Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (15 page)

"He can't marry you, you know," Drystan said bluntly. "Not by the old ways and not by the new."

"We'll see."

"You said it yourself, my father is king. Too many people take note of his actions. If he were to marry you, Ambrosius Aurelianus would see to it that the protectorship of Dumnonia is taken away from him. Marcus Cunomorus would not take that risk."

"Perhaps I mean more to him than his position as protector."

"Perhaps. But I doubt it. You have heard that he was trying to arrange a marriage with Yseult of Eriu?" He knew it was brutal, taking out his anger at his father on his cousin, but her stupidity made him wild. Of course, she was only fifteen, but some women were mothers at her age. And others took lovers and took precautions. Labiane, however, seemed convinced that her affair with Marcus Cunomorus was a prelude to marriage. Couldn't she see that it was impossible for his father's intentions to be honorable?

"That was before," Labiane was saying now, her expression stubborn.

Yes, before. Before his father seduced a girl barely a woman, before Labiane had perhaps become pregnant with a child its father wouldn't claim, before Drystan was called back to serve a man he would rather have as an enemy than a friend, let alone as nearest relative. He could remember how he had looked up to the same man, awed at the impressive sight of the King of the Southwest, how he had yearned for a kind word or a sign of approval. Somehow, that feeling of admiration was mixed up with his repugnance now, in a tangle he couldn't sort out.

Drystan stopped his pacing in the middle of the room and turned to face Labiane, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. "Are you with child?" he asked.

Labiane gazed at him, silent, the full lower lip beginning to tremble and her blue-gray eyes growing moist.

"Gods," Drystan muttered beneath his breath. He would have dearly loved to hit something. Again. Instead, he turned on his cousin. "Has the example of our Aunt Ygerna taught you nothing?" he barked out.

She stared at him mutinously. "Marcus is not like Uthyr. He would never deny my child."

Drystan turned away. Acknowledging paternity of her child would be as bad as marrying her, and Marcus was as likely to do the one as the other. By taking her to his bed, he had already endangered his position in the Dumnonian principalities across the sea if the story got out. Riwallon would hardly remain loyal to an overlord who had impregnated his daughter while she was in fosterage with him. Peace in Armorica would be at an end.

Unless his father found a husband for Labiane. And soon.

"I will speak with my father," Drystan said quietly, forcing himself to keep the anger out of his voice.

Labiane's small face lit up, and he didn't have the heart to tell her what exactly it was he planned to speak with his father about.

* * * *

The sounds of the blades meeting and sliding away rang again and again in the flat area to the east of the turf-walled huts. Small as the lodgings for the common soldiers were, the walls still provided some protection from the winds that came in from the sea, and many a friendly skirmish had been fought here. Larger practice grounds were to be found on the mainland near the stables, and it was there that group combat was drilled. But anyone who was not obligated to be practicing such maneuvers with the king of Dumnonia had gathered near the huts on the island to watch his son cross swords with his armor-bearer.

The regular clash of the blades was punctuated by sighs of approval and even alarm. Drystan was fighting with the fury of true battle, and an older warrior followed the combat closely, his forehead puckered in lines of worry.

"Finish him, Drystan!" a youth on the sidelines called out, and his tutor put a hand on his shoulder.

"Shhh, Cador, you don't want to distract them," Antonius said.

Drystan heard his young cousin, and reason slowly began to return. Suddenly, he was aware of the sweat coating his forehead and gluing his tunic to his back, of Kurvenal panting and swinging his own heavy sword opposite him.

Drystan jumped back and dropped his sword, wiping his forehead with his forearm. "Enough. Thank you, my friend."

Kurvenal lowered his own sword, his relief palpable, and Drystan had to grin.

"You may claim to be more bard than warrior," Kurvenal said, panting, "but that display just now gives you the lie." He rested his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths.

Cador was at Drystan's elbow. "That is a fine sword, Cousin."

"The finest to be had in Armorica." Drystan wiped the blade against his breeches and handed it hilt-first to Cador. His young cousin had only been a child of five when Drystan went into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, and Cador had not gone into fosterage with Marcus and Argante until he had turned seven — Drystan barely knew the youth who stood before him now.

Despite his mere thirteen years, Cador examined the sword with the eye of an expert, hefting it for balance and sighting down the blade. "Soon I will join my father and help Ambrosius and Arthur fight the Saxons," Cador announced, returning the sword to Drystan. "Will you be joining them as well?"

"I'll probably be needed here to protect the coast from the raiders of Eriu," Drystan said.

Cador's expression made it obvious what he thought of patrolling the sea in ships. Drystan exchanged grins with Kurvenal over the youth's head.

"Battles at sea can be just as important as on land," Drystan said, ruffling his cousin's tawny hair.

"Perhaps." Cador didn't look convinced. "But then you can't be a general like Arthur."

Drystan laughed. The swordplay with Kurvenal had allowed him to fight out much of his anger, and his natural high spirits were returning. He still did not look forward to speaking with his father, but he hoped he would now be able to face him rationally.

When Marcus returned from drilling his foot soldiers, Drystan was waiting for him in the main room of the Lower Hall. Labiane had looked in, obviously with the same purpose in mind, but at the sight of her cousin, she scurried away again.

Drystan approached his father as he made his way towards the baths. "We need to talk."

"Then talk."

"In private."

"Join me in the baths." Marcus waved away his young armor-bearer, and Drystan continued with him alone to the back of the building where the baths were located. He had already bathed after his fight that afternoon, but the baths would be a good location for a private conversation.

The two men stripped in the small apodyterium and entered the caldarium, the hot bath. The public bathhouse on the mainland was larger and included a tepidarium and a frigidarium, but Marcus preferred the privacy of the bath in the Lower Hall. Although it did not have separate rooms for water of different temperatures, it did have two pools. Marcus may have lost his villa, but he maintained what remained to him of Roman culture scrupulously. There was nothing like this at Riwallon's seat in Leonis, where the only baths were public and filled by hand.

"So, what was it you wanted to speak with me about, Drustanus?" Marcus asked, stepping into the hot water.

Drystan slipped on the wooden sandals for protection from the heat of the tiles and followed his father into the pool. "Labiane."

"Ah."

It was not an adequate answer, so Drystan waited, concentrating on the relaxing effect of the liquid warmth, the way his braid floated beside him, the steam rising from the surface of the water, the mural on the opposite wall of a young woman pouring perfume into a small vial.

"What has she told you?" his father finally asked.

"Everything, I presume."

He must not have been successful in keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice, because his father immediately became defensive. "I assure you, it was not at all like Uthyr and Ygerna. She was more than willing."

"Then you will acknowledge her child?"

"Of course not!"

Drystan nodded. The father he was slowly getting to know would not be swayed by anything as paltry as moral considerations. "I thought as much."

"I couldn't, you know. Ambrosius would do everything in his power to unseat me."

"You should have thought of that before you took her to your bed."

"There are some situations where it is hard to be rational."

"And some situations serious enough that they demand rational behavior. Everyone in Britain knows how Ambrosius feels about Uthyr's treatment of Ygerna."

"I tell you, I didn't rape the girl."

"But you can't marry her either."

"No one need have found out. If she had not become pregnant —"

A slave entered with scented oils and scrapers, and Drystan motioned his father to be silent. When the young man left, Marcus complained, "It was only a slave, Drustanus. There is no harm in that."

"Slaves also have eyes and ears and tongues."

"But who would listen to a slave?"

"Anyone interested in what they have to say, I presume."

Marcus dismissed this idea with a simple, rude noise. "Gossips."

"Perhaps. But there are always those who will be happy to think the worst. You need to find a husband for her, soon."

"I suppose you're right." He leaned his head back on the edge of the pool and gazed up at the ceiling. "It won't be easy."

"No, it won't. He has to be willing to accept your brat, and he also has to have status enough to satisfy Riwallon."

"Any suggestions?"

"You must be much more familiar with the eligible local kings than I." Drystan leaned his head back too, examining the slight curve of the young woman's back in the mural, the look of concentration in her eyes as she bent to the task of filling the vial. Somehow, a matching concentration to the task at hand had replaced his own anger, at least on the surface. And he could not allow himself to delve below the surface. "A king subject to you would be good, but here in Dumnonia, not Armorica. Perhaps a widower with several sons of his own who wouldn't feel threatened by your bastard."

Marcus considered Drystan's words, apparently not the least bit offended by his language. "Hm. Caw has recently been widowed again, and he has such a wealth of sons, he is the envy of every king in Britain. He's already outlived two wives, a third shouldn't hurt him." He chuckled, and Drystan felt disgusted, both at his father and at the role he himself was playing. Labiane wouldn't thank him, he knew. Perhaps for her it would be better to go back to Riwallon and Blodewedd with a brat in her belly. But that might well mean war between Marcus and the regional kings in Armorica.

"You should make the proposal to him as soon as possible, then."

"Yes. Excellent advice, my son." Marcus shot him a complicit grin, which Drystan ignored.

How odd that his father suddenly seemed to be developing some affection for him just when he had ceased to care.

Chapter 7

under zwein übele kiese ein man,

daz danne minner übel ist.

(Given the choice of two evils, always choose the lesser.)

Gottfried von Straßburg,
Tristan

Labiane had not spoken to Drystan during the entire journey up the coast to Caer Custoeint near the old Roman port of Abona. She thought he had betrayed her, and Drystan agreed, although for different reasons. Caw was his father's age, and his sons were even older than Drystan. His eldest son Hueil had a wife older than Labiane.

But there had been little choice if they were to avoid scandal and war. Most men would not take a bride rumored to have a bastard in her belly. But Caw, as his father had foreseen, had no fear of a bastard — and greater need to have the King of Dumnonia in his debt. Caw was a newcomer to the South, holding the seat of Caer Custoeint for Ambrosius and Marcus against the Erainn raiders. Only a few years ago, he had been fighting against Ambrosius's forces himself, but a series of victories led by Arthur in the north, culminating in the battle of Cat Coit Celidon, had gone far to "persuading" the kings of the northern tribes that they would all be stronger if they joined forces against the Saxons and the Erainn. In the resulting negotiations, Caw had agreed to come south, leaving his seat in Camboglana in the hands of his son Hueil. The rest of his grown sons had joined the army of Ambrosius and Arthur, as much hostages for the good behavior of their father and brother as recruits.