"Will we stay long in this wild land?" Cador asked, addressing Drystan.
Drystan shook his head. "Only long enough to bring Yseult to her relatives and buy new supplies."
"Too bad." The young king smiled. "I would have liked to see something of a land which resisted Rome."
They sailed into the port without being challenged; Yseult's mother must be aware that she was coming. Sure enough, as they lowered the landing boat into the water, a small party came out to the beach. Yseult smiled. Tall and blond, her mother stood at the front of the party of fianna warriors acting as her escort.
Several members of the fianna waded out to meet their boat. She handed the basket holding Kustennin to one of them and allowed two more to take her on their shoulders and carry her the last few strides to shore. When her feet touched sand, her mother was already there beside her and took her in a hard embrace.
Her reserved mother, Yseult the Wise, Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
It was so good to be home. They pushed back and held each other at arm's length, and she examined her mother's face. To her relief, there was color in her cheeks again, and the hollowness of her face and the dark circles around her eyes were gone. "You are well."
Yseult the Wise nodded and glanced over at Drystan. "The bard has repaid his debt."
Drystan bowed. "Thank you, Lady."
"Bard?" Cador echoed, sloughing barefoot through the shallow surf, his shoes in his hand.
"I will tell you the tale on the way back to Britain, Cousin," Drystan said.
Yseult smiled; she would have loved to hear the tale Drystan would tell.
"And you?" her mother asked her, her voice full of concern.
"I too am well — I have my son again." Yseult bent over the basket in the sand next to her and lifted the baby out. "Come, Kustennin, it is time to meet your grandmother."
* * * *
The next morning, Drystan and Cador set sail for Britian again, carrying a brace of Erainn hunting hounds in addition to supplies for their journey, all as thanks from the queen for saving her daughter.
Yseult watched their ship sail east, both disappointed and relieved that there had been no opportunity for private farewells. Here in the land of her birth, without Drystan and without Marcus, perhaps she would be able to clear her mind enough that she could think. With Drystan around, her attraction to him left her so little of herself that it was hard to know what she really wanted.
They set out for Dun Ailinne the same day. Things that Yseult had once taken for granted filled her now with wonder: the fortified homesteads with their thatched-roof round-houses; the bright squares of color on cloaks and tunics; the wealth of jewelry on forearms and upper arms and necks of the men and woman they met on the road. It was at once so familiar and so strange, Yseult felt as if she were in two places at once — a home she had never left, and a fantastic world utterly different from her everyday life.
When the royal hill of Dun Ailinne came into view, Yseult drew in a sharp breath. It was a kind of home, after all. From here, she had ridden with the Fianna, tending their wounds and practicing sword-fighting. Here, exaggerated songs had been sung about her exploits that made her laugh.
Here, she had received the head of her uncle in a woven basket.
She glanced at Brangwyn beside her, at her stony expression as she gazed at the place she had once lived with Aidenn. Yseult would not intrude on her cousin's thoughts now.
Although many had died in the wars with the Ui Neill, there were still familiar faces to greet them as they rode between the round-houses. Illann and Ailbe were overseeing footraces between the younger boys on the practice grounds, and when they saw her, they waved and smiled. It was good to see them alive and well. Not all the faces missing were dead, she knew that; Crimthann's brothers Eochu and Faelan had taken charge of raths elsewhere, and a number of those with blood of the Tuatha Dé had retreated to the hills, leaving the Gael to fight their battles alone.
Yseult wondered if Brangwyn would visit her mother while they were here.
"I think not," Brangwyn said as they dismounted. "But I would like to go to Druim Dara to see Brigid."
Yseult smiled. She had not wanted to intrude on her cousin's thoughts, but her cousin apparently had no such qualms.
Before Yseult could voice her agreement, her mother joined the conversation. "You will find things different at the place of the Sacred Oak," the queen said, her expression serious. "The world is changing, and Eriu is changing with it."
"Yes, I am well aware of that." Yseult searched her mother's mind to find the meaning behind the words, but there was only a wall of regret. "What are you trying to tell us?"
Yseult the Wise looked down at the mane of her bay mare and then up again. "Brigid has declared that there should be peace between the religion of Danu and the religion of the Christ. She is allowing Patraic to build a church near the sacred fire."
Yseult drew in a deep breath. This went against everything her mother had ever fought for. "A church at the holy site of Druim Dara?"
The queen nodded. "Cill Dara, it will be called."
Yseult shook her head. How could the ban druid invite the Christ to Druim Dara, allow him to be worshiped there alongside Anu, Danu and Brigid?
"She told me the signs had become too strong to ignore," her mother said, answering the question she had not asked, at least not out loud. A sardonic smile turned up her lips, an expression totally unlike the mother Yseult thought she knew. "Brigid also said that after what happened to us, she saw no reason to try avoiding a prophecy."
"What was the prophecy?" Brangwyn asked.
"Brigid had a series of dreams concerning the future of the old ways. You can ask her more when you see her."
They approached the gates of the rath. "And what do you think?" Yseult asked.
The queen didn't answer for a moment. Finally she sighed. "I don't know. For many years, I tried to curb the growing influence of the new religion in Eriu, but at the same time, I often wondered if the actions I was taking were right."
Yseult pulled up her mount, wondering how much more confused the world could get. Her mother was Yseult the Wise!
Her mother reined in her own mare. "The course I chose put the three of us into bondage. And you ended up married to Marcus Cunomorus despite all we did."
Yseult still wasn't convinced, but now Crimthann was striding through the gates of the rath to greet them, and they dismounted, handing their reins over to stablehands. Then suddenly she was assaulted by two long-limbed beasts, tongues wet and tails wagging.
She knelt down in front of them, laughing. "Bran, Ossar!" It had been what — two years? And still they remembered her. Yseult was relieved at the distraction they provided from her mother's words, relieved at their simple loyalty and love.
Crimthann came over and extended a hand down to her to help her rise.
"You see, Yseult, there is still a place for you here."
She took the hand the king of the Laigin offered, wondering if he was right. Was there a place for Tuatha Dé anywhere in the world anymore?
* * * *
The routine of an Erainn rath in summer came back to her quickly. In the mornings she would go to the house of healing to see if her mother needed any assistance with the sick or injured, but this time of year, after planting and before harvest, the weather warm but not hot, there was not much to do. When it grew hotter, there would be more illnesses from spoiled food, and pregnant women and the elderly who collapsed in the heat, but not yet. Sometimes Yseult the Wise was needed elsewhere, and she and Brangwyn would take over for a time. In the afternoons, she tended the herb garden and collected herbs that grew wild. If there had been no rain for several days, plants had to be watered when sunlight no longer touched them. Always, Kustennin accompanied her; as he grew stronger and more lively, she used a sling she had fashioned to carry him on her back rather than lugging him around in his basket.
The weather grew warmer, and soon the sh
eep would have to be sheared. Every woman in the rath with any time to spare was to be pressed into washing and carding the wool and spinning the yarn. Preparations were already underway, the shed cleaned out where the sheep would be herded and the condition of the shears checked. During the shearing, she and the other healers would have much more work, cuts and scrapes and bruises to tend to, maybe even a broken bone.
The day the sheep were herded into the shed, she set out to collect any additional supplies they might need that didn't grow in the herb garden, Kustennin in the sling on her back: moss for dressings, elder leaves for a fresh batch of ointment for bruises, raspberry leaves for a poultice for cleaning wounds. As she left the earthwork ramparts for the woods to the west, Illann caught up with her.
"Yseult! Well met. I have been wanting to speak with you alone."
"Good. Then you can help me brave the raspberry bushes."
Illann made a face but remained heroically at her side. "I heard you are considering returning to Eriu."
She glanced at him sharply. Where could he have heard that? Perhaps she had not guarded her thoughts well enough, too used to a land without magic. She thought of Myrddin and Modrun — a land with very little magic, she corrected herself.
When she didn't reply, he continued. "You were married to the Dumnonian king against your will, but now you are here. You could stay."
"And what of my son?" Yseult asked. Said son slept peacefully in his sling, his curly-haired head resting on her shoulder.
Illann looked at Kustennin, smiling. "He's a fine boy. Any man would be happy to call him son."
There would be a place for Kustennin if she married one of Crimthann's kinship group, married Illann. That was what her former fighting companion was telling her.
But she did not want to marry Illann. She wanted the freedom to love Drystan — and a place for her son.
"I do not want to leave his father," she said quietly.
"But I thought —"
Yseult did not allow him to complete the thought. "Say no more, Illann. Let us enjoy the day."
He nodded.
They collected raspberry leaves together and reminisced about old times, and she almost felt at home.
* * * *
After the sheep-shearing, Yseult and Brangwyn set off with Yseult the Wise and a large party of Fianna warriors for Druim Dara to visit the site of the eternal fire. The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann was no longer in such great personal danger now that Coirpre was High King of Tara, but the Ui Neill were still enemies, and a substantial warrior escort was necessary.
Given what her mother had told them when they arrived, Yseult was unsure whether she wanted to see the representative of the threefold goddess at all. Could Brigid still be the woman who had tricked Patraic into keeping Brehon law? Tricked him into saving the Brehon and their judgments, yes — but now Erainn law was a fusion of Tuatha Dé, Gael, and Christian. It seemed Brigid was using a similar strategy now as she had then. And so Yseult had decided to make the journey and speak with the ban file herself.
Druim Dara was less than half-a-day's ride from Dun Ailinne, depending on the weather and the state of the roads, and those were perfect. Yseult had not only reacquainted herself with Bran and Ossar since returning, Crimthann had also presented her with her mare Duchann Bhan, now a mature six-year-old, not the lively filly she had once been. As with her hounds, her horse seemed to remember her, part of home in this world half hers and half not.
They arrived in Druim Dara before the midday meal, and one of the first people Yseult saw was Patraic. He stood in front of a wooden frame of what she presumed would be the new church, helping build it with his own hands. The fringe of his hair was shot through with more gray than she remembered, and he had abandoned the robes of a holy man for a pair of breeches. The day was warm, and the men sawing the planks and fitting the boards together with dowels were almost all without shirt or tunic, including Patraic himself.
At the sound of their horses, Patraic turned. A surprised smile of recognition lit up his face; he raised his hand in greeting as they passed. Their eyes met, and Yseult caught a feeling of admiration, affection almost, from him. There was a twinkle in his eyes, as if they shared some kind of secret joke.
When they arrived at the gates of Druim Dara, they dismounted. Already, slaves were hurrying forward to take their horses; her mother was no stranger here, and there was no need for them to identify themselves. Before they had even pulled their saddlebags from the rumps of their pack animals, Brigid emerged, smiling, but Yseult could also sense a rueful tentativeness, which didn't surprise her.
"Yseult!" She chuckled. "And Brangwyn! It is good to see you again. Come, we have our finest guest house prepared for you. I'm looking forward to seeing your son, Yseult."
Brigid's own mixed feelings did much to loosen the knot of resentment in Yseult's chest. She of all people should know that there were many choices in life that offered no right decision.
She was glad she had come after all.
A loud cry came from the basket in which Kustennin had been traveling, and Yseult hurried over to get him. When she picked him up, he opened up his eyes and smiled at her. After the indeterminate dark of his first days, the color had turned the same forest green as his father. She turned to find Brigid beside her, peering at her son.
The ban file smiled. "A fine boy. Shall we walk together with him to the sacred fire?"
Yseult nodded. Brigid ruffled Kustennin's short, fine curls, and he let out an infectious baby giggle, making them both laugh.
Together they made their way to the site of the sacred fire. The flowers of the hawthorn hedge were drying up and falling off, and the berries were still small and green; it was not yet the flaming bush as it was in fall or winter, when the berries and then the leaves themselves took on the color of fire.
A priestess in a light summer robe guarded the fire, feeding it constantly. It was the most sacred duty at Druim Dara, one reserved for the female acolytes and priestesses. Twelve times a day, the tending of the sacred fire was handed off to another priestess. There were men who trained at Druim Dara as well, but tending the fire of Anu, Danu and Brigid was a task reserved for women.
"Will it continue burning?" Yseult asked quietly, keeping a comfortable distance between herself and the dancing flames. It was too warm to bask in the sacred fire, and she sympathized with the young woman who now kept it from going out, as much of an honor as it was.
"Yes, it will, Yseult. For our lifetimes and long thereafter. But only because of the decisions I have made that you disapprove of."
Yseult shifted Kustennin's weight on her hip, and he caught sight of the fire, staring. "What is to become of Anu, Danu and Brigid then?"
Brigid sighed. "You know that I had dreams of the future long before you left."
"Yes, I remember. You and my mother spoke of them often the winter we stayed here, the winter I turned fifteen."
Brigid sat down on a stone bench and patted the spot next to her. Yseult was glad to sit: Kustennin was almost five months old now and growing rapidly. She propped him on her lap so that he would have more freedom to inspect the world around him.
The ban file gazed at the fire, her expression distant. "For many years I couldn't interpret the dreams — or perhaps I was resisting the correct interpretation. But slowly they became more detailed, or I became more open to their message, I cannot say which. What I saw was the fire before us going out if I refused to tolerate this new religion. But if I accept it, the fire of Brigid will be carried into the new age."
Kustennin was cooing, very inappropriately as far as Yseult was concerned. "Ah, Danu."
"You have been considering returning to Eriu."
It wasn't a question, but Yseult answered it anyway. "Yes."
"Your role is in Dumnonia, in the land of the Bretain."
"Have you seen that too?"
Brigid placed her hands flat on the tops of her thighs. "We both have important roles to play, y
ou and I. I sensed it, long ago, when you were little more than a child and I ban file little more than a year."
"It isn't that long ago in terms of years."
"But it feels as if so many more seasons have passed."
Yseult bounced Kustennin on her knee, thinking of all that had changed since that winter, so many dead, the Feadh Ree hiding in the hills of the sidhe, the peace of Eriu a thing of the past, and across the sea, Ambrosius missing in Gaul. She wondered if there had been any news from Ambrosius yet, wondered if the peace with the Saxons still held and if Drystan was still in Dyn Tagell. Perhaps Arthur had even called a council of the regional kings. She wished news did not travel so slowly.
And she realized with a start that she was nearly as concerned with what was happening across the Erainn Sea as she was in the land of her birth.
"How did everything change here so quickly?" Yseult asked. "The religion of the Christ still does not seem that strong. There are only few kings who claim to be Christian, and just as many who will not even allow Patraic or his disciples to enter their territory, such as Coirpre at Tara."
Brigid rose and began to pace in front of her, and Kustennin's gaze wobbled from the fire to the moving figure of the ban file. "Yes, if all I saw were the present, I might think there no need for change. But the future looks very different." She stopped. "Besides, Yseult, it is not the kings who turn to Patraic's religion for comfort. It is the common people."
Yseult was silent, thinking of the conversation she had with Ciaran so many years ago. The common man — the man with no honor price and no future.
She had to admit, she would much rather that man followed Patraic than a warrior turned traitor like Gamal.
"Just so," Brigid said, keeping pace with Yseult's thoughts. "Perhaps it is not such a bad future. And if my visions are true, you and I can carry something of the old ways into the new."
"But how? I am not a priestess as you are."
Brigid shrugged. "It is as your mother's prophecy said: your name will be like a standing stone. That is how you will carry the old ways into the new. More I do not know."
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 35
