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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  The dancing continued until the sun neared the edge of the world, and then, as if obeying an unspoken command, Yseult and the other young women slipped away, leaving the men alone on the field where they had been dancing.

  "What now?" Drystan asked Ronan beside him.

  Ronan gave him a wide grin, his eyes full of anticipation. "Now comes the plough."

  At his words, the women returned from behind the smithy, driving a team of oxen in front of a plough brightly decorated with flowers and ribbons. Several of the women held the handles, while the rest urged the oxen forward. The young men in the field stood, waiting and impatient, while the women made a series of circular furrows around them, wider and wider, taking them farther and farther away, while the sun slowly slipped behind the rim of the world. Drystan had no idea what was going on, but the mood was easy enough to catch — it was so blatantly sexual he could smell it. The men beside him were glassy-eyed with lust and rigid with wanting, while the women doing the ploughing laughed excitedly.

  Even though Drystan didn't know what to expect, he found himself reacting with the men beside him to the flirtatious laughter and looks thrown their way, found himself watching Yseult's lithe figure in the midst of all the young women, waiting, wanting.

  At the moment when the last sliver of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, when the in-between time began, no longer day and not yet night, when the sun was gone but its light still lingered, the women abandoned the plough, dropped the reins of the oxen, and fled in all directions. This apparently was a signal for the men to do the same, and they dashed en masse in pursuit. Although he had noted the direction Yseult had taken, Drystan hung back, wondering what would happen next. He was soon enlightened. A number of women only made a pretense at getting away, and those were caught first. Without ceremony, the lucky man tumbled to the ground with his prize and fell between her legs, ploughing her as the women had ploughed the soil.

  And Yseult was in the race too.

  Drystan ran. He saw her figure far ahead, a dash of white nearing the edge of the forest. She was not among those only making a pretense of running; her long legs stretched out, taking her swiftly to the trees. Behind her he saw Gamal in single-minded pursuit. Drystan imagined the red-haired, bearded warrior between Yseult's thighs as he had seen Domnall between Aine's, and he pushed himself harder, his former injury forgotten. Yseult disappeared into the trees, followed closely by his rival. His own insides were churning nearly as fast as his legs by the time he too made it to the woods.

  He stopped, unsure where to go, and listened for human sounds among the trees. To the west he thought he heard the rustling of underbrush and headed in that direction.

  "Tandrys!"

  The whispered voice was a call he couldn't resist, and he left the path for the bushes on his left. But Yseult wasn't there. Then the whisper came again and he followed until he reached a clearing. She was waiting for him, her back pressed against the smooth glossy-gray bark of a rowan tree.

  "I thought I had lost my power of calling completely," she said with a smile.

  Drystan had no memory of striding across the clearing, but there he was, pressing against her, pressing her into the trunk of the tree, taking her mouth with his, swallowing her moans in his own. Her mouth tasted sweeter than the rich mead he'd had far too much of, moist and honeyed, sweeter and more intoxicating, and her deep-throated groans made him wild. His head was spinning with mead and passion, with spontaneous jealousy and collective lust, and he gripped her from behind and pulled her up against him, grinding his hips into hers.

  "Yes," she demanded, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

  He needed no more encouragement. With both hands, he yanked up bunches of material, hiking her skirts around her hips. Her own hands went to the belt of his breeches, quickly unknotting the tie and pushing down. He felt the cool air of dusk on his hot, rigid penis, and then her searching hand closed tight around him.

  He gasped. "Ah, sweet Danu."

  "Roman, are you?" Yseult murmured with a breathless laugh.

  She stroked him, her touch firm and gentle, and he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. "For you, I will be anything."

  "Tongue of silver, and rod of ivory," she whispered against his ear. "I think I shall keep you."

  Her words, her touch, her body pressed so close to his; it was all too much for him. With a muffled groan, he lifted her up and drove into her, pinning her between himself and the tree. Yseult let out a sound like a long, drawn-out hiss and locked her ankles behind his ass. Drystan threw his head back and gritted his teeth, aching with the bliss of it. She panted and held on to him tightly, otherwise still. Then she moved against him and he could wait no longer. He plunged into her half-a-dozen times, moaned like a woman in labor, and emptied his seed into her while she clung to him, crying out his name, his other name.

  Sexual satiation stole upon him, and with it, an awareness of the physical discomfort of their rash act. The day had not been warm, although the sun could trick you into believing it at times. But now in the growing dark, he could feel the evidence on his bare ass that winter had not yet loosened its grip entirely. He kissed Yseult's lips and pulled out of her with a sigh which she answered. They had no other words, strangely shy of each other, still embracing, not sure what to say. Her face was so close, he could almost count the light brown hairs of her eyebrows. She lowered her feet to the ground and slid her arms away from him to straighten her tunic while he pulled up his breeches and retied the belt. Drystan knew now that he would stay with her as her bard if she wanted it, would forget the life he had known and be forgotten by it.

  "I do want it," Yseult whispered.

  Drystan caught her up in his arms and kissed her again, repressing a jolt of fear.

  Yes, he could stay with her, but only as long as he could close his mind to her.

  Chapter 12

  ir herze unde ir ougen

  diu schachten vil tougen

  und lieplichen an den man.

  der man der sach si wider an

  suoze und inneclichen.

  er begunde ouch entwichen

  do's in diu minne niht erlie.

  (Like a thief, stolen, loving, her heart and eyes were after the man. The man returned her looks, full of tender intimacy. He too began to give in, since love would not set him free.)

  Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan

  Yseult saw the way people smiled at her, a knowing smile, slight and heavy to one side. She didn't care — she was going to meet her lover.

  Since Imbolc, the passage of time had changed, had become like an illusion cast by Brangwyn, no longer connected to the movement of the sun through the sky, suddenly at the mercy of one man's presence or absence. She had not been this way with Gamal; this avid, this insatiable.

  This happy.

  The weather had been with them these last few days and weeks, pleasant and more, enough for regular trysts in a protected grove outside of the rath. When Yseult arrived, Tandrys looked up from his pacing, and a huge smile broke out over his face. He caught her in his arms and kissed her long and deep.

  "I remembered to bring blankets this time," he said when he released her again.

  Yseult laughed. "And I have the afternoon free."

  Tandrys kissed her again and pulled her down with him to the cozy nest he had made between the trees. "I will miss you so much when you leave tomorrow."

  Yseult pulled his tunic over his head and kissed the hollow of his throat. "We will only be gone a few days."

  "A few days too many."

  Truth to tell, part of the reason she was going was to prove to herself that she could — that she hadn't become totally dependent on the Armorican bard.

  Especially since he still made no mention of the future, never spoke of staying in Eriu past spring. And his mind remained closed to her.

  Tandrys took the cloth of her tunic in one fist and began to drag it up her body. She could hardly believe how sensuou
s the feel of the fine wool against her skin was accompanied by that gesture and the desperation in his eyes and his rapid breathing.

  A stray laugh bubbled up out of her at their mutual need —when they had been at it like rabbits ever since Imbolc.

  He shared the laugh with her, then used it to tease her nipples before going over to tooth and tongue. The laugh caught in Yseult's throat and turned to a groan. She struggled the rest of the way out of her tunic — what she wanted now was skin against skin.

  Tandrys obliged, slipping up her body a little to nip at her neck. During the time he had been paying such exquisite attention to her nipples, he had rid himself of his trousers, and she could feel his cock, warm and hard, slide up her thigh, welcome, so welcome. She loved the smell of him, the clean salty sweat, the tang of his arousal.

  They kissed and touched and played, teasing each other as long as they could, until Yseult couldn't wait anymore. "Please."

  "Turn over," he murmured while he pushed her hip gently in the direction he wanted. She was happy to. His heavy cock slid across her hip to nestle between the cheeks of her ass, while he turned the attention of his tongue and lips and teeth to her shoulders and the back of her neck.

  She was a puddle, a glorious puddle of sensation.

  His movements became more demanding, his teeth at her neck less gentle, and she pressed her ass into his crotch, wanting, demanding more.

  "Ah, Yseult."

  "Yes."

  He leaned over to kiss her lips again at that, long, sweet, hot. Being with him was sensation she never wanted to end, and an end she panted for at the same time.

  He pulled her hips up, and she came with him. She felt the pressure at her cunt, and then he was in, and she gasped, throwing her head back.

  Sweet, so sweet.

  Slowly he began to move, back and forth, his hands firmly on her hips. Pleasure flooded through her so that it was hard to keep her arms upright. She allowed herself to sink to her elbows on the nest of blankets as his grip on her hips became more demanding and his strokes harder.

  They came together, shuddering and crying, scaring away a young lamb that had strayed to their clearing from its pasture. Its frightened bleating accompanied the music of their mingled pants as she lowered herself back down to the blankets, Tandrys following.

  She turned in his arms as they pulled the blankets up around their shoulders.

  "Stay with me," she whispered.

  "Mmmmm," he said.

  And then she heard the regular breathing of his sleep, and she smiled to herself.

  It seemed she would have to save the discussion for another time.

  * * * *

  Yseult could hardly wait to reach Ard Ladrann again. As they passed the small wooden ringfort of the farmer Cathair and entered the last stand of trees north of home, she found it harder and harder to concentrate on the banter around her. If dignity had not forbidden it, she would have galloped ahead, greedy for her first sight of the Armorican bard in three days. Only three days. How could it only have been three days since she left the rath, since she had seen his laughing face or heard his voice like summer rain, or felt his long fingers on her hot skin?

  She had hoped going away for a spell would give her back a little of herself again, but all it had done was to make her feel like a bitch in heat, her mind clouded by unfulfilled desire, her thoughts full of the sound of his laughter and his beautiful, beautiful voice, her nostrils full of the scent of him, his soap and his sweat, and between her legs, the memory of him, a pulsing ache at her core.

  Crimthann cantered up next to her, smiling. At first he hadn't wanted her to come along for fear of kidnappers, but she had pointed out that if his warriors were split up, it might be better for her and her mother to split up too. And she craved activity after the long winter.

  Now she craved to be back at the rath.

  "Watching for your bard, are you?"

  Yseult grimaced. "If he is anyone's bard, he is yours."

  "I wish he were. His gifts are great and he is handy with a sword. But he has not yet responded to my offer."

  "Your offer?"

  "The honor price of a fili of the fifth rank."

  Yseult stared between Duchann Bhan's ears. The hair of her mare's mane was dark gray at the roots, fading into white only gradually.

  "Perhaps you can help persuade him," Crimthann added before spurring his own mare forward, as dark as Duchann Bhan was light.

  Crimthann had offered to make Tandrys a fili of the fifth rank? She had felt his wish to stay with her and be her bard, but most of the time his mind slipped away from her when she tried to touch it. He sought her out, stole away with her to the nearby groves and into private corners in the round-houses, slipped into her with an urgency and need she matched every time, and every time, the hunger was not yet stilled, feeding on itself, making them only more eager. And yet he had not told her that Crimthann wanted him to remain at Ard Ladrann. He closed his mind to her and didn't speak of the future.

  What if he were to return to Armorica and leave her behind, alone?

  She stared ahead, wondering if the fascination she felt for the bard had something to do with that insecurity, an insecurity she hadn't felt with Gamal, and certainly not Illann. But neither had Gamal made the sun stand still in the sky or the music of the birds sweeter, had never inhabited her mind so that every thought brought her back to him.

  No, she did not feel like she did during the time she was with Gamal. What she felt now was more like she had when she was a child, still living at Cashel, and a trader had brought a foreign delicacy to Aengus, sweeter than the sweetest honey. Her mother had warned her not to eat too much or she would become sick, but she had not been able to stop herself, even when she began to feel her stomach churn.

  She had become as sick as her mother predicted.

  Tandrys was like that foreign sweet. She didn't know if he would be good for her, but she couldn't stay away.

  They came out of the trees, and the rath was visible on the rise ahead, a number of warriors at weapons practice on the grounds in front. Yseult's sharp eyes immediately found the figure of Tandrys, exchanging blows with Lithben. As if he felt her regard, he lifted a hand to call halt, put up his sword, and scanned the horizon. When he spotted them, he came striding across the grounds to meet them.

  Yseult pulled up next to him and allowed herself to be lifted off of Duchann Bhan's back and kissed thoroughly.

  "What news?" Tandrys asked.

  "None. Crimthann doesn't like it."

  "What, that there have been no raids recently?"

  "He finds it suspicious — and so do I. The weather has turned perfect for raids, but there is no sign of the Ui Neill."

  "Then perhaps I can devote myself more to my harp again," Tandrys said with a grin.

  Yseult walked slowly beside him, leading Duchann Bhan by her reins. She had to talk with him about Crimthann's offer, but she found herself strangely reluctant. It wasn't like her to avoid a problem; she was much more likely to act impulsively, perhaps too impulsively. But walking next to him, she could feel her skin singing, calling out to him, and it was unimaginable that this could end, that he could leave her for Armorica. But if he had not responded to Crimthann's offer, had not even told her about it ... she didn't know what to think.

  "It is good sailing weather too. Soon the trading ships will set off again for foreign lands," she said quietly.

  Tandrys was silent, but the smile died on his face. He nodded.

  "What are you going to do?"

  He stopped, looking to the east in the direction of the sea. Yseult stopped beside him. Duchann Bhan lowered her head and began to pull up clumps of early spring grass and chew them slowly: tear, chomp, tear, chomp.

  "I want to stay."

  "Then stay."

  "If I do, my friends and family will think me dead. I can't do that to them."

  "You could send them word."

  "I would like to see them again." />
  She reached out for his mind, but there was nothing there, a wall with no door. Boinda had taught him well.

  He turned, taking her free hand in both his own. "I would come back, Yseult. Staying away would be impossible for me now."

  If she couldn't reach out to his mind, how could she be sure?

  There was a commotion at the gate, and she hurried ahead, grateful for the distraction. "A rider from the northeast, coming hard!" she heard as they neared the earthwork ramparts.

  Crimthann stood at the gate below the watchtower, looking in the direction indicated. "Ours?" he called up.

  "Yes."

  A number of people had already gathered at the gates to welcome back the scouting party, and the small crowd fell silent, watching the distant figure nearing at a gallop, wondering what the urgent news could be.

  The sweating warrior pulled up in front of the gates of the rath and dismounted, going to one knee in front of Crimthann. Before he spoke, he took three quick, deep breaths and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

  "Lord, it's your father. The Ui Bairrche betrayed him and have gone over to the Ulaid. Enna Cennsalach is dead."

  * * * *

  A new king had to be chosen quickly, and the kings and the highest brehon and druids of the Laigin were called to Dun Ailinne for the naming. All the members of the kinship group eligible for the kingship and who were still whole had to be present as well; whoever was named king would immediately take over the duties of warlord of the Laigin. Crimthann's cousins Illann and Ailill were leading the defense of Dun Ailinne, but it was Crimthann who was most expected to be elected king —Illann and Ailill were young yet and neither had Crimthann's experience in battle. Nor did they have wives. And the queen Crimthann would bring was the Kingmaker herself.

  Drystan didn't know what to think of the unexpected developments. On the one hand, the members of the Fianna who had visited Ard Ladrann at Imbolc had not shown the least sign of recognizing him. But at Dun Ailinne, there would be many more warriors who had gone with Murchad to Dyn Tagell and seen the prince of Dumnonia — and that much more chance someone would think away the blue cloak, think beyond the appearance of the bard and see a resemblance in a gesture or a feature, catch a fleeting memory and connect it to a foreign musician.