Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur

by Nestvold, Ruth

  Yseult was originally published in German translation with Random House Germany as Flamme und Harfe (2009), and followed by translations into Dutch and Italian. This is the first publication in the original English.

  Praise for Ruth Nestvold:

  "... an excellent up-and-comer. "

  - Cory Doctorow at Boing Boing

  http://boingboing.net/2004?w=27

  "The book is so rich that it is impossible to recount every nuance, every emotion transmitted, each of the author's choices to depart from tradition or adopt unfamiliar elements, while manipulating them in favor of the economy of the narration... It tells the story of war with rawness and realism, love with feeling and sensuality, magic with naturalness and enchantment... Ruth Nestvold truly has my gratitude and commendation for managing to rewrite and re-invent this story of love and war so masterfully, creating one of the most beautiful books I have ever read."

  - Review of the Italian translation of Yseult by Valentina Coluccelli

  http://www.diariodipensieripersi.com/2011/03/recensione-la-fiamma-e-larpa-di-ruth.html

  * * * *

  YSEULT

  A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur

  by

  Ruth Nestvold

  Copyright 2009, 2012 by Ruth Nestvold

  Cover by Derek Murphy, Creativindie Covers

  Map by Britta Mack

  First Electronic Edition 2012

  * * * *

  Contents

  YSEULT

  Book I: Two Women

  Book II: A Man and a Woman

  Book III: Two Men and a Woman

  Book IV: Two Women and a Man

  Author's Note

  Glossary

  Characters and Places

  Map

  About the Author

  Book One: Two Women

  Prologue

  swem nie von liebe leit geschach,

  dem geschach ouch liep von liebe nie.

  (Those who have never felt pain from love, have never felt joy from love either.)

  Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan

  Once upon a time beyond history, in an age almost beyond imagination, there was a girl as fair as the moon, sitting on a horse and watching a fire. The bonfire is a part of history, but the princess is a part of legend.

  Tristan and Isot, Tristram and Isolde, Essyllt and Drust, Yseult and Drystan: the spellings have changed, but they have always been lovers — the greatest lovers the world has ever known. Most accounts of their story have begun with the man.

  This one begins with the woman.

  * * * *

  Young Yseult reined in her mount and turned to look back at the Rock of Cashel, her home for the first seven years of her life. The fire Palladius had lit for the baptism of her father King Aengus illuminated the mount of kings with a glow to rival that of the rising sun.

  Behind her, she heard her mother and the old druid Boinda rein in their mounts as well, but she didn't turn. She couldn't let her mother see the tears on her lashes — they were unworthy of the daughter of Yseult the Wise, Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, kingmaker of the island of Eriu. Yseult knew that, yet the tears were there anyway.

  Her mother shed no tears.

  She blinked rapidly and squared her shoulders. Strands of her long, fair hair came loose from her braid in the early dawn breeze. She raised a hand to tuck them behind her ear and wipe her cheeks before anyone noticed. Surely she would see her half-brothers and father again.

  "Come, Yseult," her mother said gently. "There is a long journey north ahead of us."

  Yseult continued to gaze at the fire. "Why did Father let Palladius drive the staff through his foot if it meant we had to leave?"

  It was not her mother the queen who answered, but the old druid Boinda. Yseult turned in her saddle to look at him. His beard was whiter than her hair, but his hands on the reins were strong and his voice clear. "Palladius promised him that none of his sons would die a violent death, and no one would be king of Cashel but his own descendants."

  It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. "But it is the queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann who determine who is king," Yseult insisted.

  "Your father is trying to change that," Boinda said.

  Her mother shook her head. "Even now it is changed. The marriage to the land is a symbol, no more. The assembly chooses the successor to the king."

  "And Aengus wants to usurp the power of the assembly as well," the druid murmured.

  Yseult wondered how her mother could remain so calm. Perhaps that was why people called her Yseult the Wise, while she was only Yseult the Fair. She wanted to be Yseult the Wise someday too. If only it were possible to be wise without being calm. She swallowed and looked back at the fire. "So that means father likes being king better than he likes us."

  "I don't think he understood that he was making a choice," the queen said softly.

  "If he didn't, he should have." Boinda's voice held more bitterness than her mother's. "The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann could hardly remain with the Christian king of Eriu."

  "Which is why we must continue on our way. Come now, Yseult."

  The sun had just appeared beyond the rim of the world behind them, and the Rock of Cashel hung above the horizon, illuminated by the first rays while the earth below was still muffled in night.

  "It looks like a magical island," Yseult said.

  Boinda nodded. "Tír na nÓg. The land of youth."

  "My youth." Yseult whirled her mount around, towards the east and the rising sun, leaving the fire of Palladius behind.

  Chapter 1

  From across the sea he will come,

  His head shaven,

  His head full of madness,

  His head in a hole in his cloak,

  The head of his staff bent.

  He will chant impiety,

  From a table in the front of his house;

  all his people will answer,

  "Amen, Amen."

  From Muirchu's "Life of St. Patrick"

  Queen Yseult of the Tuatha Dé Danann, consort of High King Lóegaire, led the party of riders up the Hill of Slane, away from the road that would take them to Tara. It was a rich procession of bright cloaks and colorful jewelry, bronze and gold glinting at wrist, waist, and neck and on the bridles of the horses, but the expressions of the riders were somber, the group quiet. Even the youngest, fourteen-year-old princess Yseult, was uncharacteristically serious.

  The queen kept her eyes on the top of the hill and the smoke rising from the summit. Another fire. Seven years later and far to the north, another fire burned, more important than the one she had fled all those years ago. And nothing she'd done since had been able to stop it; not her marriage to Lóegaire and her support of him as High King, not her work among the greatest wise men of the land, not her attempts to keep her people, the Feadh Ree, from turning their backs on the public life of the Gaels in answer to the growing disrespect for the old ways.

  She clenched the reins of her mount tighter, and the mare threw her head back, snorting. The queen let out a sigh and loosened the reins again.

  The party of Feadh Ree riders reached the summit and approached the circle of Christian believers, drawn by the ribbon of smoke snaking into the sky, dark gray against pure blue. They drew up at the edge of the gathering, the queen and her brother Murchad at their head. A few of the white-clad figures glanced behind them, but most kept their attention fixed on the fire and their master Patraic.

  "It's sacrilege," Murchad muttered angrily, but he was as unwilling as she to attack the peaceful group of worshipers on the crest of the hill.

 
; No, she couldn't let her fear show, couldn't allow those with the power of knowing to feel it. She was Yseult the Wise, and she had to fulfill that role.

  "But very effective," she said. The smoke must be clearly visible at Tara, and come night, the residents of the seat of kings would be able to see the glow of the flames.

  The mounted warriors accompanying them shifted in their saddles, knowing a bonfire lit the week before Beltaine could only bring bad luck.

  "Can't we stop him?" Murchad's wife Nemain asked.

  Yes, that was the question. She had seen fire too often in her dreams, the dreams of the end of the old ways. "I don't know," the queen said, answering more than Nemain was asking.

  Patraic had ignored their approach, but now he turned, gazing directly at her. "Let no one forget. The lesson learned here is the lesson of Christ's dominion."

  The wind shifted, as if obeying the will of Patraic's god, and the smoke from the bonfire wafted toward the party of riders, stinging their eyes. The horses began to snort and stamp, nervous, but they were well-trained warhorses, and they didn't break away.

  The man behind this fire was much more dangerous than Palladius, the last Christian wise man sent by Rome. A dogmatic moralist, narrow-minded and intolerant, Palladius had appealed to little more than the small, scattered communities of the Bretain and Romans and the ambition of leaders like Aengus, whose conversion held more calculation than conviction. But Patraic was different: his former master had been a druid, and he knew the ways of Eriu, knew the power of symbol and illusion. It was a deliberate provocation, this fire, deliberate and clever. And what a sense of drama! Lighting a huge bonfire in the week before Beltaine was an outrageous stroke of brilliance.

  Queen Yseult rode forward.

  "What is the meaning of this?" she called out from the edges of the gathering. The question had the ring of command, but Patraic stood his ground, looking almost regal himself in his long white robes.

  "It is the lighting of the Easter fire, Lady."

  Seven years ago she had fled before the fire of Palladius; she would not flee this time. Smoke filled her nostrils and burned her eyes, but she urged her reluctant mount through the circle of worshipers, and they parted to let her pass. Patraic might be their prophet, but she was the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the kingmaker herself.

  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, w
oven 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.