"And you will save the eternal fire," Yseult said.
The ban file nodded. "Patraic understands the power of symbols and magic and knows how to use the old ways to his own advantage. In exchange for some of the influence he will soon have on the minds and hearts of the people of Eriu, I can persuade him to let me continue to lead here at the ridge of the sacred oak and tend the sacred fire."
Yseult did not feel as hopeful at this vision of the future as Brigid seemed to be. "But how will you be able to ensure that the fire will still burn after your lifetime?"
The ban file sat next to her again, giving her a secret smile. "Even now, only women may tend the fire," she said. "When it is time to make the change, Druim Dara will become a place only for women — no male acolytes at all. Patraic will be happy to agree to it, since he believes that we here in Eriu are much too free with our sexual favors."
Finally Yseult understood what Brigid intended, and an answering grin tugged up her own lips. "And no man of the Christian church will be able to meddle in the traditions and religious practices of Druim Dara."
"In this way, I can take the memory of the goddesses of our tribe into the new age. I will conform to the Christian religion and change it at the same time."
Yseult sighed and buried her face in her son's short curls. If Brigid was right, then there really was nothing for her here in her old home. But what kind of a life would she lead in Dumnonia, married to a man she couldn't even respect?
"You must find a way," Brigid said.
Yseult straightened again and turned to the other woman, giving a short nod. "I will take my hounds and my horse, and then I will still have something of Eriu."
Brigid took her elbow and pulled her up from the stone bench, which now felt cold. The ban file took her shoulders in her competent hands and looked her straight in the eye, her expression serious. "Yseult, you will always have something of Eriu."
Chapter 23
O, it's dark the land is, and it's dark my heart is,
But the red sun rises when the hour is come.
O, the red sun rises, and the dead rise; I can see them,
And my own boy and Conn, who won the battles,
And the lads who lost.
They have bright swords with them that clash the battle welcome.
A welcome to the red sun that rises with our luck.
Ella Young, "The Red Sunrise (Moraig's Song)"
Brangwyn was surprised at how glad she felt when the rocky promontory of Dyn Tagell appeared on the horizon. The August sun was warm on her shoulders, and the wind had the humid scent of summer in it. She was leaving home, but she was returning to a life where she had found a place for herself. She sensed that her cousin had the same conflicting emotions. Britain still did not feel like home, but neither did Dun Ailinne, without her father, without Aidenn, without so many who had died in the battles the tribes of Eriu insisted on inflicting on each other.
But then, where was there peace? There had been peace in Britain for almost a year ago now, but Brangwyn had no illusions that it would last. Especially not with High King Ambrosius missing in Gaul.
The sky was hazy with a summer storm that had not yet arrived, and the gulls were calling loudly to each other. Luckily, the sea was still calm, waiting, but behind them to the northwest the sky was dark. Brangwyn smiled to herself; perhaps that was another reason she was glad to see Dyn Tagell. This rocky coast was not friendly to those trying to seek port in a storm.
When they let down the sails and dropped anchor, they were all relieved that the storm was still behind them. The swallows wheeled and dove frantically, as if they wanted to chase the gulls in to land. The wind was picking up, and the men on the beach stood with legs wide to brace themselves from its force.
Brangwyn felt a shock of unexpected joy. Next to Drystan stood Kurvenal, brown hair whipping about his face.
She turned away from the railing, toward the wall of dark sky to the northwest. She did not want that shock of joy, not for a warrior, not for someone who would leave her to be killed in the name of defining the borders of some tribal territory, leave her to be carried off as a prize of war. She closed her mind to the memories that threatened to engulf her.
But a man could also give her a child, a baby to watch grow and to care for like Kustennin.
The landing boat was lowered to the water with a splash and the ladder let out over the side of the ship.
Yseult climbed down quickly after handing down Kustennin's basket, and Brangwyn shielded her mind from her cousin's thoughts. Yseult would not care what the risk was, she cared only for the joy of seeing Drystan again.
Of course, Yseult claimed she did not want to continue her affair with Drystan, now that she had made the decision to remain with his father rather than return to Eriu. But Brangwyn was almost certain she would not be able to follow through on that promise. At some point, temptation would become too strong, and she and Drystan would end up in each other's arms and beds.
It was as inevitable as war.
* * * *
It was as Brangwyn had feared, at least in part. Yseult did not seek out Drystan's bed again, for the time being at least, although Marcus was far away in Isca. Drystan prowled the promontory, his hands locked behind his back and his expression grim. Brangwyn drew her own conclusions.
But as far as war was concerned, it came much sooner than even she had expected.
There had been no further word of Ambrosius, and an unconfirmed rumor had reached the shores of the island of Alba that he and his surviving forces had been overtaken by Euric and slaughtered somewhere between the territory of the Bituriges and Avallon.
It seemed the enemies of Britain had heard the rumors as well — soon after Yseult and Brangwyn arrived in Dyn Tagell, word came that the Saxons in Ceint were marching west.
And of course Drystan and Kurvenal were needed wherever the fighting would be.
One afternoon shortly before they were to leave to join Arthur's troops, Kurvenal caught up with her as she was heading for the storehouses near the cellar on the northeastern side of the island. The days were growing shorter, but the heat had not yet let up. The smell of the sea mixed with the smell of the dust from the paths.
"Brangwyn!"
She turned at the sound of Kurvenal's voice and waited until he reached her, repressing the jolt of pleasure and schooling her expression not to give in to the infatuated smile she could feel pulling at the corners of her mouth. It had been too long since she'd had a man in her bed, that was all. "Good day, Kurvenal."
"Good day, Brangwyn. I wanted to speak to you before we leave. If the weather allows, we should be sailing out in two days."
"Yes, I heard."
He pulled her hand through his arm and began to walk with her towards the cliffs. At the feel of his bare skin beneath her fingertips, warmth spread through her whole body.
They stopped at the edge and gazed out over the ocean. Beneath them, waves crashed against the rocks, and around them the gulls cried. The sun was ahead and to Brangwyn's left, about halfway towards the horizon. She concentrated on the details to avoid thinking about the heat of him beneath her hand.
"Will you write me?" Kurvenal asked finally. "We can write to each other openly now. This time we have no need to limit ourselves to post scripts."
"I would not be so sure."
Yseult may not have taken up the old sexual relationship with Drystan again, but Brangwyn knew how hard it was for her. Her need for him, and his for her, made it just as inevitable as this war that they would lie with each other again. Their fixation on each other left them no choice.
Brangwyn did not want that kind of need.
She gazed out at the blue-gray ocean, the sun glancing on the swells of water as they grew to waves. Perhaps they should have stayed in Eriu after all, far away from the men who haunted them.
"Brangwyn."
She twisted around and looked into his eyes. His arm moved, away from her hand, and she barel
y had time to feel an unwilling sense of loss when he took hold of her elbow, drawing her closer. They were standing a step away from an embrace, and the weak part of her, the part that didn't care about the cost, wanted nothing so much as to sway towards him the remaining distance. The weather was hot for the northern coast of Dumnonia, even for high summer, but it was not the sun on her shoulders which made her suddenly hot now.
"I know you worry about them too," he said when she didn't speak. "Love does not have to be like that."
She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, to dampen the surge of desire that swept through her when he mentioned the word "love." She knew the cost, knew it too well. "You are right on both counts. But I have known a calmer love myself. Have you forgotten that I'm a widow?"
Kurvenal's lips tightened. "Of course not."
"The last time I saw my husband, his head was dangling from the side of a war chariot."
Kurvenal drew in a ragged breath and leaned his forehead against hers. His hand went from her elbow to the side of her neck, followed by the other, and he caressed the line of her jaw with his thumbs. "Brangwyn."
The sympathetic tenderness nearly undid her. With an effort, she shook her head. "You must understand, I cannot love another warrior."
Kurvenal pulled back and traced her lips with a forefinger. "But you can still write, can you not? Tell me what you do, how you do? So I do not miss seeing you so much?"
Brangwyn dropped her head against his shoulder, and his arms went around her. She could feel his startled joy. And he could feel her tears.
"Yes, I will write," she said into the damp linen of his tunic.
* * * *
The years that followed were bitter and hard. Women waiting for men, waiting for news — or waiting for the bodies that returned home to them instead of the men who had left. The push forward by the Saxons this time was much harder for Arthur to fight back than before the victory of Venta; the warriors who had gone missing with Ambrosius had decimated the defenses of Britain, and Arthur's mobile forces became more important than they had been when there had been a large standing army. Arthur trained an increasing number of warriors to fight on horseback, but the expense of keeping the battle horses needed had many of the regional kings grumbling.
What counted even more against Arthur was that despite all the best efforts by him and his men to keep the Saxons from advancing too far into British territory, Londinium was lost before the weather turned, and October saw refugees fleeing to Verulamium and Calleva and beyond.
For Yseult, there were a few comforts: Marcus was often away, and she had Kustennin to amuse her and infuriate her and to watch grow — and to keep her busy. In the summer, she managed Dyn Tagell, learning something of bookkeeping in the Roman manner to keep track of the tin exports on the one hand and the wine and glassware and olive oil which arrived in exchange on the other. When the weather changed, they moved away from the coast to Lansyen, and there she had the needs of tenant farmers to look to and the normal illnesses of fall and winter to cure, alongside more serious complaints.
And, of course, there were the letters from the father of her child.
* * * *
Drystan to Yseult, greetings.
I hope I may take the liberty of writing to you to enquire after the health of my brother and yourself. As you well know, my father rarely writes.
We have joined Arthur's mobile warband, now over four hundred strong, and are making rapid progress moving east to face the Saxon advance. We have been involved in some small skirmishes with Saxon troops, but no large-scaled battles. Cai stayed behind in Caer Leon to train more troops for mounted engagement as quickly as possible: it is there he has his stables. He will be sorely missed among Arthur's generals, but Arthur has decided the need for more cavalry is greater. He has also requisitioned additional mounts from the regional kings threatened by the Saxons. Please ask my father to send as many mounts as he can spare to Caer Leon as well. I'm sure he will groan at the burden, as do many others. Do those who complain think they could turn back the Saxons better by themselves? I do not understand it.
I hope this letter finds you well and things running smoothly at Dyn Tagell. When will you be removing to Lansyen for the winter? Is my father still looking to the repair of the villa in Isca Dumnoniorum?
Your Drystan
Yseult to Drystan, greetings.
Yes, your father remains in Isca and has left me to look after business here in Dyn Tagell. I am becoming quite an expert in the value of tin and dealing with foreign traders. Your father expects most of the profits for his renovations (he apparently does not feel threatened), but I can divert some of the funds to provide the mounts requested and will send them to Caer Leon as soon as it can be organized.
What is the latest on the Saxon advance? It takes so long for news to reach us here in Dyn Tagell, and we worry.
We will remove to Lansyen before Samhain. Yes, I know that is not celebrated here, not officially, but the people still believe in the day when the door between the worlds is open, and we will have a bonfire, I think.
Kustennin is well, as am I. He now pulls himself up on the furniture. I suspect he will take his first steps before Christmas.
I am glad there has not yet been any serious fighting. Stay safe for our sakes.
Your Yseult
Drystan to Yseult, greetings.
Arthur sends his thanks for the mounts Cai received in Caer Leon.
Please forgive the lateness of this reply. We have been harrying the camps of the enemy, striking and retreating in different places along the western and northern border of Ceint to try to keep them from advancing any farther. Without Cai's new cavalry, our goal can be no more than containment until winter comes. I'm sure even in Dumnonia you have heard that Londinium has fallen. There is so little we can do with so few men.
I wish I could be there to see Kustennin's first steps. You must keep me informed as to how he does, how he grows. Cador asks after him often and sends his greetings.
I will send this missive to Lansyen, since I assume by now your household will have moved. There will be no winter break for us this year. The men Arthur could spare for the harvest have returned, and those of us who have more experience in Arthur's forces must spend the winter months training as many recruits as we can. We will likely divide the troops between Verulamium and Calleva so that we can continue with smaller strikes against the Saxons when the weather permits.
I hope the journey to Lansyen was uneventful and this finds you all well.
Your Drystan
Yseult to Drystan, greetings.
I hope this letter finds its way to you, as in your last you did not tell me where you would be spending the winter.
I must admit, I do not like the thought of you wintering so close to the enemy. What is to keep the Saxons from carrying out smaller sorties just as Arthur does?
We will miss seeing you this winter. Your father has requested we join him in Isca in the new year to show us how work on his villa progresses. I will be curious to see this Isca of which your father is so fond, but I think after Verulamium nothing can impress me the same way.
Kustennin has taken his first steps alone, but he does not yet have the balance for it and ends up mostly on his bottom. He is a stubborn one, though, and a few bruises do not scare him.
Let us know where you are and how you are doing, and please convey our greetings to Cador as well.
Your Yseult
* * * *
Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.
While I do not want you to worry, at the same time I must admit I am gratified that you might be concerned for me. Is that too selfish? Perhaps. But love always contains a selfish element, don't you think?
To set you mind at ease, the season is too late now to fear much in the way of Saxon attacks. We have settled at Verulamium for the winter and will most likely be celebrating the Christmas holidays in the barracks and the town houses occupied by the officers. Drystan and
I are lodged in a town house not far from the one Marcus took before Ambrosius left for Gaul. Thus, you can imagine where I am while I imagine you in the midst of the ever-present fog of Lansyen, the mists rising from the river below and the light rain coming from the heavens above.
It is different here than when you visited last, however; the refugees from Londinium crowd into the empty spaces, putting walls of wood up under awnings that were once passageways for pedestrians, raiding the ruins of the theater and the temple for building materials. Arthur allows all of this, for a price —any able-bodied man who wants to find protection behind the thick Roman walls must also train as a soldier, militia for the defense of the town, and any family with more than one mount must give at least one up to the mobile fighting units. They do it willingly. Those once driven out by the Saxons do not see it as too high a price to pay.
I hope this finds you, Yseult, and Kustennin well. We think of you more often than you can know.
Your Kurvenal
Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.
It is strangely comforting to imagine you in Verulamium, a place I know, if not well. What is it like in winter? Does the heating in the Roman town houses still work?
We could do with some Roman heating here in our drafty hill-fort. I swear, our location attracts any winds which whip across the Dumnonian peninsula. It is no wonder Marcus prefers Isca, although I hear he cannot find workers trained to repair the hypocaust in his villa. At least it is not perched upon a hill to catch every wind which passes by. Yseult is having a new hall built in the lee of the western wall. She worries about Kustennin's health, but I do not know why — he is surely the most robust little boy ever born.
For the Christian holiday of Christmas, we gave the midwinter gifts and passed the light from house to house in the village. It is still surprising to me how many of the celebrations are so like those in Eriu — here, in this Romanized country which has thrown over belief in the old gods. In a strange way they are still alive.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 36
