Yseult blinked. She might not have developed a very high opinion of Anna's sense, but such harsh words at a formal dinner seemed extremely petty, to say the least. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you're referring to."
"The Gaulish kings are in need of support against the heathens," the Bishop of Verulamium threw in, speaking to Anna and ignoring Yseult. Deliberately. She was one of the heathens, after all.
Anna bowed her head. "Yes, but the concerns of a mother are not always rational."
After the dinner was over, the company rose from their seats and retired to an adjoining room filled with wide couches covered with pillows and short tables covered with fruit and wine. Given freedom of movement again, Yseult sought out the wise man Myrddin. As she neared, a glass of wine in hand, he smiled, inclining his gray head. A stark contrast to many in Ambrosius's court, Myrddin wore his hair long, in half-a-dozen braids well past his shoulders. "I have been waiting for you, Queen Yseult. It is a pleasure to meet such a talented young woman."
Yseult repressed the flash of irritation she always felt at being called "Queen Yseult": "Queen Yseult" was her mother. But in this strange land, she was the only Queen Yseult.
She smiled at Myrddin, suspecting he was now well aware of how uncomfortable she was with the title. "And I have been looking forward to meeting the adviser to the king, whose wisdom is famed throughout the isle of Alba."
The man she could not help but think of as fili of the High King chuckled. "You are well-versed in the famous Erainn art of flattery, I see."
Yseult took a sip of wine and looked him straight in the eye. His eyes were a color rare on her native island, a deep, dark brown, like earth turned over in spring, rich and moist. "Tell me, how comes it that one of your talents is able to endure in a land without magic?"
Myrddin threw back his head and laughed out loud. "Yseult, you are wise, but you are young. You err if you think there is no magic here in Britain."
Together, they found a couch in a corner and sat down. "I have noticed none until tonight," Yseult said.
Myrddin shook his head. "A world without magic is impossible. Magic is what people believe in, and they will always believe in something."
Yseult smiled. "Wise words from a wise man. But yours was not the only magic I was aware of this evening."
"Yes, I saw Modrun watching you."
So that was who the woman was. "I know little still about my new home."
"She is the daughter of the High King, his only surviving child. She is married to King Honorius of Gower."
The daughter of the High King had the blood of the old ones in her veins? She turned to find the figure of the dark-haired woman — in conversation with Drystan. She was sitting on one of the low couches and he was leaning into her, listening avidly to something she had to say, a slight smile gracing his handsome features. The muscles in her stomach clenched and she turned back to Myrddin.
Taking pity on her, Myrddin continued. "Ambrosius was married to my half-sister. Modrun is my niece."
Yseult nodded, trying to concentrate on the conversation. "At dinner this evening, Anna referred to 'the bastard and the witch.' I take it the witch is your niece?"
Myrddin pursed his lips. "It is good Anna lives across the ocean in Armorica, although the wilds of the north would be even better."
She gave a slight smile, still seeing Drystan leaning over the one woman she had met in this land until now who drew her. She took a piece of dried apple from a bowl and nibbled on it. "Anna did not strike me as particularly pleasant."
"She is a spiteful woman."
Before Yseult could delve deeper, they were interrupted. Ambrosius was clapping his hands to get the attention of the assembled guests. Arthur stood beside him, plainly embarrassed.
Ambrosius laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Before we begin the Whitsun festivities, I have an announcement to make. In the event that I should go to Gaul to assist the Empire against the Visigoths, I am appointing Artus my deputy here in Britain."
"Daring," Myrddin whispered for only her to hear.
"Why?"
"Because, as his sister so kindly pointed out, Arthur is a 'bastard.' Ambrosius's dearest wish is that Arthur succeed him as High King, but his illegitimate birth complicates things."
Yseult nodded and turned her attention back to Ambrosius. "As you are all aware," the High King said now, "his victories across the breadth of our fair island, both as general in the north and as Dux Bellorum in the south, have made it possible for you to travel safely again."
"Your victories too, Uncle," Arthur said. "And don't forget the treaties forged by Cerdic and Marcus."
Clever man. While Yseult was well aware of what the treaty with her own island was worth, it was a good move on Arthur's part to give others credit for the present peace besides himself.
Ambrosius acknowledged the contributions of the leaders in the south with a nod and turned back to his nephew. "But the treaties would not have been possible without your brilliance in battle." The High King took a heavy chain with a glinting pendant from the pocket belted at his tunic and laid it around Arthur's neck. "I had a pendant made for you as sign of your office. I know you will wear it with honor."
Arthur blinked rapidly, obviously moved. Clapping came from the company witnessing the scene, and Yseult opened her mind to judge the reactions. Dominant among them was envy, although there was also unadulterated joy.
Myrddin was watching her closely. "The human animal is a selfish, unrepentant beast, is it not?"
She sighed. "Oh, yes."
Yseult gazed at the reluctant hero, precarious chosen heir to the High Kingship of Britain — but her thoughts were on her husband and his son. She knew without listening that Marcus was one of the envious minds. And Drystan was one of those who felt only joy.
How could she be married to one and denying the other?
She felt Myrddin's arm go through hers, giving her strength, and she smiled at him. For the first time, she felt welcomed in this strange land.
He returned the smile. "You are."
* * * *
Drystan didn't know how much longer he would be able to take seeing Yseult constantly and pretending she meant nothing to him. Every night he laid awake, his guts burning, imagining her with his father. It felt as if someone was turning a hot, blunt knife in his belly. Every day, he watched them together, and although he saw well enough that she had no endearments for her husband, the possessive pride in his father's eyes when they rested on Yseult made him want to take the old man by the throat and shake or pound or kick that arrogance, that totally undeserved arrogance, out of him. No one owned Yseult the Fair, no one.
The council of the kings of Britain was scheduled for their fourth day in Verulamium. Ambrosius requested the appearance of the dux and comes in charge of defenses as well as the main regional kings, including Marcus.
"There are to be acrobats and bear fights in the forum, Drustanus," Marcus said as he draped a light summer cape over his shoulders. "Perhaps you should take Yseult and Brangwyn to see them."
Drystan leaned on the head of a small bronze statue near the portico entrance. "I will ask them if they're interested."
"I am not sure how long this meeting will go. I understand Ambrosius wants information on what we think our defensive needs are, if and when he takes an army to Gaul."
Drystan nodded, not looking directly at his father.
The door closed, and he turned away, tempted to ignore Marcus's suggestion, but just then, Yseult and Brangwyn entered the foyer with Kurvenal.
"Drys, join us," his friend called out. "I volunteered to show them around the town."
He avoided Yseult's eyes. "You hardly know Verulamium."
"Well, I know it better than they do."
Drystan made an effort to smile. "Good. Where do you propose to go?"
Kurvenal shrugged and turned to Brangwyn. "Have you seen the monumental arch near the north gate?"
She shook her head. "We've only s
een the one near the Londinium gate in the south part of town."
"Good, then we have a goal. Do we have Drystan?" Kurvenal looked at him with an expression that said it was about time he started acting like a normal person again.
Drystan glanced at Yseult beneath his eyelashes. She stood frozen, staring at him, her light eyes wide, her hands clenched in front of her.
"Drys, are you coming along?" Kurvenal repeated.
He took a deep breath and nodded. "Perhaps on the way we can stop by the forum. My father said there are to be acrobats."
"Excellent!"
Yes, on some levels it would be excellent. He would be spending the rest of the afternoon with Yseult, near her, talking to her, torturing himself, happy.
They set off in the direction of the theater. The area around the forum and the main road must have looked much as it once did, when distant Rome still ruled in Britain. The streets were full of people and animals and carts and lined with stalls selling everything from meat, vegetables and fruit, to cutlery, tools and jewelry.
Drystan noticed a shop selling writing utensils and entered impulsively, not waiting to see if the others would follow. It was quiet here, and smelled of ink and paper, a peaceful place in the middle of the busy city. As he paid for his purchases, Yseult appeared at his elbow.
"Drystan?"
He handed her a flat wooden box with an enameled top and silver hinges, closed by a leather cord. "This is for you."
"What is it?"
"A writing box. I thought perhaps you would want to practice again now that you need Latin for more than writing jokes in the sand."
He didn't know how she would take the reminder of their time together in another life, but she only blinked. "Thank you."
He took her arm, as if they belonged together, and they stepped back out into the street to join Brangwyn and Kurvenal, who were examining bone hairpins at a jewelry shop.
Kurvenal looked pointedly at Drystan's hand on Yseult's elbow. "Shall we?"
When they reached the forum, the acrobats had not yet begun, so they walked further, to the edge of the town and the monumental arch, passing the old theater.
"Behind the theater is a former temple," Drystan said, trying to act normally despite the feel of Yseult's skin beneath his fingers. "Perhaps we can visit it on the way back."
"What is there to visit?" Kurvenal said. "It's nothing but a monument to gods who are dead."
"I'd like to see it," Yseult said. "Perhaps I can learn something about how gods die." She turned to Brangwyn. "Go along to the arch with Kurvenal. We'll catch up with you later."
A painful hope gripped him. She was going with him and sending Brangwyn and Kurvenal away. He could hardly breathe as they turned left down the street past the ruined theater, but he tried not to let it show.
"Thank you for the writing box," Yseult said quietly.
He drew a deep breath. "I had to remind you of our past together."
She didn't answer for a moment. Finally a slight smile touched her lips. "And you think you must bribe me for that?"
He was glad they had reached the wall surrounding the temple — the smile and the playful tone were almost more than he could bear.
He ushered her into a temple courtyard. The crumbling wall was obviously being scavenged for building materials, but it still sheltered them sight. "You avoid me."
She nodded. "Of course I avoid you. I'm married to your father, and the sight of you makes me weak."
He stopped in his tracks, and she halted beside him. "Have you ever wondered if there was anything we could have done differently?"
"Of course. If I had been a different person, I could have thrown away the sliver of metal I found in my uncle's skull." She gazed at him, the intensity he loved in her light, bright eyes. "But I couldn't."
He took her hand and led her across the courtyard of the temple complex, warped now by the roots of an ornamental fig tree. Grass was growing between the flagstones and there were cracks in the plaster and between the pillars of the building dedicated to the dead gods.
They climbed the stairs to the portico surrounding the temple, a square building with a heavy wooden door, still standing and largely intact. Luckily, the door had not been salvaged yet by someone in need of firewood. A number of tiles were missing from the roof, and they could see patches of summer sky in places.
He pulled open the door. "The churches are on the other side of town. Perhaps that's why this temple hasn't been razed yet."
Yseult preceded him inside. "Or perhaps it has been left standing as a reminder of what happens to gods who have died."
They stood just inside the door, their eyes adjusting to the light filtering in from the high windows. In the center of the room stood an empty pedestal, and to one side, the floor was blackened from where a fire had been made. Several unused pieces of wood still lay nearby.
"Now you know," Drystan said.
She nodded. "They're stolen."
Surprised, he laughed out loud. "A much better fate than being demolished!"
Instead of laughing with him, Yseult went strangely silent. He looked at her, wondering if she would run away from him now, again, as she always did.
Instead, she approached him, laying a hand on his chest. "I love that sound, I'd forgotten how much. You laugh so little these days. I drove it out of you, didn't I?"
For the life of him, Drystan couldn't answer. She was driving it out of him, yes; with the feel of her hand on his chest, with the intense look in her pale eyes, with the faint smell of her sweat.
She leaned over and kissed him.
He closed his eyes, taking in the feel of her generous mouth against his, moving, playing, moist.
He pulled away. His arms were around her now; he hadn't even been aware of drawing her into his embrace. Eyes the color of winter watched him, their expression hot as summer.
"Are you going to send me away again?" he asked.
She looked away, down at the warped mosaic of the floor, the distorting waves from lack of care and a hole in the roof.
"No. No, I won't send you away again. I don't know what I will do, but sending you away is useless."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he stroked the long, moonlight hair. Then he pulled her down to the uneven floor, kissing her again. "I don't know how comfortable it will be," he murmured against her temple. "But I'll try to make it up to you."
Her only answer was a rasping sigh.
A shred of sanity returned. "Wait." He got up, taking a piece of wood from the discarded pile, and went to the door. In place of the missing bolt, he secured the door as well as he could with the board and turned back to Yseult.
"Now."
* * * *
Kurvenal cursed the day the white-blond witch was born. Darkness was falling, and Drystan and Yseult still had not "caught up with them." It was foolish, more than foolish; it was suicidal. The council of kings could break up any time now.
Brangwyn looked at him sharply. "We should try to find them."
Kurvenal frowned. "That should be easy enough. Unfortunately."
Together they made their way back to the old temple. "They're still there," Brangwyn said as they neared the dilapidated building.
He wondered at first how she could so sure, but then he heard it too, the groaning and panting. They had been at it for hours.
He moved towards the door, but Brangwyn held him back. "Can you go to Ambrosius's villa and watch for Marcus? I will wait here, and if they leave, I will come to fetch you. But if the meeting breaks up before that, you must come and tell me."
"Why?"
She gave him a sardonic look. "Do you think they would even hear us now? Or if they did, who else would?"
He glanced back at the temple. Foolish, more than foolish.
Kurvenal nodded curtly. "I will watch."
He made his way through streets growing progressively darker and emptier. The villa of Ambrosius was close to the forum — and consequently, much
too close to the temple. The night was cloudy, with only a waxing moon, and the shadows were dark, a good place to hide. Kurvenal took up a post in an alley on the opposite side of the street from the vast courtyard and cursed Drystan again for being ten times a fool. What had happened to the man? He had lost all sense of time, all sense period.
When Kurvenal saw the first of the British kings descending the steps into the courtyard, he cursed Drystan for being twenty times a fool and turned and ran to the temple.
As he passed the crumbling walls, a figure detached itself from the shadows and approached him.
"Brangwyn! The meeting is breaking up. Marcus could return to his lodgings any time!"
Together they hurried to the door of the temple, but the noises coming from inside left little hope that they could get the lovers away fast enough.
Still. Again. Over and over.
He cursed Drystan for being a hundred times a fool.
Brangwyn turned on her heel and began to run in the direction of the house Marcus rented.
"What do you intend to do?" Kurvenal asked, running beside her.
"I will take her place, of course."
Kurvenal stared at her as they ran, unable to come up with any kind of a response.
"I only hope we are not too late," Brangwyn panted.
"But you don't look at all like Yseult," Kurvenal said between breaths.
Brangwyn didn't say anything for a moment, and Kurvenal had the feeling it wasn't because they were running. "There's little moonlight tonight," she finally said. "I will hide the candles and pretend to sleep. I can slip out when he is abed."
He still didn't know how she thought it was going to work.
When they reached a busier street, they slowed to a hurried walk.
"I want you to wait for him, tell him Yseult retired early and Drystan is with friends," Brangwyn said.
They came around the corner of the street where Marcus's house stood. "Are you sure, Brangwyn?" Kurvenal murmured. "Is she really worth that much to you?"
"I have learned something of your ways here in Britain since I arrived, and one of the things I have learned is that adultery committed against a king is seen as treason. Marcus may only be the king of Dumnonia, but king he is." She looked at him in the darkness, and he could barely make out her features. "I do not want to find out if he is capable of accusing Yseult of treason."
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 27
