The two soldiers nodded.
"As for the rest," Drystan said, dismounting the gelding he had received in Noviomagus and handing the reins over to the man on foot closest to him. "We will march here along the crest of these hills as fast as we can to join our forces in time for battle!"
For the rest of the afternoon, Drystan pushed the men under his command to their limit. After an hour marching above the two armies, they were ahead of the Saxons. But in order to join the British forces, they would have to descend the hill where they stood and climb another.
Drystan called a halt. "Ahead of us" — he gestured to the hill across the vale to the north — "the High King of Britain and his sub-kings and generals wait to descend upon the Saxon host at our feet. I suggest we provide a distraction and allow Ambrosius to fall on the barbarians from behind."
Ruan pulled up his mount. "But how are we to fight hundreds of Saxons when there are less than eighty of us?"
"Not fight," Drystan said, feeling a grin tug up the corners of his mouth. "Provide a distraction. Erim, Cadell, you led the hunting party that shot the rabbits for our dinner last night — do you think you and your men could shoot Saxons just as well?"
Erim, a large, bearded man who wore his reddish-brown hair in a braid thicker than Drystan's, nodded enthusiastically. "Saxons are much bigger targets, and they don't move as fast."
"Excellent idea," Alun chimed in. "If we hide in the underbrush on the hills and use arrows, we can harry them form a safe distance."
The men nodded, forgetting their weariness from the bruising pace of the last two days.
Drystan turned back in the direction of the valley below, shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun. "This area is not as wooded as I would like, but halfway down the incline is a small rise crowned by bracken which we could use for cover. We don't have enough bows and arrows for all, but some of us could use spears. What say you, men?"
A wild cheer went up, which turned into a battle cry, as a troop of eighty men thundered down the hill to attack an army of eight hundred.
* * * *
Once again Drystan was lying on a sickbed, but this time it was not as bad with him as it had been the year before. The wound was deeper, but he was not inclined to treat it as a scratch as he had his injury from the battle with Murchad. Besides, the High King's daughter Modrun was in charge of treating the injured, and she was trained in the healing lore of the old ways as well as that of the Romans. Ambrosius had a surgeon and a physician attached to his contingent as well.
Arthur paced beside Drystan's bed, his hands behind his back, furrows cutting across his brow, but the hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. He obviously was undecided whether to scold or praise.
As Drystan had expected, the scolding came first. "Your action on the road to Caer Guinnet was extremely rash, Cousin."
"Your army was on the road below us and Ambrosius's army on the hills across from us," Drystan defended himself.
"But you didn't know whether Ambrosius and Cerdic were already waiting in the position agreed upon."
"I couldn't send a fire signal — it was bright afternoon."
"Next time, you might want to attempt it before you send sixty men against close to a thousand."
"Eighty."
Arthur gave the slight smile those who loved him knew so well. "Yes, trust you to leave with sixty and return with more. But you still took a very great risk." He stopped at the window and gazed out at the busy streets of Venta. "We have already lost too many friends and relatives in these wars."
They had lost over a hundred men in the battle of Portus Adurni, but Drystan was well aware that the one in Arthur's mind and heart right now was Geraint. The King of Dortrig had died when Saxon reinforcements attacked from the sea, before Arthur and his men had time to carry out their plan of strategic retreat.
"How are we going to tell Cador?" Drystan asked softly. Officially, Cador was Arthur's standard-bearer, but they had not taken him along on the grueling ride south, leaving him instead with the forces still in Caer Leon under the garrison leader Caradog.
Arthur turned away from the window, his hands locked behind his back. "As we always do, Cousin — with words. Make sure your recovery is speedy: we need you." At that, he nodded good day and left the room.
Drystan was at least as interested as Arthur in his own speedy recovery; lying in bed gave him too much time for thought. At the same time, he enjoyed Modrun's ministrations in an odd way, and she teased him with a light in eyes that reminded him so much of Yseult's it hurt.
He was up and walking again within a day.
Arthur caught up with him next to the aqueduct which provided water to the weaving mill.
"I'm glad to see you've recovered so quickly, Drystan," Arthur said, giving him a preoccupied smile. "I have a job for you. It is time for you to use your words."
Drystan knew immediately what the job would be. "Must I?"
Arthur nodded. "It will be better coming from you than some random."
And so the next day, Drystan set off for Caer Leon to tell their cousin Cador about his father's death.
* * * *
Cador stood with his back straight and his expression frozen. "A new ruler will need to be chosen to defend Dortrig. I am still too young."
At the sight of the brave effort of this boy trying to be a man, Drystan felt tempted to shed the tears Cador did not. It occurred to him that his beloved Yseult had only been a little older when brought the news of her uncle's death — an uncle she had probably been closer to than Cador was to his father Geraint.
"Perhaps the sub-kings of Dortrig will chose to elect a deputy until you are experienced enough take over," Drystan said gently. "Your mother Enid has been running things for some time now while your father fought with Arthur, has she not?"
Cador nodded.
"Either way, it is best if we return to Dyn Draithou for a time," Antonius said, laying a hand on his protégé's shoulder. "It is your fort and your responsibility now."
"We can accompany you, if you wish," Kurvenal added. Cador's young face was a mask. "Thank you. We would be grateful for your company."
Drystan was silent for a moment, trying to find the boy who had once cheered him on with such enthusiasm during weapons practice at Dyn Tagell in the young man who stood before him now. War aged everyone quickly, and killed them off even faster.
They headed south the next day and made Dyn Draithou before the end of the week. It was an impressive defensive location —certainly not as impregnable as Dyn Tagell, but wide and high, surrounded by a series of four earthen ramparts. They approached it on the old Roman road from Aquae Sulis. Next to Ynys Witrin, it dominated the central plain of Dortrig.
Drystan tried to concentrate on the details of all the new places he was seeing, tried to remember that Cador had just lost his father, and he himself had merely been forced to leave behind a woman who now hated him. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. He longed to get back to the war against the Saxons — and it seemed Cador would have been very glad to join him.
"What was the battle like?" Cador asked as they rode through wood and stone battlements around the perimeter of Dyn Draithou.
"I was only there for the beginning and the end," Drystan said. "Kurvenal and I were responsible for stealing and destroying the ships in the harbor."
"I hope you killed a score of Saxons," Cador hissed.
Drystan nodded, understanding what the younger man needed. "At least. But still not enough to avenge your father."
* * * *
Kurvenal could see that Drystan was chafing to get back to the fighting, even after a mere two weeks in Dyn Draithou. Drystan — his friend Drystan, the one who'd always preferred the harp to the sword.
Now, after only one campaign against the Saxons, that same Drystan had developed a reputation as a melancholy madman and a fighter to the bone, always at the fore of an attack, never a thought to his own safety. Where had the laughing yo
ung man gone who once claimed he wished he could be a bard? If this was what love did to you, Kurvenal wanted none of it.
Drystan was industriously polishing his weapons in the chamber they shared in one of the guest houses on the south side of Dyn Draithou. In the corner next to the bed lay his harp, covered by a thin layer of dust.
Perhaps he should be glad Drystan even bothered to carry his harp with him.
"You still haven't recovered, have you, Drys?"
"Of course I've recovered. I'm quite able to kill my fair share of Saxons."
Kurvenal lowered himself to the pallet next to the chair where Drystan worked. "More than your fair share. You've developed the reputation for a madman with a sword. But you remain a madman with no Saxons to kill. They say you're looking for the sword to find you. In training, I've seen more than one man pull his weapon up at the last minute." Drystan had stopped polishing, but his gaze was still on his sword. "Is she still haunting you?" Kurvenal asked quietly.
His friend didn't answer immediately. "How could she not?"
"It doesn't make any sense to me. Haven't you tried to forget her with other women?"
Drystan laughed out loud, an incongruous sound which nonetheless reminded Kurvenal of the man he used to be. "Of course I've tried. It's like eating a piece of dry bread to still the hunger when what you want is roast duck in a spicy cumin wine sauce. The bread doesn't stop you from still imagining the fine flavor of the duck, the tang of the sauce on your tongue, wanting it just as much as you did before."
Kurvenal turned away. Drys's words alone were enough to make the juices begin to flow in his mouth, and he had to admit, the comparison made sense, as far as it went.
He gazed out of the window of their lodgings. Defensive structures of wood and earth and stone blocked much of his view of the sky. It seemed that everywhere they went these days, they were surrounded by walls. Suddenly Kurvenal felt a wrench of homesickness for the simple Armorican village outside of Bro Leon where he had spent his first years, a place of no walls except those of the houses, so poor that there was little risk anyone would attack it.
It was rumored in the village that Kurvenal was the son of Riwallon, the king of Bro Leon himself, and it was those rumors which had put him behind the walls instead of outside of them.
And brought him here.
Kurvenal shifted on the pallet and turned to look at his friend. "You so rarely laugh anymore. What happened, Drys?"
Again that silence. Then finally, "She put a sword to my chest." He turned his weapon over in his hands. "This sword. Sometimes I wish she'd pushed."
Kurvenal hated her. He almost hated Drystan for wishing himself dead. As if he were the only person his life affected! He turned away so that Drystan wouldn't see the anger in his eyes.
"No woman is worth dying for," he ground out.
Again that incongruous laughter. "Oh, Kurvi." Silence. Kurvenal turned. Drystan was looking at him, shaking his head. "No, I won't wish it on you, although I am sorely tempted."
"Good."
"I had died, Kurvenal," Drystan said quietly. "I was Tandrys, her bard. But, unfortunately, she brought Drystan back to life."
Kurvenal blinked. "You mean you would have stayed there? You never would have returned to Britain?"
"Strange, isn't it? But now I'm here, fighting for the place I would have given up."
* * * *
After another week in Dyn Draithou, they returned to Arthur's forces. It was high summer and the fighting constant, although after Portus Adurni and Caer Guinnet the battles more resembled skirmishes. Aelle harried the southern coast from his stronghold on the island of Vectis, and Hengist continued to push west from Ceint, doing his best to whittle away at what was still British on the island. Their only consolation was that the battle of Caer Guinnet seemed to have taken a significant toll on the Saxon forces.
The cold months and the end of the fighting season arrived with no decisive change in the situation. The forces of Arthur and Ambrosius had managed to turn Aelle and Hengist back, but only to where they had been the previous year.
It was a hard winter and a quiet one, Saxons and British both too caught up with survival to attempt conquest, licking their wounds and trying to regain their strength. At Arthur's camp in Caer Leon, training continued, but many men returned to their families for harvest and stayed away until spring. Drystan elected to remain with Arthur instead of going to his father's winter court at Lansyen. Many of the other men without wife or children also remained in the garrison during winter so that the troops would not be too thinned out.
Shortly before Christmas, a messenger arrived with news from Venta: Cerdic had negotiated a truce with Aelle — and to seal the bargain was to marry Aelle's daughter Cynewyn.
"Was Ambrosius informed of the negotiations?" Arthur asked, pacing the black-and-white tiled floor of his headquarters in the principia. The latticed window above the alcove where once the legionary standards stood cast a patterned shadow similar to that of the tiles themselves.
"No, Dux," the messenger said. "He was as surprised as you."
Arthur nodded shortly. "Thank you. You can find refreshments in the mensa before you have to return to Verulamium. If you need lodgings, Caradog will assist you."
"You think Cerdic is planning treachery?" Cai asked after the messenger left.
Arthur shook his head. "I think nothing yet, only that it is noteworthy that Cerdic did not take the High King into his confidence. Nonetheless, it is good if this will keep Aelle from harrying our southern coasts."
"But you are not sure," Drystan said quietly.
Arthur stopped pacing and looked at him. "No, Cousin, I am not sure."
* * * *
At the end of winter, soldiers began to return to Caer Leon from their families. Drystan found himself glad to see "his" men again, Ruan, Lucius, Tuthal, those he had trained and led. When their ranks were almost full again, before any news of movements of Saxons or Erainn could reach them, Arthur called Drystan to him, his expression sober.
"I have news from Marcus. He requests your return."
Drystan cocked an eyebrow at his cousin, and Arthur returned the look without a trace of answering humor. Slowly Drystan began to grow uneasy.
"It is your decision whether to remain or go," Arthur continued. "I can certainly use your fighting arm, not to mention your experience at sea. But I wouldn't mind having a man I trust among Marcus's retinue to report to me on his doings, if you would be willing to do so."
Drystan stared at Arthur in surprise. "You would trust me to inform you if my father were plotting against you?"
"I trust you not to betray Ambrosius or myself. I do not trust Marcus."
Strangely enough, Arthur was right. Drystan felt more loyalty towards his cousin, the Dux Bellorum, than he did towards his own father. But then, Arthur had no reason to believe in paternal loyalty; he had barely known his own father, Uthyr, the man who had raped his mother and disowned him. Blood was rarely thicker than water when blood was tainted.
"I don't trust my father much either," Drystan said. "Why has he sent for me?"
Arthur was quiet, obviously at a loss for words, and Drystan's uneasiness grew.
"It is hard for me to tell you this," Arthur finally said, his hands locked behind his back. "Marcus has finally negotiated a peace with Lóegaire and arranged for his marriage to an Erainn princess."
Drystan suddenly felt dizzy. He fell into the nearest chair and looked up at his cousin. "Who?" he choked out.
He could see the pain and sympathy in his cousin's eyes, could see he wished he did not have to answer.
Arthur raised his chin and looked Drystan directly in the eyes. "Yseult the Fair."
* * * *
And so, a year and a half after Drystan first set out across the sea of Eriu, he sailed west to fetch the love of his life to be his father's bride.
Book Three: Two Men and a Woman
Chapter 16
Tristrem in schip lay
>
With Ysonde ich night;
Play miri he may
With that worthli wight
In boure night and day.
Al blithe was the knight,
He might with hir play.
Sir Tristrem (Anonymous)
His arrival in Eriu this time was very different than it had been a lifetime before. Then he had been feverish, delirious, unsure whether he would live or die, sailing in a coracle of hide with nothing more than his harp and his sword and the rags on his back.
This time, he came in state, in his father's finest ship, wearing a tunic of rich foreign silk as befitted a king's son. The rings on his hands were of gold, as were the bracelets around his arms and the torc around his neck. The sun shone down on his back, providing welcome warmth to everything but his soul.
He almost wished he hadn't lived to see this day.
Lóegaire's party had come from Tara to the Roman port at Eblana to meet the ship. The settlement was situated on a promontory and easier to defend than Inber Colptha: Lóegaire obviously wanted to get Yseult out of the country as safely and as soon as possible.
The small landing boat was pulled ashore, and slaves came out to meet it and carry him and Kurvenal to the beach. He was gripping the shoulders of two sturdy men, their muscled forearms beneath his thighs, when he finally saw her again, stepping through the ramparts, flanked by her mother and a man he presumed was High King Lóegaire.
She was dressed in white and green, the colors she had been wearing when he had seen her for the first time.
His feet touched sand. He looked away.
How often could a heart break? If there were a limit, his didn't seem to know it.
He strode forward through the fine sand, Kurvenal at his side. In order not to look at Yseult, he glanced at the queen —and nearly stopped in his tracks. Yseult the Wise seemed older, smaller, frail. He remembered her as taller than most men; now she appeared almost short. The air of command, the vitality of her presence that had always made her tower above those around her was gone.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 24
