Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  "What is that?" Kustennin said, pointing in the direction of the bridge.

  Cador squinted and craned his neck, but he spied nothing on the bridge or the Roman road beyond.

  "What, lad? I see nothing," Bedwyr said, echoing Cador's thoughts.

  "A lone rider, nearly hanging off his horse."

  Cai shook his head. "You must have the eyes of an eagle, boy."

  "Or of youth," Gawain added.

  "But I do not see him either," Arthur's young son Loholt piped up.

  "He is riding hard despite his injuries," Kustennin said, his voice worried. "He must have important news."

  Arthur's gaze was riveted on the shadows of hill and valley. "I spot him now. Gawain, go meet the rider, and take Gaheris with you. The messenger may need help."

  Cador was still straining to see what Kustennin had. Had Arthur merely claimed to catch sight of the messenger to cover for Kustennin? A man with Myrddin as advisor knew to trust in knowledge not available to those with normal perception.

  He glanced at Kustennin. The youth was staring past the River Usk, every sense trained on the messenger he perceived there.

  Gawain and Gaheris crossed the old Roman bridge and rode hard south, while the morning sun rose above the hills. Finally Cador spied the rider too, coming out of a valley to the east. It was next to impossible that Kustennin had seen him — the figure had still been hidden in the hills when the boy first noticed his approach.

  As they all watched, Gawain and Gaheris came up to the messenger, propping him in his saddle.

  Cador narrowed his eyes: if he wasn't mistaken, the man was wearing the same colors as Kustennin, white and green. Yseult's colors.

  Riding on either side of the messenger, Gawain and Gaheris returned to the watching group. As they drew near, Cador recognized him; one of Yseult's honor guard. His torn tunic was emblazoned with her device, a white flame on a background of green; not surprisingly, she no longer used the great hound of her deceased husband, Marcus Cunomorus.

  Kustennin spurred his mare forward. "Dyfyr! Is there news of my mother?"

  The injured man nodded, slipping from his horse with the help of Gawain, who had dismounted beside him. Dyfyr's legs buckled beneath him. Cador saw now that the man's left side was caked with blood; it was a wonder he had still been able to hold onto his reins.

  Kustennin dismounted and knelt in the dirt next to his mother's man-at-arms.

  "Dyn Tagell," Dyfyr got out just above a whisper. "Under siege."

  Chapter 5

  In baptizing the boy and after the washing of regeneration the infant was named Illtud .... After instruction and after the knowledge taught was known to him, he laid aside the study of literature, applying himself to military training, not forgetting, however, through any negligence, anything which he had learnt.

  From "The Life of St. Illtud"

  Riding at a steady pace on the Roman road, Yseult and her troops arrived in Isca late on the same day they left Lindinis. She had long ago given up the villa outside of town that Marcus had so loved; there were too many unpleasant memories associated with it. Now when she was in the old Roman capital she stayed in a large townhouse within the city walls.

  The next morning, the soldiers Cador had sent along for her protection rode north again, and Yseult set off to the west with thirty more of her own men. On this part of their journey, there were no paved roads; progress the rest of the way to Dyn Tagell would be slower.

  They spent the night in Uxelis. Yseult found herself eager to see Dyn Tagell again: the wild, rocky coast, the waves breaking on the cliffs, the wind that whipped the promontory. She loved the nearness of the ocean, loved the smell of the sea and the mists that came and went.

  They came upon the first refugees less than half the way to Dyn Tagell.

  "Ah, Lady, praise the gods that you are here!" The old woman released her donkey's reins, dropping to her knees despite Yseult's protests. Four dirty children stood behind her, watching solemnly. "A siege, Lady Yseult! They have surrounded the Rock and taken the harbor. The invaders quarter their men in the town on the mainland."

  The news took Yseult by surprise. Attacking Dyn Tagell was either extremely daring or extremely stupid. The promontory jutted out into the sea and was connected to the mainland by a narrow land bridge. The cliffs on all sides were high and dropped almost straight into the ocean, the only access from the sea a single steep path carved into the rock from the harbor.

  The mainland village was another matter entirely. Normally the villagers would have found shelter on the Rock; the attack must have come without warning.

  "And what of the church and the priest Illtud?" Yseult asked.

  "The pirates claim to be Christian; they have left the holy site alone." The old woman spat and muttered a curse under her breath. "They say they will not harm the common people, only those who fight. But trusting pirates is a risky business, which is why I flee with my grandchildren."

  Yseult heaved a sigh of relief. If Illtud was still in the church outside the village, they had an ally. She and Illtud had always gotten along, despite their religious differences.

  She dismounted, motioning her man-at-arms Ricca to do the same. "Good woman, if you will give me your cape and your donkey, and can find a similar garment in your saddlebags for my man, we will give you these mounts for the ride to Uxelis. One of my soldiers will ride with you and take a child up as well." She dug around in the purse she wore at her waist and extracted two gold coins. "This should be enough to buy a new donkey there."

  The woman prostrated herself in front Yseult, mumbling incoherent words of praise and thanks.

  "You are welcome, matron," Yseult said, reaching down her hand and taking the grandmother's elbow. It was imperative that they keep moving — all of them.

  With more protests and thanks, the woman rose and began rummaging through the saddlebags draped across the rump of the donkey. A series of ragged capes and mantles emerged, making a small pile by the side of the road.

  They were perfect.

  "Take them all, please," the old woman said, shoving them into Yseult's arms. "If they can help you in any way, we are honored." At the same time, she was hefting the coins in her palm, obviously tempted to bite down to test the quality.

  Once the old woman had trotted off with her grandchildren, Yseult distributed the moth-eaten garments among three of her men-at-arms. "Ricca, Rufinus, Valerius, and I will walk the rest of the way to Illtud's church. Dyfyr, choose six men with the swiftest mounts — you are to ride north to Caer Leon and inform the Dux Bellorum of the attack on Dyn Tagell."

  Yseult then turned to Marrek and Granwen and instructed them to ride to King Gwythyr for reinforcements. "The rest of you, find a hiding place and wait for night. When it's dark, you must try to get through to Illtud's church without being detected."

  "But what of you, lady?" Granwen asked. "Will you be safe with only three of us to guard you?"

  Yseult threw the old cape over her shoulders and lifted the hood to hide her famous white-blond hair. "It is better this way. Too many healthy young men would draw suspicion. What suspicion could fall on a woman of middle years traveling to Illtud's church with her servants and crippled son-in-law to pray for the soul of her dead daughter?"

  Yseult did not have as strong of a power of changing as her cousin Brangwyn, but when she faced her men again, they drew in their breath as one. The illusion was a success.

  Dyfyr smiled and saluted her from the back of his dancing mount — in much the same way he would a general. "None, Lady. I wish you an uneventful journey to the sanctuary of Illtud's church."

  She gazed up at the merry warrior, wishing that she had commanded him to accompany her instead of Ricca — she missed his sense of humor already. She nodded, returning the smile. "And I you in finding Arthur and his army without incident."

  Ricca beside her, Yseult watched her men disappear in three different directions. When the others were out of sight, the four of them se
t off to complete the rest of their journey on foot.

  * * * *

  Walking, it took them almost two full days to reach Dyn Tagell. To Yseult's relief, they made it to the mainland village without remark. Either the cloak was ragged enough, or her power of changing better than she thought — the people in the town across the land bridge from Dyn Tagell knew her, knew many of her men, and yet no one recognized them. As long as she could uphold the magic, what the villagers saw would be a woman long past youth, a crippled peasant, and two beardless youths.

  But there was no besieging army outside of the mainland fortress. Where were the northern pirates the refugees had led them to expect? The pinched look around the eyes of the people they saw on the streets, however, indicated fear. Yseult tried to delve into the thoughts of those around her, but she was using too much of her power maintaining their masquerade; she could sort out nothing useful in the jumble of dread and anxiety. She would have to risk asking. But these were her people; if they betrayed her, she would have deserved it.

  She neared the only tavern in town and approached the proprietor, Elidyr. "We came to visit the grave of my daughter outside the church of Illtud, but on the way we were told the fortress is under attack. Is it safe?"

  When he turned to answer, she dropped the illusion for a moment. His eyes widened and she knew he had recognized her. He nodded, his expression grim. "It should be safe, L — now. The Rock has fallen, and the northern pirates are inside rather than outside laying siege and causing trouble."

  Yseult and her men glanced at each other. "Fallen?"

  Elidyr nodded. "Not in the memory of anyone in Dyn Tagell has that happened, nor in the memory of their fathers or grandfathers."

  "Thank you for the news," Yseult said, bowing her head humbly. "We will continue on to the grave of my daughter."

  "Good luck and godspeed."

  "Thank you."

  Illtud's church was outside the village to the southwest. As they left the small collection of buildings behind, Yseult could now see that the Dumnonian banner no longer flew above the gate of the mainland fortress.

  "How can Dyn Tagell have fallen after a mere handful of days?" Ricca muttered under his breath.

  "I don't know," Yseult said. "But we will find out."

  "Perhaps Gurles wanted it to be taken," Rufinus suggested.

  It was what they had all been thinking, but still it seemed impossible. Gurles had been Yseult's steward in these parts for almost a decade, and even though he was a distant cousin of Marcus Cunomorus, he had never given her any reason to doubt his loyalty. A hereditary sub-king of Dumnonia, he had his own small seat twenty miles south of Dyn Tagell in Dimilioc. She and her son were his overlords, but he had always served her willingly.

  Or so she had thought.

  Had Gurles begun to recall the ambitions he'd had as a young man, now that his once dark hair glinted silver in the sun and he needed to apply compresses to ease the pains in his joints after a day of fighting practice? He'd been betrothed to Ygerna, eldest daughter of Erbin of Dumnonia — before she had been raped by Uthyr and Gurles had repudiated her. But Ygerna's bastard Arthur had become the most powerful man in Britain, despite his birth. Did all the power that had passed him by give Gurles no sleep at night? And if he were so dissatisfied, why had Yseult not noticed?

  Illtud's church was on a slight incline. Yseult shaded her eyes against the sun as she glanced up at the stone walls enclosing the garden. Christian gravestones dotted the fields around the grounds, and she led them there first, her "sons" following her.

  As they neared the graveyard, she saw the distant gates of the mainland fortress open and a band of warriors emerge. Yseult knelt in front of a gravestone, her head bent. Her men followed suit, their hands clasped in front of them.

  "Take my elbows," she whispered. "As if I need support. We must seek succor in the church."

  Ricca and Rufinus each took one of her elbows and Yseult hid her face in her hands, sobbing for the loss of the daughter she never had. "Where are the soldiers?" she asked between her fingers.

  "They are heading in the direction of the village," Valerius said behind them.

  "Good," Yseult murmured. "Now, let us find Illtud, quickly."

  When they entered the grounds and were behind the high stone walls, she threw off the illusion with the hood of her cloak, feeling a headache coming on. Magic always took its toll, even for such little things as a walk unrecognized through a village.

  Illtud emerged from the church and stopped for a moment, staring. When he recovered from his surprise, he hurried forward to take her hands in his. "Lady Yseult! You should not be here." He nodded in the direction of Dyn Tagell.

  She squeezed his hands and released them. "We know. Why do you think we are dressed like this?"

  "It is a good masquerade. Nonetheless, it is not safe."

  "But they will hardly expect me here, will they?" Yseult said with a smile.

  Illtud sighed. "No."

  "The walls around your grounds are high, and the enemy leaves you in peace. I think I will practice skills that have long gone rusty while we wait for reinforcements."

  "What skills?"

  "Arms, Father Illtud, arms. I know you were once a warrior too — would you care to join me?"

  * * * *

  There was something extremely liberating about donning breeches and taking up a sword again.

  Even if it was wooden and she no longer knew how to use it.

  She didn't need her power of knowing to see that Ricca was making every effort to be patient with her clumsy footwork and weak sword arm. She was much more out of shape than she'd imagined. Unfortunately, there was no magic for this, at least not that she knew.

  Yseult wiped the sweat out of her eyes with her forearm and felt the tip of Ricca's wooden sword against her rib cage. She was dead — again.

  "Enough," she called, burying the tip of her practice sword in the ground beside the herb garden and leaning her forearms on the hilt.

  "You are making progress, Lady Yseult," Ricca said, putting up his own sword.

  "Thank you."

  She didn't believe it. They were just the polite words of a man-at-arms who owed her obedience. Perhaps she shouldn't even be trying to relearn old battle skills, as out-of-practice as she was. When was the last time she'd wielded a sword? It was after Drystan's death when she had gone with a party of Arthur's companions to Armorica to avenge him.

  Straightening, she wiped the sweat off her brow with the arm of her tunic. She did not want to think about that, did not want to think of how the spirit of Drystan had visited her, had stayed with her until the duel with Marcus Cunomorus. She had fought with Drystan's skill — and his conscience. It was Bedwyr who had dealt the killing blow.

  She shook her head, as if that could shake the unwanted memories away. It was no use dwelling on the past. It was over, along with the peace that had brought prosperity to Britain. Yseult would practice fighting techniques despite the aches in her shoulders and the backs of her thighs, would make the sword in her hand a natural thing again. Her son would not be the only one to defend their way of life.

  A boy dashed through the gate. "Enemy soldiers approach!"

  Yseult pulled up her practice weapon and hurried to the herb garden, Ricca beside her. With their bare hands, they each dug a hole in the dirt at the head of a row of herbs and planted their wooden swords in the ground. Then she wrapped her long braids in her shawl and pulled the edge up over her forehead. Kneeling next to the lemon balm, she began plucking sprigs.

  Beneath the edge of her shawl, she could see a small band of northern warriors enter the churchyard gate. Illtud came out to greet them and ask their business. After what seemed like an eternity, they all went into the stone church.

  She continued to harvest lemon balm and verbena until the northern warriors emerged from the church again and left. Then she rose, wiping her free hand off on her breeches. "How was your harvest, Ricca?"

  H
er man-at-arms glanced down at the random assortment of herbs he held in his fist. "I don't know, Lady."

  Yseult chuckled.

  Illtud came down the pathway, lips pursed and brows drawn together. "The northern invaders have 'requested' that I vacate my church," he said when he reached them. "They have brought their own priest and will not need my services."

  Yseult sat back on her heels and looked up at him. "Do you think they suspect something?"

  The priest shrugged. "I don't know, but it amounts to the same thing. You are not safe here."

  "Then my men and I will have to leave. Perhaps we can meet up with Marrek on the road."

  "But the Picts have posted guards on the roads to and from Dyn Tagell, and you are now more than an old woman with three sons," Illtud said, indicating the half-dozen men who had snuck into the grounds of the church and who wore the robes of Christian priests.

  "What do you suggest we do?" Yseult asked.

  "There is little we can do other than try to be prepared for every eventuality." Illtud yanked one of the practice swords out of the freshly turned earth, knocked the dirt off with a few sharp raps on the ground, and wiped the hilt off on his frock. With a surprisingly adept toss of the blade, he caught the hilt in his right hand and faced Yseult, sword in hand. "What say you, Yseult? After many years without practice, shall we measure our skills against each other?"

  Yseult pulled the other wooden sword out of the ground and faced the priest, weapon in hand.

  She inclined her head, smiling. "Done."

  * * * *

  Ahead of her, Yseult's hounds Bran and Ossar raced through a thick Erainn forest in pursuit of their prey. Tree branches slapped her face as she rode after her dogs, but the pain was nothing to the exhilaration of the chase, the feeling of freedom the hunt gave her.

  A hand on her upper arm, shaking her. "Yseult!"