* * * *
The end of March, Erainn ships docked at the wharf of Caer Leon, bringing hostages in exchange for Illann and the other captured princes.
The party was led by none other than Crimthann himself.
At the sight of the king who had offered him a position as bard, Drystan couldn't help the swift, glad feeling that turned up the corners of his mouth.
Crimthann raised a hand in greeting and returned the smile. It was followed by a frown and another smile.
Drystan decided to ignore the frown and strode to the end of the wharf ahead of the others. "Crimthann! It's good to see you again."
The King of the Laigin nodded and took Drystan's hand to climb out of the boat. "And you, bard. Although the circumstances could be happier."
"Do you think so? I am quite relieved we turned back your invasion."
Crimthann laughed and clapped him on the back. "If it were only the two of us, Tandrys, there would be peace between our people. But the raids of Coroticus have to be avenged."
"Your campaign was more than revenge for a few raids," Drystan said bitterly, his mood swinging. The rest of Arthur's party hung back, as did Crimthann's men, watching the interaction between the two of them.
"Yes, it was," Crimthann said. "We underestimated your forces with Ambrosius gone. Yseult had also hoped that we could free her daughter. But all we were able to take was a scrawny Dumnonian princess."
Drystan blinked, taking in Crimthann's words and what they meant. "Yseult the Wise? She is with you again?"
"So you hadn't heard, bard? Lóegaire is dead. The cloak and the message you brought me led me to him. He died between the mountains of Albu and Eru while trying to take the boruma from the Laigin again. The prophecy was fulfilled, but not in the way Lóegaire had expected."
Drystan stared at the young king of the Laigin. "Lóegaire is dead?"
Crimthann smiled, nodding. "That is what I said. You never used to be weak-witted. One blow to the head too many?"
Drystan drew in a deep breath. "But that means Yseult would no longer have to stay with my father," he murmured so that only Crimthann could hear. "Lóegaire is dead."
"Yes, Tandrys, Lóegaire is dead." The faint smile played around Crimthann's mouth as he gazed at his former bard, but then his expression turned serious again. "It is as you say —Marcus has no hold on Yseult the Fair anymore. If you could take the message to her, I would be grateful."
If? There was nothing Drystan wanted more.
But would Arthur allow him to return to Dumnonia?
* * * *
Ginevra, the "scrawny Dumnonian princess" according to Crimthann, was to be returned to her father in Celliwig as soon as possible, and Drystan was determined to be the one leading the party. After Arthur ordered him to remain in Caer Leon, Drystan had made friends with Talwyn, the whore who had helped him the night they had retaken the fortress. He made a point of being seen with her regularly, and she was now generally considered his mistress.
His plan worked. Arthur entrusted him with the task of accompanying Ginevra back to Dumnonia, seeing as he was one of the more experienced navigators among the troops.
Crimthann's description did not do Ginevra justice; the tastes of the Laigin king obviously ran to more dramatic, mature beauties. Ginevra was only 15, small and slim. But her blond hair held a hint of red, her eyes were a changing pattern of green and gold and brown, and her figure was full enough in the right places that she turned at least a few male heads wherever she went.
Nonetheless, after the journey south to Celliwig in Dumnonia, Drystan was relieved to hand her over to her father. She was only a handful of years younger than he was, but she seemed little more than a child.
After leaving Celliwig, Drystan navigated his ship around the tip of the Dumnonian Peninsula to the port of Voliba near Lansyen, eager to tell Yseult of Lóegaire's death. Now she could repudiate her marriage to his father without fear of what would become of her mother.
Drystan spent the trip in an agony of conflicting emotions. As their ship came around the rocky head and angled into the harbor of Voliba, he gripped the railing, staring through the light spring rain as if somthing beyond could tell the future. The Voliba River was navigable all the way to Golant, the village quay closest to his father's hill-fort. Fear and hope were eating away at him as he gazed at the green slopes, and he wished the journey would go faster, even as close as they were.
The hill-fort of Lansyen was large and well-defended, with two thick earthen walls and a deep outer ditch, a stronghold rebuilt on the site of a Pre-Roman fortress, the hall massive and without luxury. Marcus had refurbished the defenses here when the increasing sea raids from Eriu and the land raids of the Saxons had made the villa outside of Isca Dumnoniorum too dangerous. Still, his father had almost remained in Isca too long — Drystan vividly remembered the raid shortly before he was sent into fosterage with Riwallon when Isca had burned. They had been forced to flee on horseback, taking only the belongings they could carry in their saddlebags. Tears had cut streams through the soot on his mother's face, but she had urged him on without seeming to notice.
They all had reasons to hate each other, British, Saxon, Erainn. He wondered if it would ever stop.
They arrived at the hill-fort on borrowed horses and handed their mounts to a stable boy. Striding eagerly into the great hall, Drystan was relieved that there was no sign of his father.
But Yseult was there.
She started up at his entrance, and it was all he could do not to run to her and take her in his arms. His father might not be present, but there were still eyes everywhere, and until he knew what action Yseult would take, he could not betray her.
He did his best to slow his steps as he went over to her. Taking her hands decorously in his own, he leaned forward to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek appropriate for a son-in-law. The scent of her, the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingers almost undid him.
He dropped her hands and drew a deep breath. "I have news, Yseult. Lóegaire is dead and your mother has returned to Crimthann."
She stared at him as if she hadn't understood what he said, so he continued. "We took Erainn prisoners while retaking Caer Leon, and Crimthann himself headed the party for the exchange of hostages. Illann is an important person, I take it?"
Yseult nodded. "Yes, his cousin."
"Crimthann and I spoke. Your mother is back with him at Dun Ailinne. The cloak we brought helped him find her. When Lóegaire went after her again, he was killed between the mountains of Albu and Eru."
She closed her eyes, her lips pressed thin. "The prophecy," she got out.
"So Crimthann said. Lóegaire was killed by his sureties, the sun and the wind, because he went against his oath and tried to levy the Boruma from the Laigin by force."
She opened her eyes, a small, sad smile curling up her lips. "Ah, the bard speaks in your voice again."
Drystan couldn't understand her reaction. Why was she talking of bards? She was no longer a hostage to Lóegaire's will — she could leave with him now. "Do you understand what this means, Yseult? Your mother can no longer be used to force you to do anything. You're free."
She shook her head, and he felt as if his world were disintegrating around him. He had been so sure; he hadn't realized until this moment how sure.
"I too have news," she said quietly. She turned and gestured to Brangwyn. Her dark-haired cousin leaned over and picked up a white bundle, rose, and came forward.
Yseult took the baby from Brangwyn's arms and the wide smile he remembered lit up her face. Then she looked up and presented the baby to him. "Meet Kustennin."
Under her breath, too low for a servant to hear, she added, "Your son."
Chapter 21
Tonight the grouse does not sleep
above the high, stormy, heathery hill;
sweet the cry of her clear throat,
sleepless among the streams.
"The Flight of Diarmuid and Grainne"
>
The light rain had turned into a fog that obscured all the trees but those closest. Around them, thin grayness hung, obscuring the rest of the world; in the valley below, the shape of the river seemed covered by a veil.
Drystan glanced over at the woman he loved, a stranger once again. She wore a hooded cape, wide enough to protect both her and the baby. Brangwyn and Kurvenal followed a discreet distance behind them, almost invisible in the mist.
His son, she said.
"But why does this mean you have to stay with my father?" he asked. A son. The news should have been joy, but the meaning Yseult attached to it made him feel as if he were drowning, fighting for his life. He had allowed himself to hope — a dangerous thing, he now knew. And the fog was seeping into his brain, into his heart, pinching, squeezing, and inside he was crying, too much to appreciate the meaning of those two words.
A son.
She gazed out at the wooded valley below, her arms underneath the cape around the shapeless bundle that stood between them, her expression as veiled as the forest on the opposite side of the valley. "I have learned that according to the laws of your world, a child belongs to its father."
Drystan drew in a deep breath. It was true — according to the laws of Rome, the basis of British law, the father had all rights to any child born in wedlock. Legally, Kustennin belonged to Marcus.
"What is to keep you from running away with the babe?" he asked. "My father is not here to stop you."
"But he could come after us. And your laws would support him. We can no longer think only of ourselves, Drystan."
"We never could," he said bitterly. "But I still don't understand. I could be a father to the boy, better than my own father, I am sure."
Yseult turned to him, her light, bright eyes finding his. "I have seen how your world treats those they call bastards, have seen how the greatest warrior of the realm, nephew of the High King himself, is treated as a result of an accident of birth. I do not want that for my son."
She was right, and he could feel the life he had wanted slipping away. "But you would not have to stay in my world. You could return to your own."
"And what would Kustennin be in my world? Here he is the son of a king."
"The son of a queen?" Drystan asked, unable to resist giving a sarcastic lilt to the words.
She acknowledged the hit with a tilt of her fine, moonlight head.
He took her elbow through the fabric of her cape. "Yseult, you have been too long in my world if being the son of a king means more to you than being the son of a queen." He knew he sounded desperate — he was, he didn't care.
"In my world I am not a queen, only the daughter of a queen."
"The daughter of the queen of the Tuatha Dé!" Drystan felt his words explode from him like blows of the fists clenched at his sides. Yseult flinched as if it were really so.
She gazed down into the valley again, and he thought he saw her tighten her hold on her son, their son, beneath the cape. "Perhaps you are right, perhaps living in your world has corrupted me. But I am changed, Drystan. I was changed even before you came to fetch me to your father. I watched as my mother and cousin were raped and abused." Her voice dipped low. "And nothing was done to me."
"And so you would rather suffer now?" He turned away from her. He felt as if everything inside of him were crying, everything but his eyes: those burned with the effort to keep back the tears.
Why couldn't it be easy, just this once?
"Who knows?" she said, and it felt as if she had answered his question to himself. "Perhaps something in me does want to suffer, to pay, and that is part of it. I may be able to send dreams that go unanswered..." — it was Drystan's turn to wince now — "...but who ever really understands how their own heart works?"
Drystan leaned his head back on his neck and took a ragged breath. The tears would no longer be held at bay, and he clenched his teeth as hot moisture seeped from the corners of his eyes to mingle with the cool damp air and trickle into the hair at his temples.
"I can't, Drystan," he heard her say through the fog of pain, through the real fog cloaking them in their misery. "Kustennin's place is here. I won't steal his destiny from him."
Too swift for her to react, he turned and took her shoulders in a painful grip. "But you would steal my destiny from me, our destiny from us?"
"How can it be our destiny if I don't want it?" she asked quietly.
He released her again, wishing there were something he could hit, pound, beat into the soft, damp ground beneath his feet. Drystan the bard, the gentle one, who would rather sing than fight. There wasn't much left of that Drystan now.
"Besides, what would I go back to?" she continued when he didn't answer. "I have been here in Britain less than a year, but in that short time, my life has become tied up with this place, with the ruling of Dumnonia, with you. The future of our child is connected to Alba and not Eriu."
"And you think that is enough?" he ground out.
She turned away, gazing out at the clouds of fog above the river. "I have told Marcus I will no longer sleep with him. I have fulfilled my duty as wife and provided a son. Now, with my mother out of danger, if he tries to take his husbandly rights, I can tell him I will return to Eriu, humiliating him. Besides, I made it clear that he is free to take as many mistresses as he wants and I will not stop him. I suspect that is what is keeping him so long in Isca Dumnoniorum, where he has been restoring the old villa nearby, now that the threat from the Saxons is gone."
"And I ask again — is that enough?"
She was quiet for a long time, holding the shapeless bundle beneath her cape, watching the shifting patches of fog in the valley below. "No. But I have to make it so."
He wiped the angry tears out of his eyes, wishing he could hate her, wishing he could at least think she was wrong. But then he would have to know what was right.
"If your father stays away from me, I think I can find a measure of happiness," she said now. "And I reason to think he will. Those who wish to injure me have been bandying the name of Trephina in my presence, in an undertone loud enough for me to hear." She smiled then, a true smile, a smile such as he had rarely seen from her since Eriu, and his heart wrenched.
She finally faced him again. "Drystan, I am ruling here in your father's stead while he plays protector in the former Roman capital and plots with the weakest-willed kings of Dumnonia. I do not want to leave now. My fate has become tied to this foreign land. I do not want your father to triumph or his plot against your cousin to succeed. If I leave, it will."
Bitterness tore at him, making him mean. "And you think if you stay it will matter?"
She gazed at him steadily, the brilliance of her hair and her eyes dulled by the effect of the fog. "Yes, I do."
She was right, he knew she was right, but he didn't want to admit it. He had allowed himself to dream, had allowed himself to imagine they could live their own life together, honestly, without subterfuge. Now, after that hope, it grated at him more than he could stand.
The damp air, just a touch removed from rain, smelled like earth and pine and moss. He took her elbow beneath the cape again, imagined he could feel the life and energy that flowed through her, and turned her north along the ridge, to continue walking, to leave the emotions they had just thrown at each other behind.
"Drystan?" came her voice beside him.
"Yes?"
"Will you stay?"
Would he? She said she no longer lived with his father as man and wife, but the fact remained, they were man and wife. Was being with her enough for him?
It shouldn't be, but it was. Anything was better than nothing.
"Yes, I will stay."
* * * *
He could not say he was happy, but it was as close as he had come since his days of innocence in Armorica, when heartbreak had meant nothing more than losing a practice battle to Kurvenal, or a string on his harp snapping when he had none to replace it, or no village girl he could in all conscience seduce at
the summer fair.
He didn't think he would even be able to seduce a village girl anymore.
During the days, Drystan played the helpful relative, played him well. In Lansyen, no one had heard the rumors of the two of them, and he knew now to look at Yseult differently when they were in company, look at her as if she were his cousin Labiane or his aunt Ygerna. Besides, with his father away in Isca Dumnoniorum, rebuilding it to be his capital again, Drystan had the nights.
It was almost enough, certainly more than he had expected when Yseult told him for the second time that she would not run away with him.
They nearly lived like man and wife. After all, how many married couples were there who gazed at each other with longing during such mundane tasks as overseeing the plowing, or distributing seed to the local farmers, or arranging for fences to be repaired before the sheep and cattle could be moved to their summer pastures? In truth, Drystan treated Yseult brusquely at such times because it was not allowed for him to treat her with tenderness, and not because habit had set in. But he also had the nights.
All the nights.
Brangwyn had a small house to herself near the ramparts of Lansyen, but normally she shared Yseult's chamber, and it was she who made their nights together possible with her power of changing. When he accompanied them to their chamber in the evening, it was Brangwyn who continued on to his lodgings, cloaked in a likeness of himself. In the earliest morning hours, Drystan would leave his love's side again, and Brangwyn return to her own pallet. Kurvenal watched for them, and all went well.
There were even advantages to the life he now lived. One of them was that he was able to see how well Yseult ruled the little corner of Dumnonia in the valley along the River Voliba, with his father away in Isca Dumnoniorum. Drystan saw how people came to her for judgment and cures, how she maintained the defensive forces of the fort despite the new peace, how she organized the fairs and the celebration for the Kalends of May — Beltaine. At that he had to smile. The old festivals were far from forgotten in semi-Christian Britain, but the way in which Yseult subtly suggested more and better ways to give thanks for the renewed life of the land brought those wisps of cultural memory to much more flamboyant life.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 32
