Cwylli stormed into the room, followed more sedately by Labiane and little Gildas. "Gently, Cwylli," Labiane said.
Cwylli sat down on the edge of his sickbed. He tried to lift a hand to ruffle her golden-brown curls, but his arm would not obey his thoughts.
"Are you better yet, Drystan?" she asked.
"Almost." With Cwylli here, he tried to keep his eyes open, tired to concentrate more on his surroundings. The figure of Labiane wavered and shimmered, but he thought her expression looked grim.
"Marcus Cunomorus has not yet been found," she said.
Did she want him to be found? Drystan didn't know. There was so little he knew these days, while he lay here, more asleep than awake. Dreams had become his life, interrupted by short, hazy snatches of reality. The haze in the reality was too thick for him to be able to tell if Labiane's former lover was more important to her than a mere cousin.
"Come Cwylli," Labiane said. "Drystan needs to sleep."
And sleep he did.
* * * *
The moment Drystan opened his eyes again, Yseult of the White Hands knew what his first words would be.
"Is the ship come yet?"
She looked away, gazing at the faint outline of the frescoes that could been seen through the whitewash of the walls, like ghosts, or figures behind a gauze curtain. "I don't know."
"Would you look for me?"
She nodded and rose, moving to the arched window facing towards the town of Leonis and the harbor below.
Yseult started. There, between the harbor and the horizon, was a ship. She darted a glance at her husband. His eyes had drifted shut again; he hadn't noticed her reaction.
She turned back to the view out the window and squinted at the brightness of the water glinting in the sun, at the vessel heading for port.
"Can you see it?" Drystan asked from his sickbed.
She was silent for a moment, wishing she didn't have to give him the good news. "Yes."
She heard him gasp. "The sail," he asked. "What color is the sail?"
Yseult continued to gaze out of the window at the ship her husband had sent for, not wanting to see his impatience and his pain. Impatience for another Yseult, the one he thought he loved rather than the woman he had married.
She placed one hand on the cold stone ledge and leaned forward. "I think it's black."
"Black? Are you sure?"
She hesitated only briefly before repeating the lie. "Yes, I see it now. It's black."
* * * *
Black.
She wasn't coming. He would never see her again, he knew that now. The poison of his wound and his life welled up within him and he began to cough, great wrenching coughs that brought up blood. Yseult — the wrong one — ran over to within feet of the bed, her eyes wide and full of fear. Drystan saw his death reflected in those eyes. They were the wrong eyes, but they were the last thing he would ever see.
* * * *
Yseult wished she could run across the water to where Erim was waiting on the docks. Even before their landing boat drew up alongside the pier, before she could see the tracks of dried tears on his face, she knew — they were too late.
The sudden emptiness she had felt within sight of Leonis had been what she feared.
She gasped, gripping the rough wooden side of the small boat. The knowing was so much worse than the fear. She had lived too long in the land of the Britons; she no longer completely believed in her own powers, and she had allowed herself to hope that the feeling had been nothing more than anxiety. The sudden knowledge she could no longer avoid ripped a gaping hole in her soul, and she found herself breathing deeply, her shoulders moving forward with each ragged breath.
She felt rather than saw Kurvenal's eyes on her. "No," he murmured under his breath. As low as it was, the tinge of panic was audible.
He stood up, and the little boat rocked dangerously. "No!" he repeated, louder, darting a look at Erim on the pier.
She was still dragging in breath after painful breath when Kurvenal sat down hard again on the seat beside Brangwyn. "No," he said, his voice breaking, the tears bursting forth and streaming down his cheeks.
For her there was no such relief. She tried to suck in the air she needed, but the world was playing games with her. Somehow, every huge breath she dragged in left her in need of more. She couldn't think, couldn't react, couldn't get past the heat in her face and the emptiness in her soul. She clutched the side of the boat, the only support she had.
No, not the only support. Brangwyn was next to her, her arm around Yseult's shoulders, murmuring soft, comforting phrases.
"Your husband," Yseult choked out between the painful breaths. Kurvenal had his head in his hands and his racking sobs filled the air.
"You need me more," Brangwyn said, stroking her hand.
They drew up alongside the pier, and strong arms were lifting her out of the rowboat. She was still breathing deeply, each breath an effort, and her head felt light and hot.
She never knew how she made it up the hill to the fortified villa perched above the bay. Drystan's cousin Labiane was there to meet them, the one who hated her so — hated her for the sake of Marcus, who had killed his son.
Marcus had killed his son.
Marcus was the reason for the warriors Arthur had sent along, led by Cador and Bedwyr: they were to find Marcus and bring him back to Britain to face justice. Finally, Yseult's breath began to come easier.
She would ride with them.
They were led into the room where Drystan's body lay, still warm. Yseult of the White Hands was kneeling next to the bed, sobbing. Yseult moved forward as if in a dream. Her dear, dear love was pale and thin, and there were splotches of blood on his tunic, but there was nothing about him lying there, his eyes closed as if in sleep, that indicated death. Only the telltale scent of urine from when his body had emptied itself.
Oh, why was breathing so hard?
The woman Drystan had married shot her an accusing glance, but Yseult ignored it and her. He lay there so peacefully, wisps of hair escaping the thong at the back of his neck. She brushed a strand aside with the back of her fingers, feeling as if she would choke.
How could he be dead?
"Yseult," Brangwyn said, taking her free hand. "Think of Kustennin."
Yseult closed her eyes, called up her son, their son, in her mind's eye, the curly-haired terror of Dyn Tagell.
"Think of Marcus," Bedwyr muttered, somewhere behind her in the room.
She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes again. It was true, she had to think of them both, Kustennin and Marcus, Drystan's son and Drystan's father, had to protect the future of the one and end the future of the other. Drystan's soul would not be able to travel on until she did.
But, ah, why did she have to live to see this? Why did she have to know that it was her fault?
Only there was more guilt in this room than her own. Behind her, Kurvenal was hating himself for not somehow stopping Drystan from setting his father free at Din Eidyn. And beside her, Yseult of the White Hands was hoping fervently in her grief that no one ever discovered that she had told her husband the sail was black.
So many mistakes.
She touched her fingertips to his warm lips and then to her own. "Goodbye, my love."
It was as if the breath still on his lips gave her strength. She turned to Yseult of the White Hands. "We will take Drystan's body with us when we return to Dumnonia to be buried there. Please see that servants wash the body with oil and water daily." She faced the warriors behind her, many of whom had fought beside Drystan. Only Bedwyr's eyes were dry.
"But first we will find his murderer," she said.
Erim shot her a surprised look. "You too, Lady?"
"Certainly." She glanced over at Brangwyn. "Will you accompany us, Cousin? We might have need of your skills."
Brangwyn nodded shortly.
* * * *
He was with her, she could feel him. He didn't speak to her, but he was there
, part of her, as they rode hard for Caer Haes. She knew things that he knew. He had unfinished business here in the world of men, and he couldn't continue on to the Otherworld until he had completed it.
With her help. Without speaking, his presence told her that the direction they took was right.
They came within sight of Caer Haes on the second day, after crossing a small mountain range. They had been following a Roman road most of the way inland, and the walls of the town too were recognizably Roman.
Bedwyr pulled up next to her. "Is Marcus there?"
She nodded. Somehow, none of these soldiers, raised according to Roman ways, seemed now to question her powers. Magic was rare in Britain, but it did exist, and these men were well-acquainted with Myrddin and Modrun.
"How are we to get past the walls?" Erim asked.
"That is Brangwyn's job," Yseult said, turning her gelding to exchange glances with her cousin, where her mare had halted next to Kurvenal's stallion.
Erim looked confused but didn't dare contradict the Queen of Dumnonia. Yseult smiled to herself, feeling Drystan smile with her: it seemed not all of these soldiers were aware of the powers of the Feadh Ree.
"Were you not with us when we retook the queen from the Erainn pirate?" Kurvenal asked Erim.
The other man nodded.
"And you remember the fog that hid us until shortly before we boarded the enemy ship?"
Erim nodded again, gazing at Brangwyn and crossing himself.
Brangwyn ignored the gesture. "I have the power of changing. While it will be difficult to cloak so many men in illusion at once, I think I can sustain it long enough to get us into the walls of the city."
Yseult gazed at Marcus's seat, seeing it with Drystan's eyes, the eyes of a soldier; it was situated on a plateau in the central mountains next to a river, with little in terms of geographical defenses. But despite that, they were not enough to take the city.
Magic it would be.
There was something both odd and comforting about having Drystan present in her mind. While she kept thinking thoughts she knew were not her own, she could hardly imagine how she would go on now if he were not there with her.
"How shall we get into the city?" she asked her cousin.
"If we wait until shortly before nightfall, we will have dusk to help us maintain the illusion," Brangwyn said.
"What shall it be?" Bedwyr asked. "Traveling merchants? Strolling minstrels?"
"Strolling minstrels," Cador said. "In memory of Drys."
They were all silent a moment, lost in individual memories of the friend who was no longer with them. Yseult felt her throat tightening, each breath an effort.
It would be good to hold a harp again.
The panic passed, and her breathing grew easier. He was there, with her, not gone.
No, not gone; she would have to help him leave.
"I can send Marcus a desire for entertainment, for something new," Yseult said. "Perhaps he will even welcome us."
"But there are many more of us than in a troop of players," Erim said.
"I will do my best to hide the rest," Brangwyn said.
Yseult nodded shortly. "Then it is decided."
Cador brought his black up alongside her gelding. "Are you sure you want to take this risk, Yseult?"
She thought of Kustennin in Ginevra's care, far away in Dumnonia. "I must."
* * * *
They entered the gates of the city without incident, five abreast, but only one in each line visible. Once within the city walls, the others melted into the shadows; Brangwyn could not maintain such a difficult illusion for long. As they walked the streets of the city, the "minstrels" began to play, using instruments they had obtained on the road. Yseult's fingers on the strings of the harp were more deft and nimble than they had ever been before, and she smiled.
Yseult led them where Drystan led her, towards the center of the city. As they approached a large townhouse, a servant came out of the gates to the forecourt, beckoning them. "My master requests the honor of a private audience."
Yseult didn't know if Marcus had ever requested anything in his life. And she didn't know if that thought had come from her or from Drystan.
They followed the servant through the courtyard to the atrium, all but Brangwyn and Kurvenal, who hid near the entrance. Marcus lounged on a couch, a woman who looked surprisingly like a much younger Labiane nestled in his lap. Yseult could only hope that Brangwyn's powers could maintain illusions in two places at once — or their own masquerade and the unlikeliness of them being here would protect them.
Yseult launched into a ballad in the Armorican dialect that she had never heard before in her life, her voice clear and true, much finer than ever before. She could feel Drystan smiling inside her as she sang, appreciative of the great joke of his Yseult singing without the rough edges to her voice. Tears almost started in her eyes at the thought, but the importance of the moment kept them at bay.
"Excellent," Marcus said when they were done. "Another such and there will be a free meal for all of you in the kitchen."
Where was the rest of the their party? Hopefully they had not been discovered before Kurvenal and Brangwyn could let them into the townhouse — or Kurvenal and Brangwyn had not been discovered themselves.
And then she was starting into a finely sung version of the tale of Ys, the drowned city of Armorica, a song that Tandrys had performed so many, many years ago in Eriu, when they were both young and had a future ahead of them.
It was almost too much. Why had he done this to her?
No, that wasn't it. It was a song he loved, a song on the brink of his future. Which the man in front of them had put an end to.
And then Bedwyr and his men were surrounding them, and Marcus was starting up from his couch, the girl pushed aside but the evidence of her effect on him evident at the front of his tunic. He called for his sword, but there was no sword and no soldier at his service.
Yseult dropped the harp and the illusion, drawing her own sword from the folds of her cape.
Marcus looked at her again with eyes free of the veil of magic. "Yseult."
"The same."
"Are you here to murder me?"
Cador stepped forward. "We are here to bring you back to Britain to be tried for the murder of your son Drystan."
Marcus laughed. "My wife and my foster son. Is there no loyalty in this land?"
Yseult could see Cador's muscles tense, could feel the pang of guilt Marcus's words caused. "Drystan is dead," he said after a pause. "It should be handled by a court of law."
"But why should I be kidnaped and taken to Britain for the purpose? It was he who threatened me, and his death did not occur on British soil."
The girl who had formerly throned on Marcus's lap sat on the floor, wide-eyed and whimpering. Erim took pity on her and dragged her away.
"If you are innocent, then you need have no fear of a court of law," Yseult said. "You have witnesses for what you claim?"
"Andred."
She laughed out loud. And then suddenly Marcus leapt forward under her guard, almost knocking her sword out of her hand with a short sword he'd concealed somewhere on his person. She cursed herself under her breath while Drystan cursed himself in her mind, parrying the next blow that immediately followed. Bedwyr's men moved forward, but the dance was begun, and a wrong move might endanger her.
"He's mine!" Yseult called out to her own surprise. But of course that had been Drystan.
At the sound of fighting, more of Marcus's soldiers appeared at the doors and entrance ways; Bedwyr's men had not been able to do away with all of them. The Armorican warriors attacked the British, trying to fight their way through to help Marcus. Now there was fighting in every corner of the room, and the British soldiers could not have assisted her even if they had found an opening. She had not been involved in armed combat in years, but her arm was sure as she parried Marcus's blows, trying to disarm him.
But not attacking. She was not attack
ing — or at least Drystan was not. Even after experiencing death at Marcus's hands, he was reluctant to strike the blow to put an end to the life of the man who had given life to him.
They circled and struck and parried, circled and parried and struck, and Yseult could feel her arm grow tired. Drystan could make her voice more melodious, he could give her the experience of a seasoned warrior in single combat, but he could not give her the physical condition of all his years of training. And Yseult had only rarely used a weapon since she had come to Britain.
Around her, Bedwyr's warriors had taken control of the situation, disarming or defeating the men who had come to their king's aid. Then she saw Bedwyr and Kurvenal move behind Marcus, their weapons drawn. They could take him from behind if she could keep Marcus from turning, could keep his attention on this side of the atrium. She began to move back, as if she were retreating, realistic enough given the weariness of her sword arm.
Marcus followed, redoubling his efforts. Behind him, Bedwyr had his sword raised high, he was going to stab Marcus in the back. But the back wasn't honorable.
She could feel the "No!" trying to burst out of her throat, but she fought back the exclamation, retreating another step while parrying a renewed attack. And then the sword was coming down, the blade glinting in the candlelight before it found flesh and bone.
Marcus gave a grunt, his eyes went wide, and the sword slipped out of his hand to clatter on the ceramic tiles of the floor. He stared at Yseult as he dropped to his knees, his expression one of complete astonishment. He wavered there for a moment and fell face forward in the center of the mosaic, surrounded by stylized tendrils and geometric shapes, his blood distorting a pattern of diamonds.
Yseult dropped to her knees opposite him, allowing her own sword to slip from her fingers.
It was over.
Yes, it was over.
A feeling of affection and gratitude suffused her, and then he was slipping away, going where she couldn't follow, at least not for a very long time. She wanted to grab on to something, a sleeve, a cloak, hold him here, keep him in her mind to give her comfort.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 57
