Smiling, he stepped through the entrance in the wall around the temple. The moon was so bright, the wall and the trees cast shadows on the flagstones.
And in the shadow of one of the trees was a shape that should not have been there. The outline of a head, just above the sloping shape of the pine.
Drystan's steps slowed, and he began to pace the flagstones. He hoped Yseult was not already in the temple to come barging out, demanding an explanation for his strange behavior, hoped he could come up with a plan that would work, hoped he had not betrayed himself already with a start or an expression of shock. The bright moonlight which had saved him would help the spy too.
His father?
Soon, he heard footsteps beyond the wall. Yseult entered the courtyard and stopped at seeing him waiting there rather than in the temple. He didn't even dare make a gesture to warn her; the watcher behind the tree would see it too.
"Thank you for coming, Yseult."
She nodded. "But I don't understand. What could possibly be so urgent that you would send for me to a place like this, Drystan? People could easily construe it wrong."
Relief flooded him, and he almost sagged with it. She understood; she was playing along with him, giving him leads even. He repressed a sigh and tried to act businesslike. "That is why I sent for you. Just now in the tavern, I heard our names together, being bandied about, implying we were creeping around behind Marcus's back."
Yseult gave a very convincing snort of disgust. "And you thought the best thing to do would be to send for me to meet you in an abandoned courtyard? You're more intelligent than that, Drystan! What were you thinking?"
Drystan repressed a smile, despite the danger of the situation. But she had hit upon the strategy most likely to get them out of this unscathed: treating him like a callow youth and taking the role of what she was — his stepmother.
"I'm sorry. It seemed important at the time."
"How much wine had you consumed before you made this decision?"
"Nothing to speak of."
"And how much is that, pray?"
"But I had to let you know."
"You could have told me at home." She raised a hand, as if to stop him. "Tomorrow would have been early enough. What am I to do about evil rumors? And now you may even have given those who are spreading them fodder!"
"You're right, I didn't think."
"No, you didn't. I wish you good night, Drystan. Perhaps you should be more careful with the amount of wine you drink."
With that, she turned on her heel and left the courtyard.
Shaking his head, Drystan followed her slowly. His whole body tingled from the rush of danger, like the combined apprehension and anticipation before a battle.
But he would not see her tonight. And he didn't know when he would see her alone again.
He needed that wine she'd accused him of drinking.
* * * *
The hunting party of Ambrosius returned the next day, Marcus among them. Although he said nothing and did not act as if he had learned anything, Drystan was sure his father was watching him more carefully now.
And it was as they had pretended in the temple courtyard: people were beginning to talk. Kurvenal was involved in a tavern brawl when someone made some comments about his master's willingness to warm his mother's bed and returned home with a black eye and a broken finger.
"But the bastard went home with a broken jaw," Kurvenal said with satisfaction.
Brangwyn treated his injuries, simultaneously scolding and supportive. With surprise, Drystan detected the way his serious friend's eyes lit up when he put himself into Brangwyn's care, exaggerating his injuries like a very bard. The situation forced a reluctant smile from him.
Otherwise, there was little to smile about. Knowing they were watched was playing havoc with Drystan's emotional state.
As if to prove him right, he received a summons from Arthur the day before the Whitsunday feast.
Arthur had taken residence in a modest townhouse on the west side of Verulamium near the Calleva Gate and the wooden barracks. The mosaics of the floor were in need of repair, the frescoes on the walls were fading, and it had no atrium, only a narrow entranceway leading to a small courtyard, but it was near the general's fighting men and the stables for their mounts in case of emergency. Drystan would have expected nothing else of the Dux Bellorum.
Arthur was sitting in the courtyard with Cai and Bedwyr when the slave showed Drystan in. Arthur rose, followed by his guests. "Welcome, Cousin. Should I be offended that you couldn't find your way to visit me without a summons?"
Drystan laughed and the other three men glanced at each other. Too late, he realized that Bedwyr and Cai were more likely to expect brooding than laughter from him.
"Wine?" Arthur asked, and Drystan nodded. While the slave went to fetch a jug and another glass, Arthur turned to Cai and Bedwyr. "I will see you both later at the practice grounds."
Bedwyr nodded. "Goodbye, Arthur, Drystan."
"Box his ears soundly for me, will you, Arthur?" Cai said.
Drystan glanced up at the blond giant. "As long as it's not you, Cai."
Cai snorted.
"I take it you too have heard the rumors," Drystan said after the other two had left.
They sat down on a stone bench in the sun. Arthur nodded. "Everyone has, Drys. Are they true?"
Drystan leaned over and poured himself a glass of wine. There wasn't any way out with his cousin; he had to be honest. "Yes."
"Damn. If that was how things stood, how could you have let them go through with the marriage?"
"No choice. Lóegaire holds her mother and threatened to harm her if she didn't marry my father. It seems Lóegaire desperately wanted this peace because of some prophecy." He gulped down his wine. "I tried to persuade her to run away with me."
"I thought her mother was married to Lóegaire?"
"Was. From what I was able to gather while I was there, dissolution of marriage is fairly common in Hibernia."
Arthur refilled their glasses, silent for a moment. Then he put down the jug of wine and leaned his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands together. "I'd like you to come along when we return to Caer Leon, Cousin. I will need to recruit more troops for my mobile forces and need experienced men to train them. My uncle is taking more than a thousand men with him to Gaul to aid Emperor Anthemius."
Drystan's hand clenched around the stem of his wine glass as a wave of simultaneous panic and relief came over him. Leave Yseult? Just when he had found her again? But two nights ago, someone had been spying on them in the courtyard of the ruined temple. He had not been alone with her since, didn't know when he would be able to be alone with her again. Didn't it make more sense to put some distance between them, let the rumors die down?
Drystan leaned his head against the column behind him, glancing around at the overgrown courtyard. The pear tree above had tiny fruit, little bigger than a fingernail, and wild roses bloomed despite the obvious lack of care. A rosemary bush lent a more stringent scent to the sweet smell of the flowers.
"I think you should take me up on it, Drystan," his cousin continued quietly when he didn't answer. "What are you going to do if you stay at your father's court? Although I must admit, I wouldn't mind having someone I trust to check up on what Marcus is doing."
Drystan turned his head and gave Arthur a rueful smile. "My father is an ambitious man."
"Let us hope not too ambitious."
Perhaps it would be for the best if he left. There was no future for him and Yseult. No future. When he was with her he could forget that, but being with her had become much more difficult.
"I will go with you."
"Good." The two men rose and shook hands.
Drystan turned to go, repressing a sigh. Now he would have to tell Yseult of his decision.
* * * *
The Whitsunday feast was held outside the city walls, near the church to the northeast of Verulamium. Drystan still had not had a chance to
talk to Yseult alone since he had spoken with Arthur. He had told his father of his plans the same day as they all gathered for the evening meal. Yseult's expression had not changed; she had even congratulated him on the trust the greatest general in Britain put in him. Perhaps she had already discerned his decision without him having to say the words.
He could only hope now at the feast, in the intimacy of the crowd, he could find an opportunity to speak with her.
The Whitsuntide Fair was set up across the River Ver from the city, but for the feast all the stalls were closed up, their owners partaking of the mounds of food spread out on tables in front of the church: breads, honey cakes, hams, cheeses, strawberries, early season cherries and raspberries. On huge spits turned by a succession of volunteers, a wild boar and a deer roasted above two separate fire pits, sending tantalizing aromas into the air. In the fields beyond, foot races and wrestling matches were being held. Already, the army Ambrosius would take with him to Gaul gathered, and tents for the fighting men who no longer fit in the barracks lined the horizon.
Despite the festive atmosphere, Drystan imagined he could discern an undercurrent of discontent. In order to get the support he wanted for the campaign to Gaul, Ambrosius had excluded several regional kings from the council at which the final decision was made, and a number had left in protest before the Whitsunday feast. Drystan had even heard some of the high king's supporters grumbling about the high-handed way in which Ambrosius had acted. Not Arthur, of course; where Ambrosius was concerned, he was utterly loyal. But the tone of his voice when he spoke of the troops being taken to foreign shores led Drystan to believe that not even he regarded his uncle's actions uncritically.
As they approached the crowds surrounding the church and the tables groaning with food, Ambrosius spotted them. He broke off his conversation with the Bishop of Verulamium and came forward to greet Marcus's party.
"When will the preparations be concluded for your trip to Gaul?" Marcus asked.
"We should be able to break camp by the end of the week," Ambrosius said, his sharp eyes on Drystan's father.
To Drystan's relief, Ambrosius drew his father away, into a circle of several kings known to be loyal, including Modrun's husband Honorius. Drystan, Yseult, Brangwyn and Kurvenal walked together to the fields where the games were being held, but he still had no luck in drawing Yseult aside. The crowd wasn't thick enough, and he could feel his father's eyes on them.
"Arthur wants to leave about the same time as Ambrosius," Drystan said. "We will not go straight to Caer Leon but north first, to inspect the defenses there and recruit new soldiers."
Yseult stared fixedly at the foot races, not replying.
Brangwyn took pity on him. "We will be returning to Dyn Tagell at the end of the week, in a party with the other kings of Dumnonia."
"I wish there were some way I could write you," Drystan murmured to Yseult so that no one outside the four of them could hear. Finally she turned to look at him, her winter-bright eyes shadowed, and gave a short shake of her head.
Kurvenal took Brangwyn's hand and she looked at him in surprise. "I hope you would not be offended if I write you, Brangwyn?" he asked. "I know your cousin has mastered the Latin script and she could read my letters to you."
The four of them looked at each other, and Drystan drew a quick breath, surprised at the cleverness and deceptive energy of the move. He could dictate to Kurvenal, and the letter would be read by Yseult. Under the cover of letters between Brangwyn and Kurvenal, they would be able to correspond.
"I would not be offended," Brangwyn said. "As long as Yseult would not mind reading the letters to me."
Yseult's gaze drifted back to the races, where Cador was handily beating a number of other fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds.
"I will be happy to read the letters," she said.
* * * *
By Thursday of the following week, the sea of tents disappeared from the fields to the west, and the army of Ambrosius headed south, accompanied by Cerdic, Count of the Saxon Shore. Cerdic would remain in Venta to reorganize the defenses there, but two more centuries stationed in the south would join Ambrosius and his troops before they sailed across the channel, where they would be met by Syagrius to march against the heathen Euric.
Verulamium seemed unnaturally quiet with the majority of the soldiers gone. Yseult was surprised at how quickly she had gotten used to the constant bustle of a British city. Compared to the wide pathways between the round-houses and halls in Tara or Dun Ailinne, the streets of Verulamium were a sea of people, but compared to what they had been in the days leading up to the departure of Ambrosius, they seemed empty.
Yseult bought a fresh loaf of bread from the baker on the corner, paid with a worn copper coin, and added it to the cheese and fruit in her basket. The smell of fresh bread wafted up pleasantly. The difficulties of the economy was a topic Marcus loved to gripe about: how fewer people trusted coin and would accept only barter, making it harder to come to terms with a merchant when buying something. Such lectures always ended with the complaint, "Not like when I was a boy!"
Perhaps it was different in the villages of Dumnonia, but here in Verulamium, the ease with which all the necessities of daily life could be bought with coin amazed Yseult.
When she entered the townhouse, a sound she had not heard for over a year greeted her.
Drystan was playing the harp.
Yseult leaned her head back against the plaster of the wall and closed her eyes. She held the basket of cheese and bread and fruit in front of her, and the smell of fresh bread mixed with the music, combining to make a perfect moment, bread and song, song and bread.
And longing.
How could pain sound so sweet and smell so good and be combined with such happiness? Yseult didn't understand it, she just knew this was one of those moments that would stay with her for the rest of her life.
And then Drystan began to sing.
It was the Armorican tune he had first sung by the fire in the round-house of Crimthann, the song of Melusan, the water-woman loved and betrayed. Yseult's pain and happiness grew to a sharp point, like the tip of a sword to the hollow of her throat.
She heard steps on the flagstones of the hallway and turned, the moment shattering. Marcus eyed her suspiciously.
"Your son plays well, husband," Yseult said lightly. "Perhaps he should have become a bard."
For some reason it was the right comment, because Marcus's expression cleared. She caught the impression of frivolous amusement.
"At least it hasn't ruined him for his duties."
"Yes, Arthur seems to set high store by his military abilities."
Marcus nodded. "I see you brought bread and cheese for lunch. I need to speak with Gwythyr about the details of our return journey, but I will be back before noon. We can eat then."
He gave her a quick kiss and strode down the hall and out of the door.
Yseult watched until he was long out of sight and then turned and followed the sound of the music into the courtyard. Drystan sat on a wooden stool in the sun, his bronze braid draped over one shoulder, his fingers playing over the strings. As Yseult watched from the shadows of the atrium he hit a wrong note, and she had to smile.
He stopped playing and looked up. They stared at each other for a long moment. Yseult saw the way shadows beneath the planes of his muscles, the shades of gold and brown in the bronze of his hair, how the green of his eyes was even more intense in the bright June sun.
"Yseult."
She nodded. "Good day, Drystan."
"I told Arthur I would sleep at his house tonight. We will be leaving early in the morning."
Her throat closed. "I wish you pleasant travels."
"Thank you. Perhaps I will see you at Lansyen when the training season is over. My father's winter seat," he explained, obviously remembering she had not yet been there.
"I have heard of it."
"Yseult," he repeated.
"I must bring these things into
the kitchen," she said, indicating the basket she carried, and turned to hurry down the hall. No, this wasn't her, miserable, aching, wounded, at the departure of a man. A man who had betrayed her, lied to her, a man who had hurt her more than any other. She had to regain her composure, couldn't reveal the way she felt when some slave or Andred or even Marcus himself might walk in on her at any time. She would put away the bread and cheese and gather her strength and go back to wish Drystan farewell.
But when she returned to the courtyard, he and his harp were gone.
Chapter 19
The hawk in the cliff of Ben Edair
Knows that I am stricken.
The otter knows
In the pool by the hurdles.
Love has a short blossoming—
But the dead remember it.
Ella Young, "Trostan Made This"
Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.
My dear, (I hope I may call you that?) I have been reluctant to write given the terms on which we parted. We have been traveling north for two weeks now, making good time with Arthur's mounted forces. He sets great store by the quality of the horses, saying it can make or break a mobile unit, even win or lose a war. His success on the battlefield in the last ten years surely speaks for itself.
But you probably do not want to hear of Arthur's military strategy. I am not sure what you would like to hear at all, which is why I write of such a harmless thing. Many times I have begun a few lines to you with stylus in wax before putting them down in ink, only to smooth the words out again, never setting pen to wooden sheet. But now a courier is heading south, and I must finally see if my words are welcome.
I pray that you are enjoying the best fortune and are in good health.
Your Kurvenal
Postscript. I hope you will understand the words written here are for you and only you and come from a sincere heart.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 29
