He should leave now. He should leave now, but he couldn't. Somehow, leaving Yseult voluntarily was beyond his power.
And when Crimthann asked him to bring both harp and sword on the journey to Dun Ailinne, he accepted.
* * * *
Yseult came out to the practice grounds where she had heard Tandrys was to be found, a sword in the belt at her hips. The weather was unseasonably warm, and she had to shade her eyes to search for the bard among the warriors. She had already packed what she needed for the journey and had put together a supply of healing herbs and ointments with her mother and Brangwyn, enough for the trip. They would be leaving for Dun Ailinne in the morning. Crimthann was putting Ard Ladrann in Lithben's capable hands until the succession was decided, taking half the warriors with him for both his own protection and the protection of the two Yseults.
Tandrys was exchanging blows with Gamal, who pursued the attack with more determination than necessary for a practice session, the expression on his face grim. Yseult was glad Gamal would be staying behind while Tandrys traveled with them.
"Let me try my hand with the bard!" she called out as she approached them. Gamal put up his sword, simultaneously sheepish and stubborn, greeted her shortly, and moved away. If they stayed in Dun Ailinne, she would ask Crimthann to see that Gamal remained in Ard Ladrann.
Tandrys stuck his sword in the ground in front of him and leaned on it to catch his breath. Wisps of hair escaped from his braid and his smooth chest gleamed with sweat.
"That fiery warrior seemed quite willing to take my head off," he said, still breathing heavily.
Yseult nodded. "Does Gamal often give you problems?"
Tandrys laughed. "If he does, I can take care of it myself, fair princess."
"Bards are not usually known to be as handy with a sword as with a harp, and I do not want to have your death on my conscience."
Dimples appeared in his smooth cheeks and his green eyes shone. "Is that why you intervened? But I was looking forward to having you try your hand with me."
Yseult laughed and drew her sword. "Impossible man! Here, you have my hand."
Tandrys jumped back, pulling his own sword out of the dirt, and parried her first lunge. Yseult had never fought him before, and although she had fought beside him the night of the Ui Neill attack, it was easier to judge the skill of an opponent than an ally. The bard was good, very good, even winded from his fight with Gamal, nearly as good as a member of the fianna. She remembered what she had once said to him, that he was like the Dagda, the good god, good at everything he did.
He laughed again, spirits high, and his sword swooped around towards hers, gleaming bright in the spring sunshine. She parried, all her attention on the blades, clashing and glinting in the sun. Before their blades slid away from each other, iron against iron, her gaze was caught by a distinctive break in the gleaming smoothness of Tandrys's sword.
An irregularity. As if a piece were missing.
She looked for the spot again. There. She had not been mistaken. Somehow Tandrys had lost a splinter of metal from his blade, in some fight, in which perhaps someone had been killed.
A feeling of sick fear descended on her belly and her fighting arm froze. Perhaps it had been a trick of light. She hoped it had been a trick of light.
Tandrys dropped his own weapon and came over to her, laying one bare, sweaty arm over her shoulders. "Yseult! Are you well?"
She stared at him, wishing she could stare at his blade. "I — don't know. Perhaps the sun."
He caressed her cheek, and she let him, although her first impulse was to jerk away. "It is not that warm," he said with a smile, taking her chin his hands, fine artist's hands, perhaps the hands of a murderer.
"No. I don't know what came over me. I think I should see my mother."
He nodded, his beautiful green eyes full of concern. "Do you want me to accompany you?"
She shook her head. Suspicion was giving way to a strange conviction, and suddenly she could barely stand his touch.
He gave her a tender kiss on the cheek, and she sheathed her own sword and returned to the rath without looking back.
Tandrys. Drustanus, son of Cunomorus. Drustanus in the British tongue would be Drystan. Drystan. Tandrys.
Yseult felt like a fool.
After leaving the practice grounds, she ordered his belongings cleaned for the journey to Dun Ailinne. Totally unaware of her suspicions, he gave them up easily, glad enough to have slaves doing the work for him.
She waited a sufficient amount of time and then entered the round-house on the pretext checking up on the slaves' progress. His harp looked like new, the carvings in the spine polished to perfection. But it was not the harp she was interested in. She picked up Tandrys's sword in its finely made scabbard. An Armorican piece, the Roman-Gaulish influence was obvious in the work; at the same time, the figures of the horse and rider were too stylized to be completely Roman, the lines too smooth, the figures too pleasing for pure verisimilitude.
She was putting off the moment of truth and she knew it. No more.
Yseult drew the sword out of its scabbard and found the chip in the blade immediately. Her hand stilled and her stomach plunged. Laying the sword down next to the harp, she drew the splinter out of the pouch she wore at her waist and fitted it into the irregularity in the bard's blade.
Perfect. The fit was perfect.
* * * *
The air of the bath house was sweet with herbs and heady with humid warmth. The fire in the fire pit crackled merrily as Yseult slipped silently through the door, clutching the sword that had killed her uncle. Tandrys — no, Drystan — sat in a wooden tub with his back to her, washing off the dirt and sweat from the afternoon's practice, cleaning his underarms vigorously, and humming a song beneath his breath. She paused for a moment. The back would be perfect, but it wasn't honorable.
Yes, the back was perfect, smooth and well-muscled, slim for a fighter but strong. His braid was loosened, and he had pulled the wet hair off his back and tied it in a knot at his neck. Yseult felt a wrench in her stomach, and she gripped the sword tighter. It had to be. She had sworn to avenge her uncle, sworn that Drustanus son of Cunomorus would pay. And he, liar that he was, had taken the hospitality of his enemies, had fooled them all for months, and had almost tricked the niece of the man he had killed into falling in love with him. Ah, yes, he liked to laugh so much, he was probably laughing at all of them behind the wall of his mind even now.
She choked back a sob, hating her own weakness. At the sound, Drystan started up in the tub and turned. A pleased smile began to form on his fine lips until he saw the sword she carried. His gaze flitted from her face to the sword and back again, and the smile died. He began to lift one hand, but she lifted the sword in reply, and he let his arm drop again.
"Yseult," he said finally. Nothing more. At least he wasn't going to try and pretend innocence. His eyes were full of sadness, and when she reached out to his mind, the wall was gone and his mind screamed with pain. She winced and withdrew.
"Drystan." She took a deep breath. "I have come to take revenge for the death of my uncle."
The water glistened on his body, catching the glow of the firelight and making him appear like a statue of shining bronze. At the sight of all that wetly gleaming male beauty, her breath caught in her throat, and she looked up, concentrating on the face, the face that lied.
"How did you find out?" he asked.
Yseult stepped forward and placed the tip of the sword in the middle of his surprisingly hairless chest, fighting the urge to lower her gaze and take in the whole lean length of him again. "This is the sword that killed Murchad. I extracted a splinter from his skull and it fits your sword perfectly."
"The fight this afternoon."
"Yes."
"Your uncle died in a battle to the death. If I had not killed him, he would have killed me. He almost did kill me when the wound grew poisonous."
"But you slew him when he was returning host
ages, when he was given safe passage to your father's seat."
Drystan let out a ragged sigh. "I know."
Yseult was so surprised, she almost let the sword drop. "So you admit to the dishonor?"
"To the dishonor of my family, yes, but not to my own. I slew Murchad in a fair fight."
"How can you distinguish between family and personal honor?"
Drystan shrugged. "It was not my decision to violate the laws of safe passage. That was my father's doing. I was only trying to save whatever honor remained."
It all sounded so reasonable, so possible, Yseult felt herself wavering. But she couldn't. For her uncle's sake, she couldn't.
"Instead of ambushing him, you just slew him in a fight to the death," she said bitterly.
"So you admit the fight was fair?"
She had to get her anger back again. With every minute she stood there, the sword growing heavier in her hands, she could feel the anger slipping away. "I admit nothing. You are a liar who tricked us into nursing you back to health. Are you a spy for your father?"
"I am no spy." He heaved a great sigh. "I would have been your bard."
"Bard? Murderer! I will kill you with the sword that killed Murchad!"
Drystan didn't move, only staring at her with those eyes the color of new grass in spring. Yseult found she couldn't move either, couldn't push the blade into his breastbone, couldn't watch the red blood seep down across that perfect body or those green eyes go blank.
"Yseult, what is the meaning of this?"
At the sound of her mother's voice, Yseult whirled around. Drystan leapt out of the bath and grabbed her from behind, forcing the sword out of her hand. As it fell to the rushes of the floor, all the tension left her body, all the energy which had been keeping her standing, and she slumped against her naked foe with a sob. Drystan tightened his arms around her. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, tears running down her face, and gazed at her mother. Crimthann stood at his queen's shoulder, his expression bewildered.
Her mother repeated her question, this time addressing the false bard. "What is the meaning of this, Tandrys?"
"Not Tandrys," Yseult got out, the taste of tears salty on her lips. "Drystan."
"Drystan?" Her mother still didn't understand.
"Drustanus," Yseult said. "Son of Marcus Cunomorus."
The silence in the bath house stretched out. Yseult felt the water from Drystan's body seeping through her tunic to her skin, felt the muscles of his forearm beneath her breasts, felt the heat of the tears beneath her eyelids and on her cheeks, felt her heart cramp and her trust die. And still, the feel of him, naked and wet behind her, made her want to turn and kiss him to the ground.
She hated him, more than she had ever hated anyone in her life.
"A life for a life," Crimthann said.
"Release her," the queen ordered, her voice tired.
Drystan loosened his grip, but Yseult couldn't move. Standing by herself was impossible, and she didn't want to end up sprawling on the floor of the bath house. She stood listlessly leaning against her lover-turned-enemy, the tears mopping her cheeks in a steady stream. Crimthann stepped forward and drew her away from Drystan into his own arms. She leaned her head on his shoulder, aware that soon his tunic would also be wet. Somehow, the burning tears just wouldn't stop.
"I cannot avenge Murchad with your life," Crimthann said, his voice rumbling next to her ear. "I owe you my own. But I want you to leave Ard Ladrann immediately and make your way out of the territory of the Laigin as soon as possible." He was silent for a moment, and Yseult felt him swallow. "I wonder if you realize what you have done to us. We trusted you and loved you and made a place for you in our lives. Now go."
Yseult heard Drystan gather up his belongings and stride to the door, heard the door creak and his footsteps stop. "Forgive me."
Then he was gone.
Crimthann gathered her up in his arms and carried her through the rath to her own bed. She felt her pallet against her back and tasted the bitter flavor of nightshade.
And she slept.
Chapter 13
Where, then, will Coroticus with his criminals, rebels against Christ, where will they see themselves, they who distribute baptized women as prizes — for a miserable temporal kingdom, which will pass away in a moment? As a cloud or smoke that is dispersed by the wind, so shall the deceitful wicked perish at the presence of the Lord; but the just shall feast with great constancy with Christ, they shall judge nations, and rule over wicked kings for ever and ever. Amen.
St. Patrick, Letter to Coroticus
Yseult awoke with a start. As so often in the last months since they had moved to Dun Ailinne after Crimthann was chosen king of the Laigin, she was disoriented and confused. She thought she smelled smoke, fresh smoke, not like that from the evening fire which had been banked and put out before everyone sought their beds. It made no sense; summer was almost over, but they did not yet need the warmth of a fire at night.
She rubbed her eyes, sniffed the air again, and tried to probe the rath with her sleepy mind. It was smoke — something was wrong. She threw back the covers and slipped into breeches and shoes, noticing as she did that her mother was up too. The queen had pulled back the curtain to the sleeping area she normally shared with Crimthann. Now, however, he was on a campaign against the Ui Bairrche who had betrayed his father and gone over to the Ui Neill, a campaign he had begun shortly after being elected king. The territory of the Ui Bairrche was not far north of their new home, but it was too far away for him to help them now.
Their gazes locked across the darkened round-house. With King Crimthann and half the fighting men of Dun Ailinne gone, it was the perfect time for a raid, and they both knew it.
But why had there been no warning bell?
"I'll go see if anything is amiss," Yseult said, lifting her sword and shield from the wall. Her mother nodded.
By this time, Illann too was awake, pushing back the curtain of his sleeping chamber with one hand as he belted his tunic with the other. "I will go with you. Lithben," he said to the final occupant of the round-house, "you stay to guard the queen."
Lithben nodded shortly, and Yseult and Illann slipped out of the door. Outside, the smell of smoke was stronger, and she turned her head, trying to determine where it was coming from. Everything was too still for a fire — no sounds of panic, no calls of warning, no frightened animals, no scurrying to save buildings or stores from ruin.
It could only be the outlook itself.
They hurried to the closest round-house assigned to the warriors of the Fianna. Many of them too were already on their feet, their swords in their hands.
"We must check the guard posts," Illann said. "But I also want more warriors guarding the queen. If it is Lóegaire, she is what he wants."
"If it is Lóegaire, we can only hope he has underestimated our forces," Illann's brother Ailbe said beside her.
Illann ignored his brother's mutterings. "Fiachra, you go awaken the other warriors and send another half-dozen to help Lithben guard the queen. Bran and Bress, take half the remaining men and check the outlook. Yseult and I will go with the other half to see if the guards are at their posts."
"That is too many," Yseult protested. "We need to split up to check all the guard posts."
Illann shook his head. "No, Yseult. You are as valuable as your mother."
Yseult would have liked to object, but she knew Lóegaire had sworn to capture her as well. And if she made too much of a fuss, he would send her back to be put under guard in the round-house with her mother.
Swords drawn, they moved silently between the houses to the southern gate where two guards were on duty inside the earthworks of the rath. Although there were no yells of combat, no identifying cries, and no rain to slow their movements, there was something that reminded Yseult of the night Tandrys fought at her side — something about the threat beyond the cover of darkness. Only this time, the moon was high, visibility was good, and Crimth
ann was gone.
"Aed?" Illann called out quietly when they neared the gate. "Cellach?"
Finally the darkness and the smell of smoke made good its threat. To the west, they heard the battle cry, "Ui Neill!" answered by their own troops, "Ui Cheinnselaig!"
At almost the same time, the southern gate between the earthwork defenses burst open, and the enemy began pouring in.
In their midst was High King Lóegaire himself.
Although they were soon joined by more warriors awakened by Fiachra or the sounds of battle, they were at a disadvantage with the enemy already through their gates. Illann's only strategy was to push the intruders back towards the gate as well as they could. Back-to-back, she and Ailbe slashed into the enemy, trying to protect each other as much as possible while they kept the Ui Neill from slipping between their forces and making their way farther into the rath.
Among the fighters of the Ui Neill, Yseult recognized Lóegaire's son Lugaid. Unfortunately, he recognized her as well. He and a small band of warriors began to fight their way through to her. Ailbe was engaged in single combat by one of the Ui Neill and she no longer had his protection at her back. Ahead, she saw Senach fall with a short sword through the throat, followed by Guaire. The metallic smell of blood filled her nostrils and the ring of blade against blade filled her ears. Despite the cool night air, sweat ran down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging, almost blinding her. She wiped it away as best she could with a bloody forearm.
Then more of their own forces were joining the battle, several surrounding her, protecting her. She noticed Aidenn next to her and presumed Brangwyn was somewhere nearby, but she couldn't turn her head to look. The warriors of the Ui Neill were not attacking her directly, only defending themselves from her thrusts, and she had to take advantage of that as much as possible.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 19
