Labiane handed her cloak to a servant as Drystan hurried into the entrance hall of the villa to greet her. "So there you are, Drystan," she said. "Here to welcome me to my own home. Not dead after all."
Drystan ignored the words and gave her a cousin's kiss. "Well met, Labiane. Did you have a good journey?"
"The crossing was a little rough, and Cwylli was sick the whole time. She will never make a sailor. But Gildas seemed to love it."
The girl still looked sick and pale, and Drystan bent over and took her up in his arms. "Come, Cwylli, shall we find you a bed?"
Cwylli put her arms around his neck and nodded. Green, green eyes in a face surrounded by a mass of golden-brown curls stared at him trustingly. With a start, Drystan realized he was holding his little sister. Then Blodewedd entered the hall, and the two women embraced, crying. Drystan took Cwylli away, feeling strangely protective.
Shortly after Labiane's arrival, Riwallon's health took a turn for the worse, and Drystan found himself grateful for her presence after all. Not only did she spend time nursing her father, she had a soothing influence on Blodewedd. After Drystan had made it clear he was not going to respond to her barbs, they even developed a kind of truce, although they would probably never find their way back to the sibling camaraderie they had once had as children.
But Cwylli became his favorite.
He was surprised at how charmed he was to have a little sister. He would often take her up in front of him when he rode down the hill to the town of Leonis to meet with the magistrate or church officials, and the two of them became a frequent sight on the roads between the fields and along the bay. She was talkative and curious and winsome, and she became a great favorite with the local tenants and farmers. Despite Riwallon's illness, Drystan's days were infused with a quiet happiness that surprised him even more than the strength of his spontaneous affection for Cwylli.
His love for Yseult truly must have died from all the years of hiding and pretending. How else could he be so content separated from her?
Riwallon passed away shortly after All Saints when the first snow covered the ground. Drystan couldn't help thinking that in Eriu it was Samhain, the time when the border between the worlds was thinnest.
* * * *
Winter was just starting to take its hold on Armorica, but luckily the ground was not frozen and the burial could take place. Riwallon's body was washed with water from the sacred well, wrapped in the death shirt, and laid out in state in the entrance hall. He had been well-loved among the people of Bro Leon, and in the days leading up to the funeral, there was a constant stream of visitors wishing to bid him farewell.
Drystan relieved his aunt of as much of the organization as possible, although it still fell to her welcome funeral guests and organize their lodgings. She went about those duties quiet and sad, the rings beneath her eyes dark and her grief obvious. Labiane watched him suspiciously but did little to help, except to assist and care for her mother. She had just lost her father, and Drystan tried to be charitable, but it was obvious she resented the easy authority he now had in her home — without attempting to do the work necessary herself to ensure that the people of Leonis would begin to look to her rather than him. In her combined selfishness and injured vanity, she often reminded him of his own father.
And he had to wonder yet again how Cador, who had fostered with Drystan's parents for nearly as long as Labiane, had maintained his own personal integrity under the influence of Marcus Cunomorus.
The local rulers and their families came from up to two days' journey away to Riwallon's funeral to pay their respects. Among them were a number of friends and relatives Drystan had not seen in years, some not since he was a boy. Arthur's mother Ygerna came with her husband Hoel from his seat to the east at Caer Brioc, and Arthur's half-sister Anna and her husband Budic had braved the snowy roads all the way from Armorican Domnonia. There were a number of other smaller kings and counts as well whom he had never met or couldn't remember.
For the funeral procession, he hired the best musicians Leonis had to offer, and they led the way to the church outside the walls of the city. Morvan and Girec and others of Riwallon's household carried the body through the streets of the town, with Blodewedd, Drystan and Labiane following. Cwylli had no real relationship to the grandfather she barely knew, but she was suitably serious during the proceedings, walking between her mother and Drystan, holding their hands. Gildas's nurse followed with the baby, and the rest of the mourners trailed behind them. The weather was cold and clear, the snow on the ground giving the graveyard beside the church a look of purity. It would be a peaceful place for Riwallon to rest.
Afterwards, at the funeral banquet in Riwallon's villa, Drystan accompanied his Aunt Blodewedd from group to group, supporting her with a strong hand at her elbow while she accepted condolences and tried to be brave.
"I need to sit down for a moment," Blodewedd said finally, her voice quivering.
"Certainly." He drew her arm through his and led her to a chair next to the wall.
Blodewedd sank down with a grateful sigh, and Drystan gave her a kiss on her cheek. The skin still felt young against his lips, not yet old and dry, but the corners of her eyes and her forehead were creased with the lines of worry that Riwallon's long illness had put there, and her once-dark hair was now well-laced with gray.
"Should I get you a glass of wine?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you, Drystan."
He moved away through the crowd to where the refreshments were laid out.
"Yseult!"
It was as if all movement in Riwallon's entrance hall had ceased, as if the whole world had narrowed down to one moment —now. Without thinking, Drystan turned towards the voice, feeling caught in time, every second an hour, a slow crawl to a single event, when he would see a woman again with hair like snow in the sun and eyes like the reflection of the moon in a lake. His throat closed with anticipation and his chest felt as if a giant had taken hold of it and squeezed.
He blinked. She wasn't there.
"Yseult!" came Anna's voice a second time. "It's good to see you again!"
Arthur's sister embraced a woman Drystan had never seen before, a woman who wasn't Yseult, but of course she was Yseult, just not the Yseult everything in him had wanted to see, the reason his soul had left his body and he was now standing here empty, as if this could be the moment to heal a lifetime.
Which it wasn't.
And if he could react this way to the mere sound of a name... he had obviously been fooling himself all these months.
The two women noticed him staring and turned to him arm-in-arm, twin secretive smiles stealing over their faces. As if he wouldn't notice what they were thinking.
And still he couldn't move.
Anna stepped forward, pulling the other woman with her gently. "Drystan, I don't believe you've met Yseult yet? She was in fosterage with my parents when her own mother and father both died in a shipwreck two years ago, and she has been with them since."
Anna's foster sister nodded. "Ygerna and Hoel offered to let me stay as long as my brother Kaedin was still fighting with Cynan against the Visigoths. But he has recently returned to our family seat at Karke and taken over the running of it again. I hope to be joining him there soon."
Drystan continued to stare, somehow incapable of reacting normally. This Yseult had a superficial resemblance to his Yseult, with her long pale hair and blue eyes, but everything about her was smaller, less: her stature, her eyes, her coloring, her presence. There was pleasantness here but no drama, regular features but no sharp intelligence behind the eyes.
"We call her Yseult of the White Hands," Anna was saying now, since he still hadn't managed to find his tongue. She lifted one of her foster sister's hands, extending it in his direction. "They are so fine and delicate, you see?"
Drystan shook himself mentally and took the proffered hand, raising it to his cold lips. "My pleasure," he got out.
The touch of her warm, white hand
against his lips sent a thrill through him, and his heart was pounding again. He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks, and Yseult of the White Hands smiled that smile of a woman who knew she had a man at her mercy.
Only it wasn't this girl he was reacting to, not really; it was an absent Yseult.
"How long will you be staying in Leonis?" young Yseult asked, taking her hand back into her own possession.
Slowly the focus of the world began widening again, and the unnecessary nervousness which had paralyzed him slipped away. "As long as Blodewedd needs me and Arthur does not call me back."
"It is good of you to be so loyal to your foster parents," she said.
Drystan found a laugh that was almost natural. "Loyal perhaps, but forgetful — I left Blodewedd waiting for a glass of wine. You will excuse me, ladies?"
Yseult excused him willingly, her expression telling him she was confident he had not left her for good.
Drystan smiled to himself as he fetched the wine for Blodewedd. Anna's foster sister was pretty enough, but his stunned behavior had given her quite the wrong impression. He had reacted to her, yes, but he had reacted to her because she shared a name with the one he couldn't have. He shook his head, chasing away the fog of confusion and misplaced infatuation.
Ah, when would he be over her — really, truly over her?
When he returned to Blodewedd, Cwylli was leaning against her grandmother's knee, asking about all the people who were at the party. Blodewedd looked more animated than she had in weeks, and Drystan found himself wishing Labiane could remain longer with the child: not only would he miss Cwylli when she went back to Caer Custoeint, she brought new life to Leonis.
"Drystan!" Cwylli cried as he approached, and he grinned.
"Take me up?" she said, raising her arms straight up on either side of her head. Drystan chuckled, handed the glass of wine to Blodewedd, and lifted Cwylli onto his shoulders.
"You have a very demanding granddaughter," he said to his foster mother.
Blodewedd laughed. "And very tall."
It was so good to hear her laugh again. He reached his hand out to Blodewedd, drawing her up. "Come, let us show your guests what the future of Bro Leon looks like."
With his foster mother on his arm, and his sister who was also his cousin once removed on his shoulders, Drystan continued the rounds of the guests at the funeral banquet. Strange, complicated relationships. In Britain, he had left behind a step-mother who was his lover and a brother who was his son. He wondered how many of the others in this hall were related in ways that shouldn't be.
Before the guests sat down to the wild boar with cumin and plum sauce, it had begun to snow again, thick flakes which covered the ground quickly.
"Oh, dear," Blodewedd said beside him as they stood in front of the double doors of Riwallon's hall. "I hope we will not have to feed them all through the winter."
Cwylli demanded to be let down. The two of them watched as she dashed into the snow and immediately started making snowballs to throw at the goats huddled together in their pen.
Before Drystan could respond to Blodewedd's words, Yseult of Karke joined them, laying one of her famous white hands on his elbow. "I know it's a nuisance, but I love to look on a landscape covered in snow. Everything that might otherwise be ugly or imperfect is covered. Don't you agree?"
She looked up at him and Drystan looked down. If it had been his Yseult beside him, he could have looked at her eye-to-eye.
"It's beautiful, yes, if you ignore the danger."
She smiled. "What danger?"
Ah, she was so young, so inexperienced. But not innocent. The smile she was using on him was very calculating. He sighed. It was easy enough to see that she thought she had made a conquest, and now he would have to disabuse her of that notion.
It had been interesting to feel that thrill of physical excitement again, like the onset of infatuation, but what he knew and Yseult did not was how artificial it had been, how little chance it had of developing into anything serious.
He gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. What harm could it do to respond to that spark? As long as he made it clear to her that she could expect nothing from him, perhaps he could indulge in a light flirtation with this pretty young woman. He couldn't even remember the last time he had flirted and laughed and played those little games with someone he was attracted to. Perhaps it would ease his heart a bit.
He put his own hand over the slim white one on his elbow. "Shall we join Cwylli in throwing snowballs at goats?" he asked with a smile.
* * * *
By spring, Drystan was engaged to be married to Yseult of the White Hands.
Chapter 32
And so upon a time Sir Tristram agreed to wed Isoud la Blanche Mains. And at the last they were wedded, and solemnly held their marriage. And so when they were abed both Sir Tristram remembered him of his old lady La Beale Isoud. And then he took such a thought suddenly that he was all dismayed, and other cheer made he none but with clipping and kissing; as for other fleshly lusts Sir Tristram never thought nor had ado with her ...
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur
Yseult the Fair sat down on a bench in front of a bed of wildly blooming purple violets, while Cador remained standing. Kustennin would have none of that and ran over to the bird bath to see the birds fly.
Every time Cador came to visit, she was even more glad that Marcus believed she would provide him with misinformation for Arthur; the day-to-day pain of her present life was more than she would have imagined possible, and it was eating away at her bit by little bit. As long as her mother had been here, the misery had not been quite as complete, but Yseult the Wise had no excuse to remain past summer, when the seas became rougher and the trip to Eriu more dangerous.
These days, the only time Yseult did not feel she had to be on her guard was during the meetings with Cador. If not for Brangwyn, she sometimes thought she would have gone insane.
Today, both boys were with them; Brangwyn was in Isca to visit Kurvenal for the day.
"It's very generous of you to have taken Judual into your household," Cador said, shouldering the toddler who had been clambering at his feet moments before.
Yseult shot him a disbelieving glance, but he seemed to be sincere. By now, all of southwest Britain knew about her flight with Drystan last year after being condemned to death by Marcus. After Arthur had negotiated the reconciliation, they attempted to set about stories to give the incidents which could not be denied a different slant, a romantic tale Myrddin had contrived including bedding down with a sword between them and a remorseful Marcus discovering the evidence of their innocence. Yseult had heard the tales being told in the market of Isca, had heard the rumors that the two of them had fled separately and must be innocent, had heard the stories that were closer to the truth, that they had deceived Marcus and deserved everything they got.
Myrddin's was a fine tale, but totally unbelievable. Not only would it have taken more than a sword to stop Yseult and Drystan if they were in a bed together — Marcus had probably never been remorseful in his life.
"You must be the only person within a week's ride of here who believes that," Yseult said. She held out her hands. "Should I take him?"
Cador shook his head. "I enjoy the young ones."
She smiled. "I know." It was a pity that Cador's brief marriage to Edain had remained childless — he would have made an excellent father. Edain had died in childbed in January, leaving Cador a widower at the tender age of twenty. "You are a favorite with Kustennin. He likes you more than his own brother."
Cador gazed over to where Kustennin was splashing the water in the bird bath that he now had to himself. "Who he may never see again," he said quietly.
Yseult rose, staring down at the gravel of the path. "Come, let us move farther away from the villa."
Cador followed her, Judual perched happily on his hip, as she took the pathway away from the formal gardens and past the east wing of the villa. When they were out o
f hearing distance of the walls, she said, "Marcus is planning a trip north, to Lot at Din Eidyn."
He stopped and put down Judual, who promptly toddled after Kustennin. "He told you this?"
She shook her head. "No, I overheard it." She didn't tell him she'd overheard it in Marcus's thoughts. The secret of her ability was an advantage she did not even want to trust to a friend. "What he told me was that he needed to go to Armorica to see to a new steward at Caer Haes."
"Do you know any more about his planned trip to the north?" he asked.
She pulled a branch of a cherry tree down to smell the blossoms and then moved it towards him so he would lean closer. "Marcus is not the only one who will visit Lot at Din Eidyn," she whispered. "Cadwallon of Gwynedd, Urien of Gore and Hueil and some of the other sons of Caw also plan to join them."
Cador's expression was worried. "This makes too much sense. Lot and Marcus at least are related to the line of the High King."
"Yes. And they believe Ambrosius dead."
When Cador looked as if he was about to pace, Yseult laid her hand on his arm and turned him gently to follow the boys.
"Where is your husband now?" Cador finally asked.
"At the offices of the merchant who sells his tin abroad. He needs more funds, I think." Judual fell, and Yseult bent down to pick him up. "Cador, you must try to convince Arthur that Britain needs a new High King. He has to finally admit that Ambrosius is dead and allow a council to be called to select a successor."
Cador nodded. "I have long thought so. Most of us have."
"Then you must tell him."
Judual squirmed, wanting to run in after Kustennin, and she put him back down again. She glanced up at the sky; the sun was only a handspan above the red tile roofs of the villa. She sighed. "I think perhaps we should turn back now."
"As you wish."
Yseult waved to Kustennin, who was making a pile of rocks next to an ornamental terrace. "Kustennin! It's time for us to go back in."
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 49
