Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (5 page)

"You could also say it's finally nice enough for weapons practice," Yseult said, laughing, and waved them on their way.

* * * *

Eithne wasn't too disappointed that Yseult wouldn't be joining them — she liked the other girl well enough, but they were both blond, and no one would look at Eithne if Yseult was near. Yseult was blonder than blond, her coloring the silver-white of the Fair Ones. Not even the queen's coloring was as dramatic, and she was pure blood of the Feadh Ree.

But soon, Eithne wouldn't have to worry about anyone looking at her or not; she was to marry a foreign king. She didn't want to think about leaving Eriu and her sister and marrying a man old enough to be her father. Other girls chose the men they would marry themselves, danced with them at Beltaine and joined hands with them through the stone at Lugnasad. But those girls didn't have kings for fathers and the future of kingdoms to consider.

It would be pleasant to choose her own husband, perhaps even more pleasant than being a queen. But now the sun was shining and she was going swimming with her sister, and she wouldn't think of it anymore.

Hand in hand, they headed for the creek, laughing and running. They still had to dodge puddles here and there, but the air was clear, the breeze sharp, and the sun warm on their skin. The shimmering hills around them were intensely green from the recent rain.

No, Eithne did not think she wanted to marry across the ocean.

The stream was higher and wilder than usual, but in most places still shallow enough for wading. When they reached the banks, they pulled off their tunics and stepped into the water, surprisingly cold given the warmth of the day.

Fedalma shivered and laughed and splashed water on her older sister. "Come, Eithne!" Then she jumped out into the middle of the creek while Eithne hung back, trying to get used to the cold water.

One moment Fedalma was there, teasing and laughing — and then she was gone.

A head bobbed up farther downstream, too far. "Eithne!"

Fedalma must have slipped, and the current had pulled her out of reach. Eithne plunged into the middle of the stream after her sister. The force of the run-off from the recent rains knocked her off her feet. She felt a moment of panic, and then her head hit a rock, and the panic was over.

* * * *

Patraic's disciple Ciaran was wandering in the shade of the trees near the stream with his master and several others, enjoying the wind off the water and intelligent arguments among like-minded men, when they heard a muffled cry and a splash. Conversation halted, and the group dashed through the trees to the banks. They saw one head bob up in the water followed by another, only to disappear again.

"Quick," Patraic said, pulling his white robe over his head and wading into the creek. Ciaran, Mochta and Benen followed close behind, gasping at the shock of cold water on bare skin.

"This way," Ciaran called, swimming just downstream from where they had last seen the young women. A blond head appeared only a few handspans away from him, and he grabbed her, getting one arm around her shoulders.

"Mochta!" The nearest of the other disciples swam over to help. Together they pulled her to the shore and into the sun. Ciaran saw now who they had fished out of the stream — probably too late. The king's daughter was breathing, but shallowly. There was a bruise above one temple and her hands and feet were cold, so cold. She was shivering uncontrollably. He and Mochta turned Eithne over, lifting her by her limbs to try to empty the water from her lungs, but she gave only a weak cough followed by too little liquid. They turned her onto her back again, laid her down in the grass, and chafed her hands vigorously.

By this time, Patraic and Benen had located the other girl and dragged her out of the water to lay her next to her sister near the bank. Ciaran looked down at the two young women, pale and beautiful against the green grass. Fedalma was shaken with violent shivers at regular intervals, even though Benen and Patraic were doing their best to warm her.

"Here, let me, master," Ciaran said, taking the older man's place next to the redhead and rubbing her hands. Ciaran watched while Patraic rose slowly and walked upstream to retrieve his long white robe from the ground. But the master was not as old he sometimes seemed to his youthful followers — his limbs were well-muscled and he was as strong a swimmer as any of them.

Patraic returned, dressed again in his tunic, his face sad. "Thank you, my son." Ciaran made way for him and the master knelt between the two girls.

Ciaran returned his attention to Eithne, stroking a strand of wet hair away from her forehead. She was still shivering from head to foot. "They're so cold. We must warm them."

"Try using the heat of your own body," Patraic suggested.

"Someone bring our tunics, quickly," Ciaran barked out. He could feel the tears poised at the corners of his eyes as he lay down next to the princess and gathered her in his arms. Mochta did the same for Fedalma as Benen gathered up their clothes and brought them over.

"Fili?" came a weak voice. Eithne's eyes were open a slit. She must have taken the master for a druid in his long white robes. She was gazing from Ciaran to Patraic, her expression dazed. At least she had stopped shivering.

"Fili?" Eithne repeated weakly. Patraic took her hand while Ciaran wrapped one of the tunics around her as tightly as he could. He took her in his arms again and Eithne turned her dazed blue eyes to him. "I'm so tired," she whispered. "Tired and cold."

"Sleep, my child," Patraic murmured.

"No!" Ciaran rubbed her upper body. "If she sleeps she will not wake."

"Are you druids?" Eithne asked drowsily.

"No, daughter," Patraic replied. "We are disciples of Christ."

"The druids have great magic."

"There is no greater magic than that of Christ, who gives everlasting life," the master said gently.

"So cold. Will we die, fili?"

"It is in God's hands."

"Which God?"

Ciaran had to smile despite the tears pushing at the backs of his eyelids. She had been raised on druid logic, as he had, and craved clarity even now, when she could hardly hold on to reality.

"Christ, the one true God," Patraic told her. "If you let me baptize you, you will go to him as his brides."

Eithne looked at Ciaran. "Is this Christ young?" Ciaran hugged her tighter, but she didn't seem to feel it.

"There is no age in the land of eternal life," Patraic said.

"Do what you think is wise, fili," she whispered, her eyes closing again.

Patraic apparently decided their immersion had been recent enough for a baptism, for Ciaran heard the lyrical Latin spoken above him, followed by the final sacrament. Eithne's lips curled up in a smile at the lilting rhythm of the master's voice.

Ciaran pulled her head to his shoulder. He felt her breathing still, but the smile didn't leave her face.

Patraic quickly repeated the ritual for Fedalma, and Ciaran let the words wash over him while he cried.

"Did you know her well?" Patraic asked gently.

Ciaran shook his head. "The son of a simple freeman who sold his honor-price? One of your followers? No." An ironic smile diverted the path of the tears down his cheeks. He stood, wiping them away with the back of his hand.

Patraic took Ciaran's face in his hands and gazed into his eyes. "You are a kind soul, Ciaran. But she has received the sacrament and can now enjoy eternal life."

Ciaran shrugged. "What good does that do those of us who would have cared to gaze on her?"

The master looked down at the motionless young woman at their feet and nodded. "True. Some beauty has gone out of life this day."

He turned to Benen and Mochta. "What of the other princess?" They shook their heads. "Then come. We must return them to their family."

Ciaran lifted Eithne in his arms tenderly while Benen took Fedalma, and they began their slow walk to Cruachu.

* * * *

Yseult and Brangwyn were both dressed in breeches and short tunics, jewelry fit for warriors gleaming on their wrists and upper arms, and golden torcs around their necks. Each held a battle sword in one hand and a round wooden shield covered in leather in the other. Their finely balanced blades, Tuatha Dé work from the famous swordsmith at Bruig na Boyne, glittered in the sun, the points protected by guards of wood. Their hair was braided to keep it out of their way, one long, thick plait hanging down each back, black and palest gold; Yseult a tall, white flame, and Brangwyn her shifting shadow. They were outside the ramparts of the main rath at the parade grounds where military exercise took place. All around them were warriors similarly equipped and similarly engaged, some with wooden swords, others with real blades for the heft of the heavy metal.

"Ready?" Murchad called out to the two young women.

They nodded.

"Begin!" the giant bellowed.

They circled each other, swords lifted. "You black crow of a woman," Yseult threw at her cousin. "You couldn't beat me even if I were to lie down in the dirt."

Brangwyn waved her sword at Yseult in a subtle taunt. "You are always much too fast for your own good, Cousin. Try to attack and you will run right past me." The smile on her lips was far from the gentle expression she usually wore.

Aidenn, Gamal and Lithben, one of the few female warriors in Lóegaire's employ, stood on the sidelines watching the foreplay of insults; the young men avidly, the gray-haired veteran critically.

"You'll see," Aidenn said. "Brangwyn is right. Yseult has the energy of a man but no patience."

Gamal chuckled. "I wouldn't dare bet against you, my friend."

"It doesn't do to bet so early in the fighting," Lithben said witheringly.

A look of concentration had replaced the smile on Brangwyn's face, and the silver of Yseult's eyes gleamed in the sunlight. The circles they made around each other grew tighter as each watched her opponent warily, exchanging insults and feinting, wearing each other out with words. Finally, Yseult made a dash for Brangwyn, but her cousin blocked the attack with her wooden shield. Then Brangwyn struck before the younger girl had time to resume a defensive stance, and Yseult was barely able to step out of the way. Brangwyn made good her advantage and struck again, but this time Yseult lifted her sword in a parry, following through with an attack of her own. The older girl dodged it and faced her. Already, the muscles of their arms and calves gleamed with sweat.

Yseult prowled around her cousin, looking for an opening. Brangwyn was not fond of swordplay, but anything she did, she did well, with discipline and attention to detail. Yseult's advantage could only be in speed and surprise. She made a feint and quickly changed the direction of her attack, forcing her cousin back and about. As she did, she had a wider view of the warriors around them. She noted with surprise that many had abandoned their weapons and were staring down the incline with unusual intensity.

Brangwyn saw her advantage and lunged, but Yseult put up her shield and threw down her short sword. "Hold! Something has happened."

She gestured with her shield in the direction of the silent warriors. Trudging up the avenue came a small party, the Christian wise man Patraic in the lead, two of the white-clad figures following burdened with the limp forms of young women.

Murchad was the first to recognize the significance of what they carried.

"Fetch the king and queen," he rapped out. Aidenn and Gamal hurried to do his bidding.

Yseult stared at the distant figures, wiping the sweat out of her eyes to see better. One head blond and one red, the streaming hair in striking contrast to the white tunics of Patraic's disciples.

"No!" she cried out. She threw down her shield and sprinted forward, Brangwyn close behind.

Eithne and Fedalma, drenched and lifeless.

She didn't stop until she reached the small party. Patraic and his disciples stopped as well, and Yseult bent over and leaned her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

"What happened?" she asked when she straightened up again. "Are they seriously hurt?"

Patraic shook his head. "Not hurt."

"They're dead," the one holding Fedalma said.

"No," Yseult whispered. It wouldn't have happened if she had gone along, it couldn't have.

"Dead?" Brangwyn said, panting. "How?"