"Enough," she said.
Crimthann grinned, a question in his eyes, and Yseult the Wise laughed and shook her head. The Ui Neill warrior looked on, his expression grim.
"Perhaps you should advise Lóegaire to get himself a queen before the next Feis of Tara," the prince said. "The people will not hold a feis for a king with no queen. Come, my love, I have brought the bard with me."
As the queen examined the cuts and bruises on his legs and arms and checked the old wound again, Drystan watched Yseult and Brangwyn brewing tisanes and changing dressings, washing wounds and feeding healing teas to injured men. He remembered the sight of them last night in the rain, Yseult a white fury in the dark, battling the intruders with the strength of a man, a lioness protecting her lair. He watched her and remembered Crimthann's words — if he were the bard of a king's son, she would be within his reach. If he were not her mortal enemy. But the possibility spoken sent desire curling in his belly, fire in his flesh and his mind.
* * * *
The next day, his leg and the weather were both much improved, and Drystan took his harp and fled the close confines of the rath. With his instrument slung across his back and the blue wool cloak whipping around his ankles, he walked through the winter forest, its trees bare of leaves, until he could hear the pounding of the surf and smell the salt in the air and see the dark gray-green water come up to meet the mottled iron gray sky.
Before the grass gave way to sand and the trees could no longer find a grip in the shifting ground, he found a stump and sat down, settling his blue cloak around him. He liked to imagine that it carried the scent of her fingers, the scent of a life beyond his reach, liked to imagine them working the wool which surrounded him now, long fingers, quick and strong, as capable with a loom as with a sword.
Ah, how would he ever be able to forget her?
He pulled the harp from his shoulder and began to play a random succession of chords, allowing his fingers to drift over the strings at will, picking out a haphazard melody. After a while, he found a pattern which appealed to him and hummed beneath his breath, adding words as they came to him, using the dialect of Armorica, his first language when it came to music. He had discovered his love for music before going into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, but only with them had he been able to indulge in his passion as he pleased. Good foster parents, they saw that he received the training of a prince, a complete course in arms and horsemanship and Latin, the language of the world, but as long as he completed the required lessons, he was free to spend as much time as he wanted with the bards of Bro Leon, learning whatever they were willing to teach him.
The music he played blended in with the rhythm of the surf and the calls of the gulls, and his soul was soothed, at least for the moment. He remembered how he used to flee to the cave at Dyn Tagell, where all he could see were the sea and the sky, and the only sound was the crash of the waves against the rocky cliffs of his home. Here in Eriu they said the water held spirits, and he could readily believe it; spirits that were sometimes angry, sometimes benign. His song became a paean to the spirits of the sea, the korrigans and sea serpents and water women. He sang, his voice lifting above the bare gray trees and gray waves and gray winter sky.
She was here, he felt it. His fingers stilled and he turned. She stood between the bare trees, a white flame flanked by her two sleek Erainn hounds.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "The gatekeeper was starting to get worried, you had been gone so long."
He glanced up at the sky. It was already late afternoon, and he hadn't noticed. "If you hadn't come, I probably would have stayed until dark and not found my way back," he said with a smile.
"Was that a song of your homeland?"
"No song. I was singing to the sea, making the music up as I sang."
She took a quick breath. "You are like the Dagda, the good god — good at everything you do."
How could he listen to such words, listen to what was behind the words, and still leave her? But how could he stay, hiding for the rest of his life from what might someday be revealed? "A little song? Everything?"
"You fight like a warrior trained and sing like the god himself. You have the gift of tongues and learn from Boinda as fast as he can teach you. You ride like a prince, and when you hunt, your arrow always finds its mark." As she spoke, Yseult moved through the trees to him, her great gray hounds at her side. Her words were a spell, and when she stretched out a hand to him, he put aside his harp, took it and rose, beyond safety, beyond care. She was as potent as the warmth of spring in the middle of winter; she slipped up against him, her hands gliding up his back, and he sucked in his breath, his hands coming to her waist.
"Yseult."
She leaned into him, molding her body to his. "Tandrys."
Tandrys. No, he couldn't, he wasn't. He leaned his forehead against hers, pushed her body away from his gently, still holding her waist. "Lady, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I must return to Armorica. I am not of your world."
"What, are you Roman?"
He shrugged. "I grew up with Roman ways as well as Armorican."
Her hands, her long fingers, so capable with both sword and loom, slipped up his shoulders and to the back of his neck, lifting the heavy braid from his skin. "Is this Roman?"
"No, Lady." Drystan closed his eyes. Her fingers were gently massaging the skin at the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and the reasons he had to resist were harder and harder to recall. He looked at her again, her skin glowing like a meadow in moonlight, her eyes like the midwinter moon itself, the outline dark and the center bright.
"Do you not honor the ancient ones?" she murmured. Her hounds stood on either side of them, silent, obedient.
"For me the ancient ones are a collection of tales, more entertainment than belief."
"Then perhaps I should show you how we honor our gods." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, warm and moist. He could no more resist her than he could a natural catastrophe, and with the hands which had still been resting at her hips, he jerked her to him. The sweet taste of her mouth broke over him like a flood.
Suddenly sanity returned, and he pushed her away. Yes, she wanted him. This dream of a woman wanted him, but when she found out who he really was, the warmth in her eyes would turn to hate. He grabbed up his harp and rushed away through the trees in the direction of the rath, turning back only once to see her as she watched him go, her back straight and her hounds motionless beside her.
Drystan pulled the heavy blue cloak she had made him tighter around his shoulders. Caught up in his music, he hadn't noticed the cold wind which had come up. He walked as quickly as his limp would allow to keep warm.
He could have been warm with Yseult in his arms.
It was getting harder and harder to remember that she was not for him, couldn't be for him; she was Yseult of Eriu, princess of the Feadh Ree, one of the ancient people, and he was Drustanus of Dumnonia, son of Marcus Cunomorus, a Romano-British prince, a rebel with a braid perhaps, but still the prince who had killed Murchad of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
The old leaves whispered beneath his feet as he walked, in accompaniment to the irregular rhythm of his gait, echoing the whispers in his mind of things he couldn't allow himself to think. But what was to keep him from remaining Tandrys, a lone bard from Armorica? He had come here alone, and for all his friends and family knew, he could have died here alone as well. Could Drustanus die? Did he want that? Could he do such a thing to his father and Blodewedd and Riwallon — and Kurvenal?
Even if he could, there was always the danger of meeting someone from Murchad's company and being recognized. The danger that someday his guard would slip and she would see into his mind, see who he really was — a man she had sworn to kill.
Chapter 11
Day by day and year by year
In the quiet chambers here
Grew the lady white and dear.
Day by day and week by we
ek
Grew the glory of her cheek
Till it seemed to breathe and speak.
Day by day and night by night
Grew she in her mother's sight,
Maiden Yseult dear and white.
Algernon Swinburne, "Queen Yseult"
Slowly, winter began to lose its grip and Imbolc drew near, the festival of the goddess Brigid, marking the first signs of the return of spring. People came from miles around for the celebrations at the tribal centers, and while Ard Ladrann was not a Tara or a Dun Ailinne, many guests were expected. The first lamb was born only two days before Imbolc, a healthy female, which the druids interpreted as a good sign, the birth falling so close to the celebration itself.
Drystan had been in Eriu now for over four months, and soon he would be able to leave again — leave temptation and danger, beauty and madness. The weather often still changed for the worse after Imbolc, and snow lay in patches on the ground in the mountains and on the northern side of the hills. It was not yet time for the great ships to put to sea or the merchants to seek out foreign lands, but in another month or two they would, and one of them would take Drystan with him.
He was sitting in an open area outside the rath with Aine and Domnall and Fithir, helping weave the rings of plaited straw to be hung up on the doors of the houses on the eve before Imbolc, when the sight of a party of warriors made him stop. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he recognized two of them —from the war band that had been with Murchad at Dyn Tagell.
He bent his head over the straw in his lap, hoping they wouldn't notice him. If they had come only for the Imbolc festivities, they would be gone in a few days, but if they had come to strengthen Crimthann's forces, they would be here for as long as Drystan remained.
He watched them from beneath lowered brows as they neared the horse-pen and dismounted. Yes, he knew those men, he was sure now. He had a good memory for faces.
What was he going to do?
"Tandrys!"
It was his mentor Boinda calling him. He would only draw attention to himself if he ignored him. He looked up and found the figure of the ancient druid near the gates of the rath. He was motioning Drystan to join him.
Drystan took a deep breath and stood up, brushing the straw off his breeches. "You must excuse me. My wisdom calls."
The other young people laughed merrily, and he left them, making his way to where Boinda waited. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the party of soldiers also nearing the gates of the rath. Their paths met a dozen paces from the entrance.
One of the warriors he had recognized looked him up and down, taking in the blue cloak, and nodded. "Good day, bard."
"Good day," Drystan said, hardly trusting his ears.
"Fine weather for Imbolc," the other one said, and Drystan nodded.
Nothing happened.
They had not recognized him. As a bard in Ard Ladrann, he meant nothing to them. Here he was not Drustanus.
He halted in front of Boinda, barely comprehending what the druid was saying about the bards and their role in the festivities tomorrow.
The warriors of the fianna had acted as if they had never seen him before. They had not looked for him, and they did not see him. Here he was Tandrys, not Drustanus, a bard and not a prince.
Perhaps he could be Tandrys. Who was to know better?
* * * *
Drystan spent the next day in a daze of joyful confusion. The world suddenly seemed full of possibility. What if he were to stay in Eriu after all, become the bard he had always dreamed of being? He could court Yseult and take the kisses she offered without fear. He would get word to Kurvenal somehow, let him know he wasn't dead as they must all surely be thinking by now.
But still he watched the warriors of the fianna out of the corner of his eye, his harp slung over his back, wary. They paid him little mind. Each time one of them ignored him or greeted him with the casual words, "Ho, bard!" his mood rose another notch.
Yseult the Wise was to take the role of the goddess Brigid for the rites of Imbolc, blessing the tools that would be used for work at the end of the cold months and the houses which would soon be filled with light again. Since arriving in Eriu, Drystan had learned that Brigid was the goddess of smiths, healing, and poetry, and her celebration brought milk to the ewes and fecundity to the land.
Drystan couldn't help feeling a superstitious inclination to send her a prayer of thanks that Brigid's day fell on such a day of hope for him.
All the household fires at Ard Ladrann were put out, so that Queen Yseult could go from house to house and relight them, bringing the growing light of spring into winter. Clean straw had been strewn to welcome her and special cakes baked for the occasion; later there was to be feasting and dancing and the pulling of the ceremonial plough. Drystan had slept through much of the Samhain celebrations, and when he had been able to get up, he was more observer than participant. Imbolc would be the first major celebration in Eriu that he would be able to take part in.
The ceremony began at the blacksmith's outside the rath. Drystan stood in the crowd with his harp slung over his back, ready to follow Brigid's representative through the village, craning his neck searching for her daughter. Where was Yseult?
Even if the Erainn saw in Imbolc the first indication of spring, the air was still crisp. He was rubbing his shoulders beneath the blue wool of his cloak when he felt a soft hand touch his arm. He whirled around to the sound of her laughter.
"You were looking for me, bard?"
He quickly masked his thoughts as well as he could; once again, he had not even known his guard was down.
Before he could answer, she linked her arm through his. "By Danu, you must have as great a power of calling as I."
Drystan laughed, happier than her teasing warranted. Her hand was on his arm and he felt free, so free.
"I doubt it," he said, knowing he must be grinning like a fool. "Just because you can find my unguarded thoughts in a crowd does not mean I have the power of calling."
She did not leave him. Together they watched as Laidcenn invoked the goddess while Boinda held the sacred torch ready.
"Brigid fair and tender," Laidcenn intoned.
"Her hue like spring and fall,
"Rich-tressed maiden
"With ringlets of gold,
"Both stone and beam,
"Both clay and wattle,
"Both foot and head,
"Both man and woman,
"Both young and old,
"Both maiden and youth,
"Bring the sun to warm us,
"Bring the rain to nourish us,
"Bring the leaves to shelter us.
"Bless our houses with your light."
Boinda passed the torch to the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and she lit the great fire in the smithy. Around them, a cheer went up from the residents and guests of Ard Ladrann.
The queen went from house to house, first outside and then inside the rath, leading a parade of people joyous to welcome the first signs of spring. Drystan and Yseult followed, arm-in-arm, and he could feel the muscles of his stomach grow tight with a strange, unexpected joy.
He was greeting the spring with Yseult by his side. His arm tingled and his head felt light. He could hardly believe they were walking together as if they belonged this way.
As if he could remain here and become the bard of her step-father.
The last fire to be lit was in the mead hall of the king's house. When all the fires of Ard Ladrann were burning again, Crimthann stepped into the middle of the crowd to formally invite everyone to the festivities. Drystan drew Yseult's arm out of his reluctantly. "I must play now."
She whirled away with a joyous laugh. "Then play!"
Drystan pulled his harp over his shoulder and began a dancing tune. Crimthann took the hand of Yseult the Wise and led her out of the rath and into the fallow fields, the residents of Ard Ladrann following. Then the king and queen danced while Drystan played and the crowd watched and clappe
d in time to the music. Kegs of mead and ale were brought and set up at the side of the fields, and jugs and tankards passed around. One by one, other couples joined the royal couple, grabbing a mug of beer or wine before stepping out with one loved or lusted after, and the air was filled with laughter and the music of harps and drums.
Drystan played until his fingers were sore, and then Laidcenn took over. He helped himself to a tankard of mead and wandered through the dancing, singing crowds, laughing and joking with Domnall and Aidenn and Lithben and the other residents of the rath, heartlight and carefree.
Brangwyn touched his arm, her blue eyes merry. "You are not dancing, bard. Is your leg not yet healed?"
He laughed. "Why, no one has asked me yet." He still favored his injured leg, but that was almost out of force of habit by now; it had not pained him for many days.
"Then we will have to change that. Come." She pulled him into the dancing, laughing mass, and the warmth of all the other sweating bodies surrounded him. Even in the sun, there was a decided nip in the air, but in the middle of the crowd, kicking and twirling and occasionally bumping into another dancer who'd had too much ale, the cold could hardly be felt it at all. Drystan's braid whisked around in time to the music, and strands came out and got in his eyes. He pulled them back from his forehead with one hand, or if he had both his hands in Brangwyn's, he stuck out his lower lip and blew them up out of the way.
Suddenly Yseult was there again, at her cousin's elbow, whispering in her ear, and Brangwyn laughed and ran off. Yseult took his hands and twirled around with him in time to harp and drums and flute, looking into his eyes, a smile of promise playing around her full lips. His stomach knotted, and it was all he could do to refrain from pulling her into his arms right there in the middle of the crowd, to kiss her as he had wanted to the day she offered herself to him near the beach, as he had wanted to every day since.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 17
