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

by Nestvold, Ruth

  Drystan pulled up next to the ladders and was about to dismount when he thought he saw a movement past the burning siege engine.

  "Is there a gate on the north side of the fortress?" he called out to Gawain, who was leading the attack on this section of the wall.

  "There wasn't when I was last here," Gawain yelled back.

  Drystan reined his mare. "I thought I saw something there. I'll take my men to investigate and join you after."

  In the eerie orange light from the fires, he saw Gawain nod.

  "Follow me!" he shouted to his men. They galloped around and past the burning siege tower, some of the horses neighing nervously, but all well-trained enough that none of them shied or bolted. In places, the ledge between wall and cliff was barely wide enough for two horses, and the only light they had to go by was the burning siege tower behind them and the fire within the walls above them.

  But Drystan's eyes had not deceived him: on a wider space on the ledge ahead, warriors from Din Eidyn stood shoulder to shoulder. During the siege, they must have constructed a passageway through the wall.

  "Forward, men! Britannia patria!" Drystan cried out and spurred his mount towards the shadowy enemy.

  The makeshift gate did not allow escape for more than one man at a time; the defenders of Din Eidyn must have been counting on the element of surprise, which was no longer theirs. Kurvenal beside him, Drystan charged the enemy, spear raised high. When they hit the rebel forces, there was nowhere for them to run. Even with the eerie glow from the fires lighting up the night, Drystan was nearly fighting blind. He plunged his spear into what he hoped was the neck of the man in front of him and heard a scream above the clash of steel and wood and hooves and the excited chuffing of their mounts. Neck or not, he had hit his mark, and he yanked the spear out of his victim.

  The defenders were attacking their mounts now, and Drystan instantly saw that in this light, a horse was a much more vulnerable target — it was a bigger shadow in a world of half-light.

  "Dismount!" he called to the men behind him, pulling his mare back from the swords and spears aimed at her. He leaned forward, blocking a dangerous thrust to her knees while his men streamed past him to take up the battle on foot.

  Only about a dozen men from Din Eidyn had made it through the narrow passageway, and Drystan and his troops made short work of them, slaughtering another as he emerged.

  "Take the next alive!" Drystan ordered.

  One more man came through and was jumped and secured. Drystan dismounted and came forward, while his men continued to guard the passageway, but it appeared that by this time the defenders had realized that their surprise exit was closed off. He glanced up at the wall, expecting an attack from above, but the guards appeared to be too occupied with the siege engines and ladders and grappling hooks being coordinated by Gawain.

  And then he recognized the prisoner. Marcus Cunomorus.

  Drystan's chest tightened painfully. He faced the man who had given him life and then wanted to take it back again. "Can you get us back through the passage you used to get out?" he rapped out.

  Marcus didn't answer.

  Drystan slapped him across the face, and his father's head jerked around. "It's your life if you don't lead us into the fortress safely," he said. "You will go first, and if there are others waiting to slaughter us on the other side, it is you their weapons will cut down."

  He grabbed his father's arm and yanked it around, pushing him ahead through the irregular break in the thick stone wall. Someone had bound Marcus's wrists behind him, and Drystan held the ropes tightly. If there was one thing he knew, it was that his father was not to be trusted.

  And he was sure Marcus Cunomorus would say the same thing about him.

  "There is no one at the other side, is there?" he whispered into his father's ear. He wondered where Kurvenal was, if anyone else had recognized the king of Dumnonia. "You wanted to escape the conflict and not face the consequences of your decision. I would place a brace of Erainn hounds on it that Lot knows nothing of this breach in the wall."

  At that, Marcus snorted. "He is not clever enough by far. It was a mistake to tie my fortunes to his."

  Drystan knew that was the closest his father would ever come to an admittance of wrong-doing — he had made the wrong decision, he had not taken every detail into consideration, he had not acted in his own best interests.

  They came out of the stone walkway into a house built against the wall. No troops, no enemy waiting for them. "It's safe," Drystan said to those behind him and shoved his father forward. "Your residence here in Din Eidyn, I take it?" he murmured.

  Marcus Cunomorus didn't deign to answer.

  "I think you are now going to take us to the gates of this fortress and help us open them for Arthur." His father's lips grew thin, but he didn't protest.

  Drystan looked around at his men and caught Kurvenal's disbelieving gaze fixed on the king of Dumnonia.

  "Kurvenal, I want you to take a small party back to Gawain's troops, tell him about this entrance and bring however many soldiers he thinks it is safe to spare here."

  Kurvenal nodded and headed back to the entrance, motioning the warriors nearest him to follow.

  Drystan turned back to his father. "And now you will get us to the gate safely."

  "You will have to untie my hands," Marcus said. "No one will believe you are my men if I am bound."

  It was true, but Drystan didn't trust his father as far as he could spit. "Good, we'll make your bonds looser so you can move your arms freely. For your sake, you had better hope that no one notices you're a captive."

  He thought he saw something resembling respect flicker in his father's eyes, and he was reminded of that other time when he had earned the respect of Marcus Cunomorus — when he had come up with the plot to marry off his cousin Labiane after his father had impregnated her.

  Drystan turned away, trying not to show his disgust.

  When their captive had been retied, they exited the house publicly, swords drawn, hurrying through the streets behind the king of Dumnonia. Drystan didn't think any of his men other than Kurvenal had recognized who they were following — Marcus was not a frequent guest among Arthur's troops, after all.

  With the soldiers in Din Eidyn, it was a different matter entirely. Even in the flickering light of torches lifted as they neared, Marcus Cunomorus was deferred to and allowed to pass. Drystan kept a firm hand on the rope binding his father's wrists beneath his cape, but no one remarked the strange intimacy — or the strangers in the king of Dumnonia's train. They were unimportant vassals of one of the rebel kings.

  The noises of battle and the tension in the air grew as they approached the gates at a purposeful jog. Drystan took in the situation in a quick glance: the warriors trying to hold the heavy wooden doors against the battering ram, the archers on the ramparts picking off Arthur's men the best they could in the dark, the buckets of pitch being carried up the stairs. They were outnumbered, but they would have the advantage of surprise if they made the right moves.

  "Cunomorus!" a heavy-set man near the gate called when he saw them. "Good that you bring reinforcements!"

  Drystan yanked lightly on his father's bonds and ran his short sword along his thigh. It was all the reminder Marcus Cunomorus needed not to betray them — if that much.

  "Take half the men up to the ramparts to take out as many of the archers and pitch-pourers as you can," Drystan said to Erim beside him. Then he raised his free arm in the air, giving a call new to him and new to Britain.

  "Artorius Rex!"

  His troops took up the call with a joy and enthusiasm that surprised even Drystan and stormed the gate and the ramparts. For a moment, Drystan held the rope between his father's wrists in his fist, not knowing what he should do with it. Their eyes met, eyes too similar to be so completely foreign to each other. Drystan felt a fist cramp around his heart; what a fool he had been to think he was beyond the inner turmoil he knew Gawain was suffering in waging war a
gainst his own father.

  He dropped Marcus Cunomorus's bonds and flung himself into the fray with his men. Distracted from holding the door against the enemy, the warriors of Din Eidyn turned to fight off this new threat. The pounding of the battering ram and the sound of splintering wood grew louder as the heavy iron braces began to give way.

  "Artorius Rex!" Drystan called out again to make sure the forces on the other side of the gate realized there were friends on the inside as well as foes. He spitted a rebel warrior as the head of the battering ram came through the wood with a splintering crunch. The bolts and bars groaned and gave, falling in towards them, followed by the roar of Arthur's warriors on the other side. The battering ram came at them again, clearing away the most stubborn wooden planks of the doors, followed by a stream of Arthur's men, the Dux Bellorum himself at the fore.

  "Who dares name me king?" he bellowed, looking around. Drystan felt more than saw his cousin's gaze light on him — he was too busy with a Gododdin warrior who would have gladly taken his head off. Then Arthur was beside him, and together they fought back those who were still attempting to defend the fortress. With the gate breached, a number of rebel warriors had thrown down their arms and cried mercy.

  As they fought their way towards the center of the fortress, the sky began to lighten with more than just the fires of battle. Somewhere beyond the clash of steel and wood and bone, Drystan could hear the first birds singing, totally indifferent to the conflicts of men. The incongruity of it gave him hope and made him smile.

  No matter what the outcome of this battle, the birds would still be there.

  * * * *

  Kurvenal beside him, Drystan wandered through the fortress, inspecting the bodies of the dead and injured. The numb, empty feeling that always overcame him after a battle was compounded this time by what he feared to find.

  The body of his father.

  The stench of burnt buildings, blood, and death was in his nostrils, and they walked together, silent. Kurvenal kicked over a body to inspect the one beneath, but once again it wasn't Marcus Cunomorus.

  Agravaine was taken and Lot dead. Gawain, Gaheris and Gareth mourned — for the death of a father and for what they had done to bring it about. Drystan feared the same fate — but nearly as much he feared not finding his father at all.

  It would mean he was responsible for the escape of a traitor.

  "I have told no one that you had Marcus in your power," Kurvenal murmured.

  Drystan nodded shortly.

  "Why did you release him?" Kurvenal asked.

  "Would you have had me execute him?"

  His friend stared at him for a moment, not answering. "He had no such qualms about you."

  Yes, and that was why he had thought he was free of filial ties. How wrong he had been.

  He turned over another body, knowing from the build and the clothing that it would not be the man he was looking for. But he did not want to answer Kurvenal just now.

  They made their rounds of the fortress without success, returning to Arthur empty-handed.

  "No sign of Marcus?" Arthur asked. Those who had been fighting with the rebel kings were gathered east of the fortress, closely guarded. Behind the Dux Bellorum, the sky was turning brilliant hues of orange and red with the onset of day.

  Drystan shook his head.

  "What of the other rebel leaders?" Kurvenal asked.

  "Hueil son of Caw fell with Lot," Arthur said. "There is no news yet of Cadwallon of Gwynedd or Idres of Dumnonia, nor of Cerdic. But we already suspected that he disappeared even before the battle began."

  "And the other sons of Caw?" Drystan wondered how close Labiane was to her step-sons — if at all — and what this might mean for her.

  "Nothing."

  "And ours?" Drystan asked.

  Arthur looked away. "There is no news yet as to the whereabouts of Ludd or Aircol."

  Drystan drew in a deep breath. He had fought next to Aircol so many times now, he could no longer count them. His memories may have left him for a time, but they were back now, and he could see Aircol beside him, sailing up the Sabrina Estuary at the battle of Glevum. If he had fallen, what would become of his young son Vortipor?

  Kurvenal took his shoulder in a bracing grip. "Come, my friend. We will be returning to Dumnonia soon with this battle won. Brangwyn and Yseult are waiting for us."

  He blinked and gazed past his friend at the fortress they had just conquered, the early morning sun bright on the rocky cliffs on which it stood. Kurvenal was right. It was Yseult he had been thinking of on the way north, Yseult he wrote to when a messenger was going south, Yseult who made his dreams sweet and his future finally bright.

  Soon he would be see her again. And once he had spoken with Yseult of the White Hands, he would be returning to her to stay.

  * * * *

  Yseult stared at the hand she held between hers, the covering of light hairs on the back, much denser than on her own. How could she give this hand up again so soon after having it back, having it between her own, here, where everyone could see them and no one would say them nay?

  She clenched her hands tighter around his and felt an answering pressure.

  "I won't be gone long, Yseult," Drystan said. "But Yseult of Armorica deserves to hear my decision in person. Perhaps when faced with facts she will agree to an annulment."

  Yseult leaned her head back on her shoulders, grateful of the late summer sun on her face, grateful of this bench she'd had built on a rise near her herb garden at Dyn Tagell. The air was full of the constant, soothing hum of bees, busy with the lemon balm; full of the pleasantly astringent smell, the sour from the leaves and the sweet from the flowers. Above them, the gulls cried, and all around them were the rhythmic sounds of the sea.

  "Can it not wait until Spring?" she asked. "What if the seas turn rough early this year?"

  Drystan laughed and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "Your eagerness is such a joy to me. Yseult, it is only August. There is at least another month of good sailing weather."

  Near them, Kustennin barked out a childish order to the other children of Dyn Tagell, assuming naturally that his word would be followed. Yseult watched them for a while, and for the first time she found herself wondering how, at the age of five, her son already had the attitude and bearing of a king. He would have had that attitude and that bearing no matter what course she had chosen to follow, she was sure of it — and the other children would have followed him exactly as they were doing now.

  She turned Drystan's hand over in hers, traced the lines on his palm with her fingers, wishing she could keep him here with her. But she had turned him away so often, how could she beg him now to stay?

  She shook her head. "I wish we could finally start our life together."

  He gazed out at the sea, his expression distant. "I would like to start it honestly this time."

  Honestly? Yseult sighed. "Has there been any word of Marcus Cunomorus?" she asked.

  "No."

  She released his hand and rose, moving towards the southern cliffs, as if that would tell her where the man she had married was. Everyone expected Marcus to show up at his Armorican seat at Caer Haes eventually, and that was where she had sent the message asking for a divorce, but she had not yet heard back from him.

  "Marcus is no longer important," Drystan said beside her, his voice low. "He has betrayed too many people. You rule here now."

  They came to the top of the rise, and the wind tore at her hair and whipped the curls around Drystan's face. "And what of you?" she asked.

  Finally he laughed again. "Yseult, I have never ruled here. But you are queen of the people of Dumnonia, and Arthur knows that. It is you who will rule in the name of your son."

  After the battle of Din Eidyn, Arthur had pardoned the rebel kings who promised to abide by whatever decision might be reached by the council regarding the high kingship of Britain; those pardoned would retain all lands and titles they were born to. But Marcus had disappeared,
promising nothing, and he had no inherited Dumnonian lands — only his Armorican holdings were his by birth. Arthur had declared Marcus's Dumnonian seats forfeit and named Yseult, to her great surprise, regent.

  Why had he not named his cousin Drystan, Marcus's heir?

  "We will rule together," she said.

  "I have no experience in ruling."

  She smiled. "You ruled for a time in Bro Leon. And you learn quickly."

  Drystan chuckled. "But we do not know how things will play out. We need not talk of this yet."

  She could feel it the moment an unexpected thought occurred to him, a thought with a touch of alarm.

  "Do you not want the ruling of Dumnonia?" he asked. "Would you rather return to Eriu?"

  She shook her head; almost she would have laughed, but the question was a serious one for him.

  "No. My place is here now." To her surprise, it was true. Somehow when she hadn't been looking, this land had become her land, its fights her fights.

  She turned and looked back at the children playing between the rows of huts and her herb garden. Suddenly, she could no longer abide by her own promise to herself. She turned to him and took his tunic in both hands. "Don't go, Drystan, don't return to your other Yseult. There's no need."

  It was a mistake; she could feel him withdraw from her as soon as she said the words.

  He shook his head. "I gave her a promise, as wrong-headed as it was. I have to return."

  Yseult swallowed, fighting back her protests. "Yes, of course."

  Why was she so against it? If he needed this journey for his peace of mind, so be it. She hoped it wasn't unreasoning jealousy that had her reacting in such a way — that was below her as Yseult the Fair of the Tuatha Dé.

  Drystan took her face in his hands and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I will return before the leaves on the trees change colors, and then we will have the whole winter to ourselves, and all the winters thereafter."

  Ah, perhaps he should have been a bard, her reluctant warrior. His fine words made the tears she had been repressing come rushing to the corners of her eyes, and a painful sigh escaped her.