Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (13 page)

"What choice do
you
have,
my king
?"

And finally she felt the resentment of the sub-king who held her in his power. Ruler of the minor hill-fort of Dimilioc, a site of little importance with no strategic significance and only a small share of a tin mine bordering on the territories controlled by Dyn Tagell and Celliwig. A king of Dumnonia, yes, but barely partaking of its riches and power.

Kustennin lowered his sword, and the men next to him did the same. "None, obviously. But I still will not let you leave with her unless you allow me to accompany you. Otherwise she is as dead as if you slew her now before my eyes."

No, not you, my son!

"No," Gurles echoed her thoughts. "But I see your point. I suspect I would not give myself safe passage either if I were in your position."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"Not necessarily." Gurles lifted his dagger from her throat and pointed it at Kustennin and his men. Yseult couldn't help drawing a sob of relief. "You can send the old man with us."

Shocked, she realized he must be referring to King Gwythyr. Not only did Gwythyr command at least ten times the area Gurles did, he was only a handful of years older.

Gwythyr chuckled and stepped forward, disarming all of them. "I would be happy to accompany the greatest living queen of Britain. Although I hope you will forgive me, Lady, if I admit I hold the great Boudica in higher esteem than you, despite your status as living legend."

The short speech moved her, and she found herself clenching her hands at her sides. For all that the Britons regarded themselves as one of the last bastions of the Roman Empire west of Constantinople, they were inordinately proud of the barbarian queen of the Iceni who nearly drove the Romans out of Britain four centuries ago.

While she was
Yseult of Eriu
— not even British.

She bowed her head to the King of Celliwig and Cerniw. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, fair queen."

Gwythyr strode forward until Gurles hissed a warning. "Now, Kustennin, the horses: one for Gwythyr, and one for your mother and myself."

Kustennin nodded and stepped through what was left of the gate, followed by his warriors. Shortly thereafter, Kustennin called out, "The horses are ready!"

"Bring them forward where I can see them!"

Her son appeared on the other side of the archway, his image fitful and unreal in the flickering light of the torches still burning in their sconces. Next to him, two well-muscled war horses were led into view.

"Step back!" Gurles commanded, and Kustennin disappeared into the shadows. He nodded to Gwythyr. "You first, old man."

Ginevra's father bowed to Yseult before stepping through the splintered timbers.

Gurles wrenched Yseult's wrist up higher, and she couldn't suppress a grunt of pain. "Our turn, now, My Queen. And remember that this dagger will slit your throat long before you can achieve anything with the silly little tricks of magic at your disposal."

It was too obviously true, so she said nothing.

When they came out of the fortress, Yseult blinked in the light of dozens of torches. If Kustennin and his men had hoped to blind Gurles, they were disappointed. But once they reached the waiting horses, it was clear that maintaining power over his hostage presented a problem: it would be impossible for Gurles to mount his means of escape and at the same time keep his dagger at Yseult's throat.

While Gurles hesitated, Gwythyr spied his chance and dove for their enemy. The hand holding the dagger was wrenched back. "Run, Yseult!" Gwythyr shouted.

That was easier said than done; Gurles's other hand was still a vise around her wrist. But with the dagger no longer at her throat, she yanked her arm down, trying to pull out of her captor's grasp.

Gurles slashed at Gwythyr, and the old king cried out and fell away.

"Not so fast, Yseult!" Gurles turned on her again, but Kustennin was at her side now. He lunged for the arm holding her, but the blade glanced off chain mail. Gurles tried to pull her back against him, but with a violent wrench that felt as if it had dislocated her shoulder, she managed to free herself.

Only to lose her balance and stumble to the muddy ground.

She felt the tip of a blade against her cheek, and heard the clatter of steel on steel as Gurles's weapon was forced up, away from her. At the same time, she jerked away, but not soon enough. Stinging pain scorched a trail just above her jawbone, and she could feel blood dripping down her neck.

Yseult pressed her palm to the wound and looked up. Her son and his men had surrounded the traitor.

"Drop your sword!" Kustennin ordered.

Confused, she wondered when the dagger had been replaced by a sword. No, Gurles held both sword and dagger now; he must have drawn the sword once she pulled free from him.

At first Gurles seemed disinclined to obey the young king of Dumnonia, but then slowly his fists opened and the weapons slid out of his hands to splat on the wet ground beside him.

Yseult pushed herself up with one hand, the other still pressed to her wound. "Where is Gwythyr?"

* * * *

Kustennin glanced around, but now that the threat to his mother was banished, it was all he could do to stay on his feet; a strange trembling had taken hold of his limbs, and he wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees. Instead, he walked in the direction where he had last seen Gwythyr, but he could not seem to focus on anything. It was Kurvenal who finally found the prone figure of the King of Cerniw.

"He's here!"

Kustennin hurried over and knelt beside the injured king. His mother was there, laying bloody fingers against the king's neck. Kustennin found himself staring at the blood on her jaw, dark and glistening in the light of the torches.

"He's alive," she said. "Gwythyr! Gwythyr can you hear me?"

There was no response.

"Perhaps he took a blow to the head," Yseult said, her own injuries forgotten. "Do you know if Dyn Tagell has been retaken?"

Kustennin shook his head. "When I came in search of you, the fighting was still going on."

"Then we will have to bring him back to the camp. Can you have some of your men put together a stretcher?"

"Will a cloak between two poles do?"

"That should suffice."

He rose and gestured Kurvenal to join him and explained what was needed. His legs were obeying him better now, luckily.

Kustennin watched as broken lances were lashed together and a cloak scrounged and thrown over the makeshift construction, feeling as if he had aged a decade in a few hours. He wondered if that was the way every warrior felt after his first major battle; he would have to ask Cador sometime, if he remembered, unsure if he would remember everything or nothing of this night.

Gwythyr was carried away to their camp, his mother walking beside the litter, and Kustennin turned back to the remaining warriors who had followed him to save the Queen of Dumnonia.

He looked around. "Where is Gurles?"

Soldiers looked up from where they were collecting broken-off spearheads, shrugging. Kustennin wanted to kick himself — somehow in the general confusion, the traitor had escaped.

* * * *

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.