Queen Yseult smiled, for no reason that he could see. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice low.
The younger Yseult touched her mother's arm. "The bard grows tired."
The queen nodded. "One more thing, and we will leave you to your rest. In your delirium, you muttered words in every tongue we have ever heard on these shores."
Drystan's mind froze. He had been talking. Hopefully he had been talking nonsense in tongues no one here understood.
"If you could give Yseult and myself further instruction in Latin," the queen continued, "as payment I could perhaps arrange for transportation for you back to Armorica in the spring."
His heartbeat slowed again to a more normal rate. "As you know, I have lost everything but my harp and my sword and my life, and that I came close to losing as well. I have been wondering how I could afford the return voyage."
"Very good. There are few people here who know more than a handful of Latin words, mostly merchants and the men of Christ. But the rest of the world draws closer to Eriu, and the language of Rome is the language of the world."
"That is true."
The queen turned to her daughter. "Yseult, fetch me what we need to change the bard's poultice. We will do it now while he is awake and then leave him to rest."
While the queen removed the old poultice, Drystan watched Yseult move away until she blended into the shadows on the other side of the fire. Every day he would be with her, seeing her smile.
Until he left again in the spring.
Chapter 9
Then Mebd sent the druids and satirists and harsh bards for Fer Diad, that they might make against him three satires to stay him and three lampoons, and that they might raise on his face three blisters, shame, blemish and disgrace, so that he might die before the end of nine days if he did not succumb at once.
Táin Bó Cuailnge
Drystan awoke with his mind clear and the old druid Boinda sitting beside his pallet. The air was crisp, the fire burnt low in the central fire pit, but the other inhabitants of the round-house were already up and elsewhere in the rath, the curtains of their sleeping alcoves drawn back and their beds empty. He and Boinda were alone.
The chief druid of the queen of the Tuatha Dé was too old for Drystan to be able to tell his years, his face a map of deep wrinkles, but his step was still sure and his eyes still bright. He wore his hair in what Drystan had since learned was one of the tonsures of the filid of Eriu, long in back and shaved straight across in front.
Boinda was watching him, his eyes sharp and his expression speculative. Drystan wondered how long he had been sitting there, and for what purpose. The druid did not seem to be a healer. In fact, Drystan had yet to figure out what role he played in the small community.
The old man smiled. "Good morning, bard."
"Good morning."
"I've come to teach you something of the ways of the filid of Eriu. If you are strong enough, that is."
Drystan chuckled. "Strong? No. But I look forward to learning from you during the long hours when I am at least awake."
"That is good. Your mind grows clearer, and there is no time to be lost."
That seemed an odd comment. Perhaps it was time he finally earned his care and his keep by playing the bard they thought him. Or perhaps he was only referring to all that Drystan still had to learn. "I hear the training of a bard here in Eriu is more arduous than anywhere in the known the world."
"You have seen more of the known world than I," Boinda said with another smile. "But if you want to learn the seven times fifty stories for the qualification as a poet, you had best begin soon."
He blinked. "Seven times fifty stories?"
"So says the Book of the Laigin."
"I can never learn all that."
"Never is a long time. Perhaps there are stories you already know which you can count towards your repertoire. And I hear you are a great artist."
Drystan shifted on his pallet, propping his head on his hand. His healers had warned him to change positions often to avoid bed sores. "I have yet to prove it. Yet all treat me with respect as if I had."
Boinda chuckled. "It is best not to anger a bard, else he may write a satire about you."
A satire. He shook his head. "The power of the word in Eriu is hard for one unused to your ways to comprehend."
"Yes, I can see how that might be so. Roman ways purge much of the magic from life. What is left of the old ways in your own land?"
"We have druids and bards. Druids are advisors to kings and bards sing their praises. But they have little power unless the king they serve sees fit to make it so. Law is spoken by the kings themselves and their magistrates."
The old man nodded slowly. "And who corrects the king when he oversteps his bounds or makes a wrong decision?"
"Certainly not his magistrates." Drystan thought of the magistrates of his own father, whose main job lay in collecting the tribute and taxes due him for the defense of the territories under his protection. There was no one to correct the mistakes made by Marcus of Dumnonia except the High King of Britain himself.
"Be careful, my son," Boinda said quietly.
"What?"
"For one of your upbringing, it must be strange to find yourself in a land where the power of the druids is still strong."
Drystan nodded, wondering how the conversation had taken this turn. Perhaps the old man was becoming weak in the head, but he found that hard to believe. During previous conversations, he had found Boinda quick and entertaining.
The druid smiled. "Thank you."
"Thank me for what?"
"It is gratifying to still be found entertaining at my age, especially in one so young."
Drystan stared at the older man. It was as if the druid were reading his mind.
"Correct," Boinda said. Drystan was too surprised to respond, and the druid continued. "There is more danger for you here than you realize, young fili. The fog in your mind has protected you until now, but as your mind grows clearer, so do your thoughts. There are several here in Ard Ladrann for whom clear thoughts are as easy to see into as a clear pool."
Drystan sat up slowly and leaned against the rough wall behind him. He couldn't have this conversation lying down. Riwallon had told him Eriu was a place of music and magic, but he hadn't told him how much; Drystan probably wouldn't have believed him if he had. Druids in Armorica were highly respected, and the common people regarded them as powerful wizards. The people of the vici and civitates, however, had lost most of those superstitious beliefs even before becoming Christian was made mandatory for Roman citizenship.
Rome had long left Armorica, but her ways were still with them more than Drystan had thought. And he discovered that despite his adoption of Armorican over Roman ways, Roman ratio would not allow him to accept that an old man with a face like a map could read his mind.
He took a deep breath. "How can that be?"
"I have something of the power of knowing. You don't understand what I mean by that, do you?"
"No."
"The ancient race of this island, the Feadh Ree, reckon three special powers which many of our kind possess: the power of calling, the power of changing, and the power of knowing. Those with pure blood of the Feadh Ree often have the greatest powers. In these days, pure blood is rare, as the Gaels have been here for many centuries now. Yseult the Wise is one of the few. And she has a very strong power of knowing."
"Oh." Which meant if he weren't careful, she would be able to read his mind and find out who he was. "And what of Yseult the Fair?"
"She has the power, but not as strong as her mother. Her greatest power is that of calling."
Drystan leaned his head against the wall. Perhaps that was what had saved him — along with the fog of fever.
Boinda nodded. "I would agree."
"Why are you warning me?"
"You have an important role to play in the changes that are coming. Also, I can see farther than thoughts, and I see that despite your lie, you
are honorable."
He rubbed his forehead. "I do not feel at all honorable."
The old druid gave him a wide grin which made the map of his face even more pronounced. "That is precisely why you are."
Well, honor wouldn't help him much when they found out who he was. He sincerely doubted whether Murchad's relatives would value the honor Boinda saw in him over their own revenge, and he could hardly blame them.
Boinda leaned forward. "There are ways to shield your thoughts. Would you like me to teach you?"
"Yes," Drystan said fervently.
* * * *
"Gelu rigentis colubra sustulit sinuque fovit, contra se ipse misericors," Yseult said slowly, watching her tutor's face. It was a very pleasant face to watch, she had to admit; the ready smile, the eyes like a forest, the hair the shades of leaves in autumn spread out over his shoulders. Today the braid he usually wore was undone, his hair freshly washed and shining in the light of the fire.
"Regentem colubram," Tandrys corrected.
The bard still rarely left his pallet, but he was awake most of the day now — awake and bored. Her mother had suggested they begin with Latin lessons, since Tandrys did not even need to sit up for that. He was sitting up now, however. He was growing livelier every day, and his laughter echoed through the round-house more and more often. Yseult didn't much care for learning the Roman tongue, but she enjoyed her time with the bard, looked forward to sitting next to his pallet and watching the play of expressions on his face, enjoyed making him laugh or seeing his eyes light up when he caught sight of her. It was the most pleasant flirtation she'd had since her affair with Gamal.
But Latin? She found it hard to believe she would ever need what he taught her. The foreign traders who sometimes sought out the larger fairs usually knew enough of the tongue of Eriu for the purpose of buying a buckle.
Yseult sighed. "Perhaps you can teach me some phrases I might be able to use when bargaining with a Gaulish merchant for a shipment of wine?"
Tandrys was silent for a moment, thinking. "Num ista condicio optima est?"
"What does that mean?"
"Is that your best offer?"
Yseult nodded. "Good. I would rather learn about offers than those odd creatures called snakes."
Tandrys laughed, and she watched the way his green eyes lit up. She couldn't help smiling back. His laughter was like music, a song that made those who heard want to join in.
"Yseult?"
She turned. Brangwyn entered the round-house, a teasing smile on her face. "Had you forgotten? We were to collect mistletoe and all-heal root with your mother this morning."
"I was just coming," Yseult said, feeling her cheeks flush. How could she have forgotten it for lessons in Latin?
"You must excuse me," she said to Tandrys, took her cloak from a hook next to the door, and turned to follow Brangwyn out of the round-house.
In the days and weeks that followed, she had little time to forget her duties for Latin lessons — or a pair of green eyes. Although members of the warrior class, the aes dana, or the Tuatha Dé Danann did not officially have to take part in working the land, such rules were meaningless in the month after the first harvest and before Samhain. Crops harvested in the previous weeks had to be either stored or dried, and late fruits and vegetables harvested as well. Any produce not collected by Samhain was forfeit to the gods, and every hand in the fields and orchards meant a more comfortable winter for all. The choice had to be made how many sheep, cows, goats and pigs would be butchered after they were brought down from their summer pastures — not all of them could be fed through the winter, and the tuath would need meat to carry them through the cold months. The heavy work continued for several weeks after Samhain, when the carcasses were salted and smoked and hung up in the beams of the round-houses, where the winter fires in the fire pits would continue to cure the meat through the rest of the season.
Everyone was relieved when the hard weeks were over and the new year celebration was upon them. The residents of Ard Ladrann were up early to begin the preparations for Samhain and the start of winter. All day they worked to get everything ready before sundown. The cattle were driven down from the hills to their winter grazing grounds close to the rath, pigs slaughtered for the festivities, wood collected for the bonfires, and quarters made ready for the additional warriors Crimthann had demanded from the nearby subject kings to protect Ard Ladrann —mostly to protect his queen from the High King. Little fighting took place after Samhain and the beginning of the dark half of the year, but Lóegaire might try to use that to his advantage. Crimthann didn't intend to take any chances.
Yseult had taken her dogs Bran and Ossar along to help drive the cattle down from the hills. This was one of her favorite jobs this time of year; the walk in the cold, crisp air, the yapping of hounds and the lowing of cattle. Many of the children of the tuath seemed to feel the same as they scampered along, taking the part of hounds, keeping the cattle in line with loud noises or a slap to the haunches.
Finally, the cattle were in the winter pasture, and the laborers and serfs would begin the sorting and butchering. Yseult led her dogs and the children back to the rath, a task nearly as arduous as herding the cattle. One of her hounds had decided to play chase with three little girls, and they were lagging behind. Yseult gave a loud whistle. "Ossar, to me!"
The wolfhound's ears perked up, and he loped over to her, the children shrieking after him.
When Yseult entered the gates of the rath, children and hounds bounding around her, she saw Tandrys at the door of the round-house, leaning on the shoulder of the old druid Boinda. The bard was pale from over-exertion; tight lines of pain ran up his forehead from his eyebrows, and his eyes were narrowed in a squint of concentration.
She sent the children on their way and hurried over to him, Bran and Ossar by her side.
"Tandrys! What are you doing out of your bed?"
He grinned. "I wanted to see what a day is like that is not of one year and not of the next. And I need some fresh air."
Yseult shook her head, tempted to be amused but also worried. "It's still too soon for you to walk much on that leg of yours."
His grin grew wider. "I noticed."
"Yseult, sometimes it is wiser to ignore wisdom," Boinda said. "He wanted to see our Samhain celebrations. I think we may let him watch a little."
Yseult looked their patient up and down, her lips pursed. There was a light in his eyes as he scratched Bran behind the ears with his free hand, and the brisk air was slowly bringing color to his cheeks.
"Good. But then you must let me show him around," she said to Boinda. "I can support his weight better." She was nearly of a height with the bard, while Boinda was perhaps half a head shorter. She stepped behind the old man and slipped under Tandrys's arm, placing her own arm firmly around his waist and taking the hand that came around her shoulder in a tight grip. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.
"Very." His voice sounded on the edge of laughter, and she decided she had to agree with Boinda: sometimes it was wiser to ignore wisdom.
Not only that, she had to admit the feel of his arm across her shoulders, his hand in hers, made her breathing come a little faster and her cheeks feel a little warmer. Body to body with the injured bard, she was strangely nervous, strangely exhilarated, as she used to be on a cattle raid with Illann's war band.
"If you will take over the entertainment of the bard, I think I will take a nap before the bonfire is lit," Boinda said, a twinkle in his eye.
Yseult nodded. Was her reaction to Tandrys obvious to everyone in Ard Ladrann?
"Is Samhain not celebrated in Armorica?" she asked, guiding the convalescent in the direction of the gates of the rath. On the playing fields beyond, the young men were competing in the Samhain games; a hurling game was in progress on one side of the field and a javelin competition on the other.
They stopped to watch the hurling. "Not officially, at least not in the towns," the bard said. "But Armorica shook off
Roman control nearly a hundred years ago. In the hills and on the northern coast, areas that were never completely Romanized, they still remember the old ways, and Samhain is celebrated as the night of the spirits. But the new year is reckoned in the Christian fashion, two moons from now."
One player scored a goal, batting the ball underneath the beam at one end of the playing field, and his teammates cheered and hugged him and clapped him on the back.
"What is it like in the lands where you have traveled?" Yseult asked. The bard leaned on her, a weight she liked. She tried to touch his mind, but to her surprise, she found that he was shielding his thoughts.
"Very different," he said after a long pause. "While some places look a little like Ard Ladrann, there are many communities where hundreds or even thousands of people live all year around. And laws and beliefs ...." His voice trailed off.
Yseult drew a deep breath. "But you must have some magic left in your world, if you know how to hide your thoughts from me."
She felt the bard start, and then he laughed. "I have Boinda to thank for that."
"Perhaps you have some blood of the Old Race in your veins."
"I wouldn't know. We have no legends of a race such as the Tuatha Dé where I come from."
They watched the games in silence for a while, and Yseult felt the bard's weariness, although she could not touch his mind. His physical weakness made him lean on her more, and he grew heavier.
She did not want to take any risks with him, today of all days. At Samhain, the veil between the worlds was thinnest, thinner than at any other of the in-between times. Yseult was of the blood of the Feadh Ree and did not have to be as careful as those of the Gael; the opening of the doors to the Otherworld held no fear for her. But the bard, while his talents were great, was still Gael, and his body was yet weak.
"Perhaps we should return to the rath," she said gently.
Tandrys nodded. "Not very entertaining company, am I?"
Yseult smiled. "Now that you have managed the walk between the round-house and the playing fields, you will surely soon be able to sing for us, and how could we better entertained than that?"
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 14
