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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  "If you see any way to take over the duties in Bro Leon yourself or with your husband, I will not insist on fulfilling Blodewedd's will," Drystan said.

  This got her attention again and she gave him a hard stare. "Why would you do that?"

  Drystan shrugged, dabbing up some of the sauce with his bread. "Because I have no ambition to rule."

  Labiane laughed at that. "You know, Cousin, I believe you. But what would you do if I insisted on ruling in Leonis?"

  "Return to Arthur. There may be peace now, but it is Arthur's army that will guarantee it."

  His cousin lifted one slim eyebrow, toasting him with her glass of wine. "I wonder what Yseult would say to that."

  He blinked, and then he realized that she was talking about his wife.

  "Perhaps my mother's will is not such a bad arrangement after all," Labiane continued. "Arthur wants my husband where he can keep an eye on him, and I believe you that you will not wrest my children's heritage from them. Blodewedd's will be done."

  Drystan nodded.

  His wife arrived with her brother Kaedin the next day, and soon thereafter the funeral guests began to arrive from farther away. The crowd was not as large as it had been for Riwallon's funeral, but Ygerna and Hoel were there, and Anna and Budic, and Labiane and her children, all gathered again for the third time in less than a year.

  Drystan was glad that his wife's sad eyes could be attributed to Blodewedd's death. But he caught Kaedin staring at him a few times, his lips pursed or his brow furrowed, and he wondered if Yseult had confided in her brother about how completely loveless their marriage was. But Kaedin didn't confront him, so most likely he knew no more than that his sister wasn't happy.

  Drystan spent much of his time with Cwylli, showing her the newest fortifications built around the old villa, taking her to the stables, explaining to her how the baths worked — when they worked. He was sorry to see the funeral guests go; it would leave him alone with his wife and the resentful silences of their life together. At least Kaedin was staying for a time and would keep Yseult busy, although he was returning to Karke before the harvest. There was work for all in the autumn months, and, at the very least, his people would expect to see him at the harvest celebrations.

  One morning, shortly before Kaedin was to leave, the three of them were out riding along the cliffs above the sea. It had rained recently, a heavy rain, too much for the dry, late summer earth to soak up all at once, and shallow pools of rainwater littered the riding paths. Yseult was riding recklessly and didn't seem interested in trying to avoid the puddles. Her gelding cantered straight into one, and mud and water splattered all the way up to the tops of her thighs.

  Yseult gave a little laugh that had a hysterical edge to it. She turned to Drystan beside her. "That water came higher than the hand of a man ever did."

  Drystan felt embarrassed heat rise in his cheeks, and he glanced back at Kaedin behind them.

  His brother-in-law's lips were pursed in an angry line; he had heard.

  Drystan didn't have to wait long for the confrontation. As soon as they had returned to the villa outside of Leonis and stabled their horses, Kaedin pulled him aside and told Yseult to go on ahead to the hall. She looked from one to the other of them, a concerned expression on her face, but Drystan had the impression she was repressing a malicious smile.

  Kaedin took his elbow in a painful grip. "What was the meaning of that back there on the path? Are you avoiding my sister's bed?"

  What was he to say? The truth would be an insult, and his wife's brother did not deserve a lie. He knew it as well as Kaedin did — he was doing Yseult of the White Hands a wrong.

  Kaedin's grip tightened and he shook Drystan's elbow. "So it is true? She is still a virgin?"

  "Yes."

  Kaedin's fist shot out with the fury of scorned family honor and took him in the jaw, spinning him around. Drystan dropped to his knees beside the stables, a hand to his aching face. Luckily, some stable hands saw what was happening and ran over to take Kaedin by either arm before he had time to land the kick he had been aiming at Drystan's abdomen. Drystan didn't feel as if he had the right to defend himself.

  While the stablehands held Kaedin back, the blacksmith went to fetch Yseult. When she saw him kneeling in the dirt, she rushed to his side.

  "You didn't need to hurt him!" she said to her brother, her arm around Drystan.

  "Let go of me," Kaedin growled. "I won't harm him again."

  Still holding his jaw in one hand, wondering if it were broken, Drystan nodded at the men holding Kaedin. They stepped back.

  "The three of us must talk," his brother-in-law said and stomped off.

  Yseult cooed over him, looking slightly remorseful and a little pleased at the same time. Drystan got back to his feet, wishing she wouldn't hang on him so. Together they followed Kaedin through the entrance of the villa to the atrium and down the hall, Yseult with her arm around him, making as if to support him — a support Drystan neither wanted nor needed.

  Kaedin was pacing angrily in the guest room off the hall. When they entered, he shut the door behind them and turned to Drystan.

  "I want you to make a wife of my sister or I swear, I will kill you with my own bare hands."

  Drystan saw the way Yseult's face lit up at the first half of this sentence and fell at the second. She grabbed her brother's arm. "Kaedin, no! You can't hurt him!"

  He looked down at her, scowling. "How can you take his side? He — he isn't even being a husband to you!"

  Drystan suspected that the words almost on Kaedin's lips had been crasser, but he wanted to hurt his sister as little as possible. He suddenly had an image of Cwylli, his little sister whom he barely knew and couldn't even acknowledge. And Drystan would gladly wring the neck of anyone who treated her the way he had been treating Yseult of the White Hands.

  How had they come to this? How could he have thought it his duty, a kindness, to marry a woman he knew he could never love?

  And now she was saying, "But I love him."

  He was sure Kaedin agreed with him that Yseult must be deluding herself. But Kaedin was her older brother, and he hated the thought of hurting her.

  Kaedin sighed and raked one hand through his straw-blond hair. "He doesn't deserve it, you know, Ysa."

  It was the first time Drystan had heard this nickname for his wife, and it made her seem much more human.

  But he still couldn't love her.

  She shrugged. "Can we choose who we love?"

  Drystan blinked. It wasn't often that he agreed with Yseult of the White Hands, but this time he had to.

  Unfortunately, she could recognize that simple truth for herself, but not for him.

  Kaedin made a sound of disgust and turned to Drystan. "I'm returning to Karke tomorrow, but I will come back for a visit on All Saints. I will speak to my sister then and hope to hear that you have had a change of mind."

  Drystan didn't answer, and Yseult slipped her arm through his. "You are always welcome here, Kaedin."

  Her brother nodded shortly and stormed out of the room. Rather than face his wife, Drystan followed him but left the villa in another direction.

  He walked the hills above Leonis for hours, hardly noticing where he was going. He could not do this anymore, could not live this way. How could Yseult the Fair, his Yseult, have lived with Marcus Cunomorus for so many years? It was a farce, but not a comedy, something painful that twisted his stomach with its twisted truths.

  Drystan stopped for a moment next to a field of garlic, watching a family dig up the bulbs and place them in their baskets. They greeted him with a smile and returned to their work. One woman sat on a bench in the shade of a house, braiding bulbs which had already been dried.

  He turned away and continued towards the sea.

  She was there, on the other side of the whipping gray-green ocean, beyond the sound of the waves and the calls of the gulls. He had to see her again, had to talk her into leaving his father somehow. They were ru
ining their lives, ruining the lives of others with the lies they tried to live. It couldn't go on.

  But he had responsibilities, he was in charge of running Bro Leon. He would have to stay until the harvest was over.

  And he had to leave before Kaedin returned to Leonis.

  Only how could he get to Isca to speak with Yseult? His father might have come to his wedding, but Drystan was sure he would not be welcome anywhere in Dumnonia where Marcus still ruled.

  Well, it would not be the first time he'd played a role. He had been a bard before, he could be a bard again.

  Chapter 33

  ... my soul would drink of her soul through every sense,

  Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense,

  For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain.

  But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain,

  Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves,

  And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.

  Frederic Manning, "Tristram"

  Getting to Isca was easier than he had anticipated. The garlic had inspired him, and when the harvest was over, he arranged to take a shipment of garlic and grain to the trading center of Kemper, where he could get a better price for it. During his life in Eriu he had learned to always make his lies as close to the truth as possible, so travel to Kemper with garlic and grain is what he did.

  It was there he disappeared. When he became a bard again, his fingers were rusty on the strings of his harp, but it came back to him quicker than he'd expected. In these lands, where many of the old ways were forgotten, "traveling minstrel" was a more appropriate term than bard. While the harp slung across his back made him welcome nearly anywhere he went, he was an entertainer and not a figure of respect. But not all those old memories were gone — if he had been wearing the robes of a druid, Drystan knew he would enjoy a position close to that he had enjoyed in Eriu.

  The ships leaving Kemper would be the first place they would look for him, so he made his way on foot to the port of Rhu, a day's walk. It was there that he found passage to Isca. Now he stood on the streets of a city coming back to life again after years of Saxon raids, a city that in places still resembled such fine Roman towns as Verulamium and Aquae Sulis, and in others was being rebuilt of wood from the rubble. Sheep grazed in empty spaces where grass had taken over, and humble dwellings were built into the remains of sturdy Roman walls.

  No one remarked him, a simple minstrel with a harp on his back. He had even cut off his long braid for the journey, and his shoulder-length hair curled around his face as it hadn't since he was a boy. His clothes were not shabby, but they were not those of the son of the Protector of Dumnonia either —simple woolen breeches against the increasing cold of late October and an unlined cape over a gray tunic, also of wool.

  Now that he was here, the first step was to find Kurvenal. He knew from their infrequent correspondence that his former armsman had a modest shop selling knives and weapons and armor near one of the city blacksmiths on the outskirts of Isca. He found it hard to imagine his friend as a merchant, but when Drystan finally found his shop, there he was, balancing a fine blade on his fingertips, demonstrating its quality to a prospective customer. Drystan waited on the opposite side of the street until the deal had been closed before he walked over.

  Kurvenal looked up, words in praise of his wares dying on his lips when he looked into Drystan's face. He took his hand and pulled him into the darkness of the shop, closing the door behind him.

  "Drys! Do you have these strange powers that Brangwyn and Yseult have too? You cannot have gotten my message yet. And where is the braid you were so proud of? What is with this strange garb?"

  Kurvenal was shaking him by the shoulders in a friendly way, and Drystan was laughing. He had hardly realized how much he had missed his friend. "I got no message."

  "Brangwyn has finally agreed to marry me."

  Drystan took him in a hard embrace. "Congratulations, Kurvi! So I have come for your wedding although you did not come for mine. But will my father allow it?"

  Kurvenal's smile disappeared and his expression turned serious. "Your father is in the north — planning treason, rumor has it."

  "So it has finally come to that."

  "The disaffected kings have done nothing yet except meet, but Arthur is preparing for war in the spring." Kurvenal gave him a sharp look. "But if you did not come for my wedding, why are you here?"

  "I think you know."

  His friend's expression changed from serious to sour. "Drys, no. You have caused enough heartache. Don't go to her."

  "So you are taking her part now?"

  "No, of course not. But she took the news of your marriage hard. You can't mean to ... "

  Drystan cut him off. "I never consummated my marriage with Yseult of Armorica."

  Kurvenal expelled an impatient huff of air. "You are both fools. Fools. Why could you not have forgotten the vanities of this world and run away with each other long ago?"

  "Her mother's life was at stake. And then there was Kustennin."

  "I still think you are fools." He gave a snort of disgust. "What need does Kustennin have for Marcus as a father? I never had Riwallon as father, and yet I am happy with my life. Aside from the fact that my best friend is a fool."

  "Kurvenal, I have to see her again. Can you help me?"

  Kurvenal turned away, his fist clenched. It looked to Drystan as if he wanted to hit something. "Of course I can help you, because Brangwyn can help you. But I don't know if I should. This madness must end."

  Drystan dragged in a deep breath. "Don't you see? It can't. I tried to make it end by marrying Yseult of the White Hands, and now I have only made it worse. The only way to make it end is for the two of us to run away from everything — my father, my wife, anyone and anything that would separate us. It is driving me mad."

  Something in his words or the tone of his voice or his expression must have convinced his friend. Kurvenal pressed his eyelids shut with thumb and forefinger and then dropped his hand to look at Drystan. "I will help you. God help me for doing so."

  * * * *

  At least his rags didn't stink as much as those of the real beggars in the streets of Isca. And no one seemed to notice. He looked dirty enough, so they pulled their robes and their cloaks to the side when they passed, their faces turned away.

  Which was all for the best, in case there was someone here who might recognize him. But as Drystan had learned long ago in Eriu, people often did not see what they did not expect to see.

  He huddled in the lee of a wall still standing on the site of the former basilica. The building had seen too much destruction after the Saxon attacks over a decade ago to be saved. Much of the rubble was carted away when his father had returned to devote himself to the reconstruction of the former civitas, and the area was now a public market. Isca might well be what Marcus most loved in the world — once the Saxon threat had been banned, he had devoted an enormous amount of time and profit from the tin trade to keep the city from falling to ruin.

  A mild October had given way to a bitterly cold November, and Drystan pulled his beggar's rags tighter. Finally, he caught sight of Yseult's party approaching the market. Aside from Brangwyn, she had only two guards with her, and neither was Andred. Drystan heaved a sigh of relief.

  And one was Ian, who had fought beside him a lifetime ago. Would he recognize him? And if he did, what would he do?

  Drystan shuffled out in front of them. "Something for the poor, great lady?"

  Drystan saw her start, even though Kurvenal had assured him she would be warned.

  Ian moved between them. "Back, beggar!"

  Yseult put a hand on his arm. "Stay. This man looks as if he is ill and needs treatment. There's a festering wound on his face. Brangwyn, do you know which stalls in the market sell the right medicines?"

  Brangwyn nodded. "I think so."

  Yseult pressed a combination of coins and ring money into Brangwyn's hand. "Find
what we need, please. I will examine this man." She turned to Ian and the other soldier. "You will stand guard here near the wall."

  "Lady —" Ian began to protest, but Yseult cut him off.

  "It is little good I can do behind the walls of the villa. I would help at least one pour soul today."

  The other soldier took his position obediently, but Ian's gaze wandered to Drystan as he hesitated. Then his eyes widened.

  He blinked and bowed. "Yes, Lady."

  Yseult approached Drystan, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. "Ian recognized me," he muttered.

  She nodded. Then her hands touched his face, turning his cheek to cast cold November sun on what he hoped looked like a beggar's sores.

  Her hands again, after over a year, the fingers long and cool and competent, touching his skin. He closed his eyes at the ecstasy of it.

  "Will he betray us?" Drystan asked, his eyes still closed. He could hardly believe the effect her innocent touch on his face was having on him.

  Yseult sighed. "It does not feel as if he will. His emotions now are a mixture of regret and guilt."

  Drystan opened his eyes again and looked into the intelligent face of moonlight and winter that haunted his days and nights. "Then perhaps he will help you run away."

  Yseult raised her voice. "If you would only wash more often, such sores would not become as angry as these." She turned back to the two soldiers. "Benesek, I would have you fetch some water from the well in the middle of the market. I need to clean the sore before I can treat this man."

  The second soldier bowed and hurried away.

  "Run away?" she repeated at a whisper. "With you, I take it, a man only recently married?"

  "That was why I had to see you," Drystan said, his voice barely louder than hers. "It was a mistake. I can't live with her, I can't live with myself."

  Yseult drew a deep breath, a catch of pain in it. She clenched one fist briefly and stretched the fingers out again. "And you must tell me this now?"

  The foot traffic of Isca on market day flowed past them, but at a safe distance afforded them by Ian's armor and Yseult's position as queen. It was a strange kind of intimacy in the middle of such a public space.