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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  Once again, once the thing was named, the memories followed. Marcus Cunomorus, his father — and Yseult's husband.

  His father had sentenced him to death.

  Drystan dropped his head into his hands. Images of his past rushed in on him, as if the dam in his mind had been kicked in and he was drowning in memories, all the things he had tried to keep out: the threat of being burned at the stake, the jump from the window of the chapel, the fear for Yseult, fear that they had succeeded with her where they had not with him.

  His father's betrayal — and his own.

  "Gods, I remember now. But why does Arthur want my help so badly if my father is an open traitor?"

  "You are still your father's heir, heir to the kingdom of Dumnonia, despite the fact that you are not welcome in Dumnonia anywhere he still rules." There was a pause, and Drystan looked at his friend to see a slight smile on his serious face. "And you have become quite a hero, Drys. The people love you. They sing songs about your heroic deeds as one of Arthur's companions, romantic songs about you and Yseult. I'm sure your father hates it."

  At the gloating tone in Kurvenal's voice, another rusty laugh escaped Drystan's throat. He shook his head. "Perhaps it is no wonder I tried to flee from myself."

  Kurvenal scooted his stool closer and took Drystan's hands in his. "No, but you're stronger than that. And there are people who need you. You can't afford to hide from them or yourself."

  Drystan drew a deep breath and pulled his hands out of Kurvenal's to rub his eyes and his forehead. It was so much. But Kurvenal was right — others carried burdens just as great, lived with memories just as bad, and those others needed him to be strong. He nodded and smiled.

  "I think you should tell me what happened while I was building defenses in the sand."

  * * * *

  It had rained much of the last week, and weeds Yseult had little use for were taking over the herb garden on Dyn Tagell. At least the garden was still there. She had not been on the Rock since the summer before Arthur had arranged the 'reconciliation' between her and Marcus and took over the running of the site himself, but it appeared that someone had at least maintained the garden.

  She pulled out the bindweed between the selfheal plants while Kustennin played with Judual nearby. Bindweed was good for wounds and bites, and the roots were excellent purgatives, but unfortunately, it had a tendency to strangle other, more helpful plants.

  She thought she heard a footstep and looked up; unfortunately, it was only the boys.

  Kurvenal had promised that he would finally allow Drystan to see her when he was conscious and lucid. She hoped that would be soon. Arthur was due to arrive in Dyn Tagell any day now, and he would most likely take Drystan with him no matter how lucid he was.

  She had to talk to him before that.

  It was only a few months since he had disappeared, from November to April, but so much had changed. After Marcus had traveled north to King Lot when the major roads were clear again, she had been able to convince enough of her guards of his treachery to escape with Kustennin to Cador at Dyn Draithou.

  Strictly speaking, the plans of the rebel kings to name a new king were not treachery, but after his victory at Baddon, Arthur was king in fact if not in name — especially for warriors such as Ian. But since Arthur refused to try to take the throne himself, it was a perfect opportunity for Marcus and the others to create their own facts as it suited them.

  At Cador's seat at Dyn Draithou, the news had reached her that Drystan had been sighted living in the caves near Dyn Tagell. She and Cador had come as quickly as they could.

  "Mama!" Kustennin called.

  Yseult looked up from the long, pale roots of the bindweed trailing out of her hand to her son. No longer digging in the dirt in imitation of her, he was standing and pointing. Judual held on to his other hand, his thumb firmly in his mouth.

  Yseult's gaze turned in the direction of her son's arm, fear and anticipation making her mouth go dry. Drystan stood a little distance away, silent, watching them. Ah, Danu, he was so thin and pale.

  They stared at each other for a moment, neither moving. Then Yseult dropped the bindweed and rose, wiping her dirty hands on her apron. At that sign, he began to come forward across the level expanse of the Rock in her direction, and she stepped away from the herb patch where she had been working.

  His gaze was fixed on her as he walked, and she too stared. She had seen him every day, knew his condition better than most — the cheekbones that were so high now that he looked gaunt, the ribs she could count — but since that first day, she had not seen him awake and aware. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?

  He stopped an arm's length away from her. His hair had been cut, and what could be saved from the tangles whipped in gold and bronze and brown curls around his face. She missed the thick braid, but he would look good with his hair short like this too, once he gained more weight again.

  She took a deep breath. "Drystan. I was hoping Kurvenal would finally allow you to speak with me."

  He grinned, and suddenly the stark lines and planes of his face no longer seemed so harsh. "I told him I would run away and play mad again if he didn't."

  A relieved laugh escaped her. "Ah, Drystan, it is so good to hear you joke once more." She could feel tears start in the corners of her eyes, and she brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

  He caught the hand in both of his. "What's this?" He turned her hand over, tracing one finger across the wetness from her tears and down to her fingers. "You have dirt under your fingernails."

  And then she was laughing and crying at once, her arms around him and his around her, and Kustennin and Judual were next to them, clamoring to know what was going on.

  Drystan lifted Kustennin up and propped him on his hip; he was astonishingly strong for someone who looked so weak. Kustennin had turned five in February and was not exactly small for his age.

  Kustennin inspected Drystan seriously while Yseult picked up Judual. "You're my brother, Drystan," he announced.

  Drystan nodded.

  Yseult was surprised Kustennin recognized him so easily. He had not seen him for almost two years, and then Drystan wore a braid as thick as her fist and had the muscled body of a warrior.

  "But now the two of you must play alone for a bit and let me speak with your mother," Drystan said, his tone as serious as Kustennin's had been.

  Kustennin slid down his body obediently and ran with Judual back to the pile of dirt next to her garden.

  "He's a fine boy," Drystan said and took her hand.

  Yseult looked around instinctively, fearing enemies, fearing betrayal — but there was no longer anyone here at Dyn Tagell who would care to betray anything to Marcus. She had run away from Marcus when he had marched north, against Arthur, and the northern coast of Dumnonia was loyal to the Dux Bellorum.

  She still couldn't get used to being safe, being without Marcus, being free of the everyday pain of a life she abhorred.

  The discomfort remained, however, as they walked hand in hand towards the western edge of the island.

  "He is a fine boy, but I have done wrong in Kustennin's name," she said, extremely aware of her hand in his. When was the last time she had walked hand in hand with a man? Certainly not with her husband, except perhaps at some official function, long ago.

  "How so?" Drystan asked.

  "I wronged you, wronged both of us. I thought I would be stealing Kustennin's future if I decided to leave Marcus and live with you. And now see what I have caused."

  Drystan shook his head. "Did you force me to marry Yseult of the White Hands? No. I am quite capable of making my own mistakes."

  "Ah, but look at you now," Yseult said, her voice low and intense.

  To her surprise, he laughed. "I am here, at Dyn Tagell, with you, and there is no one here who wants to take this away from me. I called you to me. And it is you who are supposed to have the power of calling. I may have regained my memories, but I still
cannot resist the temptation to feel happy that I am here, now, with you."

  "But I turned you away. If I had not, you would not have hidden all these months from reality."

  "What were you to do? Marcus had your son, had guards on you."

  Yseult noted that he called his father "Marcus." She halted at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the churning water. "It seems to me you have not regained all of your memories."

  He squeezed her hand. "I think I have."

  "The last time, it wasn't because of Marcus that I turned you away. If I had not been so hurt by your marriage, I could perhaps have found a way."

  She was still staring down at the ocean as she felt her hand being lifted, felt him press his warm lips against the back near the wrist and hold there. She closed her eyes tight, against the sensations which flooded her from this one seemingly innocent kiss.

  It was one of the most erotic moments of her life.

  She took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes again, turning to him. "How can you forgive me so much?"

  He dropped her hand, shrugging, and she almost wanted to whimper as his lips left her skin. "Forgive? I don't know if it's forgiveness. For some reason, I need you for my peace of mind, and I have to live with the choices you've made. It makes it easier that I can understand them. Who would want to give up Kustennin?"

  How had she deserved this? She had to make it right, had to admit to her mistakes.

  She shook her head. "It need never have come to that. I should have left Marcus as soon as I learned that my mother was free, the spring after Kustennin was born. You begged me then, but I thought some possible future status for our son might be more important than living a life without lies."

  The laugh she loved so much sounded again, adding its music to the waves and gulls. "What life is without lies?"

  She grimaced. "True."

  Drystan gazed out to sea, his expression growing serious again. "Besides, we don't know if it would have been better if you had run away with me. Who knows what Marcus would have done then? At least now he is far away in the north, too busy planning rebellion to come after you."

  Yes, she trusted her husband less than any person she knew, with the possible exception of Andred. But it still did not exonerate her for what Drystan had done to himself, what he had gone through.

  "True," she said. "I wasn't thinking of that at the time, though. I was only thinking of the petty kings who styled themselves greater than Arthur because he is a bastard. I saw his talent as war leader, saw the esteem High King Ambrosius held him in, and couldn't understand that he was not in the line of inheritance. I did not want that for our son."

  "That's not wrong —"

  "Wait, hear me out. I see now that I was wrong. Despite being a bastard in your world, the world of the Britons, Arthur has carved a place for himself as the most important leader on this island, whether he bears the title of king or not. There will always be room for those who can achieve something on their own, even if the laws are against them. And I cannot make my son's life, he must make it himself. I must make my own life, which I want to make with you. Do you think we can still find a way?"

  She could feel his disbelieving joy before he spoke, and once again she was shamed. Had she always only made the wrong choices? But without a number of those wrong choices, there would be no Kustennin, and how could she regret that?

  She lifted her head. He stared at her, battling with himself. He had returned to Dumnonia for what she was offering him, she knew that, but neither of them was free, and his responsibilities tore at him despite what he wanted. Her situation was easier: to betray Marcus, egocentric and amoral as he was, called for few moral scruples, but she could feel in Drystan's guilty eagerness that Yseult of Armorica was another matter entirely.

  What she asked of him was his waking dream turned reality, but he still couldn't accept it.

  Her head dropped to his shoulder, and she could smell the tang of nervous sweat. Nervous sweat? How could it be this way between them after all they had been through together? With a pang of envy, she thought of the comfortable love that had developed between Brangwyn and Kurvenal, slowly, carefully, dispensing with the areas of conflict before they came to full bloom, a love discursive and patient. While she and Drystan had been in each other's arms before they barely knew there was any such thing as a future.

  And now all those aspects of reality the future had brought encroached, making sharing the rest of their lives together still seem little more than fantasy, even though they both wanted it. They had been living so long with disappointment —disappointment coming from their own rash acts — that they couldn't trust hope.

  A choked laugh finally escaped him. "I came here for this, but I don't know what to say. Odd, isn't it? I would have to return to Yseult of the White Hands and at least try to get an annulment from her, but I don't know if she will agree. Before the wedding, I came to my senses and offered to let her call the marriage off, but she refused, even when I told her I still loved you."

  Yseult turned away. "I have waited too long to come to my senses."

  She heard the way her voice caught and so did he. His arms slipped around her from behind, and peace and joy filled her as she gazed at the gentle waves out to sea.

  "We can find a way to work it out," he murmured against her ear. "If all else fails, we will live together in sin, as my father did with Trephina, or as Diarmaid did with Grainne."

  At his mention of one of the famed tales of elopement from her homeland, Yseult's hope surged illogically. Perhaps with the small talent he had, he could feel it too, because his lips curled in a smile against the back of her neck.

  "But first we will see if there is an honorable way," she said.

  He turned her around in his arms and trailed one finger down her cheek, allowed it to drift to the nape of her neck and tangle in her hair. "No, first I must go to war again."

  She tried to look away at that, but he pulled her face to his, took it in both hands, rough from his months of madness, his life on the edge of reality and existence, and kissed her soft lips.

  Chapter 34

  Iseult! One wild, unmated word,

  Iseult! No sound so sweet is heard

  In all the lyric speech of bird.

  G. Constant Lounsbery, "An Iseult Idyll"

  Drystan laid his harp aside. Among the hardened warriors in the hall of Cambodunum, a northern fortress once built by the Romans to hold back the threat of the barbarian Picts, there were few dry eyes. Thinking of loved ones they had left behind or lost, they rubbed their temples surreptitiously with callused fingers or rough knuckles, trying to erase any clue of deceptive moisture; only then did they seem to remember the recognition due the artist and clapped their hands or stomped their feet or banged their tankards on the table.

  "More!"

  "Give us another song, Drust!"

  Drystan smiled and took up his harp again. These men deserved their entertainment after the hard ride north with the vanguard of Arthur's forces. Foot soldiers were on their way by ship to the port of Calunium, the last port south of Rheged and the territories of the northern rebel kings. He glanced over at Gawain, Gaheris and Gareth; they too were riding to war against their father, as Drystan was. They had sided with Arthur and their mother Margawse, against Lot, king of Gododdin — against their patrimony and their heritage, and against their brother Agravaine as well. Their expressions were serious. They sat together, not mixing much with Arthur's other companions. Drystan plucked the strings of his harp, wondering if they were feeling guilty at their choice. Drystan was not; it was interesting how liberating it was to have been sentenced to death by one's own father. Marcus Cunomorus was his father no more, only an enemy to be faced and conquered.

  The king of Elmet, Mascuid, rose and limped over to Drystan's table to fill his tankard. "Excellent playing, young man. You should have been a bard."

  Drystan smiled. "I was, more than once."

  The king chuckled.
"Perhaps a more cheerful tune this time, bard?"

  "Gladly."

  Mascuid limped back to his seat next to Ludd Ogryn, his brother and Arthur's former father-in-law. Next to them sat Arthur himself with his twelve-year-old son Llacheu. It was interesting to see hints of this earlier life of Arthur's, when Arthur had been Ambrosius's general in the north.

  Gazing at Arthur's son, Drystan realized that he didn't even know how Arthur's first wife had died.

  But it was no time to think of death now — they were heading to war again, and death would find them soon enough. He smiled at Kurvenal beside him and launched into a happier song this time, a song that reflected his own mood, of being reunited with loved ones rather than leaving them. Here in the north, the night was colder than it had any right to be in summer, but when this campaign was over, he would be returning to Yseult.

  This time, somehow, they would find a way.

  * * * *

  It was another rock, this one jutting up from the land rather than from the sea. The man he had once called father was there, trying to persuade other disaffected kings and would-be kings of his suitability for High King of Britain, many of whom had the same ambition.

  Even from this distance, the riders could see the drawn gate and guards at their positions on the walls of the hill-fort. Since bursting from the woods to the west and the south, they had slowed their pace nearing the massive fortress, the thousand horse Arthur now commanded efficiently surrounding Din Eidyn at a safe distance. The foot soldiers behind them would arrive soon to strengthen their position.

  Arthur shot Drystan a wry look. "I do not think we can use your tunneling abilities this time, Cousin."

  A surprised laugh escaped Drystan. "I think you're right."

  Myrddin shook his head. "Perhaps you should have had yourself elected High King first, Arthur."

  Arthur's lips grew thin, but before he could say anything, Madoc spoke. "What need have we of a High King? Arthur is Dux Bellorum, head of the fighting forces of Britain." At the looks Cai and Bedwyr gave him, Madoc shook his head. "And no, it is not because I have any ambition to be High King — at least no longer," he corrected himself with a slight smile that suddenly made him look much more like is younger half-brother. "I have realized now that there is no other person on this island better suited to lead the defense of Britain than Arthur. He has defended Britain against her enemies for almost two decades, something none of these claimants to the title of overlord have ever done. What difference does it make if we call him High King or Dux Bellorum?"