Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  She tucked her feet up underneath her, facing him, feeling strangely unsure of herself. "Locating the person I want to reach is part of my power of calling."

  "I should have known." Cador barely glanced at her, and she felt her nervousness mounting. "I must admit that I'm surprised you went to the trouble to look."

  Was she so heartless? Gawain would surely think so, especially now. For once, she wished she could see into Cador's mind, wished that he had not learned the trick of hiding his thoughts from those with the blood of the Old Race — a trick she had taught him.

  Usually, she was glad he had been able to learn the use of mental walls. She could interact with him on a more normal basis that way. But now — now she felt uncertain. Perhaps he was regretting having said he would have no objection to the match, perhaps he had never meant the words in the first place. She was well aware of how he had loved Terrwyn; perhaps he still mourned her too much to wish to marry again. She gazed down at the embroidered shawl she was twisting nervously in her hands. It would be nice to have at least an idea of where she stood. Then it occurred to her that she had never been able to read Drystan's feelings either. Shortly after he'd arrived in Eriu, the druid Boinda had taught him how to keep his mind closed to those with the power of knowing, for his own safety.

  She regarded Cador's handsome profile briefly and then gazed out at the sea. "I spoke with Kustennin."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said you were the closest thing to a father he'd ever known."

  Cador smiled at that. "As he is the closest thing I have ever known to a son."

  She scooted over on the rock to touch his elbow, and he faced her, his light brown eyes intense.

  "You may have noticed over the years that patience is not my strong point," she said, and Cador threw back his head and laughed out loud. Relief lapped over her like the waves below.

  "Um, yes, it had occurred to me. Over the years."

  "Well, that is the reason I used my power of calling to find you. I was rehearsing the things I wanted to say to you in my head all morning. It could not wait."

  Cador leaned forward, locking his hands into a fist in front of his knees. "I too have been rehearsing what to say. It is a tricky situation, is it not?"

  She shifted on the rock, putting her weight more on her right hip. Her rump was growing cold on the stone, even through layers of shift and tunic and cape. Above them, gulls circled and cried. "Yes, it is. But many marriages are based on less than what we have between us — most, probably. I have known you since you were little more than a boy, nearly all the years I have been in Britain."

  One corner of Cador's mouth turned up in a way that could have been either agreement or disagreement. Yseult was not very good at reading people's expressions and gestures, since normally all she had to do was read their minds.

  Well, then, perhaps it was time she asked. "What are you thinking, Cador? Do you regret having told Arthur you wouldn't object to a marriage?"

  He was silent for a moment before answering. "I would like to hear what you came here to say before I tell you what I am thinking."

  She nodded. "Fair enough. But would you mind if we walk? Summer is drawing to a close, and this stone grows cold."

  He rose, and she followed suit. Together they fetched their mounts, and Cador led them north and then west towards the sea.

  Once they finished negotiating the rocks and reached a stretch of beach, Yseult bent over to unlace the leather boots she had worn for riding, untied the garters and unrolled her hose.

  Get it over with.

  She straightened, taking her gelding's reins in one hand and her riding boots in the other. Sand slipped between her toes, warm where the sun had touched, cooler below the surface when her feet sank into it. "I hope you still have no objections to Arthur's suggestion," she said without looking at Cador, still nervous. "I have come to the conclusion that it would be a very practical arrangement in more than just a political sense. Not only for Kustennin's future. You and I have always gotten along quite well together, after all."

  When Cador didn't answer, she forged ahead. "I know how much you have always wanted a child of your own. You should probably be looking for a young bride who would still have many years of child-bearing. But while I am well over thirty, my mother was even older when she gave birth to my half-brother Nath. Perhaps I would also still be able to bear you a child."

  "No!"

  For a moment, the walls in Cador's mind were gone, and Yseult could see flashes of his memories, blood and death and a stillborn baby — not once but twice. Guilt.

  And fear of ever having to go through that again.

  "I'm sorry. I did not mean to remind you of your loss."

  He sighed. "And I am sorry I overreacted. Assuming we reach an agreement, I would not want to lose a third wife the same way."

  Yseult nodded. "My knowledge of herbs and moon cycles has stood me in good stead until now." She kicked casually at the sand with her bare feet as she walked. "What I am trying to say is that as long as you can do without grand passion, I have come to the conclusion that Arthur's suggestion is a good one — for me personally as well as for my adopted home. You are a dependable, dear friend, and I find the thought of building a life with you very pleasant."

  Cador looked at her sideways, his expression still serious. "So you are not only going along with this for Arthur's sake, or Kustennin's?"

  She shook her head. "It would be foolish beyond reasoning if I were only to marry you for Arthur's sake." She smiled. "And when I spoke with Kustennin, he was more worried about whether I would do the right thing for myself than his own prospects."

  Finally he smiled. "He is growing up quickly. Perhaps it is my villa and my many other residences swaying you?"

  Yseult waved her shoes in the air with a dismissive gesture, relieved at the teasing nature of his words. "I have castles enough, and no need for more."

  "Then I suspect I will have to take your word for it that the thought of marrying me actually pleases you, and you are not agreeing out of pressure or greed."

  Yseult nodded, chuckling. "I am hopeful that life with you will be calm and agreeable, like you." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she feared they sounded too lukewarm. But Cador knew well enough that she did not love him; it made no sense to pretend a passion she did not feel.

  He stopped and faced her, taking her chin gently in his free hand. "I believe it is customary to seal this kind of agreement with a kiss. Come here."

  Yseult leaned forward, and his mouth covered hers, soft and warm and tasting vaguely of apples and cheese. But rather than the business-like kiss she expected, he lingered, his lips moving gently and thoroughly over hers in a long, sensual kiss that had her closing her eyes tight and wondering what other surprises her friend of so many years might still have in store for her. If she had not been holding shoes in one hand and reins in the other, she would have been clutching his upper arms and drawing him closer.

  When he finally released her, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. "I think you just gave me another reason to be happy about this marriage."

  "That's good to hear." Cador gave her a quizzical look that she couldn't decipher. "Shall we return to Celliwig and inform Arthur of our decision?"

  "Yes, let us do that."

  As they led their mounts away from the beach, Yseult was still feeling his lips on hers. Her friend Cador. How very odd.

  * * * *

  Cador watched the cape fluttering out behind Yseult's swaying back, unable to comprehend that she had agreed to marry him. Her thick, white-blond braid hung past her waist, and he found himself imagining all that hair free and spread out on a pillow next to him.

  The reaction was immediate.

  He shook his head. Obviously, part of his anatomy at least experienced no doubts at the thought of having Yseult to wife — or rather, to bed.

  The state of his emotions was another matter entirely. He wasn't sure if he shou
ld be thrilled or hurt, and he was almost sure that he was both. Which made him tentative, unsettled, reserved.

  She'd said the thought of marrying him was pleasant; she called the arrangement practical. Her first reason for marrying him was Kustennin. She excluded the possibility of grand passion. She thought of him as a dependable, dear friend.

  On the other hand, she had enjoyed his kiss. She'd spoken of bearing him a child, so even before the kiss she had not been adverse to the prospect of physical intimacy.

  But while part of his heart leapt at the thought of a child with Yseult, he could not bear it if she became pregnant. He couldn't lose her too — especially not her.

  He had loved Terrwyn and Edain in his way, but with both it had been a practical love — because he could not have her.

  The way she described her "happiness" in making a life with him, it sounded much like he had felt when Edain agreed to wed him. A second choice. Because her first choice was long dead.

  As long as you can do without grand passion.

  He sighed. Yseult was his grand passion. Was it good fortune or bad luck that she had not yet seen it in his thoughts and feelings?

  Whether good or bad, it must be in large part luck that she had never noticed his infatuation — she had taught him how to guard his thoughts from those with the powers of the Old Race, yes, but not until he was her co-conspirator in relaying Marcus's plans to Arthur. Perhaps she had once noticed his adolescent passion and laughed it off, no longer remembering that detail once they were older and circumstances so very different. Including the fact that they had agreed to wed.

  Had agreed to wed.

  The realization hit him like a fist to the gut. He and Yseult were to be married. Man and wife. Sharing bed and board, their days and their nights, as long as they both lived.

  Or would she perhaps request the form of marriage from her native land — where the bond could be severed if one partner walked across a clearing? On the other hand, what use would it be to hold on to someone who wanted to pace through a field in order to end the "bonds" of matrimony?

  The road widened again, and Cador spurred his mount forward to come abreast of her. "Something just occurred to me — do you want to wed according to the laws of your land or mine?"

  She glanced at him, eyes wide. "You would give me that choice?"

  He nodded. Better that than having her feel trapped in marriage.

  A smile spread across her face. "Thank you." She gazed ahead, the smile still playing about her lips. He had made her happy. He found himself grinning as well.

  "It is a very generous offer," she continued. "But my home is Britain now. I have made my life here and must live in accordance with its laws."

  "So you think we should have a British wedding."

  "It makes sense, don't you think? If we are marrying to form a strong public alliance, a new consolidated power in Dumnonia, our wedding needs to be an act of state."

  A warm feeling was spreading from his chest to his stomach, calming some of the fluttering nervousness. She was only agreeing to a political alliance, but she had not taken the way out he offered. They would make a marriage lasting the rest of their lives.

  No, not only a political alliance, he reminded himself. She might not regard him as her soul mate, but they would at least be bed mates. At least?

  Wyllt tossed his head and did a temperamental dance to the left, probably suffering from Cador's repeated shifts in mood. He stroked his mount's neck. "Whoa, Wyllt, calm down, boy."

  But how could he expect the stallion to calm down when he himself could not?

  "You definitely have a point," he said when he finally had Wyllt under control again. "But I did not want to put you in the same kind of situation you suffered in your first marriage."

  Yseult reached out a hand to him between their two mounts. "How could that possibly happen? Cador, you are my friend."

  He took the proffered hand briefly, then squeezed and released it. "Thank you."

  He wanted more, of course, but there were worse things than being friends. It occurred to him that he had been torturing himself with images of a bleak future that did not have to happen. While all the time he was overlooking the wonderful change in his fortunes that was causing his worries. His future would be with Yseult.

  Perhaps it was simply the fact that his mind could not grasp something becoming a reality that he had been dreaming of so long, and thus he forced himself to twist it into negatives.

  Being a fool.

  It was true, she did not love him. She was marrying him out of practicality and affection and the conviction that with him there would be dependability rather than passion. Her life of grand passion, the many years she had loved Drystan illicitly and without hope, were not something she wanted to repeat, and if she knew how passionately, how hopelessly Cador had loved her all these years, she would probably run screaming from a marriage with him.

  But she didn't know. And once they were married, he would have the opportunity to win her, perhaps even teach her that there could be passion without sorrow. He would probably have regular opportunities to be jealous of a ghost, a memory, but he would be the one there with her in the morning when they woke up, he would be the one to brush the stray strand of hair away from her temple when they consulted about the planting in the spring, or the needs and concerns of the peasants on their land, or stewards for their various properties; he would have her days and her nights.

  He swallowed. He had to distract himself from such thoughts. "There are any number of things we must still discuss, but I'm curious, have you given any thought to where you would want to live?"

  Yseult smiled. "A wealth of residences."

  "Precisely."

  "I would like to spend at least part of the summer in Dyn Tagell, if you are agreeable with that."

  "Certainly. It is a kind of home to me too, you know, from the years I spent in fosterage with Marcus." He drew in a deep breath; he was discussing sharing a home with Yseult. "But I would like to be at the Lindinis villa in the spring and fall. I know the overseers can take care of the planting and harvesting themselves, but I fear in the years of peace I have developed the soul of a farmer."

  There, it was out — but she just smiled. "In Eriu, every king is a farmer. I will feel very much at home with a farmer king."

  "I am glad."

  It was a generous speech, a speech that should have warmed the lonely edges of his heart. But he still could not banish the insecurity completely. Yes, he would be marrying Yseult — whose love for Drystan was legendary. And whose present lover was the legendary warrior Gawain.

  Was the ghost of Drystan his greatest rival — or was it the living hero?

  Chapter 11

  St. Gildas was the contemporary of Arthur, the king of the whole of Britain, whom he loved exceedingly, and whom he always desired to obey. Nevertheless his twenty-three brothers constantly rose up against the aforementioned rebellious king, refusing to own him as their lord; but they often routed and drove him out from forest and battlefield. Hueil, the elder brother, an active warrior and most distinguished soldier, submitted to no king, not even to Arthur. He used to harass the latter, and to provoke the greatest anger between them both. He would often swoop down from Scotland, set up conflagrations, and carry off spoils with victory and renown.

  Caradoc of Llangarfan, "The Life of Gildas"

  Every day Gildas spent at the monastery was another day he hated Cador and Kustennin more. The only problem was, he couldn't hate Cador, because his foster father had probably saved his life. But he wanted to, because Cador was the reason he was in this miserable monastery in the first place.

  He would just have to be content with hating Kustennin.

  From what he heard, Kustennin was now fighting for Arthur, making a hero of himself. He'd helped take back Dyn Tagell from a traitorous sub-king and the "Sons of Caw," and now he was earning more praise and glory in battles along the Sabrina Estuary.

  While Gild
as had spent the last months in a pig sty.

  He threw the slops over the fence into the pen, and the pigs began grunting happily at the leftovers. Gildas hated their squealing, the way it went from bass low to hysterical high, hated the way they wallowed in their own offal, hated their smell and their obesity; most of all, he hated that he had to feed them. His life in the villa outside of Lindinis with Cador had not been pleasant, not like his early childhood in Bro Leon with his mother, where his every wish was tended to, sometimes before he even voiced it. At least in Lindinis he had not been lowered to feeding the pigs.

  Arthur was the one he should hate, he knew that well enough. But he'd only met Arthur a handful of times, and on those occasions the Dux Bellorum never did anything more than pat Gildas on the shoulder. It was hard to hate someone who had no more feelings for you than a pat.

  Cador, on the other hand, had tried to play uncle to Gildas for years, while always preferring Kustennin, the spoiled son of that Erainn whore.

  "Gildas! Visitors for you! Where are you, lad?"

  Where should he be? That was easy enough for anyone at the monastery to know — he was the newest, so he was doing the dirtiest jobs.

  Gildas threw down the wooden bucket and wiped his hands on his tunic. "Coming, Dafydd!"

  "They are waiting for you in the church," the monk said.

  As Gildas entered the church, it finally occurred to him to wonder who could possibly be visiting him. Had agents of Arthur found him after all?

  And then he saw his sister Cwylli rise with a bundle in her arms. The baby! For the first time, Gildas was hit by the fact that he was now an uncle.

  "Cwylli!" He ran the rest of the way and flung his arms around her, careful not to hurt the babe. Having his big sister here was like being blessed with a touch of home, and he found himself rubbing tears away on the shoulder of her gown. But of course he had no home anymore; a cousin he'd never met ruled in Bro Leon, and his mother had found refuge with Arthur's sister Anna.