Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (85 page)

Yseult gazed at Marcus's seat, seeing it with Drystan's eyes, the eyes of a soldier; it was situated on a plateau in the central mountains next to a river, with little in terms of geographical defenses. But despite that, they were not enough to take the city.

Magic it would be.

There was something both odd and comforting about having Drystan present in her mind. While she kept thinking thoughts she knew were not her own, she could hardly imagine how she would go on now if he were not there with her.

"How shall we get into the city?" she asked her cousin.

"If we wait until shortly before nightfall, we will have dusk to help us maintain the illusion," Brangwyn said.

"What shall it be?" Bedwyr asked. "Traveling merchants? Strolling minstrels?"

"Strolling minstrels," Cador said. "In memory of Drys."

They were all silent a moment, lost in individual memories of the friend who was no longer with them. Yseult felt her throat tightening, each breath an effort.

It would be good to hold a harp again
.

The panic passed, and her breathing grew easier. He was there, with her, not gone.

No, not gone; she would have to help him leave.

"I can send Marcus a desire for entertainment, for something new," Yseult said. "Perhaps he will even welcome us."

"But there are many more of us than in a troop of players," Erim said.

"I will do my best to hide the rest," Brangwyn said.

Yseult nodded shortly. "Then it is decided."

Cador brought his black up alongside her gelding. "Are you sure you want to take this risk, Yseult?"

She thought of Kustennin in Ginevra's care, far away in Dumnonia. "I must."

* * * *

They entered the gates of the city without incident, five abreast, but only one in each line visible. Once within the city walls, the others melted into the shadows; Brangwyn could not maintain such a difficult illusion for long. As they walked the streets of the city, the "minstrels" began to play, using instruments they had obtained on the road. Yseult's fingers on the strings of the harp were more deft and nimble than they had ever been before, and she smiled.

Yseult led them where Drystan led her, towards the center of the city. As they approached a large townhouse, a servant came out of the gates to the forecourt, beckoning them. "My master requests the honor of a private audience."

Yseult didn't know if Marcus had ever requested anything in his life. And she didn't know if that thought had come from her or from Drystan.

They followed the servant through the courtyard to the atrium, all but Brangwyn and Kurvenal, who hid near the entrance. Marcus lounged on a couch, a woman who looked surprisingly like a much younger Labiane nestled in his lap. Yseult could only hope that Brangwyn's powers could maintain illusions in two places at once — or their own masquerade and the unlikeliness of them being here would protect them.

Yseult launched into a ballad in the Armorican dialect that she had never heard before in her life, her voice clear and true, much finer than ever before. She could feel Drystan smiling inside her as she sang, appreciative of the great joke of his Yseult singing without the rough edges to her voice. Tears almost started in her eyes at the thought, but the importance of the moment kept them at bay.

"Excellent," Marcus said when they were done. "Another such and there will be a free meal for all of you in the kitchen."

Where was the rest of the their party? Hopefully they had not been discovered before Kurvenal and Brangwyn could let them into the townhouse — or Kurvenal and Brangwyn had not been discovered themselves.

And then she was starting into a finely sung version of the tale of Ys, the drowned city of Armorica, a song that Tandrys had performed so many, many years ago in Eriu, when they were both young and had a future ahead of them.

It was almost too much. Why had he done this to her?

No, that wasn't it. It was a song he loved, a song on the brink of his future. Which the man in front of them had put an end to.

And then Bedwyr and his men were surrounding them, and Marcus was starting up from his couch, the girl pushed aside but the evidence of her effect on him evident at the front of his tunic. He called for his sword, but there was no sword and no soldier at his service.

Yseult dropped the harp and the illusion, drawing her own sword from the folds of her cape.

Marcus looked at her again with eyes free of the veil of magic. "Yseult."

"The same."

"Are you here to murder me?"

Cador stepped forward. "We are here to bring you back to Britain to be tried for the murder of your son Drystan."

Marcus laughed. "My wife and my foster son. Is there no loyalty in this land?"

Yseult could see Cador's muscles tense, could feel the pang of guilt Marcus's words caused. "Drystan is dead," he said after a pause. "It should be handled by a court of law."

"But why should I be kidnaped and taken to Britain for the purpose? It was he who threatened me, and his death did not occur on British soil."

The girl who had formerly throned on Marcus's lap sat on the floor, wide-eyed and whimpering. Erim took pity on her and dragged her away.

"If you are innocent, then you need have no fear of a court of law," Yseult said. "You have witnesses for what you claim?"

"Andred."

She laughed out loud. And then suddenly Marcus leapt forward under her guard, almost knocking her sword out of her hand with a short sword he'd concealed somewhere on his person. She cursed herself under her breath while Drystan cursed himself in her mind, parrying the next blow that immediately followed. Bedwyr's men moved forward, but the dance was begun, and a wrong move might endanger her.

"He's mine!" Yseult called out to her own surprise. But of course that had been Drystan.

At the sound of fighting, more of Marcus's soldiers appeared at the doors and entrance ways; Bedwyr's men had not been able to do away with all of them. The Armorican warriors attacked the British, trying to fight their way through to help Marcus. Now there was fighting in every corner of the room, and the British soldiers could not have assisted her even if they had found an opening. She had not been involved in armed combat in years, but her arm was sure as she parried Marcus's blows, trying to disarm him.

But not attacking. She was not attacking — or at least Drystan was not. Even after experiencing death at Marcus's hands, he was reluctant to strike the blow to put an end to the life of the man who had given life to him.

They circled and struck and parried, circled and parried and struck, and Yseult could feel her arm grow tired. Drystan could make her voice more melodious, he could give her the experience of a seasoned warrior in single combat, but he could not give her the physical condition of all his years of training. And Yseult had only rarely used a weapon since she had come to Britain.

Around her, Bedwyr's warriors had taken control of the situation, disarming or defeating the men who had come to their king's aid. Then she saw Bedwyr and Kurvenal move behind Marcus, their weapons drawn. They could take him from behind if she could keep Marcus from turning, could keep his attention on this side of the atrium. She began to move back, as if she were retreating, realistic enough given the weariness of her sword arm.

Marcus followed, redoubling his efforts. Behind him, Bedwyr had his sword raised high, he was going to stab Marcus in the back. But the back wasn't honorable.

She could feel the "No!" trying to burst out of her throat, but she fought back the exclamation, retreating another step while parrying a renewed attack. And then the sword was coming down, the blade glinting in the candlelight before it found flesh and bone.

Marcus gave a grunt, his eyes went wide, and the sword slipped out of his hand to clatter on the ceramic tiles of the floor. He stared at Yseult as he dropped to his knees, his expression one of complete astonishment. He wavered there for a moment and fell face forward in the center of the mosaic, surrounded by stylized tendrils and geometric shapes, his blood distorting a pattern of diamonds.

Yseult dropped to her knees opposite him, allowing her own sword to slip from her fingers.

It was over.

Yes, it was over.

A feeling of affection and gratitude suffused her, and then he was slipping away, going where she couldn't follow, at least not for a very long time. She wanted to grab on to something, a sleeve, a cloak, hold him here, keep him in her mind to give her comfort.

There was a gentle feeling of regret, and then he was gone.

Yseult laid down on the tiled floor of the atrium and wept.

* * * *

Yseult held Kustennin's hand as the body was lowered into the earth next to the stone Arthur had erected in Drystan's honor. They were laying him to rest outside of Voliba, among the people who had saved him once from death at his father's hand. Yseult had chosen a spot on a rise with a view of the sea, a place where Drystan would be happy if ever he came from the Otherworld to visit, a place where she would be happy if she came to visit him.

After they had each thrown a handful of earth on the body, and Arthur's Companions had filled the hole, they returned to their mounts, silent. Yseult took Kustennin up in front of her and joined the party making its way back to the fortress of Lansyen and the funeral dinner that awaited them. The sun was setting, and the sky above was brilliant with shades of orange and red and purple.

Kustennin squirmed around on her lap to look back, and Yseult turned to take a last look as well. The impressive gravestone, taller than a man, caught the rays of the setting sun and glowed as if it was on fire. Yseult's hands tightened on the reins.

"Why did you tell me that Drystan is really my father and not my brother?" Kustennin asked. There was no resentment in the question, just honest curiosity. At the age of five and a half, he understood enough of the world to know that most people would hide such information.

She kissed the blond curls at the top of his head. Perhaps it was too much knowledge for one so young, but many people underestimated children. Kustennin had been through much and he would go though more. "You should have a father you can be proud of, a father you deserve," she said.

He nodded. "I'm glad Marcus was not my father. I liked Drystan better."

Yseult smiled. Having Drystan no longer in her life still left a gaping wound in her soul; she didn't know what she would have done without her son. In a small way, her lover was still there with her, as if Kustennin was the physical incarnation of what she'd had in Armorica when Drystan was part of her mind. Kustennin had something of each of them, his father's fine laugh and his mother's impatience, Drystan's green eyes and Yseult's fair skin. As difficult as it was, she would have to live without Drystan now.

They never had a chance, but at least they had a son. And Yseult would do her best for him, for what was left of Drystan.

DRUSTANS HIC IACET CUNOMORI FILIUS

Here lies Drustanus, son of Cunomorus

Text of the "Tristan Stone" north of Fowey, Cornwall

Author's Note

I've always loved Arthurian fiction and had a penchant for tragedy, so it probably isn't too surprising that I decided to try my hand at a retelling of the Tristan and Isolde legend. Many of the twists in my version of the tale, as well as my portrayal of "the court of King Arthur," come from less well known Arthurian traditions and historical research. I have amassed shelves and shelves of books on ancient Ireland, the Celts, Arthurian and Celtic legends, Roman and Sub-Roman Britain, and the question of Arthur's historicism — too many for me to mention them all here. For those interested, I will concentrate on the most dog-eared references in my collection and the ones I checked out most regularly from the library.

In creating Yseult's background story in ancient Ireland, I relied heavily on F. J. Byrne's excellent reference,
Irish Kings and High Kings.
For the plot thread dealing with St. Patrick, I am indebted to James Carney's
The Problem of Saint Patrick
and Thomas F. O'Rahilly's
The Two Patricks: A Lecture on the History of Christianity in Fifth-Century Ireland.
Regarding mythology and daily life, I repeatedly consulted Simon James,
Exploring the World of the Celts
, Peter Berresford Ellis,
A Dictionary of Irish Mythology
, Anne Ross,
Everyday Life of the Pagan Celts
, T.M. Charles-Edwards,
Early Christian Ireland
, and Fergus Kelly,
A Guide to Early Irish Law
, to name just a few.