"You were pushing yourself beyond your reserves," her mother told her when she complained. "You kept yourself going through sheer force of will, but once the pressure was no longer there, your body took over. I have seen this among warriors many times, when they continue fighting with a grave wound until the battle is over — and then they break down."
Of course it made sense, but she couldn't help being impatient. As the month of harvest drew near, so did the dark half of the year and its storms when it was rare a ship dared cross the Erainn Sea. What would Cador be thinking that she stayed away so long? She was eager to return now that the siege was lifted, but her mother and Brigid insisted she was not strong enough to travel; not only would she endanger the child, she would endanger herself.
While Yseult was still recovering, a letter finally arrived for her from Britain, the first she had received since she left. She sat up on her pallet in the house of healing and opened the thinly sliced sheets of wood.
Cador to Yseult, greetings.
When writing you, I have the feeling I am shouting down a well; I know not whether my missives are reaching you, whether you do not wish to receive them, or whether your answers have failed to find me. Be that as it may, the news now is grave, and I must write.
Yseult lowered the letter. So Cador had been writing, but none of his letters had survived the journey. And neither had hers.
She raised the sheets again and continued reading.
Loholt was killed recently in a hunting accident. As if that were not bad enough, Cai has been accused of murdering him. While Arthur does not believe the rumors, Ginevra does — and has seen to it that Cai is no longer welcome in Caer Leon. I have volunteered to take over his position as Master of Horse in the interim. When next you write, send to me at Caer Leon, not Lindinis.
Kustennin is well. From what I hear, he has the makings of a true war leader, with all the instinct and ambition I never had.
I hope this finds you in good health. We have mostly bad news from Eriu and I worry. Please write and let us know how you are.
Your Cador
Oh, if only she could travel! She needed to return to her husband, to Britain, needed to help where she could. Perhaps she would be able to talk some sense into Ginevra where others had failed — Ginevra trusted her, after all.
But no, Brigid and her mother were right. The excitement of the news alone had her head spinning.
She sighed and dropped her forehead into her hands.
"Lady Yseult?" It was the young priest Conlaed, who now regularly helped out in the house of healing. "Is something the matter?"
"Bad news from Britain." She looked up. "Could you fetch writing implements for me? I must reply."
He bowed. "Certainly, Lady."
"Thank you."
* * * *
Yseult to Cador, greetings.
I received my first letter from you today, which means any others you sent were lost. It appears most of my letters have suffered the same fate.
The news from Britain is grave indeed, and I thank you for writing. My greatest wish would be to return immediately and give whatever assistance is within my power, but unfortunately at present I cannot travel. Druim Dara was under siege for over a month, and we are all greatly weakened from the need to ration our stores. It is hard for me to admit it, but I suffered a fit of weakness after the siege was lifted and am still in the house of healing, battling spells of dizziness and fainting. But never fear, I sustained no injury — my present condition is a result of the prolonged reduction in our rations combined with the need to assist Brigid during the siege. Brigid and my mother are of the opinion that I was only able to remain on my feet as long as I did out of sheer stubbornness, something you will surely be able to believe.
I can only hope that this letter will reach you and remain
Your faithful wife Yseult
* * * *
"I'm worried about your mother," Brigid said one day when she brought a hearty rabbit stew to Yseult's bedside.
Yseult swung her legs over the side of the pallet. "Why, is she ill?"
Brigid put the bowl down on a low table and sat down. "No, but she is so listless — except when we argue."
"What do you argue about?" Yseult took up the spoon and began to eat the soup, but it was difficult; she still had very little appetite.
"It is the old disagreement — how to react to the growing influence of the religion of Christ. Once we took much the same position, but for some time now we have been moving in opposite directions. I fear your mother is tempted to join those of the Feadh Ree who have retreated to the dwellings of the Old Ones in the hills."
The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered to the table. "My mother?"
"I'm afraid so."
This was not going to help Yseult's appetite at all.
* * * *
"I'm worried about Brigid," Yseult's mother said, setting a bowl of barley soup and thick slabs of bacon on the table next to her bed.
Yseult sat up, doing her best to keep her mind closed. "Why?"
"She sits together with the Christian priests half a day at a time, and they have free run of Druim Dara, the most sacred site of the goddess in Eriu."
Yseult shrugged. "Patraic did play an important role in freeing us, after all."
"Yes, but that does not mean she has to allow a church to be built within the walls."
The bacon she was chewing on turned to leather in her mouth. "Are you sure? Is she really considering such a thing?"
Her mother nodded. "She says she owes it to the Christians after they saved her from her own people."
On some level, Yseult could understand Brigid's disappointment, but still — to build a church, on this spot holy to Anu, Danu, and Brigid, would change Eriu beyond recognition.
* * * *
By the time Yseult could leave her bed and begin making the rounds of Druim Dara, the first stones were already being laid for the new church.
She leaned on Brigid's arm and watched as Conlaed emptied another wicker basket on the pile of rocks already collected, while Lupida, who had recovered completely from her wound, spoke quietly with her brother Patraic.
"I know you don't approve," Brigid said. "But it was Patraic's only request after he saved Druim Dara."
"Helped to save," Yseult corrected. "I no longer live here anymore, Brigid. Whether I approve or not is immaterial. But do you realize that this little stone church will last longer than any other building in Druim Dara?"
"Yes. Nonetheless, it is my sacred duty to keep the holy fire alive as long as possible. You may not agree with me, but this is the best way." Brigid glanced away from the church, towards the thick ramparts that had saved them. "Besides, I've had enough of the worship of bloodshed. You can say much against the religion of the Christ, but at least it does not glorify war."
* * * *
As the church grew, so did Yseult's strength — but not fast enough. As the heat of summer gave way to the storms of fall, the days became shorter and the weather more inclement. And then there were the complaints that plagued her more and more, the colder the days and the larger her belly: the continuing spells of faintness, the cramps in her calves, the sudden backache spasms that made it temporarily impossible for her to walk.
"Yseult, you cannot travel," her mother said. "You know it yourself."
She did know, but she did not want to believe it. It was long since time she returned to Cador, to set his mind at ease if nothing else. Besides, she was worried about developments in Britain, and she wanted to see her son and husband and friends again.
Slowly, however, she was beginning to fear that she would not be returning to Britain until spring, with a child in her arms.
* * * *
Samhain drew near, and the church was almost complete, the new Cill Dara. The leaves on the sacred oak were turning shades of yellow and orange and red, occasionally dropping flurries of leaves in the stronger gusts of wind. This was the time of year
when the door between the worlds was opened widest, and here in her homeland again, Yseult could feel it more than she ever had in Britain.
"Will you be remaining for Samhain?" Yseult asked Illann, now the new king of the Laigin. She still found herself growing dizzy at odd times and was grateful that she could lean on his well-muscled arm. He had come with Nath for a visit — and, as it turned out, to suggest to Yseult the Wise that her son go into fosterage with him. Not even that could get much of a reaction out of her mother, Yseult noticed. The only thing she seemed to care about anymore was the church being built in their midst. Whenever they passed it, like now, her mother pursed her lips and looked away, and the thoughts Yseult caught from her were a jumble of anger and resignation.
Illann shook his head. "I must be in Dun Ailinne to walk between the fires and bless the harvest."
Yseult smiled. "True. I forget that you have the duties of a king to fulfill now."
"Would you like to stay here or return with me to Dun Ailinne?" Illann asked Nath.
Nath shrugged. "I don't know."
"Brigid intends to take Christian vows," her mother said out of the blue.
They all stopped and stared at the church, where Brigid was deep in conversation with Mel, while Patraic helped fit stones into each other, not shying from heavy lifting despite the white in his hair and his position as Christian leader of Eriu. If her mother had seen it, it was surely true; Yseult the Wise had the strongest power of knowing of anyone she had ever met, including Brigid herself.
Brigid looked over, interrupted by the intensity of their attention. They saw her put a hand up, stopping Mel, and then turn and stride over to their party. But she was not interested in anyone except Yseult the Wise, Kingmaker of Eriu. Another gust of wind shook the branches of the ancient oak above, sending a scattering of multi-colored leaves down around them. The priestess stopped in front of the Kingmaker, her shoulders square and her expression full of regret. "Yes, Yseult the Wise, you have seen what I intend, but I have seen things to come, things I cannot prevent."
Her mother's lips tightened. "You are sworn to the sacred fire."
"I am, and that is the reason for the course I am taking. It may make no sense to you, but in my visions, this way is best to keep the fire burning longest and the memory of our ways alive."
"And to do so you will betray what we believe in?"
"I am betraying nothing. Our gods are not jealous."
"But the god of the Christians is."
"And what if he is? Their Christ is a god of peace, after all. Eriu could do with a bit more peace. Besides your husband, how many loved ones have you lost to these constant wars?"
Yseult the Wise did not answer.
Brigid placed a hand on her upper arm. "You could still join me here, help bring the most important of our traditions into a new age, one that will hopefully be less blanketed with bloodshed."
Her mother shook off Brigid's hand and walked away.
* * * *
When the door between the worlds opened the widest that Samhain, it was not spirits from the dead that paid them a visit in Druim Dara, it was a company from the Otherworld.
The weather was cold and misty, the moisture in the air just a step away from rain. Such weather made the backaches that plagued her during this pregnancy even worse, and Yseult longed for the easy health of her youth, the lack of complaints she had while carrying Kustennin — when she had been little more than a girl, it seemed to her now. Nonetheless, she knew that staying in bed would make the birth more difficult, and she did her best to continue participating in the life of Druim Dara.
She and her mother were watching the cattle being driven between the bonfires, while Nath ran along beside the livestock with the other children, when the members of the Feadh Ree emerged from the mist like characters out of myth. In the tales of Eriu, those of the Old Race were beginning to take on an aspect almost like that of gods: the legendary tribe with their supernatural powers who had gone to live in the ancient hills, the sidhe of the oldest gods.
It had been decades since Yseult had seen them, but she still recognized Bodb Derg, king of the Tuatha Dé Danann at the sacred site of Oe Cualann, and her aunt Nemain — Brangwyn's mother. Who had turned her back on the life of the Gaels so many years ago, even before Yseult had been married away to Britain.
Nemain and her companions seemed to be shrouded in mist and magic, bringing it with them into the little community celebrating Samhain. Tall and pale, whether their hair was dark or light or the color of fire, the breath of the Otherworld that accompanied them drew all eyes to their slender forms.
Nemain stopped in front of her former sister-in-law. "It has come to our attention that you might now be prepared to join us in the hills of the Feadh Ree."
"It is good to see you too again, Nemain," Yseult's mother said with a wry smile.
"Ah, yes, the rituals of everyday life. Forgive me that I forgot to employ the standard greeting."
"It is no matter. You look well — as if you had aged a fraction of the years we have lived through while you were gone."
"Time passes differently in the sacred hills," Bodb Derg said.
"So it seems," Yseult said, eying her aunt's slim figure. Yseult was only six months into her pregnancy, but she already looked almost as heavy as she had shortly before she gave birth to Kustennin. "You look no older than I."
"And why should I look older than you?" Nemain said with the hint of a smile. "Those who live among the sidhe hardly age."
"We also rarely conceive," Bodb Derg said, looking pointedly at Yseult's distended belly. "The power of the hills protects us from the one but makes the other nearly impossible."
"True." Nemain glanced briefly down at the grass, damp with thick mist, and then up into Yseult's eyes. "Any news of Brangwyn?"
"I was not expecting to see you. She sent no message."
Yseult could feel the flinch in her aunt's mind although she gave no outward sign. "But she is well?"
"Yes. She is lucky to be alive, since Pictish raiders overran her home several years ago. Fortunately, she and her husband were elsewhere at the time."
Nemain drew in a quick breath. "Does she have children?"
"Yes." While Judual was not Brangwyn's flesh and blood, he was still her child. Yseult stubbornly refused to give her aunt any more, and she did her best to block her thoughts; not only had Nemain retreated from the life of Eriu with others of the Tuatha Dé, she had effectively cut off all contact with her husband and daughter.
"And you?" Nemain asked. "Have you fulfilled the fate we prophesied for you? Is your name as tall as a standing stone?"
Yseult gave an abbreviated laugh. "I think not."
Her aunt shot her a quizzical glance. "But we have felt your fame grow, even here on the other side of the Erainn Sea."
"My fame? That is only a handful of songs and tales, mostly embarrassing, things sung on street corners that I do not wish to hear. Not the kinds of heroic tales told by court bards in Eriu, meant to ensure a king's reputation for all eternity."
Bodb Derg chuckled. "Then no wonder the feeling of fame is so strong — you did not even pay your own bards to tell the tale as you wished it known. It sprung up of its own account!"
Why had she not thought of that, to hire her own bard? She was raised in Eriu — she knew the value of a court bard. Even in Britain, there were several kings who employed bards to tell their tales. The history of Eriu showed that a large part of any leader's power was linked to controlling the stories told about him.
Arthur should have a bard. Myrddin had been with Arthur as long as she knew them, yes, but Myrddin had always been more druid than bard, despite the poems he'd composed and every small child knew. But he'd never told Arthur's stories or sang his praises.
Although, knowing Arthur, he would not care for fame; he thought just being a good war leader was enough.
"You may not care for the stories being told about you," Nemain was saying now. "But they
are still carrying your name and something of our ways into the future."
Bodb Derg turned to her mother. "It appears we came too early. You are not yet prepared to come with us, are you?"
"No. I grow tired of life among the Gaels, tired of the increasing influence of the religion of Patraic. But I want to be here when my next grandchild is born."
While her mother didn't say it, Yseult knew it was largely to help her through this difficult pregnancy, and she was grateful.
"And after?" Nemain asked.
"I don't know." Her mother's gaze drifted towards the bonfires, seeking the figure of her son. "There is also Nath to consider."
"He can come with you," Bodb Derg hurried to assure her. "We would be glad of a child in Oe Cualann. As I said, we have too few."
Her mother was silent, considering — too seriously, to Yseult's way of thinking.
"But would that be best for Nath?" Yseult asked.
"He would be removed from a life of war and hardship," Nemain said. "Many people dream of living in the Otherworld, but they do not have that option."
"I could send a message to Illann that Nath will not be going into fosterage with him after all," her mother said thoughtfully.
If her mother truly did retreat to the hills with Nath, Yseult might never see either of them again. Places like Oe Cualann were no longer part of the normal life of Eriu; they were drifting away and often could not be found by the likes of Gael or Christian. How then to get a message to them? And what reason would there be to visit the land of her birth with her mother and brother hiding among the sidhe?
Yseult the Wise naturally felt her daughter's worry and took her hands — a very rare gesture for the Kingmaker. "Don't you see? We have no place in the life of Eriu anymore. Those of us of the Old Race who are still left, the Tuatha Dé and the Feadh Ree, are being driven into the underground hills and the realm of legend."
A young voice piped up behind them. "I am not legend. I am part of the future."
Nath. Yseult smiled to herself at how he had been able to approach with not one of them noticing. Whether he was part of legend or not, her little brother definitely had some of the powers of the Old Race.
Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) Page 35
