Slowly Drystan pushed her head up from where it lay on his shoulder, his thumbs caressing the line of her jaw. In the deep shadows of the cave, she couldn't quite make out the color of his eyes, that green she had once wanted to drown in, a wish long since fulfilled.
She ran her hands down his chest. "I am so glad you survived these wars. I was afraid I would never see you again."
He nodded. "I was afraid of that too." Suddenly he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that she could barely breathe. "Yseult, come away with me."
She shook her head, and he lifted one hand and stopped the movement. They turned their faces to each other, and with no further words, they kissed. His lips were warm, moist, gentle. It had been over two years, but the way his mouth fit hers felt so right, so perfect, she was crying before she even knew she had begun.
He stepped away and unfastened the cloak at his throat, spreading it out on the sandy floor of the cave. Then he wiped away her tears with the back of his hand and drew Yseult down to the makeshift bed. She lay beside him, draping her own cloak over them to keep away the chill of the cave. He propped himself on one elbow above her and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face before he kissed her again, more urgently this time. She could feel him hard against her hip, and she shifted slightly, wanting him closer. With one hand, he bunched up the fabric covering her legs and drew it to her waist. The breath caught in her throat. He pushed her away just enough so that he could slip his hand between them and between her legs, and she heard herself whimper, a small pleading noise. At the sound, his own breathing grew heavier, and he dropped his head to rest his forehead against her own. Her hand went to the back of his neck to draw him down for another kiss, while the other went to his crotch to loosen the tie of his breeches. He gasped, and she felt herself melting all over the talented fingers at work between her legs.
"Please," she whispered against his lips.
Instead of doing as she begged, he rose on his knees, pulling her tunic up over her head. His own tunic and breeches followed, and she stared greedily at the fine hard lines of his body, glad she couldn't see the new scars in the dim light.
Drystan settled in between her legs, pushing warm and hard at her crotch. She moved against him, shifting to give him a better angle, and with one thrust, he buried himself in her as far as he could go.
They both gasped this time.
He remained there as she held him tightly, as close together as they could be, still except for the gentle pulsing of his cock. With each throb, her body responded, wanting to pull him in even farther, but she didn't move, drawing out the moment.
Finally, the tension was too much. Drystan pulled back and gave her a long kiss, his tongue touching and then darting away. With part of her brain, she could feel the dank cold of the cave on the skin of her legs splayed on either side of him; the cloak had slipped away. But that didn't matter as much as what he had taken away from her, even though it was only for a moment. He eased back into her slowly, so slowly, it was agonizingly perfect. She wanted it to go on forever, but she wanted the brink he was teasing her to as well. Beneath his lips, she moaned.
It was as if she had thrown a rock down a hill and started an avalanche. He gave a sharp intake of breath, and his kisses went from gentle to fierce.
"Yseult."
"Yes."
His thrusts became hard and full of need. She clutched him at the back of the neck beneath his braid with one hand and grabbed a bunch of material from his cloak with the other, panting. When she reached the brink, she heard him cry out. She came with a guttural growl of pleasure, falling and falling and falling, and took hold of his face in both hands, kissing him with a pain that wiped out the world.
Slowly they returned to reality. This time, she was aware of the dank cave with more than just part of her brain, and she sat up to draw the cloak over them again.
Drystan gathered her in his arms and they lay there, saying nothing.
Finally, Yseult had to admit to herself that more than enough time had passed, and she rose to gather up her clothes. Drystan remained on the cloak on the sand, watching her, his hands behind his head, his expression hidden in shadow.
"Yseult."
She shook her head. "No, Drystan, do not say it, please."
And he didn't.
She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. "I must return to Dyn Tagell."
He nodded, and she hurried out of the cave, her heart breaking.
As she crossed the neck, she tried to repress the thoughts of what her life had become, the hiding and sneaking, the denial of a love that deserved more, the lies, the endless lies. She returned to the small stone house between the herb garden and the turf-walled huts, grateful for the space here that was her own. Brangwyn was no longer there.
She sat down on a bench and leaned her head against the stone wall. Was this really for the best? She needed time to think.
Unfortunately, circumstances did not allow her any such reprieve; shortly after the mid-day meal, another large party was sighted to the northeast on the Tamara road.
Her husband had arrived.
* * * *
A bare two weeks after Arthur arrived in Dyn Tagell, his betrothal to Ginevra was announced, and he removed with his party to Celliwig on the Cammlann River. Although few people would be able to make a winter journey to join the festivities, a Christmas wedding was decided on.
Much to Yseult's dismay, Marcus intended to remain with them for the winter; not only did he regard it as important to attend the wedding of the Dux Bellorum, his mistress Trephina was highly pregnant.
He had no qualms about telling Yseult of it either. "The church officials in Isca have been making my life hell over her, I tell you, especially now that her condition is so obvious," Marcus told her one morning as he tore off a piece of bread. They were breaking their fast in the lower hall, alone with Kustennin.
"It doesn't usually bother you overmuch what others say," Yseult said, cutting a slice of cheese for her son. "Why now?"
Marcus gave her a knowing grin. "I have no taste for bloated women."
Yseult shook her head. "We have our agreement. I will only stand by it if you will."
Marcus shrugged. "Never fear, I will return to Isca in the spring. I have no need for a shrew when there are much more pleasant women to be had."
Luckily, Drystan and Kurvenal joined them at that point, and the discussion ended. Yseult thought Kustennin had not been paying attention, but later that morning, he asked her what a "shrew" was.
It would be a long winter.
* * * *
Shortly after they removed to Lansyen, the news arrived that Trephina had died in childbed.
Yseult heard out the messenger in the great hall of the hill-fort. Marcus was off hunting with the other men of the household; it was one of the duties of a ruler that he performed gladly, bringing in deer and elk and wild boar before the first snow, an essential part of the stores needed for winter.
"What of the child?" she asked the young man.
"Without a father there to claim him, he has been given over to the custody of the church."
Yseult went over to the writing desk and penned a few words on a piece of expensive parchment, a far cry from the thin slices of folded wood she had received from Drystan the last two years. She sealed it with Marcus's seal and handed the parchment to the messenger. "I want you to bring the baby here, and if a nurse has been found for him, see if you can hire her to come along as well."
She could feel the messenger's surprise, followed by reluctant admiration. "Very good, Lady."
The child joined their household two weeks after Samhain. Marcus was surprised when she told him of the arrangements she had made, but he hardly reacted to the news of his mistress's death, beyond saying that Trephina was a good woman and he would miss her.
To Yseult's relief, the nurse came to Lansyen with the baby. "We call him Judual," she said, handing the child to Yseult when Marcus
showed little interest in inspecting his latest offspring.
The baby looked thin and sallow, and Yseult wondered if he would make it through the winter. She turned to her husband. "Shall we keep the name?"
Marcus shrugged. "Certainly."
And so Judual became a part of the family.
Brangwyn quickly laid claim to the sickly boy, seeming to see it as her personal duty to ensure that he survived until spring. She appeared sincerely attached to the little half-orphan, and Yseult was glad. After the overwhelming victory of Baddon, Yseult had hoped Brangwyn would allow herself to give in to the feelings she knew her cousin felt for Kurvenal, but other than hurrying to greet him when Arthur's party had arrived at Dyn Tagell, Brangwyn had remained distant, not trusting herself or the peace.
And it was not only from the unfortunate Kurvenal that she had closed herself off — she now closed her thoughts to Yseult as well.
Perhaps it was just as well. Yseult and Drystan did not often have a chance to meet, but meet they did, and she was well aware of Brangwyn's disapproval. Perhaps it was better that her cousin had put up a wall between them.
In the last week in November, they began to make plans for the trip to Celliwig and the wedding of Arthur and Ginevra. Yseult was in the smokehouse where she was inspecting the stores of cured and dried meats for the winter, deciding what to take on the trip, when Brangwyn sought her out. At the sound of the door opening, Yseult turned. Brangwyn entered, a small basket on her arm. "Good day, Cousin. I came to tell you I have decided not to accompany you to Celliwig."
Yseult felt a sharp disappointment, immediately followed by remorse; it was not Brangwyn's presence she would miss, it was her assistance in sneaking behind her husband's back to continue her affair with Drystan. As infrequently as they met, they would not have been able to meet at all without Brangwyn's help.
She turned to the master of the smokehouse. "I will speak with you again when I know precisely how many will be making the journey."
He gave a slight bow. "As you wish, Lady."
Yseult took her cousin's arm and pushed open the door, leaving the salty, smokey smells behind. "It is Judual, I take it?"
Brangwyn nodded. "He can't travel, and I want to be able to help if he falls ill."
As so often recently, Brangwyn's mind was a blank to her. "I will make your excuses to Ginevra — I'm sure she will understand."
"Thank you. I need to go down to the river to see if I can find any fresh all-heal roots."
"Have we nothing left dried?" Yseult asked.
"Some," Brangwyn said. "But our stores are growing low. Perhaps if I mix it with horehound I can do something about Judual's croup. If only he slept better, he might grow stronger." She gently extricated herself from Yseult's grasp and turned down the path to the river. "I'll see you later this afternoon."
Yseult watched her figure recede for a moment before she continued on to the gates of the hill-fort, her cloak wrapped tightly around her against the cold. Was it only her concern for Judual that had moved Brangwyn to stay behind? Perhaps she wanted a reprieve from the lies and subterfuge, from helping her and Drystan carry on their affair. It was unlikely they could have done so at Celliwig with all the wedding guests present, but just suspecting Brangwyn would stay away in order to not have to face that decision made her chest tight with pain.
Brangwyn was leaving her; the friend and cousin she had spent most of her life with, had shared her most important experiences with, had closed off her mind to her.
They saw each other as much as ever. And Yseult missed her more with each passing day.
* * * *
Not far from the banks of the Voliba River near the edge of the woods, Brangwyn found a patch of the spindly, fern-like plants which had not yet died in the cold. With a small trowel she had brought along, she dug up several roots, shook them off, and laid them in her basket, glad of the dirt beneath her fingernails, glad to be among plants again, demanding so little.
She should probably tell Yseult how she felt, but what good would it do? She still would not be able to stay away from Drystan.
Love was a sickness.
She leaned back on her heels and rested her forearms on her knees, her hands dangling in front of her. Had her love for Aidenn been a sickness? After he had died, yes, it had seemed so. Her rape at Lugaid's hands had mattered so little because nothing could hurt her as much as having the husband she loved torn from her life. She could have used her power of changing earlier and Lugaid probably wouldn't have touched her — but she'd wanted that little piece of revenge, had reveled in the fear on his face when he ran out of the roundhouse. She hoped he had been impotent for a long time after that, hoped it passionately still, hating Lugaid the way Yseult loved Drystan.
It seemed love was a sickness when it was denied.
She sighed and wiped the trowel on a patch of grass before putting it into the basket with the roots. There was love and there was love. Judual was just learning how to smile, in between the coughing and the crying, and when he smiled at her, Brangwyn loved him so much it brought tears to her eyes.
She rose and turned back towards the path to the hill-fort. And what of Kurvenal? Brangwyn did not doubt that he loved her; he had given her ample evidence, and the glimpses she had caught of his thoughts only served to reinforce what his words and actions said.
And she had been denying him for years now.
The winter mist of Dumnonia clung to her skirts as she climbed the pathway from the river. Why had Kurvenal's love for her not become a sickness? Yes, they had been apart for the past two years while Arthur drove back the Saxons. But before, and now, he showed a patience and devotion she knew she didn't deserve. She had given him so little cause for hope, but that didn't stop him from hoping anyway. Now that they were together again, he had made it clear his feelings hadn't changed, and when she once again denied him, rather than protesting, he withdrew and simply watched over her the way he watched over Drystan.
She did not have the power of calling, but when she was almost within sight of Lansyen, he appeared in front of her as if she did.
"Good day, Kurvenal."
"Good day, Brangwyn. Yseult told me you had come this way. Here, let me take that." He took the basket from her and drew her hand through his arm.
Brangwyn shook her head, smiling. "The basket is no burden."
He looked into the shadows of the wicker. "For little Judual?"
"Yes."
"With you caring for him, he is sure to recover."
Brangwyn stopped in her tracks, pulling him up short. Kurvenal looked down at her with a question in his eyes.
"Your confidence in me is gratifying, but perhaps not entirely realistic," she said.
He chuckled. "I think it is."
"Is that why you sought me out, to make me extravagant compliments?" As soon as she said it, she realized how flirtatious it sounded.
Kurvenal obviously did too. He cocked his head to one side, his eyebrow raised. "I would happily do so, but you have reminded me more than once that it is not allowed."
Brangwyn felt herself blushing, and a wide grin spread across Kurvenal's face. He set the basket on the ground and took her shoulders in his capable hands. For some reason, Brangwyn didn't stop him.
He tilted her chin up with one hand and examined her face, still smiling. "Almost I would say you are even more beautiful when you blush," he said softly. "There, was that extravagant enough for you?"
Brangwyn burst out laughing, relieved that he had not taken advantage of the moment.
He brushed her flushed cheek lightly with the back of his hand and stepped back again. "I sought you out because I heard you would not be accompanying us to Arthur's wedding. I would stay with you if I could, but Arthur was very good to me after I was injured at Caer Baddon. I owe it to him to attend."
She nodded. "It is better so. There should be one of us to watch out for Drystan and Yseult."
To her surprise, anger flared up in his m
ind, and he turned away. "Must you always put them first?"
She touched his shoulder. "You do it too. You put Drystan first."
He whirled around, and the depth of the feelings she felt from him made her gasp.
"No," he said, and now his eyes did have the sickness in them she had thought he was immune to. "No, I do not put Drystan first."
Brangwyn lowered her head, withdrawing her mind from his, trying to leave him his privacy. "I'm sorry."
"Ah, Brangwyn, there is no need to be sorry." He gave an incongruous chuckle, and she looked up. He was smiling at her again, even if it was a trifle lop-sided. "I'm well aware that I'm responsible for my own madness. But I would have given up long ago if I weren't so sure that I've felt something from you."
She stared at him, the mist of the valley flitting between them. There she had her answer: as if he had known her thoughts as she came up the pathway from the river. Perhaps he did; he could have caught something from her, but since he didn't believe in what he would call "magic," he would think it was his own thoughts plaguing him, not hers.
He took her hand, his expression serious now. "I'm not wrong, am I?"
A ragged sigh escaped her. Could love be anything other than a sickness? Could she find love that wouldn't tear her apart with this man? His brown hair curled around the neck of his cape in the moist air and there was a scar along his jaw that had not been there when he had left to fight Octha and Aesc over two years ago now.
"You are still a warrior," she said.
He grinned and took her face in his hands. "This peace will last, Brangwyn, you will see. It wasn't bought with a marriage, it was won with a victory. The Saxons have crawled back to Ceint, weak and wounded."
"The Saxons are not the only enemy in the world."
"But we still will not have to fight as much. And then you will love me." His lips came down gently on hers, warm and moist. A shock of physical joy went through her before she tore herself away and grabbed the basket from the ground.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 43
