by Anna Elliott
“Well, wouldn’t you?”
Trystan passed a hand across the back of his neck, then sighed. “Probably.” One corner of his mouth tilted in a brief, wry smile. “That’s the trouble with growing up with someone. They know too much about you.”
“Yes.”
Isolde waited, but Trystan said nothing else. After a moment, she said, “I am truly sorry, though. I should have told you right from the start. Are you angry?”
The line of Trystan’s mouth had hardened, but he shook his head. “No. Or maybe I am, but not with you.” Seeing Isolde’s look, he gestured impatiently. “Would it have changed anything if you’d told me? Would I have done anything differently, these last weeks, if I’d known Marche was out for my blood? Would we somehow not have ended up here?” He swept out a hand, indicating the darkened forest of surrounding pines. “I doubt it. Besides—” He broke off with a short, harsh laugh. “I should have expected something of the kind. It’s not as though I can claim I don’t know what Marche is like.”
Isolde saw his eyes go distant and knew he was seeing again Hereric’s amputated arm. Imagining the empty socket of Kian’s eye. Very tentatively, she reached out and touched the back of Trystan’s hand. “I know it probably doesn’t help much, but when last I saw him, Kian was …he was going to be all right. He’s very strong. And he didn’t want you to know he’d been hurt. That was part of the reason I didn’t tell you sooner. I think he was ashamed of being captured that way. But I think I didn’t want you to worry for him as well.”
Trystan was silent a long moment, his eyes still distant, his thoughts following some inward track of their own. Isolde hesitated, then asked, “Do you blame him?”
Just briefly, she thought something hard and almost frightening crossed Trystan’s face. It was gone in a moment, though, and he let out his breath and shook his head. “How could I? God knows I’d have done the same in his place.”
He shifted position, sucked in his breath, and swore as the movement jarred his broken ribs. Isolde still met with only empty blackness when she tried to sense how severe his injuries were. But she hardly needed the Sight to guess at just how bad the pain must be by now.
“Trys.” He looked up at her. Isolde hesitated again, then said quietly, “You really should rest. I’ve some of the poppy draft I used for Hereric left. Please, let me give you some so that you can get some sleep. I know,” she added, as Trystan started to speak. “I know it’s a danger. If anyone finds us here and you’re too deeply unconscious to wake.” There was a silence where she knew they were both remembering that first attack aboard ship—what now seemed like a lifetime ago. “But it’s a danger, too, if you fall flat on your face tomorrow because you’re too exhausted to go on. Please, get a few hours’ rest, at least.”
She’d expected him to argue further, but he swallowed the poppy draft she gave him without speaking again—proof, if she’d needed any, of how exhausted he really was. How he’d kept going this long she’d no idea. He stiffened when she came to kneel beside him, but took the hand she offered, letting her help him ease himself back onto the bed of fallen pine needles.
Isolde started to draw away, but he kept hold of her hand. The feeling of his palm against hers seemed to run through every part of her, filling her chest with a rosy warmth. “Isa, I—” The poppy draft was already starting to smooth out the lines of pain and tiredness in his face and blur his words.
“What is it?” As though of its own accord, Isolde saw her free hand moving to lightly touch his hair.
Trystan’s eyes were already half closed, but he frowned, making an effort to speak through the effects of the poppy draft and his own fatigue. His hand came up, brushing Isolde’s cheek, wiping a lingering trace of moisture away with his thumb. “I hope I never have to be as brave as you already are.”
EVEN AFTER TRYSTAN’S BREATHING HAD DEEPENED and slowed into the rhythm of sleep, Isolde sat for a long time, looking down at his face. With the moonlight playing across the clear, determined lines of brow and jaw, he looked at once younger and slightly stern, his mouth set and his hair slipping free of the leather thong that laced it back. Isolde’s own face still felt sticky with dried tears, and she wished she had water for washing. She settled for wiping her cheeks with a fold of her cloak, then wrapped her arms around her knees, watching the rise and fall of Trystan’s chest as he breathed.
Isolde thought of all he’d just said to her. Of the way he’d listened. Of how he hadn’t blamed her, or even pitied her, just held her while she cried.
Now she felt tired, still, empty, and utterly drained. And yet—
And yet for the first time—the very first time since that night with Marche nearly six months before—she felt as though the huge, looming boulder of memory had shifted inside her to a place she could bear. As though a wound somewhere deep had been cauterized. There might always be a scar, but the bleeding was stopped and the threat of poison gone.
At the same time, the fear that was pulsing through her veins with every beat of her heart was as cold and sharp as any she’d ever felt in her life.
As a rule, she hated dishonesty—hated, especially, the feeling that she was trying to lie to herself. Despite—her mouth twisted briefly—despite having done an extremely good job of it ever since that first night when Trystan had walked into Madoc’s fortress at Dinas Emrys. Maybe even longer still.
She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the waves of longing for the past that had struck her from time to time these last months, ever since she’d chosen to remember the years before Camlann. She thought of the way she had—still did—miss the self she’d been then.
But she didn’t even bother trying to persuade herself that what she felt now was part of that same longing for a time that was gone. She looked down at Trystan’s sleeping face and locked her hands tight together in her lap to keep from smoothing his hair back again. Another wave of panic crashed over her, clogging her throat. And then she drew in her breath with a gasp as something hard and solid bumped against her arm.
“Cabal.” The big dog had returned at last and now whined softly and butted his head again against Isolde. She looped an arm around his neck and ruffled his fur. “Good fellow. Good—”
And then she stopped. The worst of the wave of panic was ebbing away. And, like a tide leaving cast-up gifts of the ocean—driftwood or seashells or even pearls—she could see in this wave’s ebbing wake a glaring truth.
Cabal had picked up a sticky blot of pine sap on the fur of his back, and Isolde worked at it absently with her fingers, all the while still looking down at Trystan. Already on this journey he’d seen his ship burned, had his ribs broken, and Isolde realized abruptly that she still didn’t know how he’d been hurt or what it was that Fidach had asked of him as the price of aid. And now Trystan had been forced into leaving Hereric at Fidach’s mercy.
They’d not spoken of what they would do when morning came. But—
Isolde saw again the smooth, round pebbles Daka had laid on the floor of her hut. One for Fidach’s camp. One for Octa’s army. And one for the house of Christian holy women where Cerdic was now, to the east of the crannog. The same direction she and Trystan had been heading since they’d left the marshes behind.
I could find it, Isolde thought. Even on my own. It can’t be far.
Daka’s guidance meant that she no longer needed Trystan to reach Cerdic. He couldn’t be more than a half day’s ride from where she was now. And as Isolde sat, resting her head against Cabal’s neck and breathing in the sharp scent of pine, she saw the truth that the ebbing wave of fear had cast up on the shore and knew that she absolutely couldn’t ask of Trystan anything more than what she already had.
If Cerdic and Octa had already sworn alliance between them, approaching Cerdic could lead them both straight into Octa’s—and so Marche’s—hands. Isolde could see taking the risk for herself. Gambling with her own life. Because if Cerdic and Octa did unite their forces, Britain was utterly lost. But
she knew, utterly and absolutely, that she couldn’t face the thought of gambling with Trystan’s life, of knowing he was dead because of her.
She acted quickly, before her courage could drain away, rising to her feet, drawing her cloak tightly about her, picking up her medicine bag. And then she stopped. Because when he woke alone, Trystan wouldn’t know where she’d gone—would search for her, maybe. And she had no way of telling him—
And then abruptly she was back in her workroom at Dinas Emrys, speaking to Kian about the childhood she and Trystan had shared. We even worked out a secret language of signs—patterns we’d make on the ground with rocks or twigs or leaves.
It took her a little time, stumbling and searching in the darkness to find what she needed: rocks, a pinecone, three smooth fallen branches. And she found herself laughing a little, a harsh breath of a laugh that tore at her still raw throat, because this was both completely childish and one of the most wrenchingly hard things she’d ever done.
She arranged the things in a pattern near where Trystan lay, where he would see them when he woke. Gone. Don’t follow. And then her eyes went once more to Trystan’s face, and an icy chill gripped her. He lay on his back with one arm up, his hand outstretched. Drugged asleep. Completely vulnerable should any attack—whether from man or wild animal—come.
For a moment, Isolde thought she’d have to stay after all. But that would risk Trystan’s life just as surely. Awake, he would never let her travel on alone, however much he might wish he could.
Isolde’s gaze fell on Cabal, padding in a half circle along the edge of the tree line, patrolling their small camp. She whistled softly. “Cabal, come here.”
When Cabal stood before her, she took his head between her hands. Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed hard and rested her forehead a moment against Cabal’s. Then she drew back, looking into the big dog’s liquid dark eyes. Her heart still felt as though it were in the grip of some giant, constricting hand, but she forced herself to speak slowly and calmly. “Cabal, I want you to stay with Trystan. Don’t let anything hurt him. Guard him until he wakes. Go on, now.”
She gestured. Cabal threw one questioning look back at her over his shoulder, then obediently padded to where Trystan lay and settled with a soft sigh on the ground at his side. Isolde let out her breath. “Good dog.”
Trystan stirred and muttered something unintelligible in his sleep. Slowly, Isolde rose and crossed to kneel at his other side. She watched him a long moment, watched the rise and fall of his breathing, saw in his face both the boy she’d grown up with and the man he was now. Before she could stop herself, she’s reached out and lightly traced a line from his temple to his jaw with one finger. Lucky for her that he’d taken the poppy draft. Undrugged, he’d never have slept through that. He had a soldier’s habit of coming awake at the slightest sound or touch.
“I—” Isolde started to say. Her voice cracked, though, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut against another hot, prickling rush of tears. Besides, she thought, if I couldn’t say that before, I certainly can’t now. So she made herself look down at him again, drew in her breath, then whispered softly, “Good-bye, Trys.”
Then she rose to her feet and turned away.
Book III
Chapter Fifteen
WHAT YOU ASK OF ME is quite incredible.”
Isolde bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Yes. I know it is.”
The woman opposite her waited, head tilted, as though inviting Isolde to go on. Isolde said nothing, though, and at last she let out a little puff of breath between her teeth and drummed gnarled, blue-veined fingers on the wooden table between them.
Mother Berthildis of the Abbey of Saint Eucherius was an almost incredibly ugly old woman. She was small and plump, her head thrusting forward from rounded shoulders and a yellow, toadlike face set with very small, sharp black eyes. Those eyes now studied Isolde intently a moment before she said, “You know, if you would tell me why you wish an audience with King Cerdic—or even your name—I could easily present you to him.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot.” Isolde shook her head. “For your sake, though, as I have said. Not mine. I would not endanger you by making you an accomplice to what business I have here. I don’t imagine your position here is so secure that you can afford to take unnecessary risks with the lives under your charge.”
Mother Berthildis snorted briefly through her nose. “Whoever you are, young woman, you’ve got that right. We were granted this charter of land by Cerdic himself. One of the conditions his wife, rest her soul”—the gnarled fingers sketched a quick cross in the air—“made when she wed him. She was a woman of the Frankish country, as you may have heard. And a believer in our Lord Christ. And when her father wedded her to Cerdic of Wessex, it was with the understanding that she would be allowed to practice her own faith. Surround herself with her own priests, hear the mass—and endow such churches and places of worship as she might see fit.”
Her hand moved to lightly touch the wooden cross that hung on the breast of her plain black robes. “She came here often, did the lady Rotrud. To pray for her husband’s soul. Not—” Mother Berthildis snorted again. “Not that it ever did the slightest good, that I could see. And no doubt the Heavenly Father in His infinite wisdom has His own purpose in denying King Cerdic entrance into the kingdom of His believers and saints. But still”—the keen black eyes fastened on Isolde—“it means that our position here is precarious, as you say. Cerdic has small patience with the church or the teachings of Christ—still less since his wife, the lady Rotrud died in childbed ten years since. At any point, he might choose to withdraw his support of the abbey—choose, even, to retract the charter that grants us our lands and the crops that keep us alive and fed. As abbess, I am charged with the care of the abbey, with the keeping of the thirty sisters who live and worship here, not to mention the souls who straggle in through our gates each day, begging for shelter or alms.”
Isolde bowed her head again. “Mother, I know.”
She had been one of those souls to enter the gates of the abbey walls that day, slipping in with a group of ragged families, men and women and hungry-eyed children, their belongings tied in bundles on their backs or packed into rickety carts. She had met with them on the road shortly after dawn that morning and had fallen in with their group, knowing she was safer as part of a band of travelers than on her own. The children had danced round her for a time, asking where she’d come from, begging for food or coins. But the rest had simply looked at her with dull, exhausted eyes that seemed not to see her at all or shot her sharp glances and then turned quickly away. Plainly afraid that if they acknowledged her—spoke to her—they might be called on for aid.
Daka had been right; Cerdic’s armies were encamped all about the abbey. It had been sunset when Isolde and her fellow travelers had reached their destination, and she’d seen the neat rows of war tents on the hill beyond the abbey walls as she’d approached the gate. Within, too, the entrance courtyard had been crowded and bustling with confusion over the abbey’s exalted guest. Servants, grooms, and stablemen—plainly Cerdic’s own—ran this way and that, and perhaps thirty men-at-arms were stationed as guards about the outer walls.
Now it was early evening, and Isolde’s whole body felt as though she’d been pummeled by stones. But she’d passed beyond weariness and into restlessness some hours ago. Her nerves felt stretched tight, and the strain of holding herself still on the hard wooden chair the abbess had given her was growing painful. Her thoughts—however much she tried to stop them—kept flashing back to Trystan. Seeing him asleep, as she’d left him in the forest the night before. Trying to imagine his face when he’d woken to find her gone. Wondering whether he’d been angry or only relieved.
With an effort, Isolde pulled herself back to the present, to the small, low-ceilinged chamber of Mother Berthildis’s own quarters within the abbey. And the woman sitting opposite her, across a plain wooden table that held a platter of brown bread and two
cups of wine. Mother Berthildis’s eyes were fixed on Isolde’s face, a deeper furrow crossing the finer lines on her brow. Then, at last, she nodded as though a decision had been made. “Very well,” she said. “If you will not tell me about yourself, I suppose I may do it for you.”
A lift of her eyebrow invited Isolde’s response. Isolde said, “If you wish.”
The abbess steepled her fingers, resting them against her upper lip and studied Isolde’s face again. For all her toadlike ugliness, her black gaze was piercingly keen. Sitting under her scrutiny, Isolde thought, was like facing a blast of winter wind that knifed through cloak and clothing to the very bone.
When the abbess spoke, though, it was more to herself than to Isolde. “I see before me a young woman who will not give me her name or tell me from whence she has come. Her dress is of good quality, though—even if stained and dusty from a journey that has surely lasted some little time. And moreover, her manner, her voice—her every movement, in fact—speak of breeding and distinction. Plainly this is no common beggar girl in search of alms.”
Mother Berthildis paused, and when Isolde said nothing, she went on, her slightly quavering old-woman’s voice turning dry. “Since her eyes resemble two holes burned in a rug, I will hazard a guess that she has slept irregularly these last nights, if at all.” She raised one eyebrow again. “You will tell me, perhaps, if I go wrong?”
“If I can.”
The abbess was silent for a time, tapping her steepled fingers thoughtfully against her chin. “This young woman appears at my gates, asks to speak with me, confirms that King Cerdic of Wessex is a guest under my roof. She promises me that though she cannot tell me who she is or for what purpose she has journeyed here, neither will she lie to me or offer any untruths. And then, without further ado, she asks me whether she may drug Cerdic’s guard tonight so that she may seek private audience with the king.”
