Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (61 page)

The view from the ramparts was excellent, reaching beyond Ynys Witrin to the north and miles along all the main roads in every direction, and on a clear day even to the sea to the south. But the view to the west and Lindinis was blocked by a series of rolling hills at the edge of the plain on which Dyn Draithou was situated. A signal fire from Dyn Draithou could be seen in Lindinis, but the city itself was not directly visible from the hill-fort.

Neither was the villa Cador had called home for most of the last ten years.

"Is there any way to tell where the smoke is coming from?" she asked.

The warrior next to her shook his head. "Lindinis or somewhere nearby. More I cannot tell you, Lady."

"The villa makes the most sense," came Ricca's voice just behind her.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" she murmured without turning.

"The city would not fall so quickly," another warrior added.

Enid had joined them now too. "And it would be like Medraut to burn the villa out of spite because we escaped him."

"Just in time too," the red-headed warrior threw in.

Yseult had to agree, but there it was, the regret. The villa was Cador's home — a place of peace he had created after so many years of fighting, turning his back on war and devoting himself to his farm and his stables — which were probably going up in smoke. Yes, they had the horses with them, but Yseult couldn't help thinking of all the years of work Cador had put into the buildings and the fields and the orchards. A life he had built with patience and love and joy, a peculiar ability he had to make the best of whatever life had dealt him. That life was now twisting gray and ominous into the sky.

As she watched the funnel of smoke grow thicker, Yseult felt a stubborn tear roll down her cheek, a tear for what Cador — and Britain — had lost.

A loss she was powerless to prevent.

* * * *

Medraut stood as near to the fire as he could endure, feeling its heat, watching the dancing colors. A fire contained so many more colors than the simple hues of red and orange typically portrayed in paintings and mosaics. In the depths of the flames he could see flickers of blue and purple and white, and even interesting hints of darkness along the edges, despite the light the flames cast.

While Medraut enjoyed the fire, it was not as satisfactory as it could have been; Yseult had already fled the villa by the time he arrived. But of course she knew how easy it would be to take, and she was clever enough to anticipate that he would move against her directly. Yseult was not ignorant where war and politics were concerned — not like Ginevra.

That was becoming a serious dilemma. Their small son Melou, heir to the kingdom of Cerniw, was ailing. Not only did Ginevra still imagine herself friends with Yseult, she insisted the Erainn witch was the only one who could cure their baby boy. According to Ginevra's stories, she would have died at Loholt's birth if Yseult had not been there.

And so Ginevra wanted him to "persuade" Yseult to return with him to Celliwig to heal the boy. As if Yseult would ignore the fact that her former lover's brother had died when Ginevra and Medraut eloped. As if adding Yseult's former home of Lansyen to the growing kingdom of Cerniw was a small detail that could be overlooked where friendship was concerned. At times when Ginevra spoke in such a way, so far removed from reality, he had to wonder if she was completely sane. But then she would fulfill her duties in the running of the hill-fort with as much practice and dignity as she had always shown when organizing everyday meals and special functions alike in Caer Leon. Perhaps it was merely that she was blind whenever she wanted to be.

It was a dilemma, but he would find a solution. If he could take Yseult alive, he would; if not, surely there was a healer somewhere in Britain who could cure Melou besides the Lioness of Dumnonia.

And if he did take Yseult alive, once Melou was healthy again, he would also find a way to deal with her that Ginevra would accept. He had been spreading his tales of Yseult for months now, and it was beginning to work wonders on the populace of Cerniw. Unfortunately, the stories still had no discernable effect on the mother of his second son.

"We were too late," Gurles said beside him. "They are all fled."

The resentment of the sub-king who had already rebelled once against the Lioness of Dumnonia stood Medraut in good stead. Nonetheless, he found the older man's negativity irritating.

"Too late?" he repeated. "We are moving forward, are we not? We have forced the Queen of Dumnonia to flee her husband's home, and the city of Lindinis is practically ours for the taking."

Gurles pursed his lips, not answering.

The problem with the former king of Dimilioc was that he was ruled by bitterness at how unfairly life had treated him, rather than taking his life into his own hands. Only once had Gurles taken action to change things, when he had sided with the Pictish invaders to try and regain what he had lost through Uthyr's rape of Ygerna. Or rather twice, now that he'd sided with Medraut. Gurles was a lesson to Medraut not to wait too long to take action against injustice. The bitterness of missing the chance of marrying into the royal kinship group of Dumnonia, of losing a granddaughter of Erbin, had poisoned Gurles's soul. Medraut had no intention of becoming like the grizzled warrior with dreams of glory. He too had been passed by; he too had not been played with fairly by fate.

But he would be damned if he waited until his face was lined with discontent and his hair gray and receding before he tried to show fate a trick or two.

* * * *

Yseult stood on the ramparts of Dyn Draithou, flanked by her men-at-arms Ricca and Marrek, and gazed out at the plains to the south — and the enemy forces gathered there. At the highest point of the hill-fort, a signal fire burned brightly and had already been answered by a signal fire from Ynys Witrin. Soon the news would reach Caer Leon.

Another siege. But this time the enemy was an army of hundreds rather than a warband of a few dozen. On the other hand, now they were behind a series of earthworks on a well-defended hill-fort, outnumbered but protected. It would need a larger army than Medraut's to successfully take the fortress of Dyn Draithou.

"How did Medraut manage to recruit and train so many men in less than a year?" Marrek asked.

The answer was probably that he'd needed much longer; that he'd been preparing for his rebellion in secret for some time.

"Perhaps Medraut had an ally in Cerniw," Ricca said. "Or perhaps some of the men are from Cerdic."

As they watched, a lone figure moved forward from the mass of fighting men. So Medraut wanted to talk and not just sit there and starve them.

"We should see what message Medraut sends." Yseult turned to descend the ramparts and head in the direction of the main gate, her men-at-arms following. The new community within the embankments on the flat hilltop was bustling with life — almost too much life. After the burning of the villa, they had driven as much of the livestock as they could up the hill into the fortifications. The horses were now penned in the northwest corner in a space much too small for them. Swine and cattle at least were content enough with less. She hoped the weather would not turn bad — tents took up all the available space, and they had been forced to stop work on the houses in order to build catapults and ballistae for fighting back the attackers.

As they headed towards the main hall, they heard singing, accompanied by the sound of a string instrument. In the open area between the hall and the kitchens, little Riona was clapping her small hands and dancing while Taliesin played his lute. Yseult found herself smiling despite her worries, glad for children and bards. Taliesin caught her eye and lifted his hand from the strings to wave.

Yseult waved back, wondering where her older child was now and if he was well.

By the time she and her men reached the main gate, the messenger was there, dismounting from his chestnut gelding.

"Greetings from Medraut," the messenger said, bowing. "The legitimate king of Dumnonia."

Yseult did not bother to respond to the impertinence and outright stupidity of the claim, but she did have to put out a hand to hold Ricca back.

"Honoring the white flag you carry, we have allowed you to enter the gates of Dyn Draithou. What is the message you carry?"

"King Medraut relays the message that he will end the siege of Dyn Draithou if you will give yourself up and accompany him back to Celliwig."

Before Yseult even had time to consider the unusual offer of peace — if that was what it really was — an answer was shouted out behind her. "No!"

She turned to see that a small crowd had gathered just beyond the gatehouse, and Enid was striding forward from their midst, her fists clenched at her sides. "Do not even consider it, Yseult. Cador would never forgive me."

"The Erainn princess will be in no danger," the messenger said. Yseult wondered when the last time was that anyone had referred to her as "the Erainn princess." "Her services are needed in Celliwig to treat the infant son of our king."

Enid turned on the messenger, hands on her hips and elbows out, making her even broader than usual. "And what guarantee do we have of her safety?"

The enemy warrior drew himself up to his full height. "The word of King Medraut, new consort of Queen Ginevra!"

The wide woman with the brown hair streaked with gray merely laughed out loud, throwing her head back in a way that made all who witnessed it want to laugh with her. Chuckles rippled through the crowd, and the messenger squared his shoulders, trying to make himself taller.

Enid strode up to the enemy warrior until she was a mere handsbreadth away from him. "Young man, you may tell your
king
that if there was ever anyone of importance in Britain who trusted Medraut's word — aside from the adulterous woman who calls him consort — now that he has run off with his uncle's wife, his word is little more than the dirt beneath our feet." With those words, Enid lifted her skirts and kicked a footfull at the messenger.

Farther back in the crowd, Yseult heard her daughter's delighted laughter, accompanied by the sound of her small hands clapping together. Riona was propped on the bard Taliesin's hip, enjoying the spectacle, but at her initiative, more applause and laughter followed.

Medraut's messenger turned on his heel, remounted, and left Dyn Draithou without another word. It was not the wisest way to treat a messenger with an army outside your walls, but somehow Yseult couldn't find it in herself to feel any regret.

* * * *

Compared to the siege of Druim Dara, they were living in luxury in Cador's hill-fort; the worst thing about this siege was that they had no news. In addition to the signal fire, they had sent pigeons out with word of Medraut's attack, but until now they'd heard nothing back. Yseult wished she knew how the siege of Venta was going. If it fell, Cerdic might well join Medraut's forces, which in turn could lead to the enemy taking the risk of storming their defenses.

But they had food and livestock to last them for months if need be, and life went on almost normally, the sound of hammering and weapons practice filling the air. They just could not go beyond the earthworks of Dyn Draithou.

One catapult was already completed but the ballistae were still in construction on an early summer day when a warning went up from the southern wall. Yseult had been consulting with Alun and Enid on how best to plant more vegetables within the walls of Dyn Draithou when she heard the shout. They broke off their discussion and hurried in the direction of the ramparts.

"What is it?" Yseult asked after they had been given a hand up to the palisades.

Ricca pointed. "A warrior band to the south, riding straight for Dyn Draithou."

Her heart sank. Was Cerdic already sending reinforcements to Medraut?

"What's going on there?" Enid asked, indicating the enemy army below.

Yseult shifted her gaze from the distant horsemen to Medraut's forces. To her surprise, they were in confusion, men running in different directions, hands in the air, pointing and gesticulating.

She looked back at the nearing warband, squinting her eyes and trying to open her mind to catch something, anything at this distance.

"Isn't that Cador's banner?" Alun said, his voice excited.

Alun was right. The colors on the banners were Cador's blue and yellow, the device that of a golden wolf, and with him she thought she saw Gawain's white star on crimson. An army coming to their aid — but an army that was too small, riding hard straight into the enemy. It would be suicide.

She clenched her hands at her sides and tried to send out a message with her power of calling:
Turn back, Medraut's forces are too strong!
But whether or not her attempt to contact them worked, it had no effect; the men riding under Cador's colors continued their wild gallop in the direction of Dyn Draithou.

Below them, the flurry of activity among Medraut's men had assumed a more organized character, warriors taking up arms and running for their mounts and gathering to meet the threat from the south.

Please, Cador! Do not run into the enemy's arms!

Then to her relief, she saw Cador's forces swerve to the east and charge up a ridge south of Dyn Draithou.