"Cousin, how good is your command of the Erainn dialect?" Arthur asked.
Drystan stood straight, leaning his spear against the stone wall behind him. "I speak it and understand it well enough, but so do most here. What do you mean?"
"Can you pass for Erainn if need be?"
"I don't know. On my flight from Ard Ladrann, I was sometimes taken for Erainn, but more often for Armorican."
Arthur began to pace the entranceway of the amphitheater. "If you can do better than that, we may have a way to end this siege more quickly. Bedwyr recently was organizing repair work throughout the city, and he had a chance to inspect the hypocausts of the baths inside and outside the fortress walls."
Bedwyr nodded. "I think we could tunnel between the two and break through. But getting inside would be more effective if we had someone among us who could pass for Erainn."
"If it is only short encounters, I'm fairly sure I could do it." Drystan gestured down at his mix of Roman and British clothes and armor, his leather tunic and coat of mail. "But I will need clothing more appropriate for an Erainn warrior."
Arthur glanced at Cai. "I assume we have captured such with the men we have taken?"
Cai nodded. "I think I can find armor of stiffened hide and a helmet to match that will fit the Armorican."
The Dux Bellorum was visibly relieved when he turned back to Drystan. Drystan could hardly imagine what it would be like to have a woman he shared a bed with and the child they had conceived together behind enemy lines.
"Good," Arthur said. "It shouldn't be hard to take control of the external baths, and then we can get a crew started. When the tunnel is far enough along, we attack barracks in the southeast corner to provide a distraction. The troop that goes with Drystan will try to make it to the southern gates and open them for the forces outside."
Drystan nodded, even though he knew the northern gates might be more practical, since they were closer to the baths within the fortress walls. But the southern gates were closer to the former barracks — which had been taken over by the women plying the trade most in demand with the soldiers.
Where Indeg lived with Arthur's son Anir.
Chapter 20
Then rolled his way the battle's furious flood;
Squadrons charged on him blindly; blows and blood
Showered down like hail and water; vainly drew
The whole war round him; still his broadsword's gleam
Flashed in death's front, and still, as wrapped in dream
He fought and slew, witting not whom he slew...
Paul Hamilton Hayne, "Tristram of the Wood"
The first challenge was in getting to the external baths, which were situated close to the eastern fortress wall. Drystan and the others came from the river side, using the cover of darkness and their own shields to protect them from the Erainn patrolling the walls, but no one noticed them.
Once inside the baths building, they made their way with torches and lanterns to the underground heating system, Bedwyr leading them through the stone maze in the direction of the fortress. All too soon, they were forced to tear down a wall and begin digging. Soon, Drystan's arms were sore and water was seeping into his shoes.
"We're not as close to the fortress baths as I had hoped," Bedwyr said behind him. "Why don't you take a rest and let Gormant take over."
Drystan was more than happy to do so.
The digging went on for the better part of a week, Arthur becoming increasingly short-tempered with each day. In the meantime, they had begun building a catapult, the west within sight of the fortress walls but too far away for arrows to reach. Warriors had become carpenters, felling trees, splitting wet, unaged logs, sawing planks to size, and drilling and chiseling the joints. The trained carpenters among their ranks became the leaders for a time, while others tunneled like moles beneath the ground, hoping their blind aim was true. The distance was more than Bedwyr had at first thought, and it was necessary to shore up the tunnel as they dug, otherwise it would fall and suffocate them in a muddy grave. The rain had let up, but the soil was still damp. This made digging easier but the danger greater.
At the end of each day, Drystan felt as if he would never be clean again. The smell of mud and dirt permeated every waking hour, the feel of it between his fingers and seeping into his clothes, the darkness barely relieved by the lanterns they carried with them. When he came out into the courtyard of the baths complex, night was brighter than his days.
Carpenters and builders were the leaders among those of them working on the tunnel; it was they who constructed the frameworks to keep the earth from collapsing and burying them while they worked. The tunnel did not have to be large — at first only Drystan was to crawl through. It would have to hold for more men, however; according to their plan, once Drystan gave the signal that the southern gate was free, the men on digging detail in the external baths would also try to gain access to the fortress through the secret entrance and give the Erainn an unexpected front within the walls of Caer Leon.
On the sixth day, Drystan had seen so much mud and dirt that his outlook was as dark as the makeshift and treacherous walls around him. He had seen only a few minutes of sunlight each day, and with each spade of dirt they moved forward, it seemed clearer to him that they would never reach the fortress hypocausts.
And then came the sound of metal striking stone.
On their knees in the dirt, he and Bedwyr looked at each other in the flickering light of the lamp. Bedwyr nodded, and Drystan thought he detected a grin. "Let's try."
Together, they scraped and shoveled to lay bare a stone wall.
Drystan let out a sigh of relief. "The hypocaust."
They had made it through to the wall, but now they had to break out a hole without causing the underground heating system to cave in. They crawled out of the tennel, and Bedwyr sent for Gethin, one of the trained builders in their ranks. Finally, Drystan would have time to wash himself from head to foot and see something other than dirt for a change.
He blinked as he came out into courtyard of the external baths. It was a gray, cloud-covered November day — and the sun seemed brighter than any day he had ever seen.
Kurvenal was at the pump near one wall, and Drystan joined him.
"Finally," Kurvenal said, splashing water over his naked arms and chest.
Drystan nodded. He pulled his tunic over his head and stepped out of his breeches. "I was starting to feel like I would be crawling in mud for the rest of my life."
Kurvenal grimaced. "Come night, you'll have to crawl in it again."
Drystan rubbed his arms beneath the spout. "What kind of a friend are you?"
Kurvenal grabbed him around the neck and dunked his head underneath the pump. "The best!"
"Shhh!" Ruan said, joining them. "We're not to draw attention to ourselves, remember?"
Drystan and Kurvenal grinned at each other and continued washing in silence.
* * * *
Too soon, Drystan had to make his way back into the dank hole, a fresh change of clothes confiscated from a captured Erainn warrior in a satchel slung over his shoulder. As they had suspected, the Erainn who had taken over the fortress didn't know how to keep the hypocausts working, so while the walls still held a certain amount of stored heat, Drystan was in no danger of steam from the furnaces.
He threw his satchel and the Erainn weapons through the hole in the stone wall and then wriggled through. Darkness surrounded him.
Kurvenal reached a lighted candle through the hole. "Good luck, Drys!"
"Thanks."
He stuck the candle between two stones on the floor of the hypocaust and changed into the Erainn garb. Next, he had to figure how to get from below the floor of the baths to the city proper. In order to find his way out, he went in search of the furnace. The caldarium, the hot room, was the closest room to the garrison walls, so it could not be far. Bedwyr had shown him some plans, and with the map he had memorized in his head, he found it and the stairs leading
up to the service area.
This was the easy part. From here on out, he was at the mercy of his own luck and ingenuity.
As he came up out of the underground heating system, he could hear the sounds of attack: yells of warning, running feet, calls for help. Arthur must have launched the night assault with the catapult to the west, which would mean everything was going as planned.
The Via Praetoria was a scene of commotion and uproar: Erainn soldiers were running toward the northwest wall, shouting orders and questions, shouldering arms and shields, belting armor of stiffened hide around them as they ran.
"The monster is attacking!" a warrior yelled at him as he passed. Drystan nodded and joined the crowds dashing through the night streets.
Before he reached the Via Principalis, he ducked into the portico of one of the officer's houses.
"Psst!"
Drystan whipped around, hand on the hilt of the Erainn short sword at his hip.
"Come this way," a female voice whispered to him from the shadows of the atrium. Drystan hesitated only briefly — while the Erainn forces might well have woman warriors in their midst, it was unlikely they would be lurking in the shadows. And the dialect was British.
He followed the voice.
When he came out into a dimly lit courtyard, he thought he recognized a whore whose charms Cai tended to favor, but he couldn't remember her name.
"I am Talwyn of Caer Leon," she whispered.
"And I am Drystan of Dumnonia."
He could see her smile in the faint light. "Yes, I know. The prince who has no taste for whores."
Drystan blinked. It hadn't occurred to him that he would become known among the women of Caer Leon for not visiting them. "I need to get to the southern gate," he whispered. "Can you help me?"
She nodded and led him through the town house to the next alley. The procedure repeated itself until he reached the southern gate at the end of Via Principalis.
"Thank you," Drystan said.
Talwyn wrapped his braid in her fist and drew him close to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. "I will not ask you to visit me. It will be enough if you save us."
With a merry grin, she disappeared into the shadows.
Alone, Drystan turned to the fortress gate. Now for the guards.
He watched for a moment to gauge what he would be up against. It appeared that there would only be two to deal with; the rest must have joined the battle on the western wall. Drystan waited in the shadows until the one nearest him turned his back. It was dishonorable, but it was war, and Talwyn and Indeg and the others had to be saved. He crossed the space between them in one fluid move and plunged his sword into the guard's back.
At the man's grunt and death gurgle, the other guard turned. In the light of the torches above the entryway, Drystan saw a pair of wide-set blue eyes he had once known.
Ronan.
"Tandrys," the other man said, no surprise in his voice, his sword already drawn.
Drystan remembered racing after the plough at Imbolc, the sound of this man's laughter in his ears. "Will you open the gates, Ronan?"
Ronan shook his head.
"Bretain within the walls!" Ronan yelled at the top of his lungs as he charged. Drystan parried the blow, but the force of the other man's attack almost knocked him over. He was fortunate that the confusion on the northwest wall kept anyone from coming to Ronan's aid.
They fought bitterly, steel on wooden shield, steel on blade. They were too evenly matched for the battle to end quickly. For every blow Ronan parried, he delivered a blow of his own for Drystan to block. Drystan's shoulders began to ache. In the distance, they could hear the screams of the injured and the dying as the sky became brighter, and the smell of smoke drifted over to their death dance. Drystan tried not to allow surprise to distracted him. Had Arthur ordered fire to be used on his own fort?
The smell of smoke grew stronger, while the crackling sounds to the west began to drown out the sounds of battle, the screams and the ringing of steel. It appeared the wooden barracks in the western corner were on fire, making the night bright with war and death. If they didn't defeat the Erainn soon and put out the fires, the flames would spread to the granaries and their winter stores would be gone.
Sweat stinging his eyes, Drystan redoubled his efforts. The man on the other side of the blade was not a former friend, he was what was standing between Drystan and his comrades. He realized he had been looking for a way to disable Ronan without killing him, but who knew how many other lives he was sacrificing?
Finally, he saw an opening, and he thrust his sword up and into the unprotected side of Ronan's neck. The blue eyes went wide, and Ronan clutched and clenched and gurgled.
Drystan yanked his sword out of the wound, and Ronan fell at his feet. There was no time for mourning. He pushed up the bar holding the gates closed and threw them open.
"I'm through!" he yelled as he began to pull the chain to open the outer portcullis. Soldiers in the amphitheater had been waiting for such a sign and began pouring out, a sea of shields above their heads. An Erainn guard still on the walls noticed what was going on and tried to give the alarm, but his call went unheard in the confusion of the fire.
As soon as Drystan had the heavy portcullis all the way up, British warriors poured back into their own fort. Drystan leaned against the garrison wall, breathing deeply, giving himself a chance to regain his energy before he joined the battle. He was bleeding from cuts in a dozen places, and at his feet lay Ronan, his eyes wide to the smokey night.
It was not always good to know your enemy.
* * * *
The fighting lasted through the night. One century of soldiers concentrated on putting out fires they themselves had set. By the time dawn began creeping above the hills on the opposite side of the river, the leader of the Erainn forces, Illann, had been taken. Shortly thereafter, it began to snow, cooling the smoldering barracks.
Indeg and Anir were unharmed, and Drystan could see the tension go out of Arthur when they were found.
The captured Erainn warriors would be held for ransom, but with winter setting in, messages sent across the sea would have to wait. Gwythyr was eager to exchange captives and have his daughter back, but even he knew that Ginevra was probably in greater danger on the winter seas than in the hands of the Erainn.
Drystan was eager to return to Yseult for the Christmas season, but Arthur would not allow it. Drystan had the most experience with the Erainn and knew their dialect best — he was to remain in Caer Leon until the seas were calmer and contact could be made with the Laigin.
Which meant he would not see Yseult again until the spring.
* * * *
On a cold day in February, with snow deep on the ground and the River Usk frozen over, Drystan awoke from a nightmare, his body wracked by pain. Yseult was calling out to him, he could hear her voice; the deep tenor, the rough edges. He had to get to her, he knew it.
It had not been merely a dream, he was sure. He could see the wall hangings at the hall in Lansyen, could see them through Yseult's eyes, a part of her prison, foreign and despised. Yseult had used her power of calling to reach him. She was in trouble, and she wanted him with her.
He had to speak to Arthur.
After breaking his fast with bread and dried fruit, he sought out his cousin, who was overseeing the rebuilding of the barracks in the western corner of the garrison. He found him in consultation with Bedwyr and Gethin Saer. Despite the snow lying on the ground, a charred smell still clung to the air from the discarded planks piled to the side, no longer good for anything but adding to the hearth.
"Arthur, may I talk to you for a moment?"
Arthur looked up from the plans Gethin held in his gloved hands. "Hello, Drystan. I need to talk to you too. Myrddin claims the weather is changing and we will soon be able to send to Eriu to arrange for an exchange of hostages."
Drystan saw his hopes of being able to get away plummet. "Could not one of Aircol's clan act as contac
t with the Erainn for a time?"
Arthur glanced at him sharply. "Why?"
What was he to say? He had a dream? "I thought I could visit my father's court before we send to Eriu."
Arthur's lips grew thin and he clasped his hands behind his back. "Walk with me."
Drystan suppressed a grimace. He was going to get a lecture from his commander, not a conversation with his cousin.
He nodded.
Together they strolled away from the barracks, south along the wall in the direction of the granary. The snow on the roads and paths had become a cold brown muck.
"You want to see your step-mother," Arthur stated when they were far enough away that no one could overhear.
Drystan winced at the word but couldn't deny it. He would never be able to think of Yseult that way, but that was the way the world saw her now.
"Yes."
"I don't know if that would be such a good idea yet. We need you here in Caer Leon, you know. As soon as the seas permit, we must send to Eriu, and a party will arrive for the exchange of hostages."
Drystan pursed his lips, holding back his resentment. They both knew that Arthur's reason for keeping him here was a pretense. He could easily get to Lansyen and back before a message reached Crimthann and the exchange of hostages could be arranged.
The problem was that Arthur did not want him to see Yseult.
When Drystan didn't respond, Arthur continued. "You know well enough that no one in Aircol's clan could really take your place. Half a century ago, they were Erainn, but not now. You are the one who knows the language and the ways of the Eriu best. And you know Crimthann, King of the Laigin, personally. I forbid you to leave until the meeting has taken place."
Drystan took a deep breath and nodded. The need to go to Yseult was overpowering, but he could not go against a direct order from the Dux Bellorum.
Drystan began to realize that he would have to learn to dissemble with his cousin.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 31
