She stopped in front of a stall selling Bretain trinkets, elaborate beakers of glass from Gaul and pottery from the lands to the south where it was never winter, and stared at a silver platter decorated in the Roman style. What was the world like that created these things, so different from the art of her own country? She knew about the world beyond the sea, knew of the different lands which had once been a part of the vast empire of Rome, even knew a smattering of Latin, but their way of life existed only in her imagination.
"It will work out somehow," Brangwyn murmured softly.
Yseult took her cousin's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Brangwyn's talent was for changing, not for knowing; her words were comfort, not prophecy. Both had that talent to a lesser degree, but neither could see what would come of the events now unfolding. "I worry what Lóegaire will do."
Brangwyn nodded. They could hardly speak openly in public about the queen's plans to repudiate her marriage to Lóegaire on the marriage day, the day before the Oenach. Many couples would be reaching their hands through the stone and saying their vows, among them Brangwyn and Aidenn — but other marriages would be ended.
Yseult picked up the platter she had been staring at and examined the raised design of a prancing horse and rider, so much like life it was easy to imagine them jumping off the plate and cantering to the race grounds nearby. She traced the horse with her finger. "It leaves nothing to the imagination, does it?"
"No, it doesn't." There were many at Tara who preferred Roman wares, seeing them as a sign of status, but Yseult was not among them.
"You like?" the merchant asked in poor Gaelic. He must be from farther away than Alba or Armorica; Gaul or Galicia perhaps.
"No." Yseult returned the platter to the table and took Brangwyn's elbow. "Come. Shouldn't you be looking for a wedding gift for Aidenn?"
A faint blush touched Brangwyn's pale cheeks. "I thought to get him a scabbard," she said with a wicked smile, and the two young women broke out in peals of laughter.
* * * *
The horse races were on the third day of the festival, first with riders and then with chariots. They were normally one of the high points of Lugnasad, but this year conflict between Laigin and Ulaid, Connachta and Ui Neill was simmering just below the surface, and the crowds were tense and on edge. As useful as it might be to determine the moods of those she met, Queen Yseult had to shield herself from other minds. The sun shone just as brightly, the ale was just as rich, but more people noticed the scorching heat rather than the warming rays, more drank the ale for oblivion rather than refreshment. Spirits were strained and tempers high. Several times fights had almost broken out between members of the Midhe and the Laigin, or Mumu and Connachta, although the raising of weapons was forbidden during the celebration of Lugh.
The crowd gathered at the practice grounds was so huge, Queen Yseult could barely see beyond the sea of heads. Blond, red, brown, braided, bleached, shaved, flowing free, caught by the wind, a checkerboard of colors and styles. The visitors had decked themselves out in their finest, and precious metals glinted in the sunlight: torcs, bracelets, armbands, fine beads woven into braids, clasps, pins, brooches. They were festive, beautiful, a feast for the eye, and despite fears of what would come to pass during the next few days, the queen found a smile catching her lips at the sight of so much beauty and finery.
Her daughter looked particularly striking in white breeches and tunic, with a belt of silver and a torc of gold. Her white-gold hair was bound back in a thick braid decorated at the end with beads of silver. Yseult's white mare, Duchann Bhan, was nearly as fine as she, tossing her head proudly, new bronze headgear glinting in the strong morning sun. Together, they were a bright medley of white and gold and silver.
The queen smiled proudly as she watched her daughter swing onto the back of her mare. No, it wasn't wise, the course she was taking for Yseult's sake, but she could not willingly allow her own prophecy to be fulfilled and send her daughter to a life the girl would abhor.
Yseult the Wise noted without surprise that all eyes were on her namesake rather than any of her opponents. The queen scanned the crowd, and her gaze locked with that of a young man staring at her instead of her daughter. His eyes reflected the intense blue of the summer sky and his hair was the color of Duchann Bhan's new headgear. He nodded in her direction and the queen nodded back, trying to remember who he was. He was standing with Dunlaing and Enna Cennsalach, two of the most powerful kings of the Laigin, and a girl of about seven was holding his hand.
Queen Yseult spotted Boinda in the crowd and made her way over to him. "Who are the young man and the little girl in the party of the Laigin kings?"
Boinda looked in the direction she indicated. "That is Crimthann, son of Enna Cennsalach, and his daughter Edain."
"A young father."
Boinda nodded. "He was married at sixteen to Mell, daughter of Erebran of Mumu." Most men who could afford it were married by the age of twenty, but sixteen was young even for a prince.
"I remember now. Mell died in childbed." The queen glanced in the direction of the widowed prince again, only to find that he was still regarding her steadily. Among the turmoil of so many minds, she didn't dare try to open up her own to find him, but she suspected he might have heard from one of the Laigin kings of her plans to divorce Lóegaire at Lugnasad and was speculating on taking a chance at the kingmaker. An ambitious young man, he had led a number of raids against the Bretain, particularly after the brutal attack on Bend Atair by Coroticus.
He at least was not likely to support Lóegaire's peace with the tribes of the Bretain.
* * * *
Duchann Bhan pranced eagerly beneath her as Yseult lined up with the other riders for the race. The morning sun was hot on her back and her mare's hide scratched the insides of her thighs through her riding breeches. Yseult was nearly as eager as her mare, longing for the stretch of fine muscles, the exhilaration of competition.
She maneuvered Duchann Bhan between Aidenn's black and Gamal's gray. Next to Aidenn, Lugaid sat his fine roan with confidence bordering on arrogance.
"One last wild ride before you take the bit between your teeth yourself, eh, Aidenn?" the king's son joked. Lugaid had been married two years already.
Aidenn chuckled, his gaze drifting to where Brangwyn stood in the crowd next to her father and mother. Lugaid's gaze followed his, greedy in a way that took Yseult by surprise. Until this moment, she'd been unaware of his desire for her cousin.
Finally, the horses all stood behind the starting line drawn in the dirt of the racetrack. The signal was given, and they were off.
Yseult and Lugaid quickly drew away from the rest, the white and the roan well-matched. She leaned low over the neck of her mare, the wind in her hair and the sun on her back as they headed for the first turn. The crowd standing on the sidelines shouted out names of rival tribes, turning their neck-and-neck race into something more than just one of the many competitions of the Lugnasad festivities: it was the daughter of the queen against the son of the king, south against north. Instead of being content to cheer the leaders themselves, she heard calls of "Tuatha Dé!" and "Laigin!" and "Mumu!" pitted against cheers for "Midhe!" and "Ulaid!" and "Ui Neill!"
Coming around the first bend, she and Lugaid were still leading, although Aidenn's black mare was gaining on them. The sun was in their faces, the din from the crowd was deafening, and the beat of Duchann Bhan's hooves was accompanied by an angry chorus of tribal names.
As they neared the final bend, a fight broke out on the sidelines, and Lugaid's roan gelding shied, causing Yseult's mount to falter. Aidenn saw his chance, and his black surged past them. Lugaid recovered control of his mount first, pushing the roan to catch up with the new leader. Duchann Bhan fell in beside Gamal's gray, fighting for third place now instead of first.
Yseult urged her mare forward, trailing Aidenn and Lugaid by a length, while the two warriors fought for the lead. But Aidenn's black managed to stay ahead, Lugaid's roan just
behind. Suddenly the dust around her seemed to shimmer, and Lugaid was no longer on his roan's back, but gripping the reins of his war chariot.
And bouncing from the side of the chariot was young Aidenn's head, tied by the braids of his dark hair.
Her concentration on the race shattered, and Gamal pulled ahead, shooting a gloating look back at her. But all she cared about now was getting to the finish line without letting anyone see her confusion. The Fianna were mostly of the Laigin, and if war broke out, Aidenn and Lugaid would be enemies. She could only hope her vision was no more than a waking nightmare. Her gift was not that of knowing, it was that of calling; she did not see the future the way Brigid and her mother did.
Or so she hoped.
From the victory yells around her, it was obvious Aidenn had managed to maintain his lead and come in first. Yseult slowed Duchann Bhan to a walk, trying to compose herself before she returned to congratulate him. Two of Lóegaire's warriors were leading off the troublemakers who had started the fight, a member of the northern Ui Neill loyal to Lóegaire and a warrior of the Laigin. It was going to be difficult this year maintaining the peace between the tribes during the festivities for Lugh.
It was also going to be difficult to shield her thoughts for the rest of the week. Her vision would not be a good image to take with her to a marriage.
* * * *
"You will not stay for the Oenach?" Brigid asked Queen Yseult. They were strolling side by side through the fields outside of the rath in the direction of the clearing where the circular marriage stone stood. The marriage day had arrived —the time for Yseult the Wise to sever her marital ties with the High King. The summer sun was sinking towards the horizon; vows would be given before sunset and celebrated at the start of the new day after it disappeared beyond the rim of the world.
The queen shook her head. "As spiritual leader, you can speak for the Tuatha Dé as well as I. I am worried for my daughter. I want to get away."
Brigid nodded. "You're right, it's best you leave quickly. Would you like to precede me to Druim Dara? You could spend the winter there and Yseult could continue her training as a healer. I hear she already shows great promise."
For a moment, the queen had difficulty answering. Brigid had been ban file and representative of the goddess less than a year, and they had known each other little more than that. They were allies by necessity, but she knew the offer meant more and she was grateful.
"I had intended to go north to Bruig na Boyne with Nemain, but that may be too close to Tara."
"Yes. It's wiser if you go south."
"Thank you. We will do that."
It was the dog days, and heat hung in the air, accompanied by the scent of dried grass and the sound of insects. The queen sighed. "Is it my doing, Brigid?"
"No. No, it's not your doing. Lóegaire grows irrational, grasping at anything he can to maintain his power. The kings are discontent — not only the kings of the south."
"That's what I tell myself, but I'm not sure."
The sound of merriment beyond the stand of trees grew louder as they approached, and the two women fell quiet. They followed a well-worn path and stepped out onto a spacious meadow. In the center stood the marriage stone, a large, round boulder at shoulder height on top of a cairn of flat rocks. In the middle was a wide hole where the couples willing to try staying together for longer than a season would clasp hands. Already half-a-dozen pairs were lining up to reach their hands through the stone, while Lochru spoke the words of blessing, promise, and good will. Everyone had already been partaking liberally of the ale in the vats scattered around the clearing. The songs of the bards were not always on key and their fingers on their harps not always sure.
Despite herself, the queen had to smile. Her gaze found her niece Brangwyn, arm-in-arm with Aidenn, both laughing and flushed. Nearby, Yseult held a tankard of ale while three young men, similarly equipped, leaned into her eagerly. With the awareness of the Feadh Ree, her daughter looked up, met the queen's eyes, and waved.
Queen Yseult smiled and waved back, and her gaze continued on a circuit of the festivities.
Yes, the High King was there.
Along with nearly every major king of Eriu, she noted. Ailill Molt stood on the outskirts of the crowd with his wife Ronait, in earnest conversation with the Christian wise man Patraic. The Laigin kings, Crimthann one of their party, conferred in a knot with a number of the most famous warriors of the Fianna, their gazes on her. Not far away, her former consort Aengus, king of Cashel, strummed a harp he had stolen from a hapless bard. Coirpre stood apart from his brothers, the Ui Neill kings of the north, gazing at her expectantly.
Yseult the Wise returned her attention to the marriage stone, to hope rather than hate. Not that she was feeling particularly hopeful, but for Brangwyn's sake she would be, at least for the space of a dance.
Two by two, the couples walked on either side of the stone, reached their hands through to each other, clasped and released. After the hand-clasping, friends waited for them on the other side of the cairn with wreaths of summer flowers. Her daughter hugged Brangwyn and Aidenn and gave them each a fresh mug of ale, and they toasted each other. The queen hung back with Brigid. She would congratulate them later, after she had done what she came to do.
After the couples had all passed by the stone, they were swept into a wild dance. The druid Erc even stole Patraic away from Ailill Molt and danced him into the center of the crowd, in the midst of a score of laughing young women.
But too soon the song was ended and the dance over, and quiet descended on the crowd. The sun skirted the edge of the world. Soon it would be a new day, but now it was time for an ending, not a beginning.
Queen Yseult stepped forward into the center of the clearing next to the marriage stone. The crowd in front of Lóegaire melted away, and she was facing her husband of over seven years.
He stared at her and she spoke. "You are no longer my consort, Lóegaire. I hereby renounce our marriage." With these words, she turned her back on him and walked slowly to the far corner of the meadow, away from the stone ring.
The queen heard the gasp that went up but didn't turn her head. She would know Lóegaire's decision soon enough. To complete a divorce, he too must turn his back on her. But whatever Lóegaire did, whatever decision he made, she would no longer stay in Tara with Yseult.
For a long time, the clearing was as silent as a Sidhe mound. It was almost dusk now, and the birds were beginning to fill the air with their nightly song, the chatter of competition for the best branch, or calling friends and family together. Here on the edge of the clearing, the shadows were long, and no summer sun touched her face.
She could feel the relief from the assembled guests even before she heard their collective sigh or the stomp of Lóegaire's boots on the packed earth as he marched to the opposite end of the clearing. The tension went out of her shoulders. She was no longer the consort of the High King, but she was still the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann — and she was the kingmaker.
* * * *
Yseult the Fair would always remember the months that followed as the winter of disruption. There was to be no staying in one place, no keeping warm and waiting for the fires of Beltaine to herald the summer half of the year. They departed Tara the day after her mother spoke the words of separation to the High King, not even waiting until the end of Lugnasad; there was barely enough time to gather all their belongings and pack them in the saddlebags strapped to a small herd of pack animals.
The air was full of the sounds of departure, the stomping of oxen and the neighing of horses, the excited barking of the hounds, the squeak of wooden carts, the slamming of chests, and the voices of people yelling instructions and good-byes. Yseult had heard these sounds many times before, but this time they seemed different, foretelling endings without beginnings. Moving was part of her life; in the last few years she had often accompanied her Uncle Murchad when he traveled between Bruig na Boyne and Tara, had even followed him one year o
n his rounds to the unfree tribes of Midhe and Brega to collect tribute for the High King. But this year, she was not going to Bruig na Boyne, she was leaving with her mother, leaving months before Samhain, before the first frost had glazed the grass or the first leaf had fallen. And Brangwyn was not going with them.
She was bridling Duchann Bhan when Brangwyn joined her. Yseult's mare sensed her restless, dissatisfied mood and was not being cooperative, dancing nervously at the slightest noise or wrong touch.
"Yseult?"
She whirled around, and Duchann Bhan threw her head, pulling the reins out of Yseult's hand. Yseult glared over her shoulder at her mare, and the horse dropped her head and began to graze peacefully at the side of the road.
"Sorry," Brangwyn said, taking her hands. "I came to say goodbye. Duchann Bhan can wait."
Yseult looked down at their clasped hands. The sun was beating down on the back of her head, pleasantly warm, but her heart felt cold and wrung out.
She looked up again, into her cousin's gentle blue eyes. "You will send word?"
"Of course."
Yseult nodded and withdrew her hands to rub her burning eyes, fighting the tightness in her throat. She wouldn't cry —her mother never did. The druids taught that every ending was a beginning, but it was hard for her to see that now.
"We will be together again, Yseult."
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 6
