He did not say that he planned to seek out Yseult first.
Cador bid them farewell and saw them on their way, never once mentioning the stories they had all heard; stories of passion and betrayal and near death, stories in so many strange versions that Drystan found it hard to believe they were based on any semblance of truth, although he had lived it.
"Drys," Kurvenal said as they neared the ramparts of Celliwig.
"Yes, my friend?"
"When you continue on to Bro Leon, I will not accompany you."
Now Drystan saw what Kurvi had seen — Brangwyn coming forward through the open gates, obviously trying not to hurry but failing, her long, dark hair streaming out behind her.
Kurvenal dismounted and caught her hands in his. Drystan watched them as they spoke earnestly, without embracing, and wondered what else he had missed while he was wrapped in his own misery.
* * * *
Brangwyn stared at Kurvenal, her hands clenched tightly in his. When had his face become so very dear? Perhaps it had been when she had come so close to losing Yseult; with all the troubles of recent months, she yearned for something to give her joy, something more than the laughing face of little Judual. Something to touch, something to hold.
And Kurvenal — Kurvenal was a rock, there for her, despite the many times she had turned him away.
"I have told Drys I will not accompany him to Armorica," Kurvenal said.
She looked down, gazed at their interlocked hands. There it was, yet again, his loyalty to her — he was not even returning with Drystan to his former home.
He lifted her chin with one finger, his expression concerned. "I hope I am not too forward?"
She shook her head. "I'm glad you're staying."
He laughed out loud. "It means I am giving up my position, and I can hardly court you with no livelihood."
"Speak with Arthur. In service with Drystan, you have fought with the Dux Bellorum many times now."
"You would have me be a professional soldier?"
Brangwyn sighed. "It is what you know, is it not? What else are you to be?"
He shrugged, his expression more carefree than she had long seen it. "I could tutor princes in the use of arms."
A huff of disdain escaped her. "Below you. The world will always have need of soldiers, even in times of peace, and with any luck, Arthur may award you an important post."
"What is this? My Brangwyn commanding me to go for a soldier?"
She looked away. "Not commanding."
He pulled her hand through his arm. "Walk with me."
"Who is commanding now?"
Once again he laughed, and the tenseness at the center of her soul began to loosen. He did not laugh often, but when he did, it was a fine thing to hear.
They walked away from the entrance to the hill-fort, away from the rivers to the east and the south, the Cammlann and the Camel, and towards the forest on the opposite side of the hill, away from fields and farms and people. Brangwyn felt a pang of anticipation begin to grow in the pit of her stomach and spread out and down. As they walked, he stroked her hand, speaking of the things he would do with Drystan gone, speculating on how they would see each other if she remained with Yseult and went to Isca. She hardly noticed what he spoke of, letting the words flow over her as the anticipation in her body grew, almost painful now.
When they reached the cover of the trees, he too grew silent. After they walked a little way into their shelter, he stopped and turned to her, taking her face in his hands. "I understood you right? You will listen to me now, allow me to speak of love?"
She nodded mutely, wanting him to do much more than speak of love. Ah, it had been so long!
He lowered his head to hers and she let out a strangled gasp at the sweet feel of his lips. More, she wanted more. She slipped her hands under his tunic and against his bare flesh, and his arms tightened around her while his breathing grew more labored. She could feel the evidence of his desire, and she pressed her crotch into his, slipping her hands down and pulling his hips forward.
With a strangled sound, he lifted his head and stared down at her, his dark eyes dilated, his lips parted. "Is this what you want? Now?"
"Yes," she said, pulling his tunic over his head. "Now."
"Sweet Jesus," he murmured against her lips. "I never thought to be so lucky."
They laid down on a patch of grass protected from curious eyes by trees and bushes. As they undressed each other, Brangwyn's desire grew so painful, she thought she would scream with it. But it was later that she screamed, filling the trees with the sound of her cries, sending the birds to flight. Kurvenal pumped the last of his seed into her, gasping, his head rested in the crook of her neck, his curly hair wild in her face.
Slowly they grew still again, and their breathing quieted. Kurvenal pulled out of her and rolled over onto his back. His comforting warmth was still there next to her, the feel of his naked skin against hers, as she stared up at the play of light and shadow in the branches above them. She was suffused by a contentment more complete than any she had felt in a very long time.
"If you get with child, we'll marry even if I do not yet have a way to support you and your babe," he said.
She nodded. The marrying part wasn't as important to her as it was to him. And if they married, she might have to leave Yseult.
Yseult needed her now, more than ever, if she was returning to Marcus.
She took his hand. "We will find a way."
* * * *
Drystan gazed down across the terraced fields on the side of the hill to the Cammlann River below them, wishing there were some hope to be found there — a vain thought. He looked from the neat rows to the woman walking beside him. "So there is nothing I can say to change your mind?"
Yseult gazed straight ahead, at the path in front of them, her hands clenched behind her back, not returning his gaze. "No."
He had been here too long already; he no longer had an excuse to stay. And once Arthur departed for Dyn Tagell, Yseult and her mother would be leaving for Isca.
And Marcus.
The weather was hot for May, had been for weeks, and the farmers were desperate for rain to nourish the newly planted crops. Drystan did not look at the fields with the eye of a farmer — the grass in the pastures looked green enough to him, and the rows of carrots and onions and parsnips did not appear brown or unhealthy — but he knew their complaints, and he knew that if the weather did not turn soon, there might well be famine this year.
What had he wanted her to say? That she would give up their son for him? If he was honest with himself, he had known it wouldn't happen.
But the heart wasn't much interested in honesty.
"I can't go back, Yseult. I can't lead that life anymore." He had held her in his arms without fear, had known the joy that she was finally going to leave her father for him — and now she was going back to Marcus completely, as wife in more than just name.
No.
Finally she looked at him. "And I can't abandon Kustennin. You have to understand that."
A sound halfway between a sigh and a groan forced itself between his lips. "Gods. Yes, I do understand. But it doesn't help."
They wandered between the fields and farmlands on the slopes above the river. "I —" Yseult began, and stopped.
Drystan didn't encourage her to continue. Whatever she said, nothing would change. He felt dead inside.
To his surprise, he realized she was fighting with herself, that she wanted to beg him to follow her, as he always did when she called. Within the space of a dozen words, the scale of power in their relationship had shifted. Before, he had been the supplicant, the one who would do anything to be near her, the one waiting on her slightest whim.
And now he was no longer willing.
The realization gave him no gratification. Somehow, with this last hope gone, it was as if all emotion had left him; pleasure, pain, fear, joy, all had dried up and drifted away on the warm spring breeze. He felt less than
he could ever remember feeling, as if his heart had been cut out and only echoes of former sensations were left, like a phantom limb.
She dropped her head, a tear seeping out of one eye and down her pale cheek, and he knew she had been following his thoughts with that unfair advantage she had, that Feadh Ree talent she shared with Brangwyn.
He looked down the valley to the Cammlann again, winding peacefully between the trees along its banks. "I think I will remain in Armorica for a while. With Riwallon's health failing, Blodewedd may have need of me."
There was a slight pause, the rustle of a sleeve, a sniff. "Kustennin and I will miss you."
Kustennin — he would be leaving Kustennin to his father.
"You will be leaving me to him too," came her voice softly beside him.
"No, you are going back to him."
"Because he has our son."
He shook his head. "Your son. Kustennin has always been your son. I am his brother, remember?"
She was too honest to deny it and kept her peace.
It was strange how unemotional he felt. He was leaving the woman who had meant very nearly everything to him for the last six years of his life, and all he felt was empty, as if a bush fire had taken hold of his heart and burned it all away.
Finally he turned again. By the gods, she was beautiful, her moonlight eyes shining with unshed tears, her moonlight hair unbound and falling over her fair shoulders. She had been a part of his soul for so long, he didn't know when the last time was that he had seen her beauty this way, with the eyes of a connoisseur, a man simply gazing on a woman, enjoying the symmetry of the face, the soft lines and rounded breasts and dramatic coloring.
She stopped walking, and he stopped beside her. "I will always do my best by him," she said. "You know that."
He nodded. "Yes, I know."
Another stray tear slipped down her cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away.
She gave him a smile that wasn't. "I swear by all the gods of my tribe that after we came together again I never intentionally did ill by you."
He nodded again. "I know."
She looked away. "I think it is time for you to go now."
He continued to gaze at her for a moment and then turned on his heel, returning to Celliwig without her.
Book Four: Two Women and a Man
Chapter 31
Love left me like a coal upon the floor,
Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.
Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself,
Worse than any curse at all under the sun,
Worse than the great poverty
Is the devil that is called "Love" by the people.
And if I were in my young youth again
I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss.
"He Cries out Against Love," translated from the Irish by Lady Gregory
As Drystan's ship approached the northern coast of Armorica, a summer storm was brewing to the south, throwing the pale pinkish rocks of the coast into dramatic relief. Drystan leaned on the railing, watching his former home come closer, surprised at the way his heart lifted at the sight. Happy, he was actually happy, despite the storm and the rocks and the potential danger. The evening sun set the rocky coastline glowing, and behind it, the sky was such a dark blue it was almost black. The beauty of the sight meant they had to get to the harbor of Leonis quickly; it was not wise to be caught in a storm near this rocky coastline.
Wind whipped through his hair and the gulls cried above. It was a quiet happiness, this feeling that had snuck up on him, less demanding than the happiness he had been pursuing for the last — too many years. More resigned. More appreciative of what he had right now, at this moment, and not what he wanted but could never have.
Perhaps he would be able to hold on to it for a while.
It felt strange to be without Kurvenal, though. All these years, his friend and armsman had been at his side, except for the time Drystan had been in Eriu with Yseult.
No, he couldn't think about Yseult, couldn't let it ruin this moment. That part of his life was over now.
The ship turned south and headed into the harbor of Leonis. His father's Armorican properties were far from here, in the central hills of the peninsula, but the northern coast of Bro Leon felt much more like home to him.
A place to come back to when his heart was wrung out.
From the harbor, he hired a river ferry to take him and Erim, whom he had asked to take Kurvenal's place as his personal armsman, the short distance the rest of the way to Riwallon's seat. Drystan had sent word he was coming, but he had only been able to give them an approximate date for his arrival, and Blodewedd had other worries than watching for his ship.
Dusk was falling when they arrived at the landing. The soldier posted there came hurrying up as they stepped off the small ferry and grabbed his hand.
"Drystan!"
He looked into the face of the bearded soldier. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
The soldier let out a bellowing laugh, and suddenly Drystan knew. The laugh was deeper and fuller than he remembered, but there were few people who could laugh like that.
"Morvan?"
The laugh sounded again. "One and the same. We've been expecting you. You've changed little, Drys. I look at you and I think I imagined the years go by."
Drystan shook his head, smiling. "When there's a bit more light, you'll be able to see the lines around my eyes. Good to see you again, Morvan."
Together, they trudged up the incline, the fortified villa before them and the bay behind them. The storm had passed Leonis by after all, and the birds were filling the air with the music of evening.
While Morvan had merely gotten wider and hairier, Riwallon and Blodewedd looked much older, especially Riwallon. He had lost so much weight, his cheeks were sunken, and there were heavy circles under his eyes. Drystan hid his surprise and fear, concentrating instead on his joy at seeing them again. Riwallon looked worse than he had been led to believe.
After enthusiastic, tearful greetings, Drystan drew the steward Girec aside. "Have you sent to Labiane?"
Girec nodded. "But she sent back to say that with her duties at Caer Custoeint and the young ones to care for, she cannot get away unless it is serious."
Drystan sighed. Looking at Riwallon, he felt sure it was serious, but from what he had been able to gather, there were no specific symptoms beyond weakness and fatigue. If Riwallon was suffering from a wasting sickness, he could be ill for a long time before it became "serious."
"Perhaps the local healer will be able to tell us when the time has come," Drystan said.
"Very good, my lord," Girec said. "And may I tell you from all the inhabitants of Leonis that we are very glad to have you back? The master and his lady need someone to look after them and their business. Around here, we don't pay heed to evil tales from across the sea."
Girec bowed and excused himself, and Drystan made his way to his chamber in the fortified former villa, pensive. Of course, what Girec had said proved that people did pay heed to evil tales — and that the story of his flight from Voliba and his betrayal of his father had preceded him here.
But they were welcoming him anyway. He would do his best to deserve that.
* * * *
As the days grew longer and hotter, Drystan's life grew calmer and more content, dominated by routine and a quiet, day-to-day satisfaction. While Riwallon's health was a constant worry, he was glad to be able to stand by him when the local farmers came for judgment or relieve him of his duties in the administration of Bro Leon. His foster parents were so glad to have him, he was that much happier to be there.
Then, in the dog days of August, Drystan and Riwallon were walking the fields of the local farmers together, inspecting the crops which would soon be harvested, when Riwallon suddenly lost consciousness.
"Send for the healer!" Drystan called out to a girl weeding nearby. He knelt down in the dusty path between fields of garlic and wheat and ch
afed Riwallon's hands and cheeks, wishing Yseult were there.
Wishing Yseult were there.
No. He wouldn't allow himself that, wouldn't punish himself with that.
There was little the healer could do, little anyone could do. Riwallon was dying from the inside, the local priest told him. He recommended infusions of sage and thyme against infection, and henbane and elder flowers against the pain. Despite his promises to himself, Drystan couldn't help wondering how Yseult would have treated his foster father.
As the summer grew hotter and more relentless, Riwallon's condition grew progressively worse. He took to his bed and rose only for grand occasions such as the harvest celebration or Michaelmas.
But even after the heat of summer was over and the days finally began to grow cooler, the health of the king of Bro Leon did not improve. Instead, Riwallon seemed weaker from day to day, fading before their eyes, and Blodewedd became more helpless and lost. Drystan found himself taking over more of the duties at Leonis all the time. Girec and Morvan often came to him before they went to Blodewedd; going to Riwallon was out of the question. Before summer's end, Drystan was effectively ruling the little kingdom of Bro Leon: negotiating disputes between landowners and church, coordinating laborers for the harvest, consulting with the master of the port on fees for merchant ships, taking the king's due for the catch of oysters. For years, he had done little more than fight and ride and practice and prepare to fight. He still spent at least an hour a day in the practice yard with Morvan and the troops of Bro Leon, too much a warrior now to give that up, but the rest of each day was taken up with mostly administrative duties.
And no one mentioned the scandal that had forced him to leave Dumnonia.
When the leaves began to change color and September gave way to October, Drystan told Girec to send to Labiane again. "Tell her it's serious now."
Two weeks later, his cousin arrived, her daughter Cwylli and her son Gildas in tow. Drystan wasn't much looking forward to seeing her again, but he was afraid Riwallon would not survive to the new year, and soon crossing the Channel would be much more dangerous as fall storms gave way to the gales of winter.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 48
