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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  * * * *

  Kurvenal stood there for a long time after she was gone, breathing deeply. Perhaps he had made a mistake.

  But ah, it had been such a exquisite mistake.

  Chapter 28

  The stag bells,

  winter snows, summer has gone.

  Wind high and cold,

  the sun low,

  short its course, the sea running high.

  Cold has seized the blackbirds' wings.

  Season of ice.

  Anonymous, Ireland, Ninth Century

  The others did not return from Celliwig until after the New Year. A heavy snow fell on the third day of Christmas, and although the journey on horseback was half a day in good conditions, with snow coming well past a mount's fetlocks and in places as high as a horse's knees, it would be dangerous, uncomfortable riding.

  So Brangwyn was not surprised when Marcus's party did not return to Lansyen as planned. She was actually quite happy that the quiet continued longer than expected. Judual's wet-nurse Sevi was a jolly, uncomplicated woman who loved to hear tales from Eriu in the evenings next to the fire, as did little Kustennin. They formed a small, peaceful household, largely content except for the times when Kustennin cried for his mother. But he was a lively, curious boy, and Brangwyn learned to distract him with things that sparked his curiosity, such as taking a walk outside the ramparts of the hill-fort, looking for evidence of the animals hidden away from the cold, or inspecting how the water on the banks of the river had turned to ice.

  During the day, Brangwyn distributed syrup of heartsease to the local inhabitants afflicted with ague, and woodruff cordial for the excesses of the holidays; she treated sprained ankles caused by slippery paths of packed snow turned to ice and a broken toe from dropped firewood. Judual, her most important patient, took well to the treatment will all-heal and horehound and began to sleep better.

  By the time the snows melted and the travelers returned from Celliwig, Judual's barking cough was gone, and he was gaining weight.

  When the guard announced the approaching party, Brangwyn went to the gates of the hill-fort with Kustennin to meet them. While she was watching them ride up the hill, snow began to drift down again, dusting the hoods of their cloaks, and rapidly turning the brown patches in the landscape back to white.

  As soon as they were within the ramparts, Yseult dismounted and caught her son in her arms. Brangwyn watched as she whirled him in the air while Kustennin squealed and laughed, no longer quite as envious as she had once been. Someday Judual would surely launch himself at her the way Kustennin launched himself at Yseult. She smiled.

  Kurvenal appeared next to her. "I wish I could believe that smile were for me," he murmured, shaking his head, a hint of a grin on his face.

  Brangwyn pursed her lips, repressing a chuckle. "I smile for you quite enough, I think."

  "No, never enough," Kurvenal protested. "And how is the little one doing?"

  "Much better. He rarely coughs now, and he's gaining weight."

  "I told you he would get well in your care."

  Kurvenal seemed to know too well what would make her weak, asking after Judual, complimenting her talents as a healer. The snowfall grew heavier around them, and Brangwyn watched the party dismount. Marcus joined Yseult, gazing on Kustennin with possessive satisfaction. After giving the boy a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, he slapped his riding gloves on his thigh and retired to the great hall where he had his rooms — without Yseult.

  Watching Marcus walk away, her gaze caught on Drystan, still mounted, staring much to greedily at his mother-in-law. She wished she could shout at him to mind the way his eyes strayed; perhaps he heard the shout she didn't voice, because he looked down and finally dismounted.

  "They behaved themselves," Kurvenal whispered so that only she could hear.

  Brangwyn was silent for a moment, fighting back the anger she felt so often these days. "But they won't for long."

  * * * *

  Andred awoke suddenly from strange and fevered dreams, and looked around the house he shared with several other single men of Marcus's household. Something was wrong. Gentle snoring filled the hall, but the door to the room the prince shared with his armsman was slightly ajar. Andred pushed aside the wool blankets and slipped into warm breeches and a cloak. It was bitter cold outside. Snow had continued to fall since they returned to Lansyen, and the full moon shone down on the shimmering white landscape. From where Andred stood at the door, footprints led away in the direction of the single women's quarters.

  Now this was something new! He would have a good time teasing Kurvenal and the prince with his knowledge. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and followed the footprints to the small house set apart from the others where the Erainn princess Brangwyn lived. Andred smirked. The only question now was whether it was Kurvenal or Drystan visiting her. If it was the prince, Andred was sure Kurvenal would not take it well — he had been pursuing the dark-haired beauty for years now. But a prince could have anything, bitter but true.

  As he drew near, it was obvious that he'd been right about Brangwyn's nocturnal activities — the sounds coming from the small house were unmistakable. At the thought of what was going on just a few feet away from him, Andred's cock sprang to life, and his hand went to his crotch. Lewd thoughts got the better of him, and he crept to the door, pushing it open a crack. Cold as it was, he put his face to the slit to watch a bit. A very pleasing vision of moving, thrusting bare skin met his eye, a sight accompanied by noises that would make any man wild. His hand at his crotch began moving in time with the bodies on the pallet. He stared greedily, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Then his hand stopped. The woman was not Brangwyn —her hair was light, not dark.

  It was Yseult, Marcus's wife, the most beautiful woman in all of Dumnonia, perhaps even in all of Britain.

  And the man? No, not Kurvenal. The white skin of his shoulder was interrupted by a thick slash of hair — long, as the prince wore it.

  Andred stumbled away from the house and leaned back against a tree, his engorged cock still in his hand, overcome by lust and hatred and envy. The Queen of Dumnonia was unapproachable, her beauty that of the frozen landscape around him, snow and moonlight. And here she was, coupling like camp follower with her husband's son.

  While Marcus himself was off in the village of Voliba, sporting with some new mistress, the fool. Andred had told him, years ago, but the king claimed he had overheard a conversation proving there was nothing between his son and his wife.

  Doubly a fool.

  Andred finished himself off savagely, imagining he was in the house with the queen, and vowing revenge on Drystan for having what was out of Andred's reach.

  * * * *

  Marcus paced. The news brought by the man-at-arms burned a hole in his gut. He did not love his wife, it was true, but that she was having an affair with his own son was unthinkable.

  And he had thought it once before.

  Marcus stopped and faced Andred. "You are sure it was my son and the queen?"

  "I followed the trail Drystan had left because I thought to tease him about it. It led to the lodgings of Yseult's cousin Brangwyn, but the woman was not she."

  At least the spy had the grace to blush. "But it was night," Marcus pressed. "How could you be sure? Perhaps Kurvenal has finally managed to get Brangwyn on her back. He and my son share a room — the trail could have been from him."

  Andred nodded, but Marcus could see he wasn't convinced. He was sure his wife and his son were sleeping together.

  And suddenly Marcus was sure too.

  "Perhaps you should set a trap for them, Your Highness," the man-at-arms said now.

  Marcus clasped his hands behind his back. "How do you propose to go about it?"

  "If you pretend to return to Isca when the snows melt, they will think they are safe and meet more often. But if instead of going away you stay close by, you can catch them in the act."

  Marcus didn't like th
e glee he could hear in Andred's voice, but one could not always choose one's allies. "How will we make sure they take advantage of the opportunity, if, in fact, they are committing adultery?"

  Andred smiled. "I have thought of that too. If they think they are to be separated, they will surely seek an opportunity for swiving beforehand."

  Marcus nodded shortly. "It will be done."

  * * * *

  Drystan was relieved that his father had returned to Isca. He hated the lying and sneaking at any time, but he hated it even more when the man who had married Yseult was near.

  He wouldn't have much chance to take advantage of his father's absence, however — now that the roads were passable, Marcus wanted him to take a message to Arthur at Celliwig, sealed, and had not confided in him as to what it was. Probably something about providing fewer men for Arthur's standing troops in the spring after the victory of Baddon.

  He would be leaving the next morning, but first he had to see Yseult again.

  He found her just down the slope from the hill-fort in the small house that she and Brangwyn used for treating the illnesses of the nearby villagers; Marcus did not want them to carry their diseases into his residence. He didn't much care for Yseult doing such work either, saying it was a job for the priests, but she ignored him and continued to provide what help she could.

  When Drystan opened the door, she was explaining the use of an emetic to a concerned father who looked rather yellow himself.

  "If the spoilage were worse, you would not have been able to come to me," Yseult said. "Most likely, all of you would be dead already. All who ate of the dish should drink milk steeped with mustard seed. When nothing else comes up, drink watered vinegar and tea either of peppermint or chamomile for a day. After that, start only with dry bread soaked in tea until you are used to food again."

  The man pushed graying brown hair off his forehead. His hazel eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from worry or tears. "My children will recover?"

  "If they are complaining as much as you describe, I'm sure they will."

  Her patient took Yseult's hands in both of his and pressed. "Thank you, Lady."

  Yseult indicated the small bag of herbs he held. "I did very little."

  The man smiled. "You relieved my mind. How were you to know I didn't bring the plague?"

  She grimaced. "If the plague were on its way here, we would all know."

  "Nonetheless, thank you again. The Erainn are not well-loved in these parts, but you are, Lady."

  Yseult smiled and inclined her moonlight-bright head. "Thank you, Talek."

  "Good day, Lady, Master Drystan." The farmer nodded and let himself out of the house.

  "One would think it is cold enough that food would not go bad," Drystan commented when the man was gone.

  Yseult shrugged. "In a well-built house with a fire? Perhaps they too thought that food would not spoil in winter."

  Drystan caught her around the waist and pulled her close. "I did not come here to discuss spoiled food," he murmured against her neck.

  Yseult chuckled and pushed him away. "Was it perhaps a remedy for fever?"

  "I need only one," he said, grabbing for her again.

  "Not here," she whispered. "Anyone could come in."

  He turned to examine the dried herbs she had hanging from one wall. "Then where?"

  "I will send Brangwyn to you."

  He took her hand a pressed a kiss to the back. "I can hardly wait," he whispered.

  * * * *

  Yseult waited in the darkened hut, the fire in the hearth banked so that it burned too low to provide much light. Its warmth spread through the small room anyway, but it was not enough to banish her unease. She had come to rely on Drystan too much, on his sunny smile, on the feel of his hard, lean body on hers, and tomorrow he would be leaving. She had done without him for two years, and now she was afraid of doing without him for two weeks.

  She didn't like it.

  She gathered the cloak tighter around her body and stared into the embers of the fire. It was an impossible life. Was she right to subject Drystan to it, subject herself to it, for the sake of Kustennin's place in the world? Perhaps Kustennin could make a place for himself, as Arthur had.

  The memory of the many slights she had witnessed against Arthur stayed the thought. If there were any fairness in this land, Arthur would be the High King of Britain, but the laws regarding bastards forbade it.

  And declaring Kustennin a bastard would be the only way to keep him — according to the laws of Rome, a child belonged to his father.

  The door creaked, and Drystan slipped in to join her by the flickering shadows next to the hearth.

  "What, no word of greeting, my love?" he whispered.

  She turned to him, silent, and kissed him hungrily.

  He pulled back with a low sound in his throat. "Ah, here's a greeting."

  She took his face in her hands and covered his lips with her own, greedy to have him. She began to pull him toward the bed. "Come."

  Drystan laughed out loud and kissed the tip of her nose. "Very flattering that you are so desperate."

  "Well, then, you should make sure that I stay that way, should you not?"

  Together they fell onto the bed, and she began to unlace his tunic.

  "Not now, I won't," he whispered. It was a promise. He pressed her hand against him and she drew a shuddering breath.

  A few more pulls and tugs and they were naked next to each other, desperate both. Drystan came into her with one long, smooth stroke, and she clung to his back, panting.

  Suddenly, a feeling of panic ripped through her mind.

  Yseult froze. "Brangwyn."

  "Wha ...?"

  "Someone is coming!"

  For a moment, neither of them could move, then they heard the commotion outside the door of the hut and it was too late.

  Drystan slipped out from between her legs and threw her an assortment of clothes just as the door crashed open.

  Marcus stood there, a torch raised above his head. Yseult could feel the cold hatred wash over her; it scared her more than violence would have.

  "I could kill you both right now," Marcus said. "But I won't. Get dressed."

  Yseult slipped the tunic over her head just as Andred reached the door behind her husband. His perverse lust slammed into her, almost as bad as her husband's cold hatred. She closed the doors of her mind and rose calmly, her eyes fixed on Marcus's face.

  "What are you going to do with us?"

  Marcus examined her just as calmly. "I don't know, my dear. What would you prefer, burning or drowning?"

  * * * *

  The next few weeks went by as if in a dream. While Marcus kept her locked up in a room of a house in Voliba, consulting with lawyers and church dignitaries, he lived openly with the new mistress he had taken since Trephina's death.

  "You are the criminal!" Brangwyn raged. "While he keeps this woman, here in the same town! Just as he kept Trephina in his villa in Isca!"

  "Shh, Brangwyn," Yseult said, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped in her lap. "Trephina gave you little Judual, remember? And she is dead now."

  "And you will soon be too if you don't do something."

  Yseult stared at Brangwyn, finding it hard to believe this was her calm cousin. "I do not know what there is I could do."

  "Can you not use your power of calling?"

  "Who would I call? Drystan too is imprisoned and Crimthann is too far away for a rescue, don't you think?"

  "You could call Arthur. He would not allow it."

  Yseult sighed. "How is he to stop it? We have broken the laws of this land."

  "Perhaps Marcus is twisting the laws to suit himself!"

  "I don't even know if Arthur would heed a call from me, Brangwyn, or if it would even reach him," Yseult said, staring out of a window too small for escape.

  Brangwyn broke into tears and knelt before her, laying her head in her lap. Yseult stroked the dark hair. She knew her own lack o
f emotion was odd, but it was a relief, a kind of protection from the fears that might otherwise have been swamping her.

  "How does Kustennin?"

  Brangwyn swallowed, lifted her head, and wiped her tear-stained cheeks. "He asks for you constantly and is not to be put off or comforted."

  "Promise me you will look after him, Brangwyn."

  Brangwyn clenched her fists together. "I promise."

  The judgment on them came the next day: death by fire. They would be executed separately rather than together, Drystan to die in the morning and Yseult in the afternoon. For some reason, Yseult was not scared of her own death; she felt strangely dead inside already. But she was afraid of how it would feel when Drystan's life went out in her soul.

  The morning he was to be put to death came. Yseult hardly slept the night before. Now she knelt on the floor of the room where she was locked away, praying to Danu and all the gods of her tribe, praying that he would get away, that he wouldn't suffer, that his father would take pity on him and stab him before the flames began to eat him, something, anything, she knew not what.

  And waited for his pain to become hers.

  Through the small window above, she could see the day grow lighter, and still there was little more in her heart and mind than the fear she had felt when she woke. When she searched for him, she felt aches and pains all over his body, as if her lover had been beaten.

  But no fear, and no fire. Drystan was still there, still alive, she was sure of it.

  Yseult stared at what she could see of the sky through the slits in her prison. The cold morning air that came through was warmer than a few weeks ago, but it still had the bite of winter in it, stinging her cheeks. She wondered what it could mean that Drystan had not left her yet, and slowly hope began to curl in her belly. She opened the gates of her mind farther and sought the presence of Brangwyn.

  Joy. Relief.

  Drystan had escaped.

  She took a deep breath, and for the first time in weeks, happiness clenched her heart.

  "Ah, Danu, thank you." She put her face in her hands and wept.