Crimthann is sore wounded, there is nothing you can do. It would be a week at the very least, more likely two, before you could be in Dun Ailinne. You cannot help your mother save him."
Yseult blinked and gazed into Brangwyn's dark blue eyes. "But if he is dying, I can be there for her. Crimthann is the love of my mother's life."
Her cousin was silent for a long moment, searching her eyes and gazing into her heart.
The grip on her hands tightened. "Are you sure you have to go? There are problems enough here for you to deal with."
"But not death," Yseult said quietly.
Brangwyn gave a short nod. "True. Still, I hope you are not making a mistake. Consider your husband. Consider what you know."
"Arthur trusts you," Kurvenal threw in, his fists balled on his knees.
"How long will he trust me if I accuse his nephew of intending to seduce his wife?" Yseult freed herself from her cousin's grip and strode a few paces away. "The trust Arthur has in me stems from the support I gave him against Marcus. But if I now spread rumors about Ginevra and Medraut, what becomes of my status as a figure of trust?"
To her surprise, Kurvenal was the first to respond. "You're right."
She turned to face him, wondering if he was finally beginning to forgive her for Drystan's death. "Would you go to Cador with what I know? He's Arthur's cousin — he might have a better chance of persuading Arthur to look a little more closely at his nephew's actions."
Kurvenal nodded. "Good idea. Everyone trusts Cador."
"Yes, they do, don't they?" Yseult said, repressing a sigh. But he no longer trusts me.
Chapter 18
Brush the mold from Yseult's hair and face:
And you will find that swarthy furious gold
Still smoldering under the blanket of black mold;
And you will find those eyelids frail as lace;
Eyes like blue stones washed in a windy place;
That mouth whose glowing motion once controlled
Cornwall and Lyonnesse; that throat as cold
As a long curve in water, white as a vase
Of moon-swept ivory: you will discover
That body whose keen pallor was a sword.
Joseph Auslander, "Yseult"
Crimthann ruled at Dun Ailinne, but the closest port was precariously close to the traditional enemies of the Laigin, the Ui Neill. If Yseult's vision was of events in the present rather than the future, arriving at the port of Inber Da Glas could be dangerous. Her old home of Ard Ladrann was farther south and safer. It had been Crimthann's seat until he was elected king of the Laigin, and once there, she could surely discover if Crimthann were injured or dead, and where she would be able to find her mother.
It was strange returning to Ard Ladrann after so many years and so many changes. She had not been here since before being abducted and married off to Marcus Cunomorus, ripped out of a life she loved and sent to a foreign land. The times she'd visited Eriu since, she had stayed with her mother in Dun Ailinne or Brigid in Druim Dara, both larger sites with several hundred residents in and around the defenses. By contrast, the rath of Ard Ladrann consisted of no more than six houses inside the fortifications and about the same number without. Nestled between the bay and the royal seat were the fortified dwellings of several local fishers and merchants, as well as a shipbuilder. Compared to the towns she knew in Britain, it was no more than a village; she'd be surprised if there were a hundred people living in the scattering of buildings. Cador's villa outside of Lindinis had at least that many residents with all its tenants, servants, stable hands, caretakers and warriors. The city of Lindinis itself had nearly a thousand residents — and it was small by British standards.
But in a place like Ard Ladrann, everyone knew everyone else. Even after she'd been away for twenty years, Yseult was greeted like a family member who had finally returned home.
The tuath took care of its own.
When she and her men-at-arms neared the gates of the rath, a gray-haired warrior emerged, flanked by a vanguard of men and women in brightly dyed tunics and cloaks, torques of silver and gold glinting at wrist and arm and neck, decked out in every finery they possessed to receive her.
The graying warrior bowed and straightened. "Yseult the Fair, daughter of Yseult the Wise, Kingmaker of Eriu and queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, it is an honor to welcome you back to Ard Ladrann. Your defense of this place in the battle against the warriors of Lóegaire has not been forgotten, and your song is sung from here to Dun Ailinne and beyond. We had not thought to ever see you again. Please accept every hospitality we have to offer."
As moved as she was by the grandiose traditional greeting, Yseult concentrated on the speaker, willing her mind to recognition. There was something familiar about the timbre of his voice, a certain lilt and a roughness at the edge of his words. She tried to imagine away the gray hair and thickening waist and bushy beard.
"Domnall?"
The warrior took her in a crushing embrace and then pushed her back arm's length. "It is good to see you looking so well, Yseult. I assume you came here because of the fighting between the Ui Cheinnselaig and the Ui Garrchon?"
"I had a vision," Yseult said as Domnall led the way into the rath. "I did not know who was fighting, but I did see Crimthann."
"We recently had word that he was seriously injured in the battle. His men barely got him back to Dun Ailinne alive."
"I must go to them."
"The men you brought will not be enough. We will send another dozen warriors with you."
Here in Eriu that amounted to a small army. Yseult bowed her head in thanks and promised to send them back once she reached Dun Ailinne.
In the main hall, she was seated at the head of the table like a king or a great warrior and given the hero's portion from the meat roasting over the fire pit. Moved, Yseult accepted the honor while she listened to Domnall and the others explain the political developments of the past two years. Apparently spurred on by their own growing power and sense of frustration at the way the Ui Cheinnselaig and Ui Dunlainge dominated the kingship of the southeast, the Ui Garrchon had taken matters into their own hands and begun attacking seats of rival tribes. With allies such as the Ui Bairrche, who had been responsible for the death of Crimthann's father, they had begun conquering sites in the territory of the northern Laigin.
Yseult had been right to land in the south, but not because of the threat of the Ui Neill — the danger came from within.
Even while trying to follow the political developments in a dialect she had spoken only rarely in the last twenty years, part of her mind was busy reconciling the memories from her youth with the people around her, layering them on reality like a palimpsest. The druid Laidcenn, who had seemed so young for one of his rank when she'd known him, now as wisely gray as a druid should be. Domnall's wife Aine, a merry, slender, flirtatious girl in her memories, was still just as merry as she remembered, but now a respectable matron with half-a-dozen children. The rich farmer Cathair, once portly and self-satisfied, now thin and drawn from a wasting sickness not even the best healers in Eriu could treat.
On one level, Ard Ladrann was the home of her youth, the place where she'd fallen in love with Drystan, the "Armorican" bard Tandrys, in a life before so many personal and political betrayals. But on another, this place had become foreign to her, the people unfamiliar.
It was strange to be at home and not at home in so many different places. Was she uprooted? Or was she blessed with more than one home that called to her? She couldn't say. As she listened to Domnall
and the other warriors of Ard Ladrann telling battle stories around the fire, she wondered if she would ever know.
* * * *
Yseult set off for Dun Ailinne with her retinue of fighting men the next day. During the journey, she felt again that sensation of being pulled in different directions: knowing this land was home in a more fundamental way than Britain could ever be, but knowing, too, that it had grown strange to her, had become a fantastic world completely different from the life she led. She relished the well-known sights and sounds, the gaudy display of jewelry by men and women both, torques of gold and silver and bronze at neck and wrist and upper arm, the colorfully checkered and patterned garments; felt the belief in magic that was everywhere, in the little rituals people performed before slaughtering a wild boar or planting seed, acknowledgment of the wonder of life rare in rational Britain; heard the music in the air and the laughter between the round houses, jokes and commands, anger and tears. Now and then she could feel the presence of a mind like hers, probing, knowing, a presence she encountered much more often here in Eriu than in her adopted home.
Nonetheless, it was not long before she found herself missing the luxuries of life in Britain — which while traveling consisted first and foremost in the paved Roman roads stretching from Isca Dumnoniorum in the south to Eburacum in the north, from Camulodunum in the east to Caer Leon and Moridunum in the west. The roads they now followed to Dun Ailinne most resembled trackways in the remotest parts of Dumnonia. Admittedly, there were areas in Britain where the regional kings no longer felt responsible for maintaining the old Roman roads. But even those neglected streets were better than these muddy paths; the Romans had built things to last.
They passed another fortified homestead with its wooden round-houses, buildings that would leave little trace within a few years of being abandoned. In her youth, she had never questioned it — why should she? It was all she'd ever known. But now she had a comparison. Other than power and glory, what the people of her homeland valued was largely ephemeral. Wealth was measured in the equivalent of cows and female slaves, which made her feel strange and uneasy now.
On the other hand, she felt the love of words and music and song everywhere. And the emphasis on fame in legend being so important in life — and beyond — made a certain amount of sense, especially in view of what counted as a royal residence. When a building of wood and thatch burned to the ground within hours as the result of a stray spark during a feast, it was easy enough to rebuild it in a matter of days. A reputation was nowhere near as easy to rebuild. In Britain, by contrast, a king's reputation often seemed to consist of the number of seats he held and how impressive his fortifications and buildings were.
The Romans built their cities to last; the Erainn built their cities to burn. She did not know yet exactly what it meant, but when she regarded the achingly familiar wooden walls and thatched roofs of the settlements she passed through on her way to Dun Ailinne, remembered how in her youth half a village she'd lived in had been turned to charred earth from a simple cattle raid, and then how little had actually been destroyed in the battle for Dyn Tagell, it made her wonder. It had to.
She was living between two worlds.
* * * *
Yseult to Cador, greetings.
It is difficult to find appropriate writing utensils here in my native land, and I fear I forgot to pack my writing box when I left. Now that I have arrived in Dun Ailinne, I have been able to obtain stylus and tablet, parchment and ink, although it was not easy.
After landing near my old home of Ard Ladrann, I traveled north with a small army, arriving here safely. My mother and little brother are well, but that is the extent of the good news. Crimthann suffered extensive injuries in a recent battle, and I suspect the only thing still keeping him alive is stubbornness. He does not want to die at the hands of the same tribe that killed his father, but I fear he will have no choice. The rath is quiet now, day in and day out, all waiting for news of the death of their king.
Young Nath is taking it bravely, but my mother is bitter. My little brother is eight years old now and is to go into fosterage this year, so she will be losing him too.
I do not know if this letter will reach you; correspondence between Britain and Eriu is always difficult, but the present unrest makes it even more so. Nonetheless, I will write again as soon as I have more news.
I hope this finds you in good health. I will not expect to hear from you, but please pass along the news to my son when you have a chance.
Your Yseult
Yseult to Cador, greetings.
Crimthann passed away at the waning moon, and the situation grows grave. Here in Eriu, as it is in many tribes in Britain and Armorica as well, a new king is elected from the kinship group of adult males capable of leading a warband. This naturally does not include Nath, as he is much too young, but Crimthann's cousin Illann says there are those who see my little brother as a threat. He is warning us of one king in particular from the Ui Garrchon — Findchad, husband of Crimthann's daughter from his first marriage, Edain. According to the laws of succession, Findchad must also be invited to the council to determine Crimthann's successor, although he is a traitor.
With Findchad and his men in Dun Ailinne, Illann fears Nath would not be safe. Thus we will be leaving for the holy site of Druim Dara before the council meets.
Nath remains brave, but my mother is listless. I am hoping that a visit with the high priestess Brigid will restore her spirits.
At least the battles between the tribes of the Laigin have let up; all seem to hope that the council will decide in their favor. For my own part, I fear civil war will soon break out in earnest.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. I will return home when my mother is more herself again.
Your Yseult
* * * *
As they rode out of the rath of Dun Ailinne, the atmosphere of death was all around her. Yseult was reminded of how she had felt returning from a cattle raid over two decades ago. Instead of cheering as the warband drove the stolen beasts between the huts, the peasants had stood silent.
Now too the farmers and craftsmen who looked up as they passed were silent, wearing expressions of sorrow. Then, the king of the Laigin had greeted her with the head of her uncle Murchad, the king's champion. Now they were mourning the king himself.
Crimthann's cousin Illann and a party of warriors rode with them to Druim Dara to ensure their safety. It was not far from Dun Ailinne to the ancient holy site. Even with pack animals, Illann and his warband could easily ride there and back and still have time for a generous midday meal before returning. The weather was fair, a perfect early summer day, the air warm with a slight breeze, just enough to keep the flies from bothering the horses. Above the treetops, Yseult could see the faint white image of the half moon against the blue of the sky.
A half moon. And she had not had her menses since before she left Britain.
Yseult began to count the days and drew in a deep breath. How was it possible that she had not noticed her bleeding was late by nearly a month? Yes, she had been traveling; yes, she had been distracted by the slow dying of Crimthann; yes, she had been worried about her mother and brother and the political situation in Eriu. But that still was no excuse to ignore the signs of her own body so thoroughly for so long. Taking a high enough dosage of flea mint or rue or birthwort to abort the child now could easily endanger her own health.
She drew in a deep breath, accompanied by a flush of anger; she did not want to abort any babe she might be carrying. She wanted Cador's child — both for herself and for him. She had only been using her knowledge of herbs to avoid pregnancy at his insistence. He had ordained no children, in no uncertain terms. If she had not agreed, he might well have decreed they live celibate like some Christian monks, and Yseult was not about to have that.
Slowly she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth: what if she really was pregnant? If any man in Britain deserved to be a father, it wa
s surely her husband. He'd always had a way with children, and they were naturally drawn to him. But how would Cador react when she sent him news that she was with child? She'd assured him she would not get pregnant, and now her herbs — or perhaps her discipline? — had failed her.
The smile died on her lips. She herself was not worried, but she knew Cador would be. It did not matter how often she pointed out to him that she was of the Old Race, like her mother, who had given birth to Nath when she was over forty years of age. After having lost two wives as well as his only sister in childbed, ingrained fear ruled over reason. He did not want to lose her too.
He did not want to lose her too.
Yseult shook her head, her gaze catching once again on the pale daytime moon. No, Cador had been her friend practically since he had reached adulthood; it was natural that he did not want to lose her; it meant nothing more than that.
It was still possible that she was not pregnant. She did not have to tell him yet, not until she was absolutely certain.
* * * *
After several weeks in Druim Dara, Yseult was finding it increasingly difficult to find excuses not to write Cador. As the half moon became a sliver, her body began to change. When she squeezed a nipple, a clear, sweet liquid seeped out of the pores. But she could not shake her fear of writing Cador, and it seemed wrong to tell anyone else before she informed her husband. Perhaps it would be better to tell him in person: then he could see with his own eyes that she was just as healthy as ever. And so she sought comfort in routines that were once her own when she'd lived here in her youth: the prayers to the goddess, the changing of the fire, the caring for the sick. She even reconciled herself to the presence of the Christian community of Cill Dara outside their doors; if the high priestess Brigid's visions told her it was the only way to ensure that the Old Ways survived into a new era, who was Yseult to say her nay? Life in Druim Dara was pleasant and peaceful, despite the news they received daily of battles not far away. They were in a holy site, protected by the gods.
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 28