Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (34 page)

"Yes, thank you, Lady." The smallest children, those not out in the fields with their father, crowded around Keyna now that she showed signs of life again.

Yseult picked up the littlest, a curly-haired girl of about three, and hefted her on her hip. "And who is this proud resident of the house?"

"Aeronwen," the child piped up before anyone else could answer.

Yseult smiled. "And a fearless one you are too." With one foot, she pulled a stool towards the edge of Keyna's bed and sat down, shifting Aeronwen to her lap. "You have a handsome, large family," she said.

"This is not even half of it," Keyna said with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

"Yes, you and your husband have been blessed by the gods with a great abundance of offspring."

The door of the round house creaked open, and a young woman of perhaps fourteen entered and sketched obeisance. "Father said he saw the queen on her way here, and I see he was right. We are honored, Lady."

Keyna breathed a sigh of relief. "Yseult, daughter, I'm so glad you're here. Can you take the young ones out so that I can consult with the queen without interruption?"

The girl nodded and lifted Aeronwen off Yseult's lap. "Come, Seren, Heulyn," she said to the other two children. "Let us go find your father and siblings."

"She's a lovely young woman," Yseult said when the door closed behind the children. "I'm honored that you named her after me."

Keyna smiled. "Without your help at her birth, both of us might have died. We are in your debt."

"No. Without your husband's help, I would have been burned at the stake." Yseult had tried to repay her debt by granting the family a generous tract of land, but looking around the modest house shared by a family of eight, she knew that she had not done anywhere near enough. "I think we are even in the score of lives."

The farmer's wife shook her head. "I beg to differ, Lady — you saved two lives, as well as all those who came after."

Yseult felt her cheeks grow warm. "Enough of that. I did not come here to argue about things long since history. This is your second miscarriage in little over a year, and it was even more difficult than the last. Are you content with the size of your family?"

"More than content," Keyna said with a wry grin. Yseult allowed herself to feel the woman's exhaustion — six children who had survived infancy in barely twice as many years, with nursing and feeding and clothing and raising, were almost more than she could manage, especially with the normal work of the farm; weaving, making and mending clothes, drying the meat, making candles and soap and everything else a family needed on a daily basis. Keyna loved her family and her life, but she was so very tired.

"You and your husband are Christian?" Yseult asked.

"We are."

Yseult drew a deep breath. "There are certain things I can teach you to limit the size of your family. Some Christian priests object to the practice of using herbal lore to avoid pregnancy. But if it is not against your beliefs, I would strongly recommend you learn the use of the right herbs. Repeated miscarriages weaken your health and make it less likely that you will see your children grow to adulthood."

Keyna's weary eyes lit up and she leaned forward. "Tell me."

At Keyna's enthusiasm, it occurred to Yseult that she could share more than merely the knowledge needed to avoid pregnancy: if Keyna were to learn something of healing, she would be able to treat the residents of Lansyen and Voliba when Yseult was elsewhere. Not only that, the inevitable gifts from those she helped would surely improve her family's fortunes. Yseult was no longer in Eriu, where such knowledge was only passed along to those with the right status or the right ancestors. And it was important that the healing knowledge of the Tuatha Dé Danann not be lost.

"One of the most important plants for preventing pregnancy is the wild carrot," Yseult began. "Unfortunately, the seeds must be harvested in the fall. But I have some among my stores; it should be enough until you can collect your own."

"What else can I use?" Keyna asked.

"A tea of willow bark or dried juniper berries, if you have them on hand. Drink a cup daily. When the wild herbs start growing again, collect rue and corn mint and dry them. A tea of either will help if drunk after you have intimate relations with your husband. Both can also be taken if your bleeding has not started on time. Keep parsley in your garden as well and cook with it regularly, or if not, make an infusion and drink some every day."

Keyna plied her with questions, and Yseult told her a number of the other areas in which the herbs could help; willow against fevers and aching joints, rue in the case of stomach aches and disturbed sleep, juniper to treat internal infections and digestive problems.

She questioned the farmer's wife several times to make sure she'd remembered and understood. Keyna was definitely quick; she would make a good study.

"I will come by again tomorrow to look in on you. I can teach you more healing herbs, if you like. You might be able to assist your neighbors too when someone is unwell."

Keyna laughed, looking much better than she had when Yseult arrived. "Do you intend to make me the wise woman of Lansyen, Lady?"

"That would not be such a bad idea now, would it?"

As she left the cottage, she wondered why she hadn't started teaching her knowledge of herbs to the local women sooner. Yes, many of the Christian priests kept herb gardens and knew the ways of healing, but there were certain kinds of knowledge they either did not have or did not share.

Over the next week, Yseult visited Keyna regularly, teaching the younger woman more herbal lore every day. And so Keyna became Yseult's apprentice. She limited her instruction to the safest remedies; while an herb like flea mint was one of the most effective herbs against unwanted pregnancy, if it was used incorrectly, it could easily poison the woman who took it.

Teaching was surprisingly gratifying, and Yseult found herself wishing they would not be leaving so soon for Lindinis. She had only taught Keyna the most rudimentary remedies for a handful of ailments. Of course, after only a few days, no more could be expected, but suddenly Yseult was impatient to impart both the knowledge she'd brought with her from Eriu and what she'd learned from the Christian priests here. By passing it along, she could help keep the knowledge alive.

* * * *

As Yseult walked back to the hill-fort from Keyna and Talek's cottage, she passed a number of villagers building pyres for the Easter celebration. It had been at an Easter celebration many years ago that she had begun her affair with Gawain. She still remembered the festive atmosphere during her visit to Caer Leon, the heat of the bonfire, the look in Gawain's eyes when he gazed at her, suggestive and promising. That look had told her he knew what a woman wanted, and he would be happy to give it to her. When she decided to take him up on the offer in his eyes, she'd felt eager, even a little calculating, knowing the reputation he had.

But then, instead of loving her and leaving her as she expected, he began to tell her how different she was from all the rest, how glad he was to have found her, how his desire had grown to love. All those claims he made that she refused to believe — but apparently she had after all, given her disappointment at his marriage.

She had to stop brushing it aside; the more she ignored Gawain's marriage, the more it festered. She should write him, congratulate him, put an end to it. Perhaps if she acknowledged his marriage in writing, she could lay it to rest.

As soon as she made the decision, she felt much better.

There was little privacy in the hill-fort of Lansyen. With the exception of the sleeping chambers at one end, the great hall consisted of a large, open room. Yseult fetched her writing box from the chamber she shared with Cador and sat down at a small table in the main hall. The box had been a present from Drystan many years ago, a tool more beautiful than it needed to be, with an enameled top and silver hinges. She undid the leather cord and opened the flat box, flooded by memories of the many times she had written Drystan.

Making the decision to write Gawain had been the easy part — but what should she say? She could do little more than congratulate him on his marriage — anything else would be below her dignity. A simple missive sending him her good wishes. No more, and no less.

She took a thin, folded sheet of birch out of her writing box.

* * * *

Cador knelt down in the field, the overseer beside him. He took a handful of dirt and crumbled it in his hand, testing the consistency. It had been over a week now without a hard freeze, which meant the fields could soon be plowed for the second time in preparation for sowing.

"The earth is good like I said, isn't it, Lord?" Talek said beside him.

Cador stared at the brown dirt trickling through his hand, trying to concentrate on what needed to be done rather than what had been going through his mind for the last week: the look on Yseult's face when she had glanced down at the letter with the news of Gawain's marriage.

She was always pale, his beautiful wife, but it was a moon-bright paleness, lit by an inner glow of energy and strength. Then she had looked wan, the light snuffed, the energy gone.

"Lord Cador?"

Cador rose and wiped his hands on his breeches. "Yes, it's good, Talek. I think we can begin with the final plowing before we sow the fields."

He had been hoping, more than hoping, that with time she would learn to love him — if not with the same passion he felt for her, then at least with a comfortable love, a love that could provide ease and solace. But now here they were, married nearly a year, and Yseult was still pining for her former lover, the man she had claimed not to love, with whom she had ended her relationship after deciding to marry Cador — or so she professed. The man she had kissed beside the road between Caer Gwent and Glevum. He had wondered then if this marriage had been a mistake. And for the last week, he had not been able to get those thoughts out of his head.

Talek at his side, he headed back in the direction of the hill-fort.

Cador didn't know what to do. Yseult may have thought she'd hidden her heartbreak from him, but he'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she held herself, a slumped hint of defeat in that back normally so proud. The only thing he was sure of was that he could not go on like this, with this kind of daily misery, unavoidable, there at every turn, no matter what he was doing. He wanted to stop, but he didn't know how. Not even the land was a distraction anymore — what he had always relied on until now.

There was only one thing for it: he would have to speak to her, ask her openly how she felt about Gawain's marriage, even if the news was not what he wanted. If she was still in love with Gawain, he would give her back her freedom. Better that than a miserable wife who was pining for another; a painful but decisive end rather than the kind of unending heartache he'd been suffering from recently.

At least, he hoped it would be better.

But with just the decision itself, he felt a load lift from his soul. That had to be a good sign, didn't it?

On the road back to the hill-fort, villagers were draping garlands of daffodils and violets around a grove in honor of "Saint" Nemetona — an ancient tree goddess of the British. Since Marcus's death, Yseult had been gently promoting the integration of old rites into Christian celebrations, with impressive success. Tied to the land as he was, Cador could understand how many Britons could believe in the life of tree and stream and were drawn to the idea of divine presences in field and forest, forces that needed to be appeased for a good harvest or a good hunt.

Cador watched a young man grab a maid's hand and draw her close to whisper in her ear — or perhaps nibble on her earlobe — while she laughed. Everywhere he looked, sun and warmth were bringing a landscape that had gone dormant back to life. The grass had gone from brown to green, while new leaves on the trees were beginning to unfurl. Cador smiled; the land had not lost its power over him yet.

By the time he reached the hall, he had almost regained his old state of happy optimism. He would talk with Yseult and they would clear up their differences and be comfortable with each other again. It had to be, he knew it. They had always been fond of each other; she couldn't want to throw that away. He pushed open the door — and saw his wife at a far table, writing.

She looked up and gave a guilty start. A letter to Gawain, then.

Cador stared at her, his heart breaking all over. And suddenly he knew he couldn't deal with the disappointment anymore, the hopes raised and then dashed, the excitement, the distraction from the life of the land, the life he loved. He was not made for this kind of passion. He didn't know how Yseult had survived it, all those years of her affair with Drystan, the constant separations and disappointments and reconciliations. Obviously she was made of sterner emotional stuff.

He started to turn and leave the hall, but she rose, calling out. "Cador!"

Slowly he faced her. "Lady?"

She closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. "Don't call me that. Please."

"Good, Yseult. But answer me one thing. You were writing Gawain, were you not?"

She clenched her hands in front of her and then squared her shoulders, like someone facing a tribunal. "Yes, I was. But —"