She gave the linen of his tunic — which she still held —a light shake. "I will hold you to that promise, my love."
Chapter 35
Iseult of Brittany?—but where
Is that other Iseult fair,
That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? ...
There were two Iseults who did sway
Each her hour of Tristram's day;
But one possess'd his waning time,
The other his resplendent prime.
Mathew Arnold, "Tristram and Iseult"
Yseult of the White Hands stared at her husband, unable to believe what she was hearing. She had known for months now that he was still alive, had wondered when he would return to Leonis, if ever, had tried to reconcile herself to her humiliating position as abandoned wife, and now this: an annulment. She knew no one whose marriage had been annulled. Tales were told of an early of wife of Marcus Cunomorus whom he had divorced; he had forced her into it in order to contract the more advantageous marriage to Drystan's mother Argante. After she had been turned aside, the poor woman had thrown herself from the cliffs south of Kemper into the sea.
"That way you would be free to marry again," he was saying now.
She stopped to smell a salmon-colored rose from one of the rose bushes she had imported to Leonis. Ygerna had a beautiful garden at Caer Brioc, and when Yseult had come here as Drystan's betrothed, she had started a garden of her own. No longer her own now: if Labiane and Caw came here to stay, she would have to leave, and she could hardly take the rose garden with her.
She straightened again, not looking at him. "Who would have me, the discards of Drystan son of Cunomorus?"
"But you're young, beautiful, even untouched, and I would be able to give you a generous settlement." He was silent for a moment, waiting for an answer. When she didn't provide it, he continued. "With the settlement, it should be clear to all that I am not just casting you off."
She could hear the frustration in his voice, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, shaking her head. How could he possibly think it would be so easy? "Of course they will. It is what you are doing, isn't it?"
At least he had the good grace and honesty to look away at that. "I did you wrong in marrying you. But I tried to explain even before the ceremony. I gave you the opportunity to call it off."
"Yes, after most of the wedding guests had arrived."
She saw his shoulders tighten, and he turned back to her, the look of frustration in his eyes again.
"And you think a lifetime of misery is not too high a price to pay for giving a few wedding guests what they came for?"
She clenched her famed long-fingered hands in her skirts, the hands that had given her her name. He made it sound so petty, but it was much more than that, and he knew it. All the local kings had been invited, it had been a bigger event even than the funeral of Riwallon. Their marriage had Blodewedd's approval, she had made him regent of Bro Leon in her will, and he might even have become king here in Leonis if he had not run away so foolishly. Now she was allowed to remain only through the generosity of Labiane, who had arrived in the spring after Drystan's disappearance — and after he had recovered his senses and sent word to his cousin that he would have to go to war with Arthur again.
He had sent no word to her.
"We wouldn't have had to be miserable," she said bitterly. "That is your doing." She stopped next to a costly white rose, the blooms full and pure; it was one of her favorites. He had it all wrong — calling the wedding off would have led to a lifetime of misery. She would have been sent back to her brother's seat at Karke in disgrace. Exactly what he was asking her to do now.
He shook his head, the bronze of his queue glancing in the sunlight, the long braid gone, sacrificed to masquerade and madness.
"You can think what you will, but I could never have made you happy," he said.
Men were such fools. They didn't understand what was truly important in life: home, peace, family. "What married couple is 'happy' in the way I think you mean, can you tell me that? You could at least have given me children if you'd tried."
He shook his head again. "You don't understand, Yseult. You can't."
He acted as if the nearly ten years difference in their ages were twice that, as if she couldn't understand love or pain. She had been living with pain most of the last year. "Don't treat me like a child. I may not have your experience, but I know as well as you what moves men and women, and I know perhaps better than you how fleeting it can be."
He moved as if to speak, but she raised a pale had to stop him. "No, don't interrupt me. This 'love' you feel for Yseult of Eriu has never been tested, not in the way that counts: building a life together, enduring the everyday annoyances. All you have ever had is a grand passion, an impossible love that feeds on itself simply because it is impossible."
He let out a sigh of frustration, pulling back the hair that had escaped his thong with one hand. "But that is what I want — a chance at the everyday. You're wrong if you think we've been happy with the situation we've been forced to endure."
She felt a bitter laugh bubble up between her lips. "You may believe that, but is it true? Every couple I have ever seen falls out of love eventually. If they are lucky, they find a comfortable place where they continue to enjoy each other as companions. If they are not, they end up despising each other and simply put a good face on it for the world."
His expression turned stubborn, and she knew she would not win, at least not this battle.
"You might be right," he said, "but I will return to Yseult the Fair whether you agree to an annulment or not. Yseult and I have made too many mistakes now to continue living with our lies."
And she would be left with a place that was not home and Drystan's bitter cousin and no hope that her life would ever change for the better. She shook her head. "Even if Yseult of Eriu does not get a divorce from your father?"
Drystan gazed at her seriously for a long moment, and the last remnants of Yseult's hope died. "Even then."
She looked away so he wouldn't see the tears start in her eyes, wouldn't see the weakness he seemed to despise. At least the roses around them offered a small degree of comfort in their beauty. "Does your father know?" she asked, fingering a bud half open, keeping her voice as steady as she could.
"Yseult has sent a message to him at Caer Haes to ask for a divorce, but when I left Dumnonia, no one had heard from him yet."
"He has returned. It is common knowledge here in Armorica."
This was obviously news to him. He drew in a quick breath. "It doesn't matter whether or not he agrees to a divorce. It is over between them, Yseult."
"Is that what he thinks too?"
He shrugged. "I don't know what my father thinks — I doubt if I ever did. But Yseult will no longer live with him."
The name "Yseult" on his lips, her name, spoken in a different way than she had ever heard it before, caring, reverent almost. The anger she felt at the sound of that tenderness made her throat close up and her stomach cramp. "There are other people involved in your decision besides you and Yseult, you know."
"But we have been thinking about those others too much. It is time for us to give ourselves a chance."
She cupped a yellow rose in her hand and bent over to take in the fragrance. Marcus Cunomorus could not be in favor of this — perhaps he would be her salvation. At the wedding, he had struck her as a competent, determined man, a man who was quite capable of getting what he wanted. If he heard his son planned to take his wife, he might be clever enough to bring her away in time.
A tendril of hope began to come alive again. She would write to Marcus Cunomorus.
* * * *
Drystan wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He was standing in one place while others were prancing, but the August sun was hot on his face as he watched Cwylli with a practiced eye as she did her rounds on the new pony he had bought her. A groom held the reins and walked the two of them around the pen.
"She's sweet, Drystan!" Cwylli called out to him. "Can I try her by myself?"
Drystan nodded, motioning the groom to let the little girl take over control of the pony. "You may continue with your other duties now; I have an eye on her."
As the groom bowed and left, Kurvenal joined him at the pen, leaning on the railing. "Drys, I know you enjoy the girl's company, but you did tell Yseult we would not be away more than a fortnight. It's time we returned to Dumnonia. It has been over a week now, and your wife shows no signs of agreeing to an annulment."
Drystan watched Cwylli as she proudly led the pony in a zigzag in the pen. With every change in direction, she looked over to him for approval, a wide smile on her face. He sighed. "Perhaps you are right. But I would have wanted to finally do things right."
Kurvenal gave a snort. "It is hardly right to abandon a young woman you married for no good reason."
Beyond the pen were the gardens Yseult of the White Hands had begun to lay out after taking up residence in Leonis. Drystan gazed at the riot of blooms, the lavender and late-blooming lilies between the roses, one eye still on Cwylli. As lavish as it was, it was hard to believe this was only the second summer the garden had been here. The Yseult he had married was good with flowers, and the elaborate, decorative garden was a balm to eye and soul. The Yseult he loved was a good gardener too, but her gardens were full of practical, healing herbs, a balm for the body rather than the eye.
He turned to his friend. "I'm well aware of your disapproval of my affair with Yseult of Eriu," he said quietly. "But just for once, try to imagine how you would feel if Brangwyn had been married off to someone else against her will before the two of you had a chance to marry."
Kurvenal clenched his hands on the railing and didn't answer.
They were so caught up in their near argument that Cwylli was the first to notice the new arrivals. "Look, Drystan!" she called out.
At first he thought she wanted to show him something she had tried on her pony, but when he looked, she was pointing towards the stables. His gaze followed the direction of her finger to see Andred and his father dismounting.
After letting loose his father's bonds near the end of the battle of Din Eidyn, Drystan had hoped he would never again see the man who had sired him.
"What is he doing here?" Kurvenal muttered under his breath.
Drystan shook his head. "Who knows." He sincerely doubted that Marcus Cunomorus had come to thank him for not killing him when he could have.
Together they watched as Marcus handed the reins of his horse to Andred, and the man-at-arms lead the bay and his own black into the stable. The former king of Dumnonia approached them, pulling off the gloves he wore for riding.
"What, no words of greeting for your father?"
Drystan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I was too surprised for words. Why are you here?"
"That should be obvious — to visit my son."
He barely repressed a snort of disbelief. "Even if I had known where you were, I would not have told you I was coming to Armorica."
"No, your wife has more manners than you."
He wondered what Yseult hoped to get out of his father's presence here; did she truly think this traitor still had an influence over him?
He turned to Kurvenal. "Would you go to the hall and tell Yseult and Labiane that my father has arrived? A room will have to be made ready for him."
There was a stubborn slant to Kurvenal's mouth, and for a moment he didn't move. They stared at each other briefly and then Kurvenal turned on his heel and strode to the hall.
Drystan waved to Cwylli, still doing her rounds on the pony, and looked over at his father. "Now, tell me why you came."
Marcus Cunomorus stood next to a yew tree at the corner of the pen, still slapping his riding gloves against his hand, as he too watched the daughter he couldn't acknowledge. "I heard you plan to move in with my wife."
"So you will not give her the divorce?" If that were the case, it really did not make any sense to remain in Bro Leon, as much as he wanted to make things right with Yseult of Armorica. But the annulment of his own marriage was immaterial if Yseult of Eriu remained married.
"I see no reason to give her up to you."
"You don't have a choice."
Marcus turned on him, the riding gloves clenched in one fist. "And why is it I should divorce her — to give you a license to fuck her?"
Drystan winced at the words but stood his ground. "Perhaps because your marriage is a farce? Perhaps because you are a traitor and Yseult has Arthur's support?"
"It shouldn't be too surprising that a bastard supports adultery, should it? But what do I care that an unlegitimized ruler wants me to divorce my unfaithful wife so that he can use her for his own political ends?"
"Unfaithful? And what of Trephina?"
"Do not mention her in the same breath as the Erainn woman. She was more faithful to me than your whore."
At that, Drystan's control snapped, and he lunged at Marcus Cunomorus, his hands going around his father's neck. At the same time, he felt the prick of a dagger point against his ribs through his tunic. As he stared into the green eyes so like his own, he realized that his father had provoked him on purpose. This had been his intent all along, to kill his son with his own hands. Marcus intended to have Drystan killed before, but the execution had not taken place; this time he would do it himself, to make sure.
Behind them, the sound of the pony's plodding hooves had stopped, and he could hear Cwylli whimpering.
"Tell me one thing," Marcus said, Drystan's hands around his throat and his own dagger aimed for his son's heart. "Is Kustennin yours?"
He could see his death in his father's eyes; he couldn't choke his father as fast as the dagger would find his vital organs. At least he could give Marcus Cunomorus one more thing to make his dreams troubled and his heart sore.
Drystan began to tighten his fingers around the throat under his hands as the tip of the dagger dug into his skin. "What do you think, father? That a woman so skilled in the use of herbs could not prevent a pregnancy from a man she was forced to marry? That she would not be able to choose the father of her child, even if she could not choose her husband? Yes, Kustennin is —"
Before he was able to utter the last word, the dagger was thrust between his ribs, sending searing pain down his side. Cwylli began to scream, and Drystan found himself hoping that the pony was too lethargic to bolt.
Marcus pulled the dagger out. Drystan clutched at the wound, pressing it shut, trying to keep the blood from pouring out over his hands.
"Drystan!"
Drystan saw his father jerk around at the sound of Kurvenal's voice. The movement did not look fast, although he knew it was; it looked slow, deliberate, considered, and Kurvenal's voice came from far away. He fell to his knees in front of the yew tree, his hands still pressing the wound shut, the pulsing flow of the blood between his fingers punctuated by Cwylli's screams. Marcus threw the dagger to the ground and ran to the stables, his movements slow, so slow. Then Kurvenal was kneeling next to him in the grass, while Cwylli's screams seemed to grow farther away. His vision was blurring, but he saw his father hurry back out of the stables, Andred close behind. The two of them mounted their horses and rode away, every movement he watched like a yawn, or part of a dream.
Kurvenal pushed him back, forcing him to lie down. With one bloody hand, Drystan grabbed his friend's tunic. "Fetch Yseult, Yseult the Fair."
Kurvenal nodded. It was hard to concentrate on his face, but he thought his cheeks were wet.
There was more, he had to say more before he passed out. "Tell her I have failed: Yseult will not agree to the annulment. But I beg her to come anyway."
"Drystan, you must be quiet —"
"No." It was important, he had to tell him this. He didn't know why, but he had to have things clear, now. "If she is coming to me, use a white sail on the ship, but if she refuses, hoist a black."
"But Drys, Yseult w
ill not refuse you."
Ah, how could he know that? She had refused him ever and often, she could refuse him now. "Promise me."
"I promise. Rest now, Drystan. We must fetch a healer."
Kurvenal had promised. Good. He would know. He laid his head back on the grass next to the pen. Other people were gathering around him now, and little Cwylli threw herself on his chest, making strange hiccoughing noises. He put one arm around his little sister and gazed at the branches of the yew tree above his head, smiling.
* * * *
Every movement he made was accompanied by wrenching pain. He tried to remain as motionless as possible, his eyes closed. He didn't know how long he had been lying here, but he did know what he was waiting for. Yseult of Armorica — his wife —daintily wiped his hot brow with a wet rag. He was feverish, but he knew which Yseult was with him now, and it was the wrong one.
How could he have imagined he could substitute one Yseult with the other? How could he have been so naive to turn to Yseult of Armorica, Yseult with the unblemished hands, yearning for a love without complications? Now he was dying, and he knew there was no such thing.
The wound, just below his heart, throbbed painfully. When they thought he couldn't hear, the doctors and healers expressed the opinion that he should have died days ago. But he couldn't die yet. He was waiting for her.
He opened his eyes, and Yseult leaned over him eagerly. "The ship," Drystan mumbled. "Can you see it yet?"
The eagerness in her eyes vanished. "I'll check."
He watched her move slowly across the room to the arched window. His wife, a pretty decoration. Yseult of the White Hands hated the sight of blood, hated sickness and disease; she couldn't get those famous hands dirty. His beloved, his Yseult, was a wise woman and a warrior. Perhaps if she had been here when his father had stabbed him, she could have saved him, as she had saved him before.
But now it was too late. All he desired was to see her one more time.
"Is it coming?" he asked again.
Yseult shook her head and Drystan turned his face to the wall. Perhaps she wouldn't come. Yseult had begged him to remain with her in Dumnonia, but he hadn't listened. So many things she'd had to forgive him for over the years: killing her uncle, lying to her, bringing her to his father, marrying the woman who now tended him ...
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 56
