Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (18 page)

"Thank you."

They wandered north through the high grassland, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm. Sunset painted the fields ahead of them in colors so bright they seemed unnatural. Here and there, patches of purple heather still bloomed, interspersed with flecks of yellow gorse.

"What is going on, Yseult?" he finally asked.

They were far enough away from the hill-fort now to avoid being overheard, and she slowed her pace. "Cador and I had an audience with Arthur earlier this afternoon. He has suggested a marriage between us in order consolidate power in Dumnonia."

He froze, but Yseult took his elbow and forced him forward, trying to preserve the appearance of normalcy.

"And what was your answer?"

Yseult took a deep breath. "Please, Gawain," she said, her voice low. "For my sake, act as if nothing is amiss."

"What should be amiss? Everyone in Britain knows you have no intention of marrying again. I'm surprised Arthur even suggested the alliance."

"His arguments are good," she said. "Myrddin and Modrun, too, support the plan."

"You cannot be seriously considering it!"

"It would be very advantageous for Cador and myself, as well as for Dumnonia as a whole."

Beneath her fingers, she could feel the muscles of his forearm tense, but he said nothing. And what had she expected? That he wish her well? That he argue with her? She opened her mind to his, but the pain and rage was like a slap in the face. She retreated from his mind again, feeling guilty; she should have found a better time and place for this conversation.

But Yseult had never been one to put off unpleasant tasks, to drag them along with her, poisoning her mind. This time, however, she should have taken that temporary unpleasantness upon herself, for his sake, for the sake of what they'd had.

They reached the fence where the horses were penned and Yseult leaned her forearms on the top railing. The pen smelled of straw, horsehair and manure, and they could hear horses munching on grass and hay.

"Gawain, say something, please," she murmured. Her gelding trotted over to them, and Yseult scratched him obediently behind the ears, taking comfort in the smooth, warm hide.

Gawain let out a breath like an explosion. "What should I say?" His voice was low, but the force behind it felt like a shout. "I have been asking you to marry me for over a year, and now you come and tell me you are considering marrying another, simply because Arthur suggests it, for political reasons?"

She tried to gather her thoughts, her arguments, but before she could reply, he continued. "Is it because I am the son of a traitor, and Cador is the son of a hero? My hereditary lands in the north have been usurped by factions opposed to Arthur, making me little more than a professional soldier. Or is it that I am growing gray in Arthur's service and he is years your junior?"

Yseult shook her head, and to her surprise, she felt tears aching at the back of her eyes. "No, Gawain, it is nothing of the kind."
It is because it makes sense politically, just as Arthur suggested; it is because Cador is a rock and you are a hero; it is because women love you and you love them, and I would never be certain of you.

And I chose you for impermanence in the first place.

Gawain rubbed his forehead. "Then what?"

Yseult patted the gelding on the neck and faced Gawain, resisting the temptation to take his hand. "I never meant to marry again. But Arthur has a point about how unstable the situation is here in Dumnonia now. You have to admit that uniting Lindinis and Isca Dumnoniorum would be politically expedient."

He remained silent, admitting no such thing.

"I hope someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me," she murmured.

"It sounds as if you have decided already."

Yseult took the ends of her shawl in one hand. "I — no. But you deserve to know that I am considering the idea."

Gawain leaned his back against a post, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression changing from repressed anger to calculation. "And if you do enter into this marriage of convenience, what is to stop us from remaining lovers?"

She had hoped he would not ask such a thing, but there it was. "I thought you regarded yourself Cador's friend."

She shouldn't have said that
. At her age, couldn't she be less impulsive? For years, she had been training herself to be queenly and controlled, to banish passion from her life, and she
had
learned — just not all the time. She grimaced; impulsiveness might well be one reason for the "lioness" part of nickname.

"And I thought
you
regarded yourself
my lover
," Gawain ground out. "It is
my
friend you are considering marrying instead of me."

"My friend too, Gawain. I do not want to be a woman between two men again." The drama of that had been enough for a whole life.

"You always said you did not want to marry again either. Obviously what you say and what you do are two entirely different things."

She deserved that, she knew. "Nonetheless, if I marry Cador I cannot continue our relationship."

"We will see. And no matter what you want or say you want, you already are a woman between two men again. We were together too long for you to brush me off as lightly as you think to do."

"But I —"

Gawain let out a bitter laugh before she could even utter the words. "Haven't made up your mind yet? Given the way you decided to tell me, I think perhaps you have." With that, he turned on his heel and headed back to the ramparts of Celliwig.

Her gelding nudged her shoulder with a downy-soft muzzle while Gawain stormed away, Yseult watching, even more confused than when she'd sought him out.
What kind of mistake had she made?

Chapter 10

Why did ye mock to the belle Dame Isoud,

Fresh from thy ride through the murmuring wood,

Vaunting the strength that love's darts had withstood,

    With laughter so mirthless and dreary?

Scoffing, thou saidst that love's joy was but brief,

Long as life dureth its sorrow and grief;

Years in their passing bring never relief,

    To lovers' hearts, heavy and weary.

Marion Ames Taggart, "The Secret of Sir Dinadan"

Cador had not slept well. Fears of what the day would bring haunted his dreams, the cloudy spaces between dreams and waking, and the many hours when he could not sleep at all.

Yseult had been absent at supper. She had not sought him out, had not deemed it necessary to inform him of any conclusions she had or had not reached. He wanted to grant her time to think on Arthur's proposal, but with a long distant dream now suddenly so close, he found it hard to remain patient and rational.

Gawain too had not been present for the evening meal — which was even more worrisome. Cador had never thought of himself as someone with a particularly active imagination, but when he sought his pallet in the men's hall, he could not save himself from images he did not want to see. When he compared himself to the hero Gawain, it seemed a bad joke that a woman like Yseult could chose him over such a champion. Yes, Cador was a king, but he was a sub-king, subject to her son Kustennin, not someone who could raise her status if she married him. There were only a handful of men in Britain who could offer her that, and he was not one of them.

And so he had lain awake, listening to the snores of the remaining male guests. Every time he managed to drift into a light doze, it seemed he was wakened by another warrior or king nearby who turned over or grunted in his sleep.

When the first hint of morning light began to seep into the hall, he pushed back the blankets and sat up. Gawain was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps Cador had made a mistake in giving in to the temptation of wishful thinking. Yes, he wanted Yseult; yes, it made political sense; but what if Yseult continued her affair with Gawain once they were married — if they married? On the other hand, she might still decide against the proposal, and he would end up falling far and hard, given how high his hopes had risen.

Ah, what had he been thinking to tell them all he would have nothing against a match?

Thoughts chased themselves around his brain like hunting dogs with a scent and no prey, excitement high and orientation lost. He stood and pulled on his breeches, feeling as if he had been drinking all night and gotten no sleep at all. His head hurt, his eyes were scratchy, and he had no urge whatsoever to break his fast.

Well, then, he wouldn't.

He rubbed his aching forehead with thumb and forefingers. A ride would do him good. It was less than ten miles from here to the coast, on a pleasant path beside the Camel River. Perhaps the fresh air would chase some of the specters of desire and fear from his mind.

As soon as he made the decision, he felt better.

The weather outside reflected his state of mind, with a thick morning fog shifting between the buildings, disguising even the most familiar shapes. Cador gripped his cloak tight around his shoulders and headed for the kitchens. He might not have any appetite now, but he was practical enough to know that the state of his heart would not determine the state of his stomach indefinitely.

The servants were happy to give him a loaf of bread, a slab of cheese, and a flagon of watered wine. From the kitchens, Cador made his way to the pen for the horses outside the walls of the hill-fort. Wyllt seemed eager for the chance of a morning ride and pranced out of the gate with more energy than Cador thought he could deal with. But once he was on the back of his gray stallion and riding down the road leading from Celliwig to the river, the cool morning mist and the feeling of his favorite mount between his thighs brought a smile to his lips. Slowly, the dregs of near-nightmares slipped away from his mind, and by the time he reached the river, it was not only the morning mist that had burned off. Once he was on the level road near the muddy banks of the Camel, he let the stallion have his head. It was good to feel the wind through his foggy brain and the bite of the early morning cold on his cheeks.

He drew Wyllt up and brought him to a walk. Mist rolled off the river, which broadened visibly here close to the sea. Between the patches of mist, the sun was doing its mightiest to break through the thick clouds that seemed to cover this part of Dumnonia most of the year.

As he rode past, a flock of seagulls took flight, winging up from the mudflats and then returning to the river banks when they noticed he posed no threat. To either side of the Camel, the hills rose gently, while the regular clomp, clomp, clomp of his horse's hooves provided a comforting rhythm to go with the pleasant landscape.

This was what he needed right now, not the barren beauty of a windswept hill-fort, not the agony and joy of hoping for an impossible dream.

No matter what happened with Yseult, he would always be able to come back to his joy in the land. He wondered if all men felt it, or if it was an advantage of being a farmer king.

If it was heroism Yseult required, she might well reject him, and Arthur's proposal. But the land — the land was always there. Sometimes blooming, sometimes fallow, sometimes flooded, sometimes dangerous, but always beautiful in her many moods and seasons.

Cador smiled, almost happy again. He would make the best of the life that was given him, as he always had.

As long as he could keep from wanting too much.

* * * *

Yseult rose feeling as if she had been caught under the blades of a plow — and knowing she had to speak with Cador. Her emotions were in turmoil, a condition she had hoped never to experience again, but during a sleepless night, she had come to the tentative conclusion that with Cador she might be able to regain the calm life she had striven for since Drystan's death. Cador was a rock and a friend, after all; if she married him, it would not only be for the sake of Britain and the sake of her son, it would be for his friendship and his equanimity.

But in order to talk with him, first she would have to find him, which proved more difficult than expected.

He had not appeared in the hall to break his fast with the rest of the guests. Which was a shame, since all morning she had been rehearsing everything she wished to say to him in her mind. After bread and sausages with fried apples, Yseult learned that Cador had gone riding.

Only no one knew where.

And so she found herself using her power of calling in a way she never had before. Locating the person she needed to call was logically a part of her gift, it was just that she had never attempted it without sending a message. But she wanted to speak with Cador in person, and not just as a shout in his mind.

Soon she was following the Camel towards the sea at a comfortable canter. She knew she had taken the right direction, because her awareness of Cador grew stronger the farther west she rode.

She smelled the ocean before she saw it, the scent of salt and fish, the increased heaviness in the air that was like a scent all its own. Here, the Camel River was as wide as a lake; nothing to compare with the Sabrina Estuary, of course, but nonetheless impressive. Small fishing villages and individual huts dotted the landscape, and Yseult was no longer alone on the beaten path next to the river. It was no Roman road, but it was well-traveled, wide from the many feet and hooves that had plodded and marched and trotted along it through the years.