Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (49 page)

Drystan shook his head, smiling. "Neither did I."

"I wonder what is behind it?"

They soon found out. Arthur was coming courting.

"I need a stronger power base in Dumnonia," he said the first night over a glass of wine. He did not need to elaborate to anyone at the table as to why. "I had several opportunities to speak with Gwythyr's daughter Ginevra after the exchange of hostages and have since made inquiries. Her father would not be opposed to the match."

Cai grinned. "It does not hurt that she is a sweet young thing either."

"It is more important to me that her father holds Celliwig," Arthur said earnestly.

Several of the men at the table guffawed, but it was clear to Yseult that Arthur spoke the truth. And while she liked and respected Ambrosius's general, she pitied the poor girl he was courting.

A healthy cry came from the crib in the corner of the room, and Yseult rose and went to her son.

"Is that my new cousin?" came a voice at her elbow. It was young Cador of Dyn Draithou.

Yseult smiled and lifted Kustennin out of the bed. He yawned mightily, stuck his finger in his mouth, and leaned his head on her shoulder.

Cador peered at the sleepy baby face. "Fine boy. Does he look like his mother or his father?"

Yseult nestled her cheek against her son's warm, fuzzy head. "Well, we can't really tell yet what color his eyes are going to be, so it's hard to say. They are lighter than when he was born, but whether they will be blue-gray or green ...?" She shrugged.

Cador chuckled. "I suspect he will take after his father. If his eyes were going to look like yours, Yseult, you would have noticed."

Yseult looked up again, surprised. Cador raised one light eyebrow and sauntered back to the table where the others were sitting. Yseult followed, carrying Kustennin.

Arthur and his companions brought life back to the fortress of Dyn Tagell. Celliwig was a two hours ride away, and even when the Dux Bellorum visited Ginevra, he usually returned to Dyn Tagell by evening. When he discovered the state of the defenses, he began to assist Drystan in recruiting and training new soldiers, a grim look around his mouth. Yseult did not need to read his mind to know he thought Marcus's priorities in the "defense" of Dumnonia wrong.

He would get the chance to tell the Dumnonian king himself sooner than anyone had suspected: Arthur had been at Dyn Tagell less than two weeks when another large party arrived.

* * * *

Marcus paced the chamber Yseult had taken as her own — not the one she had shared with him when she first arrived at Dyn Tagell over a year ago.

"Why didn't you send word that Arthur was here?"

Yseult maintained her composure, knowing she should have informed him but refusing to admit it. "I saw no need. When Kustennin was born, we agreed that you would administer in the east, and I would administer in the west unless there was something you needed to see to personally."

Marcus turned to face her, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "And you do not think the presence of the Dux Bellorum is something I need to see to personally?"

Yseult gazed past his shoulder at the wall painting of a deer peeking out from behind the trunk of a tree. The painting and the windows to the south were the reason she had chosen this room for her own, despite its modest size.

She
had
known Marcus would see Arthur's presence at Dyn Tagell that way, but she had chosen to ignore it, for Arthur's sake and for her own.

"Arthur did not want to consult with you, he only wanted a base of operations for visits to the nearby kings."

"Nearby princess, you mean."

"That too." Where had he learned of Ginevra? From Paternus?

"And you are housing and feeding him through the summer?"

"It is his right, as representative of the High King. He defends this land against its enemies."

"While Ambrosius defends Gaul against its enemies." She didn't know why that would make him so bitter, since it gave him a much greater opportunity for his machinations.

Yseult shrugged. "Do you not also believe in this
romanitas
? It is Roman ideals he is defending, against the common enemy of Britain. I would have thought you would support that." Of course she knew that all Marcus supported was Marcus, but she was also aware that he regarded himself as Roman.

"I do not support it at the expense of Britain's defense," he snapped. "And as soon as Ambrosius sailed off with a legion two thousand strong, your countrymen attacked. Next it will be the Saxons again. The peace of Venta means nothing to them."

"Perhaps you are right. Cerdic's marriage to a Saxon princess is no guarantee of peace."

They were both well aware that Yseult was referring indirectly to their own marriage and the peace it had not brought. Neither had it brought Marcus the powerful alliance with Eriu he had hoped; he had overestimated Lóegaire's authority among the Erainn sub-kings, equating his position with that of a High King in Britain; had underestimated the importance the Laigin forces of the south would attach to an unwilling bride.

Marcus turned on his heel. "Next time, I would appreciate it if you would inform me when important guests are expected," he shot over his shoulder.

Yseult stared for a while at the spot where he had stood and then went over to the small bed next to her own where her son slept. Their angry voices had not woken him, but she picked him up anyway, needing the smell of his baby skin, the soft feel of it against her lips. Marcus disapproved of the fact that she still did not have a wet nurse, that she hovered around "the child" like a peasant.

She was happy to displease him; if only it meant he would leave again soon.

Kustennin moved against her, turning his head automatically towards her smell, his small hands clutching the linen of her tunic. Yseult chuckled, sat down on the bed, and freed her breast. He moved his head frantically back and forth, whimpering, his eyes still closed, and Yseult guided her nipple to his mouth.

"Greedy little boy," she murmured, smiling, smoothing the down on his head back with her free hand. The love she felt for this small being was so great sometimes that it closed her throat with joy.

Perhaps Drystan was right and she should renounce her marriage to his father. But could she risk her son's future that way? What would his place be if Marcus repudiated him?

Kustennin pulled on her nipple, making happy little gurgling noises.

She had been an unwilling bride. But now, strictly speaking, she had become a willing one — and she was doing Marcus wrong. Yes, he had bought her in marriage against her will for a promise of peace. She'd had no choice if she wanted to keep her mother safe.

Now she did have a choice, and she had chosen to continue the wrong he had done her. To Yseult's way of thinking, a marriage entered into unwillingly was no marriage, but what was it now when she
remained
in it of her own free will?

She didn't know.

* * * *

Drystan had changed his mind — sometimes anything wasn't better than nothing.

Unbearable. He paced the perimeters of the Rock, grateful for a brisk June wind tearing at the hair in his braid, grateful for the fog rolling in, concealing the reluctant summer sun of the Dumnonian coast, grateful for the miserable day to match his miserable mood.

He stopped and gazed to the northwest, through the patches of fog, to where Yseult's home lay, where perhaps they could have been happy if he had not killed her uncle.

But he might never have met her if he had not killed her uncle.

He dragged the hair out of his face and gripped his hands behind his back, willing himself to calm.

Which he would not find this day.

"Drystan!"

He closed his eyes for a moment before turning. This time, she did not have the son he could not acknowledge with her, or the father she called husband.

"My lady mother?"

She ignored the sarcastic form of address. "I have seen almost nothing of you since your father returned. I need to speak to you."

"Here we are protected by the lack of trees, and the wind will carry our words away. Speak."

"I have been thinking on what you said in Lansyen, that I have been in this land too long. I think I will ask your father for permission to visit Eriu with Kustennin so that my mother can see the babe." She dropped her voice a notch, although it was hardly necessary. "Then I can also see if there's anything there for him, for us."

The mist rolled up the cliffs of Dyn Tagell, curling around her like a dream. Drystan felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. Strange how hope could feel so much like despair when it came so suddenly.

The moisture of the heavy mist beaded his face and his bare forearms, and he pushed the damp hair off of his forehead. "What made you come to this conclusion?"

"Having your father here. Knowing I am doing him wrong."

She was doing his
father
wrong? Drystan gave a bitter laugh.

Yseult turned to gaze out in the direction of her homeland now too. "I know you think I am doing you wrong, but together we are cheating your father. My logic may not be your logic: as long as I was forced to stay in this marriage against my will, it meant nothing to me. But if I decide to remain here, with him, I must act accordingly."

"And that means?"

She fixed her light, bright eyes on him. "I cannot continue our affair."

The hollow feeling in his stomach was getting worse. The brief moment of wild hope was all mixed up with fear now. Gulls cried around them, mocking him, and his lips tasted of salt as if he had been crying.

"I can make you no promises, Drystan. I love you more than anything in this world, besides Kustennin. But I must think of our son first."

He nodded.

A son that, according to the Roman law still prevailing in Britain, belonged to his legal father, Marcus Cunomorus.

* * * *

The messenger arrived while Arthur was away at Celliwig, attending to interests far removed from war, even if they might not have been love. A single rider from Caer Leon brought the news, changing mounts at the seats of the local kings along the way, arriving exhausted in the small hours of the morning.

Drystan had spent much of the last two years fighting, and the commotion woke him immediately. He pulled on a tunic and breeches and hurried into the hall, strapping his short sword around his waist as he went.

He found Ruan sitting at the main table, his hands clenched around a mug of warm mead, while Andred, Marcus, and Yseult hovering around him.

Even
his father
. The news must be momentous.

"Ambrosius retreated with what was left of his forces in the direction of Avallon," Ruan was saying as Kurvenal and several others joined them. "He intends to make for the Roman provincial capital of Augusta Treverorum where he can get reinforcements."

"What is it?" Drystan broke in. "What happened?"

His father looked at him, his expression suitably serious, but his eyes glowing. "Ambrosius has suffered a major defeat at the hands of Euric in the land of the Bituriges."

A dozen people had found their way into the hall by this time, but at Marcus's words, there was a moment of complete silence.

Drystan turned away, slamming his palm against the nearest wall. "Gods!" Not the worst of the news was the knowledge that his father likely understood Britain's loss as his own gain. He had to speak with Arthur alone.

"We will send a messenger of our own to Celliwig," Yseult said to Ruan. "You deserve your rest."

Ruan smiled at her gratefully, his eyes half open, the long ride and the warm mead taking their toll. "Thank you, Lady."

Arthur arrived from Celliwig before the midday meal and immediately summoned Ruan, even before changing out of his traveling clothes. Pacing, he heard the messenger out, shooting questions at him in rapid succession, and then turned to Bedwyr and Cai.