Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (17 page)

And perhaps someday being together would be more curse than blessing. Perhaps — no, very likely — he was a fool, but now he knew that he would do everything in his power to convince her of the wisdom of Arthur's suggestion.

Without pressure, of course. That would be the behavior most likely to send Yseult running.

Cador smiled deliberately and inclined his head to one side. "Why, Yseult, I never realized you harbored such feelings for me!" He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Consider away, and I will do the same."

Yseult chuckled, and Cador closed his eyes in delight at the sound. She laughed so rarely.

"Cador, Cador. I do believe you are playing at being amorous." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for taking a little of the drama out of all this."

He shrugged. "I'm not sure if my powers are quite that strong. But perhaps it is best if we continue to consider Arthur's proposal alone for a time, each for ourselves?"

"Yes, let's."

He pressed her hand and dropped it, hoping he knew her as well as he thought. "I will return to the hill-fort alone and leave you to your thoughts. We will speak of our potential alliance again later," he said with a slight smile.

She nodded.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Cador brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone and turned away, avoiding the scar along her jaw and the dangers it held. Away — not throwing himself at her feet, telling her how he really felt, how he couldn't believe she was considering marrying him. That might well push her out of his reach.

Perhaps if he walked away now, she would come back to him later — for good.

* * * *

Yseult watched Cador walk back to the ramparts of Celliwig, wondering what had happened to the ordered life she'd created for herself.

She pulled her woolen cape tight around her shoulders and wrapped her shawl — Cador's gift — once more around her neck. Of course, she'd always known that an enemy attack could tear apart the smooth fabric of her life at any time, as the raids by the Pictish pirates had done this summer. But as far as her personal life was concerned, she'd thought it all arranged. In the years after Marcus died, she had been courted by a score of British kings and princes until it finally became clear to even the most stubborn that when she said she would not marry again, she meant it.

Of course, she knew that marriage did not have to be like hers with Marcus, but Yseult did not like to make the same mistake twice if it could be avoided. So why was she considering marriage now? Again, after all these years?

Instead of following Cador back to the hill-fort, she picked her way down the trail to the river. Yes, why? Because it was Cador?

Yseult could no longer remember when she'd first met him. He'd been little more than a boy, Arthur's standard-bearer at the time — Kustennin's role now in Arthur's forces. Cador was only four years her junior, but there was a much greater difference between fourteen and eighteen than between two people in their thirties.

The woods next to the tributary of the Camel smelled of wet leaves, dirt, and loam. It was a bit of an exaggeration to call it a river, especially this time of year — it was more like a brook, gurgling pleasantly on its route south.

She found a wide, sawed-off stump next to the bank and sat down, her cloak bundled up beneath her. Cador had been in and out of her life all the years she had been in Britain, as boy, as youth, as man. But always serious and pleasant and reliable and unassuming. When she was kidnapped by Gamal, he had been one of the warriors under Drystan who helped rescue her. When she'd spied on her husband Marcus for Arthur, Marcus's foster son Cador had been her contact — a young man whom not even Marcus, who tended to judge everyone's motives by his own, was suspicious of. When Marcus turned traitor, it had been Drystan's cousin Cador to whom she had fled for sanctuary. Cador had been with the party of Arthur's warriors who had taken revenge on Marcus.

Always he had been there, at every important turning point; on the sidelines perhaps, but a rock of security and dependability in the middle of all the passion and tragedy that had once been her life.

The painful drama bards now sang about.

She drew one end of the embroidered linen shawl into her lap, stroking it absently. No, she had not wanted to marry again — but the reason was as much to avoid the past as anything else, the constant strain of being pulled back and forth between Drystan and his father. She'd ended her relationship with Drystan often enough — only to be drawn back into it by some force she didn't understand, that she couldn't control. She had loved Drystan with a passion she would never experience again, a need so strong at times it was like a sickness.

Yseult would never feel that for Cador. But perhaps that might even be an advantage? Especially given the irrational panic she felt at the thought of marriage. Cador would not be a lover, as Drystan had been, he would be a partner. He would not regard her as a prize or a possession, as Marcus had; he would treat her as a friend, with respect and affection.

She kicked at some damp leaves with one foot. Perhaps, if Cador could live with less than grand passion ... she found herself smiling at the thought of building a life with him, an honest, reliable — and quietly handsome — man. Despite her age, she might even still be able to give him the child he longed for. He had always been so good with the young ones; it wasn't fair that he'd lost two wives in childbed.

Too much in this life wasn't fair.

Yseult rose and shook out her cloak. Perhaps she truly could marry Cador and form a Dumnonian dynasty with him — why hadn't it occurred to them before? And all because Arthur was thinking strategically, in terms of consolidating power. She would have to speak with Kustennin first, though.

And if she decided to marry Cador, she had to confront Gawain.

She closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again on the damp, autumn afternoon. Arthur's proposal might have advantages, but it also meant she would have to end her relationship with Gawain. The last thing she wanted to do was play the role of a woman between two men again.

She pulled the shawl over her hair and took the path back up the hill to Celliwig.

* * * *

The sun was skirting the horizon when Kustennin returned from hunting with Arthur's sons Loholt and Anir, a brace of rabbits between them. It was later than they'd intended, but supper surely would not be served without them; Ginevra could be relied upon to hold up meals for her son.

He was surprised to see his mother coming out of the gate of the hill-fort to meet them. It wasn't like her to watch out for him or be overly worried, not like Ginevra with Loholt.

"I see it was a successful expedition," she said, admiring the rabbits strung on the pole. Rather than worried or angry or any of the many other reactions he might have expected, she was distracted — and unsure of herself, an emotion he did not often feel from her, his proud, decisive mother.

"Enough for supper tomorrow," Loholt claimed.

"Depending on how many leave in the morning," Anir said with a laugh.

Yseult smiled, then touched him on the elbow. "Would you mind if I take you away from your friends for a spell, Kustennin?"

He shrugged and handed his end of the pole to Loholt.

"What is it?" he said, turning to follow her towards the hall where the women guests were quartered.

"Are you hungry?" she asked instead of answering.

Kustennin nodded.

Before they entered the hall, Yseult stopped a passing servant. "Please bring us bread and cheese and watered wine, thank you."

"So we're skipping supper?" Kustennin asked, trying to joke her out of her strange mood.

She shook her head. "I need to speak with you alone."

They sat down at a table pushed up against one wall. Kustennin tore off a piece of bread the servant had brought while his mother cut them both thick slabs of cheese.

"Cador and I had an interview with Arthur today," she said.

He took the cheese she offered. "What did you discuss?"

"Arthur suggested that the two of us marry."

Kustennin lowered the bread that was halfway to his mouth and stared at her. He was well aware that his mother never intended to marry again — nearly everyone in Britain knew that. But if she was telling him this, that meant she was actually considering it.

"And you want to know what
I
think?" he asked.

She nodded.

He finally took a bite and chewed, wondering how to answer. "I don't know what to think."

"But you would approve of Cador?" To Kustennin's confusion, there was a hint of apprehension in his mother's voice.

"Of course. Cador is the closest to a father I've ever known. But I thought you had no interest in marriage."

She sighed. "I didn't. But the arguments Arthur, Myrddin, and Modrun brought forward were very convincing."

"Such as?"

"With so many sub-kings dead, an alliance between our two houses would strengthen Dumnonia as a whole. And Cador could declare you heir of Dortrig."

He hoped she was not considering this alliance for his sake. "But do you
want
to marry him?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I find myself surprisingly pleased by the notion. Cador is a good friend."

Kustennin suddenly realized that it was almost as if they were discussing the situation as two adults. Nonetheless, he could not ask her the next question on the tip of his tongue:
What about Gawain?

That was something he was not supposed to know.

"Have you already decided?" he asked.

"I — no." Still tentative —
his mother
. It was an important decision, of course, but it was so unlike her. "What do you think of the plan itself?"

And now she was asking his
opinion
? "It has much merit," he said slowly, trying to sort out his thoughts from his emotions. "The many petty kings in Dumnonia have often been a source of strife, but if central Dumnonia and Dortrig were allied in marriage, we would have more authority to quell disputes."

Yseult nodded, much more like herself. "Yes, that is what Arthur seemed to think as well." She reached across the table and took his hand, pressing it hard before releasing it. "It is good to know that you would have no problem with such a move."

Kustennin shrugged. "How could I have a problem with it if it would eventually make me the most powerful king in Britain?"

His mother stared at him a moment before letting out a surprised laugh. "I — I'm glad you can joke about it. I was afraid — I don't know what I thought."

She smiled at him in a way that made him suspect she was thinking of Drystan and how much he resembled him. At least she didn't say it. "Does that mean you
will
marry Cador?"

"I don't know." She ate a piece of cheese, obviously less tense than she had been at the beginning of the conversation. "I will have to sleep on it, I think."

And speak to Gawain
. Kustennin heard the thought as if the words had been spoken out loud. It wasn't like her to drop her guard that way; it only showed how much this had thrown her out of her normal equilibrium. The situation was obviously difficult for her in ways he couldn't imagine.

"I will be fine with whatever you decide," he said.

"Thank you, more than I can say."

"There is nothing to thank." He could only hope that if she did decide to marry Cador, her new marriage would not include the secretive drama of the last, the "romantic" tale told the length and breadth of Britain.

Kustennin had no interest in hearing any new ballads about his mother.

* * * *

Dusk was falling when Yseult left the hill-fort in the direction of the practice grounds. She stopped at the edge of the field and watched Gawain at fighting practice with several younger warriors. The sun's last rays lit her lover's blond hair and reflected off the blade of his sword; they were using real weapons today, the tips encased in leather guards. The way Gawain fought, it was like a dance — a thing of grace and beauty, the arc and thrust perfectly timed and executed, a joy to watch.

Gawain often seemed larger than life, or at least larger than most lives. With his huge presence, booming laugh, and charismatic personality, he was the kind of man of whom legends were made.

Like Drystan had been.

Yseult clenched her fists, fighting back the sorrow that still overcame her far too often when she thought of her dead lover.

Gawain caught sight of her and called a halt. Returning his sword to his scabbard, he advanced on her with wide smile and long-limbed grace.

"Yseult! What brings you to our war games? Are you inclined to join the practice?"

She indicated her gown. "As you can see, I am not dressed for swordplay this evening. I need to speak with you, Gawain."

He gave a slight bow, his eyes narrowed, probably reacting to the tone of her voice, which held no hint of answering playfulness. "I am at your service, as always."