Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (2 page)

She drew up in front of Patraic without dismounting. If he wanted to play a game of symbols and stories, she would be happy to oblige him. She had the height and presence of those with the pure blood of the Old Race, and sitting her mare, she towered above him. The sight would be an impressive one, she knew. Her long braid was the same shade of gold as the torc around her neck and the bracelets on her upper arms; her mare was as white as her tunic, and her cape a deep royal purple. The Christian wise man in the white robes of a druid was small and plain in comparison.

The wind shifted again and the air between them cleared. "I am certain you know that according to our ways it is sacrilege to light a bonfire in the week before Beltaine," she said.

Patraic shook his head. "It is Beltaine which is a sacrilege to the true belief of Jesus Christ, who died for our sins on this day."

The queen looked down at him, using her power of knowing to probe his mind. There was respect there — respect and stubbornness. "We allow you to practice your religion among the people of Eriu, and you name one of our greatest festivals a sacrilege?"

"Your festivals are full of sin in the eyes of our Lord," the Christian wise man replied quietly. "I would bring the people of Eriu the one true religion."

Suddenly Queen Yseult knew:
If they did not put out this fire, it would burn in the memory of mankind for centuries.

"Murchad, Aidenn, Gamal!" She called out the names of Fianna and Feadh Ree warriors. "See to it that this fire is extinguished!"

Her brother and the others dismounted and pulled blankets from their saddlebags. She urged her mare through the crowd again, rejoining her daughter, niece, and sister-in-law, while the soldiers approached the bonfire. Before they could reach it, Patraic stepped in front of them. Staring at them deliberately, he raised his hands high above his head, the sleeves of his tunic pooling around his shoulders. His voice carried as well as the queen's, booming above the noise of the flames and the nervous horses:

"Christ beside me,

"Christ in front of me,

"Christ behind me.

"Today I take on a terrible power;

"I invoke the Trinity,

"I acknowledge the power of the Three

"In the belief of the One,

"In view of the Maker."

A gust of wind came up, driving a wall of smoke into the group of people gathered at the top of the hill and temporarily darkening the sky. The three warriors stopped in their tracks at the magic invocation, spoken by one with power of speech like a druid. Even giant Murchad faltered.

The flickering light of the flames reflected off their gold and silver jewelry and cast dancing shadows on the white-robed disciples. Murchad was the champion of the High King of Eriu, but a warrior had no defenses against a druid curse.

Patraic was winning the battle of symbols and stories. The fire would not be put out.

Queen Yseult didn't know what to do. In the tales spoken around the fire on long winter nights, she was Yseult the Wise, the fair flame of the Tuatha Dé, whose knowledge of healing and wisdom in the ways of Gael and Feadh Ree alike was famed throughout the five fifths of Eriu — but she had no wisdom for this. She could not force her men to go against Patraic and risk being cursed, and she could not put out the bonfire by herself.

Bitterness twisted in her stomach like a draught given to someone who had eaten spoiled meat.

Patraic lowered his arms and gazed at her, the blue of his eyes as intense as the sky beyond the veil of smoke. He knew as well as she that the warriors of Eriu feared the power of the word more than the sharpest blade. And he knew how to use that knowledge.

She spurred her horse forward through the small group. Pulling up next to the Christian wise man, she leaned over to him. "When the Ard Ri hears of this, you will no longer be welcome at Tara."

"What is the seat of earthly kings compared to the seat of the king of heaven?" His voice was once again gentle, but there was triumph there as well.

"It is not over, Roman," she said shortly.

Suddenly he grinned. "No, both of us are much too stubborn for that."

The humor disarmed her completely — a man willing to share a joke with his enemy. She couldn't help but wish they were on the same side.

She straightened up in her saddle and found herself staring at the fire of Patraic; Patraic, who was more clever than dogmatic, who had grown up with the people of this land and knew their ways, who understood the importance of ritual and knew how to manipulate signs. This was power and magic. And this made Yseult the Wise very afraid.

The Gael admired courage above all else, and here was a white-robed wise man, facing down the champion of Lóegaire and the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Next to courage, they loved generosity, and Patraic was nothing if not generous. Finally, they had a great respect for the power of words.

"Christ will accept you too," Patraic said quietly. "He died for all our sins to give us eternal life."

Yseult the Wise did not care to be saved by the god of the Romans, a god who had no room beside him for Danu or Brigid or Lug, a god without tolerance who reserved all magic in life for himself. She wheeled her mare around. "Come," she called out to her party. "We must inform the king." She motioned the warriors to remount and led them away, south, to Lóegaire and Tara, away from the Hill of Slane and the fire that burned at her back.

* * * *

The queen paced in front of the fire pit in the great hall of Tara. The high pillars of wood holding up the thickly thatched roof were decorated in intricate patterns of curling leaves entwined with human and animal figures, the best craftsmanship Midhe or Brega had to offer. An assortment of domestic utensils, woven hangings, and weapons — reminders of a less peaceful time — hung on the walls, long shields and round shields of bronze and wood alongside swords and axes. Before the days of Lóegaire's father, Niall of the Nine Hostages, those weapons had been used against the other tribes of Eriu, especially the greatest enemies of the Ulaid, the Laigin. Now the enemies they protected against were the tribes of the Bretain across the waters; raids between the tuatha of Eriu had become rare.

"Sit, Yseult," Lóegaire said. "You are making us all nervous."

She stopped her pacing and turned to face the king. She had supported Lóegaire's kingship willingly after his first wife died, had become his consort and shared his bed. Now, however, he was growing old quickly, and the strength in his arm was not what that of a High King should be. She had left his bed three seasons ago, but she continued to uphold his kingship because she knew he would never completely abandon the old ways.

But now — now he had no interest in confronting Patraic.

"Can't you see how dangerous he is, Lóegaire?" she asked.

The king let out a bark of disbelieving laughter. "Dangerous? I like the sacrilege of this fire as little as you, but I hardly see what threat a Christian wise man poses."

"His bonfire can be seen a day's ride away in every direction," the old druid Boinda said quietly. "If he keeps it burning, it will rival that of the Beltaine fire."

Queen Yseult could feel Lóegaire's impatience like a shout in her mind. She possessed all three of the powers of the Old Race, changing, calling, and knowing, but knowing was strongest in her — at times almost like a curse, especially when she was distracted and the thoughts of others threatened to crowd out her own.

Lóegaire turned to Boinda. "Then we must bring this Patraic here for Beltaine, not banish him. The land of Eriu has welcomed new gods before this."

"His religion is not so open-minded," the druid Lochru warned.

"What am I to do?" Lóegaire asked, shrugging. "If I banish him, the subject kings who believe in Patraic's god may try to withdraw their support."

Lóegaire's older brother Coirpre leaned forward. "And if you do not, the kings who continue to follow the old ways may refuse to follow you."

Queen Yseult gazed at Coirpre. He held the rath at the holy site of Tailtu, but he would never forget that the council had passed him by, choosing his younger brother as High King. She didn't care for Coirpre, but he was a staunch follower of the old ways and thus her ally.

She had a consort she couldn't love, an ally she couldn't like, and an enemy she couldn't help but respect. Suddenly the queen felt very tired.

* * * *

On Beltaine, the High King and his druids lit the true fire, as it should be. The cattle were driven between the bonfires and the summer pastures opened, also as it should be. But this year, the fire of the Christ burned to the north, and nothing would be as it should be.

The druids withdrew to the sacred grove with the ban file Brigid. The young priestess was little older than the queen's niece Brangwyn, and already she was the greatest female druid in the land, the representative of the goddess in Eriu. Although she was of mixed blood, her powers were greater even than those of Queen Yseult.

It was the power of knowing needed for the ritual of the tarbfeis, the bull dream. The druids had chosen the bull to be sacrificed in place of the king, blessed it and given it the king's identity, while Lóegaire received the holy herbs and was brought away. The druid Lochru killed the bull and Brigid ate of its flesh to induce the dream. The chief bard Erc stood by to commit the ceremony to memory and produce a poem to be told around the fire on winter nights. Everything was as it should be, except for the fire to the north, still burning on the Hill of Slane.

Brigid fell into a trance, and the incantations were recited over her. But when she emerged from the grove, bathed in the blood of the bull, she did not pronounce the rituals necessary for Lóegaire to rightfully claim the throne of the Ard Ri for another year. What she pronounced were the circumstances of the High King's death.

Queen Yseult watched Brigid, no longer the bright and beautiful young presence she knew. Instead, she was Morrigu, agent of death, with blood on her hands and her lips; Danu herself, with the knowledge of all things shining from her eyes.

Brigid's voice was distant, but it carried through the crowd. "I speak of the death of Lóegaire. It is the death of a king no longer a king. Death will find him between Alba and Eriu after he has given up his word and his kingship."

A collective gasp escaped the onlookers at the ban file's words, while the pale figure at the center of attention collapsed between the druids flanking her.

* * * *

The next day, High King Lóegaire called together the druids and nobles in the largest round-house of Rath na Riogh, which the queen had once shared with him. Now he shared it with the female slave from across the sea who was roasting a sow in the central fire pit. The peat fire was slow and even, spitting and crackling occasionally as fat dripped onto it. The smell of the meat and the fire surrounded them, but the house was finely built and well-ventilated, and most of the smoke escaped through the vents at the top of the outer walls.

"It was not the tarbfeis," Lóegaire insisted. "No mention of the kingship for the coming year was made. The ceremony must be repeated."

Queen Yseult glanced at Brigid, but the keeper of the flame remained silent. She seemed to think that if the High King wanted to deny the truth of a prophecy, that was his decision.

Boinda shook his head. "The time was right and the bull consecrated. If the kingship was not mentioned, so be it. We can only hope the gods will give us a clearer message next year."

"If no one else was named king, only you have the authority to be Ard Ri for another year," Lochru added.

Lóegaire's expression cleared. "True." His gaze slid over Queen Yseult and away again, and she could feel his desire bloom briefly before he repressed it. He still wanted her, wanted her as more than just a symbol of his marriage to the land. His Bretain slave was pretty enough, pretty and docile, but it was not docility he wanted, it was the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

He pushed back his chair and stood.

"I intend to seek peace with the Bretain," the High King said, beginning to pace. "We must make contact with the kings of Rheged, Venedotia and Dumnonia."

Commotion broke out among the other kings present. Lóegaire's motive was clear to all: he wanted to ensure that he could not be caught in battle between Alba and Eriu, wanted to be more powerful than prophecy. But the raids on the Bretain coast were very lucrative for the kings of the east.

Dunlaing, a king of the Laigin to the south, finally made himself heard above the din. "And what of the Oenach, Lóegaire? Don't you intend to speak to the Council of Kings first?"