Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (11 page)

Yseult was strangely nervous as she waited for Gawain that night. It had been months since they had last lain with each other, before she had gone to Eriu to visit her mother last winter. She left one small candle burning, hoping no one would find it strange that she was up so long after the rest of the camp slept. Finally the flap of the tent was pushed aside and Gawain stepped in, stooping.

Yseult rose from her pallet. "Thank you for coming, Gawain."

He took her face in his large, warm hands. "Thank you for allowing me," he whispered back.

He bent and kissed her, his thumbs caressing her jaw and cheeks. Yseult was a tall woman, but Gawain dwarfed her. A big man, he was the ideal of a warrior in many ways, his body broad and heavily muscled, not slim and lithe as Drystan's had been.

No, she had to leave Drystan out of this.

Gawain was the one who was here, now, the one running his fingertips over her bare skin, the one untying the drawstring of her shift, the one pushing the linen over her shoulders.

Perhaps she did not love him, but she knew he could give her pleasure. Wasn't that all that mattered when war was so near?

* * * *

Cador couldn't sleep. Gawain had left the tent they shared some time ago, making as little noise as possible, probably assuming Cador already slept.

Now sleep was impossible.

His hands laced behind his head, Cador stared into the dark, wishing his old love for Yseult had not ambushed him all over again; or if not that, wishing he could at least ignore these feelings he'd thought long dead. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Stubborn bastards, feelings.

Cador sighed and sat up. It was no use; he was just making himself miserable lying here and imagining Gawain and Yseult together. He would go out for a breath of fresh air and listen to the sound of the sea in the distance.

And then he found himself lurking within sight of Yseult's tent. What was he doing here? What did he hope to accomplish — other than torture himself? He should go back to his own tent before Gawain caught him spying.

He didn't move.

There was a sliver of moon in the sky, and Cador's eyes adjusted to the shades of black and silver and gray. He amused himself with picking out shapes around him that he normally wouldn't recognize at night.

Then there was a faint sound, and Cador's neglected heart twisted.

The flap of the tent was pulled aside, and Gawain peered out, looking to either side. His eyes were not as well adjusted as Cador's; he seemed to decide the coast was clear and stepped out. And now he would go to the tent and find Cador gone.

But what was he doing here anyway, shrouded in shadow, watching Yseult's tent, his heart sore? Was he punishing himself for surviving two wives? But he had loved Yseult long before either of them, loved her before he even knew what the word meant.

Before he had learned that she loved his cousin Drystan with a love that legends are made of.

To his relief, instead of heading for their tent, Gawain walked away from their camp, perhaps to make it less obvious why he was out at night if someone saw him.

It was the chance Cador needed. He hurried back to their tent and slipped under the covers, wondering if there was anything that could distract him from the pain of old love.

Chapter 7

"'Twas I was best of them in battle and strife and combat. 'Twas I that had fifteen hundred royal mercenaries of the sons of aliens exiled from their own land, and as many more of the sons of freemen of the land.... These were as a standing household guard," continued Medb; "hence hath my father bestowed one of the five provinces of Erin upon me, even the province of Cruachan; wherefore 'Medb of Cruachan' am I called."

Argument of Queen Medb,
Táin Bó Cúailnge
("The Cattle Raid of Cooley")

Kustennin had always imagined that warfare would involve more action and glory — not this interminable waiting, camping in tents that barely held out the rain, sleeping on pallets that barely kept the cold of the ground from creeping into every joint in his body.

But then, a siege was not the same thing as a battle. After picking up additional fighting men in Isca, he and Kurvenal had arrived at Dyn Tagell shortly after the armies of Cador and Gwythyr surrounded the mainland fortress. Yes, they'd had their battles and seen their action — over a month ago now. They had retaken the church of Illtud and secured the mainland village and the roads. Once those routes for getting supplies were blocked, they had taken position on the promontory north of Dyn Tagell, from where they were able to send missiles of burning pitch down into the harbor, destroying the ships that had not made it out to sea in time. The northern pirates were cut off.

But now the two sides were at a standstill. Even if they'd had the sheer numbers and the siege towers necessary to take a hill-fort, it would do them no good against Dyn Tagell. They might be able to take the mainland fortress, but after that, they would somehow have to take the Neck, the narrow land bridge that could be defended by two warriors abreast. And the summer wasn't getting any warmer.

They could see Dyn Tagell from their camp: the promontory jutting out to sea; the enemy guards on the Neck; the catapults the Picts had built with what was left of the ships that had burned.

"Not exactly what you were expecting, eh, lad?" came Kurvenal's voice from the depths of the tent. "Little blood and less glory. That's the damn thing about a siege — the boredom."

Kustennin turned away from the open tent flap and the unchanging view of gray sky and rain and the fortress where he had spent much of his childhood. "Why are you just lying there? Don't you want to take it back?"

Kurvenal pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking his head. "What do you suggest I do, my young friend? Take my sword and single-handedly storm the fortifications? Besides, what is there for me to take back? It is yours, after all."

He was right; what was Kustennin doing throwing his frustration at Kurvenal's head — a man who was like an uncle to him? Not only that, a man who had lost his home of the last ten years and would have nowhere to return when these wars were over.

Kustennin sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Kurvenal stood and joined him at the entrance to their tent. "A king does not have to be sorry, he just has to know what to do. Drystan was sorry too often."

Kurvenal's longing for his old friend resonated in the timbre of his voice, even though Drystan had been dead for over a decade. Kustennin had few distinct memories of Drystan, the man who had officially been his brother. He envied those like Kurvenal who had been old enough to remember the charismatic young man who should have been king of Dumnonia, rather than five-year-old Kustennin.

He tied back the tent flap he had been holding open. "Sometimes being sorry is a good thing," he murmured. "At least it is better than having lost the trick of it."

Kurvenal shot him a sharp glance before he stepped out under the awning protecting them from the summer that was no summer. "Of course I want to take Dyn Tagell back — for you, for Dumnonia, for Arthur, for Britain. But I also wouldn't mind living to see Judual reach the age of choice." He pointed in the direction of the thick walls of the mainland fortress — and the enemy guards visible even from here. "
They
control the promontory now. I wish we could take it back, Kustennin, but I also do not want to commit suicide just yet. I still have much to live for." He reached up to fondle Kustennin on the back of the head, as if he were still a boy. "That includes seeing how you fill your role as king of Dumnonia."

Kustennin nodded. Although he had been training in arms and administration for years, the trip from Isca was the first time he'd led a warband. Border disputes and raids in Dumnonia had been quelled by Gwythyr, or generals chosen by Cador or his mother, or by the smaller regional kings themselves. His mother did not lead armies. He knew the tales of her homeland, of the war goddess Morrigu and the warrior-queen Medb — but in Britain the era of warrior queens like Boudica had died with the Roman conquest.

Gazing out from under the temporary roof, unable to do anything more than wait, it occurred to Kustennin that they had an advantage over the enemy — Yseult of Eriu. Perhaps together they could do something about the interminable waiting.

Kustennin turned to Kurvenal. "I'm going in search of my mother. Perhaps we will soon be able to put an end to this standstill."

* * * *

His mother was enthusiastic about the idea, but they had some persuading to do. Gawain and Cador both argued against Yseult getting involved in the fighting.

"She could help us without getting involved," Kustennin insisted. He turned to his mother. "You would be able to cloak a detail of warriors in illusion from a distance, wouldn't you?"

"I think so."

"And stay out of range of the fighting?" Gawain asked.

She shrugged. "That would depend on how many men and how far away."

"It's worth a try," Gwythyr said. "If Yseult cannot maintain the illusion, the men can always retreat."

"I was with Drystan when we attacked Din Eidyn with magic," Kurvenal said. "I think I would be the right person to lead the attack on the mainland gate."

While the rest discussed who would take which flank and what preparations still needed to be made, Kustennin gazed at Kurvenal, remembering what he had said about wanting to still be around when Judual reached the age of choice.

And now he had volunteered to lead the most dangerous part of the attack.

"I will go with you," Kustennin said.

* * * *

They had to wait for the next moonless night to carry out their plan. The rocky plain in front of the mainland fortress was bare of sheltering trees, so they had to take advantage of darkness. His mother would do what she could to cloak the soldiers in illusion, but the natural concealment of night would help.

It was raining again. While none of them liked having damp tunics, in this weather, the guards on the walls in their hooded capes might be less inclined to step out from their posts to scan the horizon for movement than if they were pacing patiently on a perfect June night.

In the distance, the faint hoot of an owl came from the north.

"The others are in position," Kurvenal said.

Kustennin wiped the rain out of his eyes. "Then it is time for us to launch the first boulders."

One contingent stayed with the catapults, while another moved away in the direction of the gate, cloaked in Yseult's power of changing — and carrying a battering ram between them. The trick seemed to be working; even when they neared the fortress walls, no arrows hit the shields under which they hid.

Then perhaps a hundred paces from the gate, his mother's concentration must have faltered. Kustennin heard a warning cry followed by a barrage of arrows that bounced off their shields. Perhaps they were too far away now for her to keep up the illusion blending them into the night. He felt a moment of panic. Could
he
do anything to help himself and his compatriots — and make sure Kurvenal lived to see Judual reach the age of choice? Kustennin often saw things others didn't see, heard things others didn't hear. He had never consciously admitted that it might have anything to do with the legendary "powers" ascribed to Yseult of Eriu, had not wanted to have such magic for himself. But now it might be a matter of whether he and his comrades survived through the night.

Unfortunately, he had never asked his mother about the techniques she used to control her powers. From what he'd picked up over the years, it seemed to be a matter of awareness and concentration. Concentration might be a problem with a heavy battering ram on one shoulder and a shield clutched over his head with his free hand, but he would have to try.

Kustennin imagined himself and the men around him invisible, conjuring up an image of nothingness while they marched through puddles and were barraged by arrows. Behind him, he heard a soldier cry out, and suddenly the battering ram grew heavier.

Someone had fallen. It wasn't working.

"Faster, men!" Kurvenal cried out ahead of them. "Once we are inside, we can fight rather than hide, and the rest will soon join us!"

Kustennin picked up the pace with the others, but he still had not given up on making their task safer with magic. Awareness and concentration. He had concentrated, but what about awareness?

The sweat of the men around him; the weight of the battering ram; the ache of his arm from holding up the shield; the mud soaking through his shoes; the sound of panting and rain and arrows hitting wood and metal and boiled leather.

And now, all of that melting into the night, becoming one with the dark.

From the walls, cries of confusion, fear even.

"What, by all the gods!"

"Where did they go?"

"Gods save us!"

"Shoot in the direction of the gate! They must still be heading there, whatever magic they might be using!"

Despite that reasonable advice, only a handful of arrows hit their shields before they halted a few paces in front of the gate. The whispered command came up the ranks to run at Kurvenal's whistle. Then they were barreling forward, putting everything they had into smashing the gate of the mainland fortress.