He looked away again. She was right, of course. He knew Marcus much better than she did.
The townhouse was silent when they arrived, and Kurvenal heard Brangwyn heave a sigh of relief. Before she slipped in through a side door, she gave him a serious look out of blue eyes dark with night. "After you have told Marcus what I said, you must stay and watch for them," she whispered.
Kurvenal nodded and took up his post in the atrium with a glass of wine.
They had barely arrived in time: just moments later, he heard the front door open, and Marcus and a young soldier by the name of Andred joined him.
"Ambrosius will march before the month is out," Marcus announced, loosening the clasp on his cape and handing it to Andred. "He wasn't the least bit interested in the opinions of the council. The High King has made up his mind that Rome is to be saved, and we are to pay the price." He glanced around the atrium. "Alone, Kurvenal? Where are the rest?"
"Drystan met some fighting companions and decided to go carousing, and I escorted the women home." Andred glanced at him sharply.
"Have they already retired?" Marcus asked.
Kurvenal nodded.
"Good. Then I will join my wife. Good night, Kurvenal, Andred."
Kurvenal dashed down the rest of the wine. "I think I will retire too."
With studied casualness, he made his way to the chambers he shared with Drystan. Could Andred suspect something? But how? As soon as he thought it was safe, he secretly left the villa. In the alley, he found a concealing niche where he could see the street. Hopefully, he had misread Andred's expression. If the young armsman followed him, they were lost.
Soon, distinctive noises could be heard from the window above him and to his left. He clenched his hands at his sides and moved closer to the front of the house, away from Marcus's window. It was the second time in one night that he'd had to listen to such noises; these, however, were more one-sided and subdued than those coming from the old pagan temple.
And while those had filled him with anger and apprehension, these made his chest close tight.
Even at the front of the house, he could still hear Marcus's grunts, and he slipped across the street to wait in the shadow on another house. Well before the first birdsong, but long after it was too late, he saw a cloaked figure hurrying down the street, keeping to the shadows. He stepped out from his hiding place and intercepted her.
"Yseult, stay."
She started and turned towards him. Despite the dark, she apparently recognized him. "Are we discovered?" she asked.
"No. Brangwyn is with Marcus."
His eyes had long adjusted to the dark, and he saw her wince and lower her head. At least she acknowledged what her cousin had done for her. But it still was not enough for him. She was a selfish fool. And his friend Drystan was no better.
"Kurvenal, I —"
"I don't want to hear it," he interrupted her. "Where is Drystan?"
"We thought to return separately."
"It's little enough thinking you did."
She didn't reply. She knew he was right.
"You can't go in now or you are discovered for sure. We must wait for Brangwyn."
Together they waited in the dark, silent. Eventually, a shadowy figure appeared at the side door of the villa and glanced around, looking for him. Kurvenal stepped out of the shadows, Yseult beside him. She hurried over to Brangwyn, and the two women slipped back into the house. Then he turned away, kicking at the dirt of the street. He would try to find Drys and give him a piece of his mind. How could they allow Brangwyn to sacrifice herself that way?
He stopped in his tracks. Why should he get so excited about what became of the dark-haired Erainn widow? He admired her devotion to her cousin, yes — anyone capable of that kind of devotion was someone whose love was worthy of being earned.
And there on the dark streets of Verulamium, Kurvenal knew he would do everything in his power to earn that love.
Chapter 18
si wâren underwîlen vrô
und underwîlen ungemuot,
als liebe under gelieben tuot.
die briuwt in ir herzen
die senfte bî dem smerzen,
bî vröude kumber unde nôt.
(At times they were happy, at times they were sad, as love does to lovers. It gives happiness with pain, joy mixed with sorrow and misery.)
Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan
"Can you forgive me?" Yseult asked Brangwyn, her voice low. They were on their way to the villa where Modrun and her family were staying while in Verulamium. The daughter of the High King had invited some of the most important queens and noblewomen of Britain to help organize a feast for the Whitsuntide celebrations. Now that Ambrosius had made the decision to go to Gaul, Whitsuntide would also double as the festivities to send him off on his campaign. There was to be a fair lasting a week, with dancing in the forum, games outside of the city walls, and hunting in the nearby woods.
Brangwyn took Yseult's hand and gave it a light squeeze before releasing it again. "It's not worth dwelling on."
Yseult's stomach still churned at the thought of what her cousin had done for her; she felt guilty and queasy, her face hot, her head light. "But I can't stop. I was a fool."
Brangwyn sighed, her expression serious. "You are right, you were a fool. And you will continue to be a fool. I can only wish that you will be just a little less foolish so I do not have to go to quite the same extremes again." Then, strangely enough, she smiled. Surprised, Yseult cast a quick glance at her cousin.
"Kurvenal was quite astonished that I could fool Marcus," Brangwyn said, still smiling.
Yseult looked away, unable to appreciate the humor of the situation. It was all her fault. "If you had any sense, you would hate me."
Brangwyn stopped and took Yseult's elbow, turning to face her. Donkeys and carts and pedestrians continued to flow around them, some pausing to shoot curious looks their way. It was all a part of the business of a British town, a bustle Yseult was finally starting to get used to.
"I couldn't hate you," Brangwyn said, ignoring the carts and the donkeys and the stares. "Have you forgotten what you saved me from? I have known much worse than this husband of yours."
Yseult drew in a deep breath and shook her head. Brangwyn was the reason she had agreed to this farce of a marriage, Brangwyn and her mother.
If only she had news from Eriu.
"She's well, Yseult," Brangwyn said as they continued on their way. "If she were not, we would know."
"I hope you're right."
Modrun's town house was just off the main street to the Londinium gate. A slave led them past a courtyard garden full of early summer flowers and herbs and into the atrium, where a number of women were reclining on couches set back from the central pool, while children played together in the water and on the floor, laughing and splashing. The atrium and courtyard were much larger than that of the house Marcus had taken, and to judge by the furnishings, Modrun spent quite a bit of time in the unofficial capital of Britain.
Their hostess rose and came towards them, and Yseult once again felt that probing presence she had noticed at the dinner in High King's residence. Brangwyn had not been at the dinner, and she glanced at their hostess sharply, even though Yseult had warned her.
Modrun took their hands and led them forward. "Welcome Yseult, Brangwyn. I'm not sure if you've met the others so I will present you."
Once again, the names were too many to note, but at least this time, there were women she'd met before: Labiane with her small daughter Cwylli, Anna and her boy Medraut, and Cerdic's wife Cynewyn. Then there was Modrun's cousin Margawse with her youngest, Gareth, and Enid, who was ruling in Dyn Draithou until her son came of age, with her daughter Gwillian. Finally, Modrun proudly presented her own sons, Iddon, Ceidio and the youngest, Aurelius, named after his grandfather.
Brangwyn and Yseult sat down on an empty couch, and little Cwylli, curious about the new arrivals, tottered over to them. Yseult h
ad time to notice the fine green eyes and bronze curls before Labiane snatched her away.
"Come, sweet, you don't want to bother the women."
"Oh, she's no bother," Yseult said with a smile, wondering again at the woman's antagonism. She wished she could probe her mind a little, but with Modrun here, she couldn't afford to open herself up that way without revealing her own secrets.
Modrun smiled at Yseult, raising one dark eyebrow. "The Whitsuntide Fair will begin on Monday, and we must get to work. Our task will be to collect food from the inhabitants of Verulamium. On the last day of the fair, the Whitsunday Feast is given by all and received by all."
Yseult wondered if Modrun lived simultaneously by Christian and Old Ways. The magic she felt in her presence seemed to indicate it.
A naked little boy crawled over to Modrun and pulled himself up on her skirt. She lifted him up and bounced him on her knee. "Aurelius, say hello to the ladies."
The chubby namesake of the High King laughed, and Yseult had to smile. A child, that would be something.
But not from Marcus.
"Arthur and my father have promised to take our husbands on a hunting expedition for game for the feast," Modrun continued. "That will make our collection easier. I suggest we set up a stand in one corner of the forum. In his next sermon, the bishop can ask people to bring whatever they want to contribute."
The other women nodded.
"We won't know what our cooks can prepare until we know what we have, though," Enid threw in.
Modrun put Aurelius down and gave him a pat on the bare bottom. He happily crawled off in search of new adventures. "But we can make tentative plans. And if something is missing, that can be our own contribution."
A scream of pain came from behind where they were sitting, and they all turned around. Enid's daughter Gwillian was sitting on the ground, tears of pain streaming down her face, her hands clutched around her leg. Medraut stood above her with a tall metal candlestick. Yseult could see the little girl's skin below the knee turning blue already.
Enid jumped up. "Medraut!"
Anna had jumped up even faster and took her son by the shoulder. But instead of boxing his ears as he deserved, she put herself between him and the other mothers. "What happened, Medraut?"
Which was a stupid question if Yseult had ever heard one. Enid had gathered Gwillian in her arms by then and brought her over to the couch and out of harm's way, although she was much too old to be carried. She looked to be of an age with Medraut.
"She got in our way," Medraut answered. "We asked her to leave, but she wouldn't."
Margawse's youngest Gareth, the only one of her brood young enough to still be playing with the children, stood next to Medraut, not saying a word. But as opposed to his playmate, who was being consoled by his mother for his cruelty, guilt was written all over his face.
"Gareth," Margawse said. "We will speak later."
It was obvious that Gareth was going to hear more of the incident than the boy who had swung the candlestick.
* * * *
When the meeting broke up, they made their way north in the direction of the old theater. Brangwyn kept her counsel — her cousin knew well enough how she felt. The two of them needed words for details, but not for moods — even when, as now, Yseult was trying to mask her feelings. The conflicting guilt and need she felt twining sickly in her cousin's soul made Brangwyn even more determined never to put herself under the power of love and lust again.
"I will wander a little among the shops," Brangwyn whispered as they neared the crumbling wall surrounding the old pagan temple. "Promise me you will not be too long."
"I promise."
She wasn't sure how much she could trust her cousin's promises. Love had Yseult by the throat now.
"I promise, Brangwyn," she repeated. "I will not be as foolish as I was, you have my word."
Brangwyn shook her head, watching as Yseult disappeared into the old temple. Then she continued around the back to return to the main street a block away, making her way to the forum and the nearby shops.
She was too preoccupied with Yseult's troubles to notice the figure lurking in the shadows, watching that while two women went into the ruins, only one came out.
* * * *
The apparent wealth of this land never ceased to amaze Brangwyn. Certainly, Verulamium was fuller than normal as a result of the Whitsun celebration, but Tara never saw so many goods and merchants. And while the fine inlaid jewelry from Rathgall was missing, here the jewelers had exotic pieces from as far away as Africa. A shop selling spices gave off such unusual scents that she stood on the cobblestones outside just to smell them.
"Brangwyn!"
She turned slowly to the voice and watched as Kurvenal neared her. As opposed to his friend Drystan, he wore his hair short, a mass of dark brown curls across his forehead and barely touching the collar of his tunic. It suited him; it almost made her smile.
"Brangwyn," he said again when he stopped in front of her.
She looked at him, brows raised in a question.
"How are you doing?" He touched the back of her hand, a touch that barely made contact, and drew his fingers away again quickly.
"Well enough."
At her answer, he raised his eyes to her face, searching her expression for the meaning behind the words. It suddenly seemed a mean impulse to leave him dangling when she was well aware of what he wanted to know.
"Come," he said with a smile. "May I buy you a glass of wine? There is quite a good tavern just around the corner."
Why not? It was a much better excuse to be without Yseult than loitering around the shops. She nodded.
He led her south in the direction of the Londinium Gate. Brangwyn could hear the tavern even before they turned the corner; in the mild early summer weather, people were spilling out of the doors, dragging chairs into the sun or leaning against a column or a wall with a mug of wine or ale in hand, filling the street with talk and laughter. Kurvenal ordered wine for both of them at the counter near the door and then, ceramic mugs in hand, found them an empty table at the back of the tavern.
In the privacy of all the noise, Kurvenal finally asked the question she knew he had been wanting to ask all along. He leaned across the table so she could hear him, his hands gripping the mug of dark wine.
"Why did you do it?"
Brangwyn gazed at him for a moment without answering. "Almost I could be offended."
He leaned back again, blinking. She had obviously surprised him, and she smiled.
She took a sip of her wine. It was somehow both drier and sweeter than she was used to. "You think Yseult is not worth what I did for her, and by thinking that, you insult my judgment."
"I don't —"
She put up a hand and he fell silent. "Yseult agreed to this marriage for my sake. For the sake of her mother too, but also to get me away from Tara. If she is enduring Marcus's embrace for me, what kind of a person would I be to not do the same for her?"
"I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't know. You see only what this destructive love is doing to your friend, and you don't see what it is doing to my cousin."
"Brangwyn, I'm sorry."
She looked past his shoulder, staring at the fresco of a plate of food and a bunch of onions on the opposite wall. "There's no need. It is the two of them we must be sorry for, the two of them we must help. I did little. One man is much the same as the next." Now she was lying, but she was irritated with him, and she wanted to annoy him.
He gazed down into his wine, silent for a moment, and then back up again. "Your experience has not been of the best, I take it."
She shook her head, her gaze returning to his face. "Oh, there was one man, in another life, who was not like the rest. But as that is gone, it is not worth being picky."
Kurvenal leaned forward and touched her hand again lightly. "I would show you otherwise," he said, his voice much more intense than his touch.
Brangwyn drew in a br
eath, surprised at how much his words affected her. "I have no affection left to give a man," she said brusquely. "All I care for now is saving Yseult from herself. If you will do the same for Drystan, then perhaps we can be friends of a sort."
He sat up straight and nodded. "Of course."
But Brangwyn could feel that he did not intend to leave it at that.
* * * *
The fourth day of the fair, Ambrosius set out for the forest to the north with a large hunting party. Marcus went along, but Drystan complained that his old wound from the battle of Venta was bothering him. The party was quite large enough without him and should easily be able to bring back enough game, even for the whole city of Verulamium.
"Don't you think it will look suspicious, Drys?" Kurvenal had asked when he told him of his plan.
Drystan shook his head. "My father doesn't have any idea what's going on."
"Are you sure?"
"As far as I can tell. He hasn't refused to let Yseult go out and he doesn't have us watched."
"Maybe you just don't see it. When Yseult is near, you don't notice anything else."
Drystan laughed merrily, but to judge by Kurvenal's expression, he didn't think it was funny.
His friend crossed his arms in front of his chest. "A lot of the men who fought with us knew you were suffering for love of an Erainn princess. It only takes one person to tell the tale and another to connect that to Yseult, an Erainn princess before she became a Dumnonian queen, and the rumors will be flying. Once they're out there, all anyone has to do is look at the two of you together."
"Have you heard any rumors, Kurvi?"
"No, but I am one of the last people who will hear them if there are."
That evening, after the hunting party left, he was making his way to the abandoned pagan temple, his summer cape whipping around his thighs and Kurvenal's words far from his mind. The moon was almost full and his spirits high; tonight they could spend the whole night together, or almost the whole night. As long as they were in their beds by morning, before the servants rose to light the fires and bring in the water and go out to buy fresh bread and fruit for breakfast.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 28
