She questioned the farmer's wife several times to make sure she'd remembered and understood. Keyna was definitely quick; she would make a good study.
"I will come by again tomorrow to look in on you. I can teach you more healing herbs, if you like. You might be able to assist your neighbors too when someone is unwell."
Keyna laughed, looking much better than she had when Yseult arrived. "Do you intend to make me the wise woman of Lansyen, Lady?"
"That would not be such a bad idea now, would it?"
As she left the cottage, she wondered why she hadn't started teaching her knowledge of herbs to the local women sooner. Yes, many of the Christian priests kept herb gardens and knew the ways of healing, but there were certain kinds of knowledge they either did not have or did not share.
Over the next week, Yseult visited Keyna regularly, teaching the younger woman more herbal lore every day. And so Keyna became Yseult's apprentice. She limited her instruction to the safest remedies; while an herb like flea mint was one of the most effective herbs against unwanted pregnancy, if it was used incorrectly, it could easily poison the woman who took it.
Teaching was surprisingly gratifying, and Yseult found herself wishing they would not be leaving so soon for Lindinis. She had only taught Keyna the most rudimentary remedies for a handful of ailments. Of course, after only a few days, no more could be expected, but suddenly Yseult was impatient to impart both the knowledge she'd brought with her from Eriu and what she'd learned from the Christian priests here. By passing it along, she could help keep the knowledge alive.
* * * *
As Yseult walked back to the hill-fort from Keyna and Talek's cottage, she passed a number of villagers building pyres for the Easter celebration. It had been at an Easter celebration many years ago that she had begun her affair with Gawain. She still remembered the festive atmosphere during her visit to Caer Leon, the heat of the bonfire, the look in Gawain's eyes when he gazed at her, suggestive and promising. That look had told her he knew what a woman wanted, and he would be happy to give it to her. When she decided to take him up on the offer in his eyes, she'd felt eager, even a little calculating, knowing the reputation he had.
But then, instead of loving her and leaving her as she expected, he began to tell her how different she was from all the rest, how glad he was to have found her, how his desire had grown to love. All those claims he made that she refused to believe — but apparently she had after all, given her disappointment at his marriage.
She had to stop brushing it aside; the more she ignored Gawain's marriage, the more it festered. She should write him, congratulate him, put an end to it. Perhaps if she acknowledged his marriage in writing, she could lay it to rest.
As soon as she made the decision, she felt much better.
There was little privacy in the hill-fort of Lansyen. With the exception of the sleeping chambers at one end, the great hall consisted of a large, open room. Yseult fetched her writing box from the chamber she shared with Cador and sat down at a small table in the main hall. The box had been a present from Drystan many years ago, a tool more beautiful than it needed to be, with an enameled top and silver hinges. She undid the leather cord and opened the flat box, flooded by memories of the many times she had written Drystan.
Making the decision to write Gawain had been the easy part — but what should she say? She could do little more than congratulate him on his marriage — anything else would be below her dignity. A simple missive sending him her good wishes. No more, and no less.
She took a thin, folded sheet of birch out of her writing box.
* * * *
Cador knelt down in the field, the overseer beside him. He took a handful of dirt and crumbled it in his hand, testing the consistency. It had been over a week now without a hard freeze, which meant the fields could soon be plowed for the second time in preparation for sowing.
"The earth is good like I said, isn't it, Lord?" Talek said beside him.
Cador stared at the brown dirt trickling through his hand, trying to concentrate on what needed to be done rather than what had been going through his mind for the last week: the look on Yseult's face when she had glanced down at the letter with the news of Gawain's marriage.
She was always pale, his beautiful wife, but it was a moon-bright paleness, lit by an inner glow of energy and strength. Then she had looked wan, the light snuffed, the energy gone.
"Lord Cador?"
Cador rose and wiped his hands on his breeches. "Yes, it's good, Talek. I think we can begin with the final plowing before we sow the fields."
He had been hoping, more than hoping, that with time she would learn to love him — if not with the same passion he felt for her, then at least with a comfortable love, a love that could provide ease and solace. But now here they were, married nearly a year, and Yseult was still pining for her former lover, the man she had claimed not to love, with whom she had ended her relationship after deciding to marry Cador — or so she professed. The man she had kissed beside the road between Caer Gwent and Glevum. He had wondered then if this marriage had been a mistake. And for the last week, he had not been able to get those thoughts out of his head.
Talek at his side, he headed back in the direction of the hill-fort.
Cador didn't know what to do. Yseult may have thought she'd hidden her heartbreak from him, but he'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she held herself, a slumped hint of defeat in that back normally so proud. The only thing he was sure of was that he could not go on like this, with this kind of daily misery, unavoidable, there at every turn, no matter what he was doing. He wanted to stop, but he didn't know how. Not even the land was a distraction anymore — what he had always relied on until now.
There was only one thing for it: he would have to speak to her, ask her openly how she felt about Gawain's marriage, even if the news was not what he wanted. If she was still in love with Gawain, he would give her back her freedom. Better that than a miserable wife who was pining for another; a painful but decisive end rather than the kind of unending heartache he'd been suffering from recently.
At least, he hoped it would be better.
But with just the decision itself, he felt a load lift from his soul. That had to be a good sign, didn't it?
On the road back to the hill-fort, villagers were draping garlands of daffodils and violets around a grove in honor of "Saint" Nemetona — an ancient tree goddess of the British. Since Marcus's death, Yseult had been gently promoting the integration of old rites into Christian celebrations, with impressive success. Tied to the land as he was, Cador could understand how many Britons could believe in the life of tree and stream and were drawn to the idea of divine presences in field and forest, forces that needed to be appeased for a good harvest or a good hunt.
Cador watched a young man grab a maid's hand and draw her close to whisper in her ear — or perhaps nibble on her earlobe — while she laughed. Everywhere he looked, sun and warmth were bringing a landscape that had gone dormant back to life. The grass had gone from brown to green, while new leaves on the trees were beginning to unfurl. Cador smiled; the land had not lost its power over him yet.
By the time he reached the hall, he had almost regained his old state of happy optimism. He would talk with Yseult and they would clear up their differences and be comfortable with each other again. It had to be, he knew it. They had always been fond of each other; she couldn't want to throw that away. He pushed open the door — and saw his wife at a far table, writing.
She looked up and gave a guilty start. A letter to Gawain, then.
Cador stared at her, his heart breaking all over. And suddenly he knew he couldn't deal with the disappointment anymore, the hopes raised and then dashed, the excitement, the distraction from the life of the land, the life he loved. He was not made for this kind of passion. He didn't know how Yseult had survived it, all those years of her affair with Drystan, the constant separations and disappointments and reconciliations. Obviously she was made of s
terner emotional stuff.
He started to turn and leave the hall, but she rose, calling out. "Cador!"
Slowly he faced her. "Lady?"
She closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. "Don't call me that. Please."
"Good, Yseult. But answer me one thing. You were writing Gawain, were you not?"
She clenched her hands in front of her and then squared her shoulders, like someone facing a tribunal. "Yes, I was. But —"
"I don't want to hear it," he said, cutting her off.
The line of her mouth grew stubborn, and he almost regretted the words. "Well, even if you don't want to listen to me, please don't forget to be here for the dinner with the tenant farmers."
"I won't." With that, he left the hall again, not knowing where he would go.
Lansyen was a dismal place, when it came down to it, small and without much luxury, aside from a few small details such as the elaborate wall hangings. Cador would be glad to be back in his villa outside of Lindinis. Even the vast, windy, hill-fort of Dyn Draithou would be better than this. But Yseult had a special fondness for the people of this place — and for Drystan's nearby grave as well, he was sure, although she never spoke of it.
Suddenly Cador was gripped by the need to visit his cousin's standing stone. Unfortunately, there wouldn't be enough time before the priest's blessing and the gifts and the Easter dinner, rituals which he could hardly miss.
Tomorrow; he would visit the stone and Drystan's grave tomorrow.
Outside the earthen ramparts, the wind ripped at his cloak, and he gathered the material tight in his fist. Gazing towards the River Voliba, the unthinkable teased at the corners of his mind. Perhaps he no longer wanted to try and win Yseult's heart.
It was a strange thought after his long habit of loving her. Of course, while he was married to Terrwyn, he had been convinced that he was over his youthful infatuation. He and Terrwyn had shared a quiet, soothing love, rich enough to make him imagine he no longer had feelings for Yseult. Yes, on some level he had deceived himself, but at the same time, his love for Terrwyn had been sincere — and a comfort of a winter's night.
Now he just felt empty.
* * * *
When he returned from his walk, his cheeks tingling from the brisk spring wind, the tenant farmers were already being admitted through the gate of the hill-fort, baskets of brightly painted eggs on their arms.
Talek hailed him. "Greetings, Lord! You are almost late to your own feast!"
Cador forced himself to give the laugh that would be expected of him. "It turned out to be such a fine spring day, I had to take advantage of it before being cooped up in the hill-fort for the rest of the afternoon."
"Very wise." The other man fished a red egg out of the basket his wife carried and held it out to Cador. "Here, my lord, an egg for luck. And on this occasion, may I say how glad we all are that our lady Yseult has found such a fine king, worthy of taking the place at her side?"
Talek's wife nodded enthusiastically, and Cador could feel himself blushing. It was embarrassing to receive such praise from Yseult's people, just when he had reached the conclusion that he no longer cared to remain with her.
But such reflections were cut short when he was caught up by the crowd and swept into the hill-fort. Like a wave bringing him ashore, the villagers and peasants and laborers deposited him next to Yseult in front of the hall, where she was waiting to welcome their guests.
Yseult attempted a smile. "I am glad to see you could come."
Cador bowed. "At your service, Lady Wife."
She wasn't happy at the greeting, he could see, but she said nothing.
Together, they led the way into the hall and the tables on either side of the central hearth. "Seat yourselves and share the bounty of Lansyen!" Yseult called out over the festive noise of the crowd.
Cador sat down with his wife at the upper table and watched as the residents of Lansyen and Voliba took places at the tables around the room, jostling and laughing. The smell of roast boar filled the hall, along with other scents that surely had more mouths watering than just his. If his nose told him true, pepper, lovage, wine, and garum were in the sauce to be served with the meat. In one corner, a minstrel had taken up his harp and began to sing jolly tunes while moving among the guests.
It should have been an excellent party — except for the fact that he was sitting next to a woman he feared he might have forgotten how to love.
* * * *
Yseult gazed at the Easter fire, remembering the bonfire lit by Patraic on the Hill of Slane so many years ago. Then, it had seemed nothing more than sacrilege. Now, she was able to see that Patraic's daring act had been an acknowledgment of the power of the Old Ways, the beliefs that lived by the cycle of the seasons rather than just the cycle of one life. For her, Easter had become a celebration of spring and fertility, and that was how the people of Dumnonia regarded it as well, no matter which god or gods they prayed to. After all, not only was the priest present, the queen was too, the Kingmaker — a concept still vaguely remembered here in Britain, even if laws and customs had changed.
Normally, the feast with the local residents was the celebration Yseult enjoyed most. But this year, her new husband sat beside her, doing his best to avoid looking at her.
It was a relief when the meal was over. They all took torches and filed out of the earthen ramparts of Lansyen to a nearby hill, where pieces of kindling and dried sticks and long branches had been stacked up in preparation for the bonfire. One by one, they doused their torches, all except for that of the Christian priest: for this holiest of celebrations, the liturgy began in total darkness with the blessing of the Easter fire. Just as it was in Eriu with the celebration of Beltane and the welcoming ritual for the light half of the year.
The priest lifted his arms and began his invocation, but it was largely drowned out by the laughter and merriment of people celebrating the end of winter — as if they were doing their best to support her in her assessment of the religious soul of her people.
She caught a verse spoken by the priest:
"Christ is risen from the dead,
"Trampling down death by death,
"And bestowing life
"Upon those in their graves!"
Despite the emphasis on death, in a way it was similar to the spring rites of her own tribe, the Tuatha Dé, who taught that the death of winter brought forth the life of summer. Sometimes she feared that the beliefs of her people were fated to die out completely, but as she watched the bonfire, hope swelled that their ways would survive in some form, that the rituals of the living earth might infiltrate the religion of the dead god.
Yseult smiled, automatically glancing at Cador beside her — and was reminded of the mess her life had become. A husband who would not listen to her, a lover who had married another. Cador did not deign to look at her, gazing fixedly ahead, his lips thin.
She lifted her chin and stared into the fire, determined to enjoy its energy and warmth and flickering play of colors. She would not beg. Nor would she allow herself to be dragged down by choices that might have been mistakes — there were always new choices to be made, and she no longer had to think of Kustennin when weighing her options. He was a man grown and could make his own way now, no matter how her marriage to Cador developed. She could make her decisions for herself — depending, that is, on the choices her husband gave her.
A husband whose mind was a blank to her. She had never been so frustrated at anyone's ability to block their thoughts.
Cador was not unreasonable. With time, he would surely give her a chance to explain that the letter to Gawain had been nothing more than congratulations on his nuptials. She did not have to tell him about the feelings of confused regret leading up to her decision to write the letter.
When the priest was done intoning his message of death and life, the villagers relit their torches at the bonfire, filed past him with their baskets, and bowed their heads as he blessed the eggs, yet more symbols of
fertility and new life.
And new beginnings?
Yseult would be happy if they could just return to their old easy camaraderie. She didn't know why that shouldn't be possible. They might have gotten off to a bad start, but these last few months had still held many moments of quiet comfort.
If only he would allow her to explain the letter — and would believe her when she did.
* * * *
Cador stared at the bread and cheese and smoked ham on the table between them, their normal fare when they broke their fast mornings. They had not changed their simple habit for any other feast days in the last year, and Easter Sunday — or the festival of Nemetona or whatever other gods watched over this particular changing of the seasons — was no exception.
The uncomfortable silence stretched out, as so often in the last few days. Cador laid his knife on the table with a clatter he hadn't intended.
Yseult looked up, her gaze questioning.
"Have you nothing to say?" he spat out.
She pursed her lips. "You told me you didn't want to hear what I had to say. You can hardly blame me for keeping my peace until you calmed down."
It was true enough, but she would have had any number of opportunities to explain since then — if she'd only wanted to take them. It was obvious enough that she felt no need.
He rose and began to pace. "I cannot go on like this, Yseult. I think I need to be alone. Perhaps then I will 'calm down,' as you put it."
She lowered her own knife, staring at him. "What are you saying?"
He stopped and faced her. "I would like to return to Lindinis alone for now. You may either remain here, or go to Dyn Tagell earlier than we planned, as you wish."
"You want to live apart from me for a time."
"Yes."
She lifted the cloth napkin from her lap, folded it deliberately, laid it on the table, and rose. "Then I should begin making preparations. If you will excuse me?"
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 25
