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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  While one lone soldier waded out into the river and swam for their ship.

  They pulled him over the side as the desperate fight continued on the shore nearby. The messenger tried to catch his breath. "The right fork of the river. The Tribruit," he said, panting. "The north gate. Of Glevum. The women and children. Will be waiting."

  Drystan nodded curtly and turned to shout out more instructions. He still didn't know how they would manage to complete the rescue, though, with the British troops so massively outnumbered. Three hundred, even three hundred defending their own soil, could only hold out against hordes like this for so long. At least the Saxons were fighting on two fronts now, the west side of the fortress and the incline held by Arthur's cavalry.

  As they neared the banks, the northern gate of the fortress was thrown open, and the women and children of Glevum ran down towards the river, followed by the old and the infirm. At the same time, Drystan saw a movement on the east side of the fortress, and everything around him seemed to stop: Saxons who had been pushing forward, up the incline to battle Arthur's cavalry, turned now and began to make for the north side of the fortress walls.

  They would never get the citizens of Glevum on the ships in time.

  "Britannia patria!" came a roar from hundreds of throats, east of them. Drystan jerked his head around in the direction of a hillock near the river Tribruit. Cavalry reinforcements led by Manawyd poured onto the scene of the battle to block the Saxons. With the speed of their mounts, they reached the corner of the fortress long before the Saxons did, creating a wall of men and horseflesh.

  And now the Saxons were fighting on three fronts.

  Drystan breathed again.

  They came up to the banks, and Drystan jumped out of the galley to help pull it to shore. "Women and children and those unable to fight in the ships!" he yelled over the roar of battle. "Soldiers to me!"

  He turned to Aircol next to him, both of them ankle-deep in river mud. "Get them north to Vertis. They should be safe there." He couldn't help adding under his breath. "At least for now."

  Aircol gripped his shoulder and Drystan looked into the light eyes that reminded him of Yseult. "You will come out of this battle alive, Drystan. I — know it somehow."

  Drystan stared at Aircol as he turned, directing the refugees into the war galleys, there on their little island of peace in the middle of the battle, protected by the river, the men of Glevum, the fortress, and Manawyd's reinforcements.

  Aircol's forefathers had come from the island of magic, and he had the look of the Old Race. If Aircol saw his survival, Drystan was inclined to believe it, as illogical as that seemed.

  When the people of Glevum were safely on the ships and heading north, Drystan gathered the Demetian fighting men around him. The warriors of Glevum were sorely outnumbered and needed any reinforcements they could get, even unmounted. "To the west gate, men!"

  It looked very much like a suicide mission, but he took all the confidence Aircol's words gave him into battle. He needed it. As they came around the side of the fortress, they could see the defenders of Glevum between the west gate and the southwest corner, fighting between the bodies of their comrades. It looked as if a third had already fallen in the short space of time since pouring out of the fortress to provide a distraction so that their women and old and young could escape.

  Drystan and his men joined their ranks, exchanging bow and arrow for sword and shield. It seemed a hopeless situation, but they held their position, the narrow bit of land between Roman wall and river. Some of the fighting was even going on in the water, and he waded forward, Kurvenal at his side, to join the muddy fray. A Saxon charged him with an ear-shattering battle cry, water splashing round his feet, but Drystan parried the blow with his shield and gutted his attacker, all in the same move. The Saxon fell, adding more red to the muddy, bloody mess at their feet.

  Drystan did not know how long he had been fighting until he noticed the sun begin to inch its way towards the horizon. His feet were cold and wet and the stench of blood was thick in his nostrils, but battle madness was upon him; he noticed little beyond the sword in his hand and the enemy out to kill him.

  During a brief respite between attackers, he looked around. Their position had not changed, although their ranks were thinning. And it seemed every Saxon killed was immediately replaced by another. His sword arm ached, his shield arm ached, he had cuts and bruises all over his body; all afternoon he had been killing the enemy almost by rote, with some kind of energy beyond that of a normal man. The men beside fought with the same unnatural energy of battle fever, the fixed, intent expression that went with it on their faces.

  The color of blood was beginning to seep into the sky to match the tones on his hands and everywhere around him, when the ground beneath his feet began to shake. Drystan glanced up the incline past the fortress to see what seemed a huge herd of riderless horses come over the summit, dozens of hunting dogs at their sides.

  It looked like the Wild Hunt.

  At the front of the pack, Drystan thought he recognized Arthur's hound Cafal. And then Cai, Master of Horse, appeared at the top of the incline, tall and blond and broad. Arthur always traveled with extra mounts when his troops had to move fast —and now Cai was sacrificing his beloved horses.

  The herd came thundering down into the scene of the battle. Drystan didn't know if the Saxons had any such myth as the Wild Hunt, but the charging horses sent them running from the dangerous hooves. Many Saxons stood their ground and fought off the beasts with spears and arrows, but most ran for cover.

  Drystan gave the whistle taught to all who trained in Caer Leon, both man and horse. Some of the nearest horses not totally crazed by the mad dash into the midst of the Saxons perked their ears and turned, galloping through the fleeing, scattering Saxons to the corner of the fort Drystan and his compatriots had been holding.

  "Take a mount!" Drystan yelled. "Let us drive the invaders back into the sea!"

  He grabbed the bridle of a roan mare and pulled himself up into the saddle, while Kurvenal took a gray gelding next to him. It felt so much better to be on the back of a horse again, above the melee.

  No longer wading in bloody mud.

  "Britannia patria!" he cried, filled with new energy and new hope. He urged the mare into a knot of Saxons fighting the cavalry on the incline, followed by Kurvenal, Owain, and the others he had been fighting next to on foot only moments before.

  Surrounded by cavalry, the group of Saxons had little chance. But dusk was falling, and soon the figures around him would become shadows — they would barely be able to recognize who they were fighting, foe or friend.

  "To the river!" came a frantic call. "The Saxons are retreating!"

  Drystan whirled the roan around and galloped down the incline. A longboat was being pushed into the river. Leaning in the saddle, he jabbed his sword into a Saxon back. Half the boat was already in the water, and he urged the brave mare forward into the water. The Saxons needed both hands for the job of getting the boat afloat and were easy pickings for an armed warrior on horseback. The men of Glevum beside him made short work of the enemy.

  "That is one longship that will not return to Ceint," Drystan said with satisfaction.

  Kurvenal nodded. "But there are too many that will."

  Their mounts up to their fetlocks in river muck, Drystan and his men watched helplessly in the growing dusk as a dozen longboats headed south and west on the Sabrina River.

  With the enemy in flight and the battle fever leaving him, Drystan slowly became more aware of how his whole body hurt; a deep cut he had taken on his left forearm throbbed dully. Joints he never before knew existed ached. The coolness of fall was in the evening air, but not enough to mask the scent of blood and death. He had never been involved in a battle of this magnitude — compared to the slaughter he had experienced today, the battle of Caer Guinnet had been child's play — and he was reluctant to turn from the view of the fleeing enemy to the scene of the battle, to lea
rn which of his friends and compatriots he would never hear laugh again.

  At least Kurvenal was beside him.

  Drystan turned around. Ruan was still among the men at his back, and Owain had survived as well. But Tuthal, Gerenhir, Flavius — he saw none of them. He drew a deep breath. Men who had thundered down the hill with him at the battle of Caer Guinnet, eighty against eight hundred, they had survived those odds, but not these, individual combat in the river muck.

  Beyond the dirty, bloody, tired men who had survived, he saw a sea of bodies. He wondered what other bad news it held.

  * * * *

  "It was a victory, Arthur," Myrddin said. "The enemy retreated."

  "Yes, all the way to Abona, still in the heart of British territory in the west, far from Ceint," Arthur replied, pacing, always his way when thinking or agitated. "And we can do nothing about it because we are so weakened."

  They were in the large audience chamber of Madoc's villa north of Corinium on the road to Glevum. The fall rains had started early, and the courtyard was no longer a pleasant place to gather. The villa was a sprawling complex with more than enough room for all of the injured of the battle of Tribruit to recover, and in gratitude for saving Owain and rescuing Glevum, Madoc had opened it up to Arthur's men.

  Drystan repressed a sigh, knowing full well what was making Arthur more agitated than usual: Bedwyr and Cai had both been sorely wounded in the battle. "The Saxons too are weakened," he said. "While we lost four hundred, they lost two thousand. The rains have started and they will surely not march again before spring."

  Arthur didn't stop pacing. "They have a base now here in the west."

  "But this battle has proven that we British kings must support your army, no matter where our kingdoms lie," Arthur's half-brother Madoc said, and the look he shot at his son Owain as he spoke was full of remorse. "We can surely muster more men before spring than they, especially with the enemy in our midst. Think, Arthur. Saxons in Abona are not good, of course not, but they threaten a number of kings who thought the only danger was from Erainn raiders interested in no more than stealing riches and hostages."

  Owain spoke up. "My father's right, Arthur. The threat from the Saxons ... there's no comparison. They want conquest, not just loot. You can use that. With the news of what happened on the banks of the Sabrina and the Tribruit, supporters will flock to you."

  Arthur paced, silent, his hands clenched behind his back, his head bowed. "And what if Cai and Bedwyr do not recover from their wounds?"

  "Do you doubt my healing skills?" Modrun said lightly. She had come from Caer Gwent to take over the care of the wounded.

  Finally Arthur stopped pacing and turned to Ambrosius's daughter. "Of course not, Modrun. But even you must admit that it does not go well for Cai."

  Drystan had been gazing at a fine mosaic on the floor of the room in order not to become dizzy watching Arthur's rapid movements. The mosaic was a dance representing the seasons, and directly beneath his feet, Winter was dressed warmly and holding a hare in his fist. Now he looked up, into Arthur's eyes. "They will recover. I've taken more serious injury and survived. And they are both more stubborn than I."

  At least that made Arthur smile. "You have the luck of a cat, Drystan. How many lives do you think you have already used up?"

  Drystan shrugged, chuckling. "I've lost count."

  The smile disappeared again. "But if I no longer had them by my side —" He turned away, not finishing the sentence.

  There was a brief silence at Arthur's semi-public display of emotion, more than just a reflection of his dependence on his two most important generals.

  "By Spring, they will be by your side," Myrddin said gently. "They are sore wounded, yes, but I have great confidence in Modrun, don't you?"

  Arthur kept his back turned for a moment. They were all silent, waiting, respectful. It was almost as if the bastard general truly were High King.

  Finally Arthur faced them again, no sign in his expression of what he had just battled with. He nodded, looking from one to the other of them. "Myrddin is right. And none of you has deserted me yet."

  Drystan saw Arthur's older half-brother Madoc look down at the mosaic now, uncomfortable with this praise. It was true he had not deserted Uthyr's bastard, but neither had he come to his aid before his own territory was attacked.

  "To desert you would be to desert Britain," Myrddin said. "You will see, others will rally to the banner of the Bear after this victory."

  Arthur brushed this aside with an impatient gesture. "What victory? Octha and Aesc both escaped, there is a force of Saxons at least a thousand strong at the mouth of the Abona River, and our forces are decimated. I see no victory here."

  Drystan found he could be just as impatient when the only hope for Britain gave in to self-indulgence. They needed Arthur as his normal, confident self. He rose and strode forward to take his relative and leader by the shoulders. "Then open your eyes, Cousin! With less than a thousand men, we put an army at least three times our size to flight. We took back Glevum, saved the women and children. We prevented the Saxons from moving forward on the Sabrina River, into the heart of British territory."

  Arthur shook off Drystan's hands. "And what of Londinium?"

  "Yes, we lost the city, but there was no battle and no victory. The people fled. But this was a victory, a victory I need and you need and the people of Britain need. And in the spring, we will need more victories. Which is why we must use the time while the Saxons are recuperating as best we can, so we can defeat them in the next battle and the next — as long as it takes until they return to their little kingdom of Ceint."

  Behind him, he heard Modrun's light laugh, and a muttered "Bravo," from Owain.

  Arthur stared at him for a moment, and finally he smiled again. "Thank you for the scolding, Cousin. What say you, where should we start in our preparations to drive the Saxons back from where they came?"

  Chapter 25

  Over the wave-patterned sea-floor,

  Over the long sunburnt ridge of the world,

  I bid the winds seek you.

  I bid them cry to you

  Night and morning

  A name you loved once;

  I bid them bring to you

  Dreams, and strange imaginings, and sleep.

  "Greeting," by Ella Young

  Yseult to Drystan.

  We have had word of a great battle, nearly lost, with fully half of Arthur's forces dead.

  Write please, as soon as you are able, and let us know that you and Kurvenal are well. We worry and await word.

  Your Yseult

  Drystan to Yseult, greetings.

  Thank you for your message. Kurvenal and I both survived the battle for Glevum with no more than the usual scars, although a number of our friends and compatriots were not so lucky — too many. I could give you names of those we lost, but they would mean little to you. Both Bedwyr and Cai were sore wounded and will not be able to return to Caer Leon until fully recovered. Those of us who were lucky enough not to have sustained any great injury are busy with training new recruits to replace those we lost. Others travel from one petty king to the next, making Arthur's case for more men and mounts to beat back this new Saxon threat. They will continue as long as the roads are still passable.

  While it is not my place to do so, I would request you go to Lansyen early this year. Yes, Dyn Tagell is nearly impregnable, but with the Saxons just up the coast in Abona, I would rather see you and Kustennin on the other side of the peninsula.

  Your Drystan

  Yseult to Drystan, greetings.

  How glad I am to hear that you were not among the many who fell between the banks of the Tribruit and the Sabrina.

  We will take your advice and leave for Lansyen as soon as the last of Marcus's merchant ships has returned from Gaul. It will not be much earlier than usual, however; last year we were in Lansyen before Samhain, and now your Roman October is already upon us.

  I will keep Ginevra and
her retinue with us for the winter. She will be safer with us, and she is a pleasant companion. Kustennin is very fond of her — she is much like a child herself at times, and he will play hide and seek with her for hours.

  Have you sent word to your father?

  Your Yseult

  Drystan to Yseult, greetings.

  I sent word to my father with the same messenger who took the letter to you and my brother at Dyn Tagell. I have not yet heard back from him.

  I have good news: we are seeing new recruits almost daily all along the Sabrina, from river to estuary. I can only hope that our forces fighting on the border to Ceint are receiving the same kind of support in the wake of the new threat.

  I wish I could write more, but as you know, there are too many constraints on my time, etc.

  I am sending this missive to Lansyen. When next you write, please send news of how Kustennin fares.

  Your Drystan

  Yseult to Drystan, greetings.

  Gladly will I write to you of Kustennin. Being his mother, I am of course convinced no little boy ever lived who is quite as clever and precocious as he.

  His energy is amazing, and he will always run before he will walk, with a smile for everyone he meets. With his blond curls and infectious laughter, he charms all who have the good fortune to be run over by him in his constant exploration of his world. His vocabulary in the Latin, British and Erainn tongues comprises dozens of words each, although there are surely several dozen more which we do not yet understand, not knowing which tongue he is trying to communicate with at any given time.

  Forgive the belatedness of this reply — the removal to Lansyen took longer than expected, and we did not arrive until after Samhain. But I hear the celebration of "All Hallows Eve" was enjoyed by all.

  Your Yseult

  * * * *

  Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.

  Could you not have written sooner? When we received news of the battle on the banks of the Tribruit, we were in an agony of worry. Nothing but rumors, and those bleak. Thousands dead (true, I hear), the Saxons advancing, the Saxons retreating (also both true, it turns out), and no news as to survivors. Can you understand why I have sworn to never again love a warrior?