She touched his arm. "No, I don't think so." The sarcasm had disappeared from her voice. "There, the way they are leaving together, right in front of your eyes, that is the end of your relationship with Yseult. Eventually I think you will appreciate having such clarity."
Gawain had no idea what the hell she was talking about with her stupid clarity. He did not need philosophy when his guts were burning with pain and rage.
"Yes, you do," she said quietly.
Damn the woman for reading his mind.
* * * *
Cador gave Yseult a long kiss and then rolled onto his back, laying his arm across his forehead. "I'm sorry. It's been a long time. I fear I was a bit overeager."
Yseult propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at him, her own temporary frustration suddenly much less important. "You mean — there hasn't been anyone since Terrwyn died?"
He didn't answer, not returning her gaze.
Yseult took the silence for embarrassed assent. "But — you are comely, and a king."
He let out a choked laugh and laid his arm aside, finally meeting her eyes. "Being a king is part of the problem, my dear — women would be happy to claim their brats are mine, but if I have not slept with them in the first place, they are much less likely to do so."
"But there are so many precautions a woman can take to avoid pregnancy," she said.
"Ah, but you must want to avoid pregnancy," Cador said with a smile. "What if you would much rather be mother to a king's bastard?"
"True enough," Yseult said, still surprised at his cautious attitude. Most men she knew did not think so far ahead. "But I would have thought you wouldn't mind a child, even if it was out of wedlock."
Cador's smile faded. "If I could not marry the woman, it would not be fair to her."
Yes, in terms of British society, that was true. Although even here in Britain there any number of women with a bastard who went on to marry well. Arthur's own mother Ygerna was a perfect example.
"Besides," Cador continued, "if I were to sleep in every bed that tempted me, not only might I end up with a string of bastards of uncertain parentage, I could end up with their mothers. I have seen too many friends involved in too many disputes with former mistresses to be tempted to join their ranks. I have two good hands, after all. And little inclination for complicated relationships. Besides, if I get tired of myself, there are always the sheep."
Yseult shot up, gazing down at him in surprise. By the single candle that still burned, she saw the way the corners of his mouth curled up. She chuckled, pushing at his shoulder playfully. "Cador! You are impossible!"
He pulled her down and laid an arm across her waist. "Ha! I made you laugh! It cannot have been all bad then."
"Of course it was not 'all bad'."
He pressed closer and laid a series of nipping kisses on her ear and along her jawbone. A shudder of enjoyment went down her spine.
"Nonetheless, I think I must try to make it up to you," he said between kisses. She could feel that he was ready — again — to follow up on his promise.
"If you really think it's necessary," she murmured, returning his embrace.
"Absolutely necessary," he said firmly and kissed her mouth.
Yseult wondered if she might enjoy being married after all.
* * * *
After all the fears plaguing her during the previous weeks, Yseult was surprised how calm she felt in the days following her wedding. Marriage to Cador was a very different thing than marriage to Marcus. Of course, rationally she had known that, but on some level she could not control, the knowledge would not take hold.
Now, as she strolled past the Whitsun fair outside of the city walls on this early summer day, her hand tucked into the crook of Cador's elbow, she was beginning to trust what logic had told her all along: life with Cador could be very pleasant. They could remain friends within marriage — and while she had certainly had more practiced lovers, Cador's enthusiasm was inspiring. It appeared he had been living a more chaste life than many a Christian monk, and she was impressed that he could be abstinent on the simple grounds of reason and sympathy. She thought of Gawain, with lovers the length and breadth of Britain, the kind of man who rarely, if ever, turned a woman down — and damn the consequences, including at least three bastards that she knew of.
In the fields beyond the market stalls, wrestling matches and foot races and other games were being held. Yseult kept an eye out for Kustennin, but she wasn't sure which competitions he would try his hand at today. The sun was warm on her back, and she had just eaten a fresh bun with currant and honey compote. The sweetness of it seemed to be spreading from her stomach to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes.
Finally she spied her son participating in the foot races. "There's our king," she said to Cador, pointing.
And then the past and the present melted into each other and she was at another Whitsuntide festival many years ago, Drystan at her side, watching Cador at the foot races for the young men.
And now Drystan was dead and Cador was her husband.
She rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger and looked up in time to see Kustennin lose to Aurelius, with Aircol's son Vortipor close behind. They were in Isca, not Verulamium, and Marcus had been dead for over a dozen years. There was nothing to worry about now.
Cador looked at her, his expression concerned. "What is it, Yseult?"
She realized she'd tightened her grip on this forearm, and she withdrew her hand. "I — an odd thought. I was remembering watching you at the Whitsuntide games at Verulamium when you were still a youth. Before Ambrosius Aurelianus went to Gaul."
"And my father was still alive," Cador murmured. "And Drystan."
"Yes."
They stood silent for a moment before continuing their rounds of the playing fields. At the sidelines of a mock skirmish, they ran into Cwylli, rocking a bundle on her shoulder while she watched the games, her brother Gildas beside her.
Cwylli wore her bronze-colored hair in a thick braid down her back that shone bright as a burnished torque. In that moment, she looked so much like her half-brother Drystan, it made Yseult's breath catch in her throat.
They exchanged greetings, and Cador tried to engage Gildas in conversation, with little success. The boy answered questions put to him but volunteered no additional information and asked no questions of his own.
Yseult leaned forward to push the swaddling clothes away from the babe's face. "What did you name him again?" she asked, caressing the smooth cheek, surely one of the softest things in the world.
Cwylli smiled. "Melehan."
As Yseult asked the usual questions about the boy's health and growth, it began to dawn on her that her new husband had grown unusually quiet, and Cwylli stiff and awkward, despite her enthusiasm for her little boy. Then she saw the other woman glance under her lashes at Cador, and Yseult felt the way Cwylli was struck by a wave of longing — and memory.
Cador had slept with Medraut's wife.
For a moment, Yseult found it difficult to keep up her end of the conversation. She had believed Cador when he told her why he didn't engage in casual affairs — and now here she was, standing in front a woman who almost wished he were still her lover.
Yseult didn't know what to think. She knew what she felt: betrayed. It was completely illogical, of course; whatever was between Cwylli and Cador was in the past. But he had lied to her. And he had insisted on honesty between them.
While she stood there, unsure what to think or feel or say, the skirmish ended and Medraut joined them, sweaty but in better spirits than usual.
"A good battle?" Cador asked.
"Very," Medraut said, laughing. "I bested four of Arthur's champions: Gareth, Gaheris, Gawain, and Cai."
Cwylli's smile had with a hint of melancholy in it, and Yseult felt her frustration that even after bearing him a son she could not seem to win her husband back. And Cador was out of Cwylli's reach now too.
Yseult closed her mind
to the other woman's thoughts.
It was all Yseult could do to hold up her end of the conversation. Finally they took their leave, and Yseult and Cador continued on their rounds of the games, Cwylli's longing following them.
"Why did you lie to me?" Yseult asked when they were far enough away from the crowds not to be overheard.
"I did not lie," he said quietly, understanding her accusation immediately. "I just did not answer."
Yseult drew in a deep breath, amazed at her own anger. "It is much the same thing. You allowed me to think that there had not been anyone since Terrwyn, you even explained why."
"I do believe what I told you. That is my philosophy. The incident with Cwylli was a mistake."
"Does she know that she was a mistake?"
"We both know what we did was wrong."
"But she is the one who is suffering."
"Is she? I am sorry for that. She loves her husband despite her disappointment in him." He gave her a searching look. "And I do not want to know what Gawain has been going through these past few days."
"I — no — neither do I." Even without entering Gawain's thoughts, the look on his face on a handful of occasions had told her more than she wanted to know about his feelings. Still, this wasn't about their affairs previous to their marriage, this was about the fact that Cador had deceived her.
Or was it? She would not have been so disappointed if she hadn't been so touched by his behavior on their wedding night — and so sure she was the only woman he'd slept with in years. It made no sense, really — she had never expected celibacy from a man in Cador's position, but once she came to believe it, the thought had moved her deeply.
"I am sorry I allowed you to believe I had been celibate since Terrwyn's death," Cador was saying now. "But you must understand, I could not betray Cwylli."
"No, of course not. I understand completely." Yseult's words were true enough, but it was not the whole truth.
And so began a marriage.
Chapter 13
Girl, knowest thou what marriage means? Oh, if
When once the fatal ring is on thy finger,
Thou shouldst encounter some one who should kindle
Thy latent heart to flame. To be caressed
When thou art cold — this is a bitter thing.
But to be fondled by an unloved hand,
When all the soul is in another's arms —
That were a horror and a sacrilege.
Richard Hovey, "The Marriage of Guenevere: A Tragedy"
Medraut watched the newly wed couple walk away, his eyes narrowed. Until now, the two of them had been surprisingly harmonious, happy even, especially for a politically arranged marriage — all the more remarkable since one of the parties was Yseult, who had been insisting for a decade that she would never marry again.
And here they were, obviously arguing. After talking with his wife.
He looked down at Cwylli. She was gazing after Cador and Yseult while absently jiggling Melehan on her shoulder. What was this about? He wished he had Nimue's power of knowing. Nimue — who had decided to play her role as seductress of Arthur's magician a bit more seriously than Medraut intended.
Whenever he was reminded of the unfairness of it all, he would spend an extra hour at weapons practice, and his anger stood him in good stead. He had bested four of Arthur's favorites today, after all.
"Come, let me take Melehan for a bit," he said. "Your arms must be getting tired."
Cwylli gave him a startled look, as if she had forgotten he was there. "What about your chain mail?"
"I am wearing a tunic over it. I do not think it will harm the babe."
She held Melehan out to him. "Thank you."
The thought flashed across his mind that she too might have been unfaithful. But no, if nothing else, Cwylli was not the type to go sneaking around behind his back. And with Cador, the most boring man in all of Britain? At the mere thought, he nearly laughed.
He offered his elbow to his wife and she slipped one hand into the crook of his arm. "Come, let us visit the fair and find something to eat and drink. I'm famished."
She smiled. "A famous idea."
* * * *
After the annual council of kings, the guests slowly began to take their leave. Medraut had no kingdom himself, but he followed the developments with interest. Arthur had requested that the levy for the standing army be increased, and the kings had grudgingly acknowledged the need after the losses during the war against the Picts. Medraut made note of which kings were reluctant to contribute, foremost among them Maelgwyn. Natanleod had not even bothered to come to Isca at all.
A week after the wedding, Arthur's party was ready to depart for the journey to Caer Leon. After taking leave of the newlyweds — who now looked about as happy as most couples married for political reasons — they set off through the streets of Isca for the North Gate.
In this section of town, many of the old Roman buildings had been torn down to make room for livestock. Houses of wood and stone stood between pens of pigs and goats and the occasional garden plot. Their party was large, and horses and carts filled the street, stretching a whole city block.
Apparently irritated by all the riders, a small black and white herding dog ran out from one of the houses and began barking. This was too much for a nearby cat, and it dashed into the street, darting between the sharp hooves, provoking the dog to give chase. Around him, Medraut saw the horses in their party begin to dance nervously, snorting and shying, and he reined in his gelding, pulling him away from the fracas. The cat, apparently feeling trapped, backed up against a wall and began to hiss and spit, while the dog ran back and forth in front of it, just out of reach of its long claws, barking hysterically.
Cwylli was having problems calming her frightened mount, and it capered a panicked dance, its hooves almost striking the dog. Frightened, the dog jumped away and began barking. The temperamental mare shied and then reared high, hooves flailing in the air. Cwylli screamed and lost her hold, tumbling to the ground. In a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, Medraut watched the horse fall — directly on top of his wife
She screamed again, long and drawn out. Then silence, except for the excited barking of the dog.
For a moment, they were all frozen in shock. To Medraut, the barking sounded as if it was coming out of a tunnel. Then the mare whinnied in pain and tried to get up, ripping them out of their laming disbelief.
"Get the mare off her!" Cai called out, jumping from his horse and rushing over to Cwylli. Bedwyr and several other nearby warriors followed suit. Medraut could hardly remember dismounting, but there he was kneeling in the street, next to the unmoving body of his wife. By now, the riders at the head of their party had noticed something was wrong and were returning to the scene of the accident.
"Someone get Yseult!" Ginevra yelled, while Medraut, Cai, and Bedwyr pushed and pulled the injured mare off the inert figure. They could fetch Yseult all they wanted; Medraut knew Cwylli didn't have a chance.
And then Gildas was there, slipping off his pony. "Cwylli!"
Ginevra took him in her arms and pulled his head to her shoulder. He sobbed and clutched her waist.
Finally they had the injured mare out of the way. Cwylli lay on the cobblestones, twisted unnaturally at the waist and neck, her beautiful green eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Medraut took her into his arms, keening at fate. How could this have happened to him, to lose the mother of his son because of a stupid fight between cat and dog? It could have been any one of them, but it had been her, his Cwylli, the little girl he had known most of her life and married when she was not yet fifteen — just when she had changed from a tomboy to a beautiful young lady, one of the prettiest and most eligible girls of his acquaintance. Now she lay twisted and broken, and he could no longer feel the blood pulsing against the fingers he held cramped around her wrist.
Once again fate had ambushed him.
Not far away, Gildas continued to sob, choking out his sister's n
ame at irregular intervals. Someone had silenced the dog or taken it away, while Medraut rocked the body of his wife in the middle of the street. She had not deserved to die so young. Yes, for some time he had felt trapped by their marriage. Just days ago, he'd railed at fate about how being tied to her meant the end of his ambitions. But he had never wished death on the mother of his son.
He blinked, pausing for a moment in his rocking movements.
Whether he'd wished it or not, now Cwylli was dead. And he was free.
Free of the choice he'd made as a young man, a choice that had turned into a mistake. Free of the wrong in-laws. Free to move forward.
Gildas broke away from Ginevra's embrace and knelt next to Medraut, sobbing his heart out. The boy would need support now — and Medraut would be there for him. Gildas was a clever lad, and he was going into the church. Medraut could use allies in the church.
"Let me through!" It was Modrun. He was masking his thoughts as Nimue had taught him, but from the look she shot him across Cwylli's body, he had the awful suspicion she could read his mind anyway.
She dropped to her knees and took Cwylli's wrist. "She's dead," Modrun announced — unnecessarily, he thought. Anyone could see it in the way her green eyes stared sightlessly into the sky.
They stared at each other across the body. Dimly, he heard a party of horses arrive, their hooves clattering on the cobblestones and stopping just beyond the crowd.
Yseult pushed through. He saw her take in the broken body, saw the glance that passed between her and Modrun and the older woman's short shake of the head.
"I'm so sorry, Medraut." Then her eyes widened in alarm. "And your little boy?"
Medraut took a shuddering breath. "In the litter with his nurse."
"At least that," Yseult murmured.
"Yes."
Cador and Illtud joined them now as well. "Oh no, Cwylli!" Cador cried out as Illtud made the sign of the cross over the body and began to mumble some prayers in Latin.
Medraut gazed up, tears streaming down his face, to see answering tears on the cheeks of the king of the Durotriges. "There is no longer anything anyone can do."
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 18
