Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (65 page)

Ginevra pulled the neckline of her tunic back into place. "Is there nothing you can do for him?" Ginevra asked.

"I'm trying."

"He won't stop crying and coughing, and he hardly eats at all. He will be taken from me just as Loholt was."

Yseult said nothing. Seeing as Ginevra's present lover was the one who had taken her first son from her, there was little to say.

Ginevra squared her shoulders. "I should stop feeling sorry for myself is what you would say, Yseult, is it not? You are here for the boy, and you are an excellent healer. Yes, I have made mistakes, but without those mistakes I would not have Melou."

Yseult tried not to show her impatience. Ginevra was just doing what everyone did, constructing a reality in her mind that she could live with. On some level she seemed to know she was responsible for what she'd done, even if she did not consciously acknowledge it, but she still steadfastly refused to find anything wrong with Medraut's actions. Yseult had probed her mind several times, but the deeper levels were hidden to her, concealed by the conflicting thoughts and emotions with which Ginevra tried to justify to herself that she had run off with a traitor — who was now making war on people she called friends.

She even had an excuse for Medraut burning down the villa — he felt threatened by Arthur and his allies. Even though he was the one who had attacked without provocation. Yseult wondered what Ginevra would do if faced with proof that Medraut had arranged for the death of Loholt and Modrun. Modrun's murder she would probably still be able to justify in her mind — but that of her own son?

"You know I will do my best to heal Melou," Yseult said, jiggling the crying baby. "But it will not help him if you worry so much that your milk dries up. It is a perfect summer day: I suggest you go for a walk and try to relax."

Ginevra rose, attempting a smile. "A good idea. Thank you, Yseult."

* * * *

While Medraut might be many things, Yseult had to admit that he seemed to have excellent taste and a pronounced sense of beauty, characteristics she'd never noticed until being his "guest" for a prolonged period of time. Since he had taken up residence here with Ginevra, the hill-fort of Celliwig had been transformed. The weapons and trophies were gone from Gwythyr's hall, replaced by woven hangings in colors muted to the west and bright to the east. The north wall was now plastered over in the Roman style and painted with a scene resembling doors opening out into a garden. The result was very pleasant to the eye and made the hall feel larger and brighter.

Not only that, Yseult couldn't help but notice that Medraut's expression took on something almost resembling radiance when a bard sang his songs and told his tales of an evening, when the words flowed particularly well, when the turn of phrase was original and surprising.

Medraut rewarded the most recent bard generously at his departure, but he did not try to keep him. She knew Medraut had commissioned songs against her and Cador, but she saw no sign that there was an epic relating his liberation of Dumnonia in the works. Perhaps he planned to wait with such a commission until Yseult was gone — or dead.

The food in Celliwig was also better than Yseult remembered, the nuances more subtle, the quality of the ingredients more carefully selected. A few days after her arrival, she had asked Ginevra if she had engaged a new cook. "Oh no, that was Medraut. He is very picky. He wanted a cook who could make creamed goose liver."

As little as she cared for her situation, Yseult had to appreciate Medraut's taste. Although there were no guests today to impress, the evening meal consisted of duck in peppered apricots, stuffed onions, and a pear omelet for dessert.

After the slaves cleared the plates away, Ginevra leaned her elbows on the table, placing her chin charmingly on her laced fingers. "I've heard there's a new bard arrived in the village, a very talented young man for his years. Shall I have one of the servants go fetch him for some entertainment tonight?"

"A good idea," Medraut said.

When the bard was led into the hall some time later, Yseult was so surprised she could barely keep the reaction from showing in her expression.

The bard was Taliesin.

"Welcome," Medraut said. "What brings you to Celliwig?"

"I was at the court of the young king Maelgwyn, but a prophecy regarding the king's death was attributed to me, and I found myself unwanted."

Medraut chuckled. "I assume it was not from you? Unless of course you were eager to be thrown out of Gwynedd."

"Hardly, Lord."

"And from there you came here?"

Taliesin nodded. "Your success in the south is growing legendary, and successful kings have need of bards to tell their stories. I hoped you might take me on for a time."

"We will hear your songs and give you a place to sleep, at least for the night. If we are satisfied, you may be able to stay longer."

"Thank you, Lord."

Taliesin made his obeisance to the ladies, betraying nothing when he bowed to Yseult. She tried to delve into his thoughts to discover why he was here, but they were as much a mystery to her as those of Medraut.

Then the bard pulled out his harp, and they leaned back in their chairs. "A song to summer," he announced. His voice was sweet and clear, the range impressive, and his fingers on the strings sure. Yseult found herself entranced by his skill, although she knew his talents from the time he'd spent in Dyn Draithou. The words flowed over them, the rhythm stately, the cadence and repetitions reminding her of the poetry of her native country.

The song ended with praise of Celliwig in the late afternoon sun — and Gwythyr, the ruler who had lost his life in summer. Beside her, Ginevra had tears streaming down her face.

Not only was Taliesin talented, he was very, very clever.

Chapter 29

Now the day comes near and near

I feel its hot breath, and see it clear,

How strange it is and full of fear;

And I grow old waiting here,

Grow sick with pain of Guenevere,

My wife, that loves not me.

Algernon Swinburne, "The Day Before the Trial"

The horseman galloped into their midst just as they were about to break camp; their scouts had reported that during the night Chlodovech had begun to retreat south to Turonorum, and Arthur intended to follow. This summer, the battles had gone in their favor, and the Dux Bellorum no longer saw a retreat on the part of the Frankish king with suspicion. Now, it was something to take advantage of.

Worried, Kustennin followed the horseman with his eyes. He'd been dreading every message that arrived in the weeks since Cador left for Britain. He still had heard nothing of his mother, and he was afraid what that meant. She would surely have sent to him if she were under attack. But what if the messenger or the message had not made its way to Arthur's camp? Yes, it was summer, and the passage from Britain to Gaul was much safer than in winter, but it was also war — anywhere along the way between Dumnonia and Arthur's army, a messenger who was not part of a larger warband could easily become a victim of bandits or enemies.

Kustennin hurried after the messenger

"News from Britain, Dux!" the horseman called out even before dismounting. "Cerdic has taken Calleva and Medraut has attacked Dyn Draithou!"

Arthur strode out of his tent and took the parchment. Breaking the seal, he scanned the lines, while a second sealed missive fluttered to the ground at his feet.

The Dux glanced over at Kustennin, his expression grim. "It is from your mother. The one that slipped out is a private message for you."

Kustennin bent down, snatched up the letter, broke it open, scanned the lines. Gaheris dead, Cador captured in the battle to break the siege of Dyn Draithou ...

"She says nothing of Lindinis," Arthur said, interrupting his perusal. "If Medraut was besieging Yseult in Dyn Draithou, Lindinis must have fallen. Perhaps another message to us never arrived; this letter seems to assume we know what happened."

Yes, but we did have a message telling us what was
going
to happen
. Kustennin briefly closed his eyes tight, trying to repress the disloyal thought.

He continued to read.

My son, I go to Celliwig as soon as possible to try and help free Cador. I must of course leave Riona behind with Enid; if neither Cador nor I come out of this alive, she will be your responsibility. I am sorry to close with such dark thoughts, but these are dark times, and I have no others. I hope I will see you again, but if I do not, know that I love you, and that much of my life was guided by wanting to do my best by you. Now, however, I must do whatever is in my power to help free your foster father.

I pray that this letter finds you in good health.

Your loving mother

Kustennin lowered the parchment and pressed his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. Of course he wanted Cador freed, but what did his mother think she could do?

He lowered his hand and lifted his gaze to Arthur's. "We must return to Britain."

Arthur nodded shortly. "Yes. Kustennin — I'm sorry that I allowed things to go this far."

Kustennin let out a sigh of relief under his breath. "So am I." It was out before he even knew he was going to say it, and he stared at his commander.

For a moment, Arthur didn't react, apparently as surprised as he. Kustennin didn't think he had ever criticized Arthur to his face before. Of course, he did not think Arthur infallible, but he was very simply the best living military commander in Britain, probably even one of the best in all the lands that had once been Rome. He had pushed the upstart Chlodovech back almost halfway across Gaul — and that when the young Frankish leader had previously had a string of nothing but victories to his credit. Arthur had been the first one to teach Chlodovech anything resembling a lesson, and it had not been easy.

Arthur laid a hand on Kustennin's shoulder. "Well, we may not have defeated Chlodovech, as I had hoped, but at least we have chased him back to one of his former strongholds."

"Yes."

"With my nephew fomenting civil war in Britain, that will have to be enough for our Armorican allies."
Our Armorican allies
this time — not "fellow British." The choice of words was significant.

Arthur laid the letter aside and clasped his hands behind his back. "Kustennin, see to it that all of my companions as well as the regional kings assemble in front of my tent as soon as possible."

"Certainly, Dux." Kustennin bowed and turned, glad to do the task assigned him.

* * * *

When Arthur told the assembled warriors of Medraut's rebellion and announced that he would have to return to Britain, Kustennin could feel the relief sweep through the ranks of the British.

Arthur's stepfather Hoel, however, was not happy. "But what of Chlodovech? He has been driven back, yes, but not defeated."

Arthur ran one hand through his hair. "Hoel, your grandson is the reason we must make haste for Dumnonia," Arthur said quietly.

Hoel pursed his lips. "I am well aware of that. Just as you know that I no longer regard Medraut as my grandson — and all your sister's tears will not make me change my mind."

"I know," Arthur said, sighing. "But it is obvious now that I let this go too far, is it not?"

Kustennin watched Hoel fighting with himself, until finally his gratitude won over his fear of the Frankish king. "Yes, you're right. You must go and face your nephew's insurrection. I did not want to believe that it would come to this, but it has."

"Neither did I, Hoel, neither did I. At least the kings of Armorica are now in an excellent position to negotiate a favorable treaty with the Franks." Arthur turned to address his companions. "We continue to break camp as planned, but once we are ready, we will be moving north rather than south."

The men couldn't help it — they cheered. Cai, Bedwyr, Anir, all of them. Kustennin saw Arthur's attempt to keep his expression blank, felt his sense of failure at these spontaneous whoops of elation. It meant that while his men continued to fight with him, in their hearts they had no longer been behind him.

He had failed — in what might perhaps still be the most important battle of his career. Because he had not wanted to face Ginevra's betrayal, he had persuaded himself that the war here, far from home, was more important. While Kustennin sympathized with his commander, it was his foster father and his mother who were in danger now. There, he had to admit it — anger, he was angry at Arthur, his general, his hero.

Yes, it was time they returned to Britain.

* * * *

Yseult leaned over the edge of Melou's crib, relieved at the baby's progress. For once he slept without the wracking coughs that had been bothering him ever since Yseult arrived in Celliwig. That at least was some comfort, even though Yseult knew it made her own situation more precarious. It had become increasingly difficult for her
not
to cure the child: to only administer the herbal infusions that would keep his symptoms from worsening, to avoid advising Ginevra on foods that she should add to her son's diet.

After Medraut had disappeared with half his fighting men, Yseult could no longer resist the temptation to do everything in her power to cure little Melou. She knew well enough that Medraut could have given orders concerning her death before he left; he had not been there when Loholt or Modrun had died either. Nonetheless, she still felt safer without him around.