Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (23 page)

Part of the problem was that she didn't want to make any more decisions, didn't want to greet any more guests, didn't want to organize any more accommodations. And there it was again, the strange fear that had been creeping into her soul, the fear that at times seemed to make her incapable of action, like a lame draft horse, so that she had to push herself forward through sheer force of will. Did it have something to do with the message her mother had sent, that she would not be able to attend the wedding because the political situation in Eriu was too precarious? But no, Yseult had already begun to have these moods before the message arrived.

Maybe she just needed a little time to herself. Once she finished organizing the informal dinner with Brangwyn and discussed the menu with the cook, she sought out a semi-hidden bench in the garden. The arbor was not yet covered with vines and leaves as it would be later in the summer, and warm sun touched her face. Yseult leaned her head back and let out a sigh of pleasure. There was no need to feel any special anxiety — the political situation in Eriu was nearly always unstable, the petty kings always warring with each other. Despite the battles against the invading Picts last year, Britain was an oasis of peace in comparison.

On the other hand, perhaps her mood had something to do with her upcoming marriage itself. But that was silly. Cador was her
friend
, after all. Yes, there was still the insecurity where Gawain was concerned — the attraction she still felt, not to mention the guilt at having ended their relationship so abruptly.

She rolled her neck on her shoulders to loosen the tension and turned her head to gaze at the roses that had begun to bloom.

Just beyond the roses, she watched a pale blue butterfly flit up and down and light on a patch of pinkish-purple bell heather. Suddenly, the beauty in the contrasting colors threatened to crush her heart. She didn't want it, that kind of simultaneous pain and pleasure, no, never again, it was too much.

As if it heard her thoughts, the butterfly fluttered off, and Yseult realized that she was
afraid
. Not of Cador — no, never. Not even of Gawain and what he might still mean to her.

It was simple: she was afraid of
marriage
.

Here she was in Isca, which had been Marcus's favorite seat, preparing for her wedding. She had converted the villa outside of town to barracks after his death, had commissioned or approved numerous rebuilding projects within the city itself, but even after over ten years, she still could not be completely comfortable here. Isca was her son's capital, but it had never been hers. Perhaps that too had something to do with her discomfort in recent months?

The butterfly approached again, landing on a lily this time. Yseult could identify with the butterfly, staying only for a moment and flitting away again: on a level that had nothing to do with logic, she didn't want to stay either. For her, "staying" implied the physical and emotional abuse she had experienced with Marcus. Her panic now had nothing to do with Cador or Gawain. What she was reacting to was the period of terrible tragedy and joy while she was married to Marcus Cunomorus — and in love with his son Drystan. The half dozen years that she had been caught in a passionate and violent triangle between father and son were the defining years of her life.

A definition she had been trying to escape ever since.

The butterfly was now on an orangish yellow bird's foot trefoil, creating another lovely combination of colors as it fluttered its nearly iridescent wings. She sighed, surprised at the relief the simple gesture brought.

Perhaps she should go to Brangwyn with her doubts. They had once been best friends as well as cousins, but in the years Brangwyn had spent at Caer Custoeint, they'd grown apart. Brangwyn's husband Kurvenal still blamed her for Drystan's death.

No, she shouldn't be thinking about Drystan now — not when she would be soon be marrying his cousin.

A shadow fell across her legs and she looked up. Cador.

"What is putting that bleak expression on your face?" he asked gently.

If they didn't have honesty, they had nothing
. Still, she couldn't bring herself to say the name.

So he did. "Is it Drystan?"

She nodded.

"May I join you?"

Yseult scooted over on the bench to make room for him. "Certainly."

He sat down and took her hand. "Never think I would blame you for having thoughts of Drystan at a time like this. I suspected you would."

How did Cador always manage to be so good?
"Nonetheless, I'm sorry. I do not envy you, marrying a woman with ghosts like mine."

He squeezed her hand. "I too have my ghosts, remember."

It was true. He had buried two wives — both with the children they carried, his children. "Yes. Perhaps we can help each other lay our ghosts to rest."

"Perhaps." He smiled. "That would probably be the best possible outcome for both of us."

She nodded, feeling guardedly optimistic again.

Cador slipped his hand out of hers and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her head to his shoulder. It was an unfamiliar gesture for her, leaning her head on a man's shoulder, but it felt surprisingly pleasant. If they didn't allow their ghosts to get the better of them, this marriage might be a very good thing for her, for Cador, for Kustennin, for Britain.

Perhaps she and Cador could even make it up to each other a little for all the wrongs in their own lives. She would try to hold on to that.

* * * *

A week later, the weather was better than it had been for years during Whitsuntide, with a touch of summer warmth in the air. Yseult hoped that was a good sign for her second marriage.

They stood in front of the basilica of Isca, the largest building in the city, the witnesses and guests behind them. The basilica was an impressive sight, with its three rows of windows and its red-tiled roof gleaming in the warm June sunlight, still imposing despite the damage it had taken in the wars. An adjacent wing of the forum colonnade had been torn down after several columns were destroyed in raids by Saxons and her own people, the Erainn. What used to be the southeast end of the forum now served as churchyard and cemetery. In an unusually generous gesture, Marcus had bestowed the basilica on the Christian church and built a new administrative center to the west. Of course, his ulterior motive had been to gain church support in his power struggle with Arthur and the kings who supported the Dux Bellorum. With Marcus, everything had an ulterior motive.

She shook herself; she did not want to bring Marcus into this new marriage, although of course it would be unavoidable. Her fear of entering into matrimony again had everything to do with her previous experience. While her fear of involvement — of searing passion and losing her heart and no longer being mistress of her own mind — had everything to do with her love for Drystan. Gawain had been wrong: she was not a woman between
two
men, she was a woman between
four
men.

Yseult glanced at the one who stood beside her. Cador, her friend who was neither Marcus nor Drystan. The pleasant, unambitious farmer king of the Durotriges, foster-father of her son, handsome in his unassuming way. Gazing at his profile, she knew there was no real need for the doubts she harbored.

Cador turned his head and smiled at her, patting her forearm where it lay on his. "Courage," he whispered — as if he could read her mind, as she couldn't read his.

The wide doors of the basilica opened, and Illtud stepped out, flanked by Gildas on one side and a youth Yseult didn't know on the other. With the sons of Caw driven back to the north, Gildas no longer had any value as a hostage; besides, Illtud was developing a particular affection for the boy, whom he regarded as highly intelligent and quick to learn.

Illtud and his two acolytes descended the steps and passed under the colonnade to the open area of the forum. Stopping in front of them, Illtud addressed the crowd. "The witnesses to the ceremony are present?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Yseult saw Arthur, Kustennin, and the others nodding.

"Then we may proceed." Illtud began reciting a rapid tangle of words in Latin, many of which Yseult didn't understand. She had never become fluent in the language of the Romans.

Illtud paused and then turned to Kustennin. "Does the King of Dumnonia recognize this marriage?"

Her son stepped forward and nodded. "I do."

Next Illtud faced Arthur to the other side of Cador and Yseult. "Does the Dux Bellorum recognize this marriage?"

Arthur too stepped forward. "I do."

Illtud scanned the other witnesses behind them. "Do the regional kings and queens of Dumnonia present recognize this marriage?"

"We do," came a handful of voices.

Illtud raised his arms above them in a Christian gesture of benediction. "The church, too, recognizes this marriage. As there are no objections among the secular authorities, we herewith give our blessing to this union."

Cador faced her, lifting the chain over his head from which his half of a silver coin dangled. "Today we fulfill our pledge and make what is broken whole."

Yseult lifted her own chain with the half coin he had given her for their betrothal, wishing it were so easy to make something whole. But she smiled and matched her half of the coin with his. "Thank you for returning the other half."

He draped both chains across her palm, took her shoulders in his wide hands, and kissed her. It wasn't quite chaste, firm and lingering at the same time, pressing hard one moment and drifting gently across her lips the next.
Sweet, indescribably sweet
.

She opened her eyes wide and looked at him, but already they were being crowded by well-wishers, and the moment passed.

Her new husband laughed and tried to shake all the hands stretched towards him at once. Yseult had her share of kisses of peace and shaking hands to reciprocate as well — so many she could hardly recognize whose cheek was pressed against hers, whose lips or whose hand she now felt against her skin. It was the physical equivalent of opening her mind in a large gathering, an onrush of too many words and sensations to make sense of them all.

Behind her she heard giggles, and then her head was showered with cake crumbs. "For fertility!" Ginevra called out.

She was relieved when Cador laughingly began to lead the enthusiastic wedding guests across the square and towards the entrance to the forum, coaxing them in the direction of the feast that had been prepared.

Yseult could almost feel happy, could almost forget the anxiety that had been troubling her in recent months and laugh along with her new husband and her enthusiastic guests.

Until her gaze lit on Gawain.

* * * *

Gawain could barely keep his anger in check. This must surely be the demon he had to face, seeing Yseult married to another man in front of the church, seeing Cador's laughing triumph, this man who had once called him "friend" — the man who had been but a boy-king at the battle of Caer Baddon.

How quickly the times changed. Now Cador had stolen the woman Gawain loved — on Arthur's recommendation.

It was enough to make any man bitter.

The wedding guests followed the newly married couple across the square to the forum. "She's a fool," Gaheris muttered under his breath so that only his brothers could hear.

Gareth shrugged and punched Gawain playfully in the arm. "That may well be, but I think it's time you call to mind that you can have any woman in Britain."

"Except Yseult," Gawain murmured with a reluctant smile. This time, his younger brother's teasing was more helpful than Gaheris's sympathy.

"And hopefully Lyonors," Gareth said with a laugh.

Gawain obliged him with an answering laugh. Not that he would have the least inclination to seduce his brother's wife; while Lyonors was certainly beautiful, she was cursed with a tongue sharp enough to reduce any man's feeling of self-worth to rags — except of course the good-natured Gareth. Luckily Gareth had not ended up with Lyonors's sister, whose tongue was even sharper, if such a thing were possible.

Through the colonnade surrounding the forum, they entered wide double doors of carved wood, the swirling designs reminiscent of Erainn jewelry. Yseult's contribution, Gawain suspected.

He and his brothers were seated near each other close to the center of the table, with a good view of the other guests. Yseult, Cador, and Kustennin were at one end, while Arthur and Ginevra were at the other. Apparently Yseult had been at pains to avoid the impression of hierarchy in the seating arrangements. Where the Dux Bellorum sat could hardly be considered the foot of the table, and it was unlikely that anyone would complain. The major kings of Britain were seated at regular intervals, as were Arthur's closest companions — an even distribution of power.

Between Gawain and Gareth was Arthur's cousin Modrun, daughter of the legendary Ambrosius Aurelianus and widow of Honorius of Gower. For Gawain and his brothers she was almost like an aunt, cousin of their deceased mother Margawse. Modrun was of an age with Arthur but looked much younger, with very little gray in her dark hair yet.