Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur

by Nestvold, Ruth

  Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.

  The terms on which we parted were dictated by circumstances, not my own feelings. And I would remind you that it was you who fled from a final meeting, not I.

  It is good to hear from you, good to hear you are well. Your first letter took its time in reaching us here in remote Dyn Tagell, but so long as we hear of no new outbreaks of war, we will be happy to assume that you and the rest of the Companions traveling with Arthur are well. Has the Dux Bellorum had any success in recouping his numbers after Ambrosius took so many fighting men with him to Gaul? Have no fear, you will not bore me with military details. You must remember, my cousin and I have fought side-by-side with the men of our tribe to defend our rath.

  I pray to Danu that you are enjoying the best fortune and are in good health. (One of the local priests on the mainland who is not so narrow-minded tells me that praying for fortune and health is a standard Roman-Christian closure, so I will take up the common form, but in my own way.)

  Your Brangwyn

  Postscript. Yseult has begun to teach me the Latin script, but I fear I yet write like a child. I have heard your words and am grateful for their sincerity.

  Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.

  The form in which I must now communicate with you grates at me: the long delays, the scratch of pen against birch wood, the distance. Oh, the distance! I would look into your eyes and see what effect my words have rather than waiting for a courier who doesn't come.

  But I am glad at least that my letters are not unwelcome.

  We are now on our way south again. Arthur has not had as much luck in gathering new recruits as he would have liked; with the peace of Venta, few believe a standing army or additional cavalry are necessary. At times I think Arthur almost wishes there were no treaty with the Saxons of Vectis — he is sure the enemy is waiting for an opportunity to attack, to pluck the rich fruit which is Britain, and now the regional kings become complacent. But there are still many who come of their own free will, eager to serve with the mighty general Arthur.

  It must be strange to be a legend when you have barely seen thirty summers.

  Once we have concluded the initial training of the new troops in about two months, we will be able to join you at Lansyen. With any luck, we will see each other again before the leaves fall from the trees.

  Your Kurvenal

  Postscript: I am glad you will soon be able to read my words yourself. Although I am still unsure how my suit will be taken, I long to communicate with you directly.

  Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.

  I well know from being on the other side of the Erainn Sea that Britain truly is regarded as a rich fruit for the plucking. As I now do not want to see harm come to you, I can only support Arthur in his plans to keep Britain prepared for attack, at all times. My own people tend to regard this land as fair game. Only an effective defense will keep them from raiding and carrying off what they want.

  I find it hard to believe I just wrote those words, but my mind now is torn in two, my loyalties divided. I know many fine people in this land I once hated; hated because I grew up hating it, with little reason. Yes, there were the raids on my own people from such as Coroticus, but they were preceded by raids by Crimthann, which were preceded by raids by Cunedda, which were preceded by raids by Niall. We will continue to hate each other as long as we continue to kill each other, and we will continue to kill each other as long as we continue to hate each other.

  But I will write of this no more. I long for summer to be over and the trees to be bare if it means you will be with us again where we can talk face to face, and not courier to courier. There is such news, I cannot trust it to ink.

  Your Brangwyn

  Postscript: You are in my mind, but more I cannot promise.

  * * * *

  "What does your lady write?" Kurvenal asked, trying to make his words sound casual.

  Drystan refolded the birchwood sheet and leaned his head back against the wall of their room. Kurvenal paced in front of the pallet where Drystan lounged, hoping he did not seem too impatient. The courier had arrived while they were training new troops in the old Roman amphitheater, and the letter had been lying on Drystan's pallet when they returned to their room before the evening meal.

  They were not lodged in the same house as during their previous stay in Caer Leon, but if anything, the move was a step up: closer to the headquarters, the room larger, the former tribune's house finer, with an atrium as well as a courtyard.

  Kurvenal eyed the slim sheet of wood greedily, his hunger for food forgotten. There might be a few personal words from Brangwyn in the postscript, if only Drystan would share it with him. Perhaps he should reveal to his friend that he had always added a few words of his own to each missive after Drystan dictated his message?

  "Sometimes I don't know how I am meant to understand what she writes," Drystan said, closing his eyes. "Arthur pressed me to join him, and I'm sure it was a good idea for us to put some distance between us and give the rumors a rest." He opened his eyes again and gazed at Kurvenal. "But being separated from her is so hard. And it never gets any easier."

  Kurvenal did his best to make some sympathetic noises. If only Drystan would show him the letter!

  Drystan stood up again. "I'm going to dinner in the headquarters building. Are you coming?"

  Kurvenal shook his head. "I'm getting tired of the fare. I'll find myself something in Via Praetoria."

  "Ah, ha. Are you sure it is food you want, my friend?" Drystan winked.

  Kurvenal gave him a weak smile, and finally Drystan left. Kurvenal untied the letter and scanned the last lines. You are in my mind, but more I cannot promise. Well, what did he expect? He should be glad she thought of him, glad she even responded to his hidden messages.

  He retied the letter and left the house in the direction of the river. His favorite tavern in Caer Leon was near the wall across from the fortress baths.

  Suddenly the call went out from the watchtower ahead of him. "Signal fire to the east!" At almost the same time, he could hear the call from the southern watchtower as well.

  Unfortunately, enemies didn't wait for soldiers to eat their dinner.

  "The news?" Kurvenal asked a passing guard as he ran for the stables where the mounted forces were to meet in case of emergency.

  "Ships attacking Caer Gwent and Caer Teim!" came the hurried answer.

  The guard didn't say it, but Kurvenal knew: Erainn.

  * * * *

  With the attacks in August, Erainn ships began worrying the Western coast more than they had in a decade, taking advantage of the news that Ambrosius was away in Gaul with Anthemius. Drystan had no more time for letters, no more time for training recruits: with Geraint dead, Arthur had put him in charge of the rudimentary navy. Their small fleet was modeled after the one that Roman Britain had once boasted to patrol the Sabrina estuary and the western coast. The cavalry tactics in which Arthur excelled helped little against surprise attacks from the sea. His mounted forces were mobile and fast, but the Erainn raiders were not interested in pitched battle: they struck, stole what they wanted, and slipped away.

  Drystan could only hope that his father had sent Yseult inland to Lansyen. Or perhaps he shouldn't wish it: if she were captured, she would surely be returned to her family.

  The kings of Dumnonia had organized their own patrols, but many were unhappy that Marcus's peace with Eriu did them no good. Drystan found himself wishing it might undermine his father's support. Dumnonian acceptance of the British High Kingship was fragile, but if Marcus was not a viable alternative to his brother-in-law Ambrosius, it might never come to open rebellion.

  It didn't surprise Drystan to learn that Arthur saw things similarly. They were on their way to the wharves to inspect three new ships — provided by the "Erainn" king of Demetia, Triffyn mac Aed Brosc, a king descended from raiders who had once taken this corner of Britain by force. Ancestry was not everything when enemies were harrying yo
ur coasts, raiders who did not always respect borders between Erainn and Bretain kingdoms. A common enemy, a mutual threat, was now bringing the kingdoms of the west closer together, as it had done among the kings to the east before.

  "King Gwythyr of Celliwig has volunteered to aid in the Sabrina patrols," Arthur said as they strode towards the harbor.

  Drystan nodded. "Another who sees the advantages of safety in numbers."

  Arthur glanced at him. "And doesn't trust solely in the might of Dumnonia."

  "As well he shouldn't."

  "So you are with us, Cousin? Absolutely?"

  "I am with you, Cousin. Although I don't blame you that you doubt me."

  Triffyn's son Aircol was there to meet them at the wharf —he had volunteered to help in setting up the fleet to patrol the coast. Aircol was tall and slender without being delicate, and he had the fair coloring of those with Feadh Ree blood.

  And of course he reminded Drystan of Yseult. Everything did, it seemed. Even trying not to think about her necessarily meant he was thinking about her.

  Drystan examined the ships tied up at the wharf. Before he returned to Dumnonia, his experience had been mostly with merchant ships, but he had since gained experience with galleys and smaller warships. These were similar in design to Roman galleys, with a bronze reinforced beak for ramming enemy ships and a gangplank for boarding, but they sported two sails instead of one for more speed and maneuverability, as many of the Erainn ships used. The speed of a warship came mostly from the men who manned the oars, and most of the training Drystan did now involved teaching infantry to be sailors.

  "We need captains for the new ships," Arthur said, his hands on his hips as he examined the galleys.

  "Have you heard back yet from Cerdic?" Drystan asked. The green summer hills rose up on the other side of the river Usk, a deceptively peaceful picture.

  "I wanted ships from him, not captains," Arthur said. "But you're right, his men have experience patrolling the southern coast."

  "The sons of Cunedda are experienced sailors as well," Aircol suggested. The accent of the "Erainn" prince's speech was more British than Drystan's own.

  The three men turned to walk back along the banks of the river in the direction of the city walls. "I have sent to Cunedda's sons," Arthur said. "They say they have no men to spare."

  Drystan repressed a sigh. "We must set up a better system of signals along the coast."

  Aircol nodded. "We don't have enough men or ships to be everywhere at once."

  "At least the news from Gaul is good," Arthur said. "I had word that Ambrosius has pushed east along the Liger River all the way to Turonum and retaken the city. They will probably winter there."

  Aircol said what Drystan had not dared. "It would still be better if we had those soldiers here."

  * * * *

  It did not go well for Arthur's forces in this new war against the Laigin, but it did not go poorly either. Sometimes the southern Erainn tribes were able to carry off slaves and hostages, but just as often they were turned back with heavy losses, and more than once, British ships sank one of their vessels or took it at sea or on land. Demands came from Erainn kings for tribute, but the British kings of the west had not reached such dire straits yet.

  Drystan was inclined to curse the mild fall and good weather, because it extended the fighting season well into October. The Erainn should be home harvesting the last crops before Samhain, when everything remaining on the trees and in the soil was forfeit to their gods, but it seemed they were determined to get in some final decisive victories before the seas became to risky to cross.

  Then the news came that a king's daughter was taken: Ginevra, daughter of Gwythyr, one of the seven kings of Dumnonia.

  Close on its heels came news even worse: the Erainn were laying siege to the fortress of Caer Leon itself.

  Drystan had just put in to the port at Moridunum in Demetia, one of Aircol's main naval bases. More ships than usual were in the harbor, but Drystan didn't think anything of it until he saw the king's son himself striding down to the wharf to meet their ship.

  "Good that you're here already, Drystan," Aircol said without preamble. The weather was turning, and a constant drizzle coated the ships and the wharf. Drystan and his sailors all longed for dry clothes and a roof over their heads.

  "Bad news," Aircol continued. "While Arthur was fighting off an attack on Glevum, Erainn warriors tried to take Caer Leon. The last we heard, they were not successful, but they've surrounded the fortress."

  Drystan nodded shortly, rain and discomfort forgotten. Caer Leon was one of their most important military sites. "Plans how to drive them back?"

  Aircol shook his head. "I sent a courier to Arthur at Glevum, but there is no word yet."

  They turned towards the fort. "Arthur may already be on his way to Caer Leon," Drystan said.

  Aircol wiped the rain out of his eyes, nodding. "I'm afraid it might be a trap for him."

  Drystan stopped and took the other man's elbow. "Do you have any reason to believe that's the case?"

  "No, but the timing was too good. The attack on Glevum could well have been planned to draw him off."

  He could only hope Aircol was wrong or Arthur too clever to fall into such a trap, if trap it was. "True. And it is unlike the Erainn to fight like this. Usually they raid and retreat, taking whatever riches they can find."

  Aircol gave him a humorless smile. "You must remember, I would not be here if that was the only way the Erainn fought. That is part of what makes me uneasy. My own ancestors used the same tactics when they conquered Demetia: repeated raids to weaken defenses and make the populace feel insecure, and then a concerted effort to take over key locations. The region was weak and the opportunity there. But I think the Erainn have underestimated our strength with Ambrosius on the continent."

  Drystan was silent for a moment. "We are truly weak with so many trained soldiers gone."

  "Not as weak as they think us," Aircol said angrily.

  Drystan looked back at the wharves in the harbor, counting the ships. "Six galleys and two merchant ships here now. And Kurvenal should arrive with his patrol before evening. How many men do you think we can transport in those?"

  "Probably more than we have here in Moridunum."

  "Good. We can pick up reinforcements on the way. But first we need to send another courier to Arthur to tell him what we suspect and what we have planned."

  * * * *

  It was night and it was raining. Drystan, Kurvenal and Aircol were huddled beneath the stone archway of one of the entrances to the old Roman amphitheater of Caer Leon. They leaned on their spears as they gazed across at the fortress where the Erainn now patrolled. Occasionally, the light of a lamp bobbed into view and flickered away again.

  Drystan pulled his cape tighter at the throat. "Shouldn't it be Samhain right about now?" he asked Aircol.

  The prince of Demetia glanced over at him as if he had lost his mind. "Samhain? Only heathens celebrate Samhain."

  Like the woman of the Feadh Ree who you remind me of.

  "We in Demetia are Christian," Aircol continued. "Our ancestors left such practices behind when they left Eriu."

  Drystan gazed back out at the wall of water between him and his sometime-home filled with his sometime-enemy. He doubted if the leaving had been quite as simple as Aircol suggested. During the time of Niall of the Nine hostages, it had been Aircol's grandfather who had taken key sites in the peninsula west of them after the Roman legions had left Britain. And Aircol still wore a torc like the nobles of Eriu.

  Like Yseult.

  Unfortunately, Drystan had too much time to think about his father's wife. The battle for Caer Leon was going the way the battles all summer had gone: no winner, only losers, and much too long.

  Perhaps the only good thing was that Arthur had avoided a trap. A combination of their warning messages, the talents of his scouts, and Arthur's own innate caution had allowed him to elude an ambush on the road from Gl
evum to Caer Leon and defeat the enemy. With the fleet led by Drystan and Aircol, they had then retaken the wharf of Caer Leon. When Arthur's nephew Owain arrived with a war band from Glevum, the besiegers had been forced to give up their positions to the north and west of the fortress. But as the defenders within the walls had streamed out of the city of Caer Leon to the north, the Erainn had streamed in from the south and were now securely ensconced behind masterful Roman masonry, built to last.

  Somehow they had not planned for all eventualities.

  Now the Erainn were inside and the British troops were besieging their own fortress. Drystan had the feeling he had been here before.

  Kurvenal echoed his thoughts. "It's like at Portus Adurni."

  "Except the weather is worse."

  Kurvenal chuckled.

  Drystan sighed. "It's times like this when I really miss all those men Ambrosius took with him to Gaul."

  "I think you have said that before, my friend."

  He didn't want to be disloyal to the high king, but he found it hard to understand that saving some vague ideal of "romanitas" on the continent was worth the risk of endangering a tentative peace on their own soil. If anyone had asked him how much his father's treaty with the Erainn was worth, he would have gladly told them. But no one did.

  And now here they stood outside while the Erainn were in.

  "I don't understand why Arthur won't allow us to attack," Aircol said, turning away from the dismal wall of rain impatiently.

  Drystan gave him a long look. "We have to come up with a way to get the rest of the civilians out first."

  The Demetian prince spat. "All that's left are a bunch of whores."

  Kurvenal and Drystan glanced at each other, not answering for a moment. "You might want to be careful voicing that opinion in Arthur's presence," Kurvenal suggested quietly. "I believe one of the whores trapped in Caer Leon is his mistress Indeg. And his son Anir is with her."

  Aircol turned away. "I didn't know," he mumbled.

  The flap of the lean-to built against the wall of the amphitheater was pulled aside, and Arthur entered, Cai and Bedwyr in his wake. In the flickering torchlight, the young general's eyes were hollow.