Yseult laughed against his chest. "I will."
Her uncle gave her another squeeze before releasing her. "And thank you, Yseult."
"For what?"
He rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. "For staying with your old uncle."
She grabbed his big hand and kissed the back. "Thank you for having me."
He ruffled her hair and then, waving goodbye, turned to mount a bay gelding.
Yseult would remember that moment the rest of her life.
* * * *
It was a late summer day well over a year after her mother had left with Crimthann for Ard Ladrann, after Lugnasad and just before the harvest was to begin. Yseult was returning from a successful raid with Illann's war party, leading a herd of almost four dozen cattle captured to the northeast near Uisneach. Beside her rode Prince Illann, tall and fair. He had the height and coloring of the Feadh Ree, only in his case the moonlight was mixed with a touch of earth. They flirted and joked as they rode. Yseult was hot and dusty and tired from several days on the road, and she desperately wanted a bath, but her mood was high.
As they passed the first fortified farms outside Dun Ailinne, the small children came out and ran ahead of them as usual, but the adults were strangely quiet, gazing at their party silently rather than cheering their success and praising the fat cattle they herded between the daub and wattle round-houses. Yseult's own laughter died in her throat, and she examined the serious faces of the king's clients and artisans.
"Someone has died," she said to Illann and spurred Duchann Bhan forward.
The king himself was waiting for them at the gate of Dun Ailinne, together with his chief druids, a much more formal reception than a successful raiding party warranted.
Yseult dismounted, and a slave ran forward to take Duchann Bhan's reins. A feeling of unreality settled over her as she walked slowly to Enna Cennsalach and stopped in front of him.
What he held in his hands was for her.
The king bent his head in respect and presented the sword to her on outstretched hands. Yseult found herself staring at the design of inlaid glass and amber on the scabbard, the alternating colors of bronze and gold and green. She knew this sword, of course. Her uncle had taken it with him on his trip to Dumnonia.
The king backed away and a druid came forward carrying a woven basket. The smell of cedar oil assaulted her nostrils, but her mind refused to grasp the meaning until the druid reached into the basket and pulled out the head by its long, dark hair. Her uncle's sightless eyes stared up at the sky and his mouth was open in an expression of shock or disbelief.
Yseult had seen death more than once in the last year, sometimes of friends, more often of enemies. But at the sight of the preserved head of her mother's brother, the champion of Eriu, the man who was the closest she had ever known to a father, she had to take a deep breath and clench her jaw tightly to keep from throwing up. Unshed tears closed her throat tight, but she kept her head high and her shoulders straight.
She looked at Enna Cennsalach. "Who is responsible for my uncle's death?" she got out.
"The son of the man Lóegaire would betroth you to," the king said. "Drustanus of Dumnonia."
Book Two: A Man and a Woman
Chapter 6
vindaere wilder maere,
der maere wildenaere,
die mit den ketenen liegent
und stumpfe sinne triegent,
die golt von swachen sachen
den kinden kunnen machen
und ûz der büsen giezen
stoubîne mergriezen
(Inventors of wild stories, poachers of tales, cheating with chains to dupe dull minds, turn worthless stuff to gold for children and pour dust from magic boxes.)
Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan
Drystan didn't take his eyes off his childhood home as their ship came north around the promontory and angled towards the harbor of Dyn Tagell, the fort the Romans named Durocornovium. It was an impressive sight. The Rock, as he liked to call it, rose nearly straight out of the sea, a natural fortress, perfect for times of trouble like these.
It was the trouble that had called Drystan back from Armorica to the place of his birth, trouble in the form of raiders from Eriu to the west and north and conquering Saxons to the east and south. He should have returned from fosterage years ago, but his father had not summoned him and he had not gone. He hadn't been on this side of the sea since he was ten years old, over nine years ago now. Armorica felt like home to him, and his uncle Riwallon and his aunt Blodewedd were closer to a father and a mother than his own parents.
And now his own mother was dead, a mother he could barely remember.
"Imposing," Kurvenal said, joining him at the rail. "It looks impregnable."
Drystan nodded. "Would that all the settlements on this coast were as easy to defend." As a swell came up, he grasped the railing and braced himself, legs wide with the stance of a sailor.
"And then there would be no problem with Erainn raiders and we would be out of a job."
"Then we would have time to play the harp and sing songs of battle rather than going into battle ourselves," Drystan said, chuckling.
Kurvenal made a face. "You perhaps. I have a voice like a goose with its leg in a vise."
Drystan laughed out loud and clapped his friend on the back, grateful for his humor and his presence. The gulls dove and cried around their ship, one of Marcus's own, sent to fetch his son back to help patrol the seas for raiders. The sun was warm on his back, but here on the northern coast of Dumnonia it could just as easily have been foggy and cold, even in July.
His gaze drifted to the welcoming party on the beach. The man in a Roman-style tunic with the cloak of purple draped over his shoulders was undoubtedly his father. Drystan remembered him even less than his mother; a martial presence who preferred the villa outside of Isca Dumnoniorum to the summer fortress on the wild northern coast. The authoritarian figure of memory had hated it when they had been forced to flee Isca because of the encroaching Saxons, had hated abandoning the civilized Roman coastal town for the better-protected hill-forts of the interior and the natural defenses of the rocky coast. That had been shortly after Marcus had been elected protector of southwest Britain, and since then, he had divided his time between the hill-fort of Lansyen in the winter and Dyn Tagell in the summer.
"Even at this distance, he appears much as you told me," Kurvenal said, gazing across the water.
Drystan nodded.
The ship, a full-bodied corbita, one of the merchant ships Marcus used to transport valuable Dumnonian tin all over the known world, was too large for the landing beach of the harbor and dropped anchor. A small boat to bring them to shore was already on its way out. It pulled up close to the prow, the rope ladder was lowered, and Drystan and Kurvenal shouldered their bags and climbed down, followed by the small troop of soldiers sent from Armorica with them.
As their landing boat neared the beach, Drystan inspected his father carefully. Marcus Cunomorus emulated his distant cousin, the High King of the Britons Ambrosius Aurelianus, who upheld the Roman way and saw himself as the savior of civilization in a world reverting to barbarism. Besides the white tunic and purple cloak of a protector, his father wore his hair short, and his face was cleanly shaven in the Roman manner.
"I wonder what he's going to think of me," Drystan muttered. He wore his own hair in a gleaming braid that reached halfway down his back.
His friend chuckled. "Why, he will think you are a barbarian, my prince."
"At least he has enough barbarians among his retinue." Of the men waiting on the shore with the king, about half adopted a Roman mode of dress, while the other half presented a more native British appearance, from long hair to long mustaches to long cloaks in bright checks and plaids over breeches tied at the ankle.
Several of the waiting soldiers came out into the water and helped them pull the boat to shore. Drystan stepped out onto the wet sand, and his father came forward and embraced him.
"Drustanus!"
"Father."
The older man held him at arm's length and examined him carefully. Drystan held his gaze, noting that his father's eyes were the same bright green as his own. He hadn't remembered that. His father was no longer a young man, but there was little gray in the close-cropped brown hair, and the muscles of his arms were hard, his figure still that of a warrior.
"It's good to see you again," his father said in Latin, the language of the nobles of Britain. In Armorica, the British tongue was preferred, even among the local kings. Latin was the language of Gaul, and the people of Armorica prided themselves on being different.
Marcus Cunomorus had been an Armorican king before he had been a Dumnonian king, but in the last twenty-five years, he had rarely visited the seat of Caer Haes that he'd inherited from his father.
"It's good to be back," Drystan replied. And strangely enough, as soon as he spoke the words, they were true. He knew Armorica and its people better than the land where he was born, but the rocky cliffs of Dyn Tagell rising before him were familiar on a deeper level; it was where he had grown up.
Home.
His father released him and turned to Kurvenal and the other soldiers who had accompanied them. "Welcome to Durocornovium. I am grateful you could come away from the court of Riwallon to aid us here. We are badly in need of soldiers to fight the raiders from the north, since so many were called to join Ambrosius in fighting the Saxons."
"Soldiers will go where there is war, Lord," Kurvenal said.
Marcus nodded. "Yes. And we can only be glad that there is peace now in Armorica." He turned and led the way to the steep path up the side of the near-island, taking Drystan's elbow. "You have been away very long, my son."
"I enjoyed it there. Peace suits me better than war, I have to admit. I hope I won't be a disappointment to you."
His father lifted one eyebrow. "Can you fight?"
"Yes. But I prefer the harp to the sword."
"Well, you can use your harp to sooth the souls of your men after a hard day with the sword." The king was silent for a moment, and Drystan wondered which of the negative effects of his long absence he would address next.
"You have picked up the Armorican manner of speech," his father said finally.
Drystan nodded. "I assume so."
"At least you are clean-shaven."
"My beard does not grow well. Kurvenal says it makes me look like a goat."
The king gave a non-committal grunt just before the pathway narrowed and they had to walk single file, putting an end to the conversation. Drystan looked over his shoulder at Kurvenal, and his friend shrugged and smiled.
* * * *
The royal residence of Dyn Tagell was on the eastern side of the promontory, largely protected from the winds that swept across the top in bad weather. The building complex perched on the eastern cliffs might not be a villa, but it was imposing nonetheless, aided by the stark beauty of the setting. Terraces had been cut into the rock to take advantage of the protected position, and on these flattened areas, a series of slate buildings resembling a fortress constructed.
The party of soldiers entered the largest of the buildings where they were served watered wine and small beer in the main hall. After they had quenched their thirst, two of the soldiers in Marcus's retinue came to lead the Armorican warriors to their quarters, the turf-walled huts on the southern side of the island. When Kurvenal would have gone with them, Drystan stopped him.
"Stay, my friend. You don't have to house with the common soldiers." He looked at his father. "Kurvenal not only guards my back, he is the closest I have to a brother."
Marcus nodded. "We can find him lodgings in the upper hall, I'm sure."
Drystan was disappointed Kurvenal wouldn't be in the lower hall with him, but if that was his father's wish, he would have to abide by it.
The king motioned a slave over. "More wine?" he asked the young men and they nodded. As the slave hurried off to fetch another amphora, Marcus led them to padded couches of Roman design against one wall. Seen from the outside, it would have been hard to imagine the stark, gray slate building held such comfort.
"Where is Labiane?" Drystan asked, sitting down and arranging the pillows behind his back. He had to admit, Riwallon did not have this kind of luxury in the great hall of Leonis in Bro Leon. There, the pillows were rare and the wine often sour. It too was of Roman origin, but the wealth to be had from oysters and garlic could not compare to that of tin.
His father cleared his throat, and Drystan glanced at him sharply. "She wasn't feeling well. I hope you won't be offended that she hasn't appeared to greet you."
"Why should I be offended? I hope it is nothing serious?"
"No, no. I'm sure she will feel better in a day or two."
Drystan's cousin Labiane had been in fosterage with his father and mother almost as long as he had been living with her parents in Armorica. They had been like brother and sister for over two years, best friends one minute and at each others' throats the next, until she had gone north for her own fosterage. It would be good to see her again.
The slave arrived with more wine. "What news is there from Armorica?" Marcus asked.
"Luckily, little. Riwallon and Blodewedd are well, and peace still reigns."
"And what of Ygerna and Hoel?"
"It has been over a year since I have been to Caer Brioc. The plague hit that part of Armorica much harder than Bro Leon." Drystan examined the fine wineglass in his hand, an import from Gaul or farther. "Have you heard anything new from Eriu?" he asked, not sure if he would want to hear the answer.
Marcus Cunomorus gave a snort of disgust. "You heard that Queen Yseult left Lóegaire?" Drystan and Kurvenal nodded. News traveled slowly between the Gael-speaking lands, but a divorce involving the High King of Tara was important, and the event was over a year and a half ago now. "Naturally, she took her daughter with her. The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann has allied herself with the southern tribes of Eriu, and it is they who now harry our coasts."
"I have heard that part of the reason Yseult the Wise left Lóegaire was because of the negotiations you were conducting with the High King," Drystan said, watching his father carefully.
"Nonsense," Marcus said, motioning the slave to refill their glasses again.
Drystan took a deep draught of the heady wine, not too sour but not too sweet. In Armorica it was said that his father was one of the richest kings in Britain, amassing a great fortune through the tin mines of Dumnonia, and Drystan was slowly coming to believe it. "Peace is certainly to be desired, but can you tell me what you want with such a young wife?"
Marcus raised his eyebrows and turned his head slightly to include Kurvenal in the discussion. "Can you tell me what I should want with an old one?"
Drystan laughed uncomfortably. The Erainn princess his father had meant to wed was younger than Drystan himself, and Marcus had not been a young man when his only son was born.
"My Christian priests are urging me to remarry to avoid sin," Marcus continued. "And my pagan subjects say I can't be king without a queen. I need to remarry and we need peace with the barbarians across the seas. Besides, I hear she is very beautiful."
"All princesses are very beautiful," Kurvenal said.
"By repute," Drystan added, and for once they all laughed together.
* * * *
The next morning, Drystan left the lower hall and made his way to the lodgings where Kurvenal was staying, examining the place of his birth with the eyes of a stranger. It was both smaller than he remembered and more impressive, more stark and more wild. The wind refused to respect the braid with which he had tamed his hair, pulling dark blond strands out of their thong to send them whipping around his face. He stopped, dragged the hair back with one hand, and looked out over the rocks marking the edge of the promontory. Gulls called to each other and the waves crashed against the cliffs, the sounds of the ocean he had grown up with in the summer months when they stayed here
on the Rock.
On the other side of the water was Eriu, the least-civilized of the Gael-speaking lands. The Romans had never conquered the island on the edge of the known world, and until now, not even the Christian priests had gained much influence. Riwallon had visited Eriu once as a young man, and although he said the people there lived like peasants except when it came to personal finery, he described it as a place of magic and song, exotic and strange. Ever since hearing Riwallon's stories, Drystan had wanted to visit, see what a land would be like that had never been a part of Rome, never known the long arm of the emperors.
Well, it wasn't likely Drystan would make it to Eriu anytime soon, with Coroticus burning villages across the water and the southern Erainn kings treating Britain like an orchard for the plucking. Instead, he would learn to command a ship and patrol the sea in search of Erainn pirates.
Drystan continued the rest of the way up the rise to the nearly flat top of Dyn Tagell. He was greeted by a mean wind that made the gusts which had torn his hair out of his braid earlier seem harmless — a wind with a grudge towards anything less pliant than grass. The Upper Hall where Kurvenal was staying got more sun, but it was unprotected from the coastal winds.
Drystan bent forward against the wind and made his way to the building on the top of the near-island. The Upper Hall was large and rectangular, like many seats of regional kings in Armorica, but built of stone rather than wood. Wood was hard to come by on this island of rock, but stone was everywhere.
Drystan pushed open one side of the big double-doors and entered the shelter of the building. "Kurvi!" he called out. "You done distributing your meager belongings in every available corner yet?"
Kurvenal came out of one of the separate rooms at the back of the main hall, shaking his head. "Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you."
"I'm your livelihood, base-born whelp," Drystan said, grinning. "I pay you."
"Perhaps someone else would be willing to pay me," Kurvenal grumbled.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 9
