Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (14 page)

"Luckily, little. Riwallon and Blodewedd are well, and peace still reigns."

"And what of Ygerna and Hoel?"

"It has been over a year since I have been to Caer Brioc. The plague hit that part of Armorica much harder than Bro Leon." Drystan examined the fine wineglass in his hand, an import from Gaul or farther. "Have you heard anything new from Eriu?" he asked, not sure if he would want to hear the answer.

Marcus Cunomorus gave a snort of disgust. "You heard that Queen Yseult left Lóegaire?" Drystan and Kurvenal nodded. News traveled slowly between the Gael-speaking lands, but a divorce involving the High King of Tara was important, and the event was over a year and a half ago now. "Naturally, she took her daughter with her. The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann has allied herself with the southern tribes of Eriu, and it is they who now harry our coasts."

"I have heard that part of the reason Yseult the Wise left Lóegaire was because of the negotiations you were conducting with the High King," Drystan said, watching his father carefully.

"Nonsense," Marcus said, motioning the slave to refill their glasses again.

Drystan took a deep draught of the heady wine, not too sour but not too sweet. In Armorica it was said that his father was one of the richest kings in Britain, amassing a great fortune through the tin mines of Dumnonia, and Drystan was slowly coming to believe it. "Peace is certainly to be desired, but can you tell me what you want with such a young wife?"

Marcus raised his eyebrows and turned his head slightly to include Kurvenal in the discussion. "Can you tell me what I should want with an old one?"

Drystan laughed uncomfortably. The Erainn princess his father had meant to wed was younger than Drystan himself, and Marcus had not been a young man when his only son was born.

"My Christian priests are urging me to remarry to avoid sin," Marcus continued. "And my pagan subjects say I can't be king without a queen. I need to remarry and we need peace with the barbarians across the seas. Besides, I hear she is very beautiful."

"All princesses are very beautiful," Kurvenal said.

"By repute," Drystan added, and for once they all laughed together.

* * * *

The next morning, Drystan left the lower hall and made his way to the lodgings where Kurvenal was staying, examining the place of his birth with the eyes of a stranger. It was both smaller than he remembered and more impressive, more stark and more wild. The wind refused to respect the braid with which he had tamed his hair, pulling dark blond strands out of their thong to send them whipping around his face. He stopped, dragged the hair back with one hand, and looked out over the rocks marking the edge of the promontory. Gulls called to each other and the waves crashed against the cliffs, the sounds of the ocean he had grown up with in the summer months when they stayed here on the Rock.

On the other side of the water was Eriu, the least-civilized of the Gael-speaking lands. The Romans had never conquered the island on the edge of the known world, and until now, not even the Christian priests had gained much influence. Riwallon had visited Eriu once as a young man, and although he said the people there lived like peasants except when it came to personal finery, he described it as a place of magic and song, exotic and strange. Ever since hearing Riwallon's stories, Drystan had wanted to visit, see what a land would be like that had never been a part of Rome, never known the long arm of the emperors.

Well, it wasn't likely Drystan would make it to Eriu anytime soon, with Coroticus burning villages across the water and the southern Erainn kings treating Britain like an orchard for the plucking. Instead, he would learn to command a ship and patrol the sea in search of Erainn pirates.

Drystan continued the rest of the way up the rise to the nearly flat top of Dyn Tagell. He was greeted by a mean wind that made the gusts which had torn his hair out of his braid earlier seem harmless — a wind with a grudge towards anything less pliant than grass. The Upper Hall where Kurvenal was staying got more sun, but it was unprotected from the coastal winds.

Drystan bent forward against the wind and made his way to the building on the top of the near-island. The Upper Hall was large and rectangular, like many seats of regional kings in Armorica, but built of stone rather than wood. Wood was hard to come by on this island of rock, but stone was everywhere.

Drystan pushed open one side of the big double-doors and entered the shelter of the building. "Kurvi!" he called out. "You done distributing your meager belongings in every available corner yet?"

Kurvenal came out of one of the separate rooms at the back of the main hall, shaking his head. "Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you."

"I'm your livelihood, base-born whelp," Drystan said, grinning. "I pay you."

"Perhaps someone else would be willing to pay me," Kurvenal grumbled.

"Ah, but not as much as I do!"

"It might be worth it to be free of your vile tongue."

Drystan laughed and grabbed his friend by the elbow. "Come, let me show you around the island."

The two left the Upper Hall together and Drystan led the way across the plateau to the edge of the sheer cliffs dropping away to the sea.

"It's a general's dream come true," Kurvenal said, looking out over the white-capped water. The wind was strong here, but the sun was high, taking some of the bite out of the chill air.

Drystan nodded. "From land, it's nearly invulnerable. Three soldiers alone can defend the entrance across the neck. And it's almost as hard to attack from sea, since the cliffs are so high."

"At least when the Erainn ships arrive, we will see them coming."

They looked to the north, their thoughts occupied with the seemingly insatiable raiders from across the sea. The problem had grown worse since the unity of Eriu had disintegrated —when Marcus Cunomorus had tried to take an Erainn princess to wife.

Drystan took a deep breath of the salty air and looked at his friend. "Let's get out of this wind."

He led the way along the rim of the cliff to the west. The pathway dipped a bit, and then they were standing in front of the mouth of a cave, the entrance of which was hidden from most of the rest of the island.

"This was my favorite place in Dyn Tagell when I was a boy," Drystan said, ducking through the opening.

Kurvenal followed. "At least it's protected from the wind."

Drystan regarded the damp walls wistfully. "I felt quite invisible in this cave. Although as you can see, it isn't exactly a secret." He touched the smooth side of one of the tall amphorae containing wine and olive oil, imports from sunnier lands far to the south.

"Why did you want to be invisible?"

"Running away from my father's disappointment, I presume."

Kurvenal nodded. "Ambition is not your strong point, is it, Drys?"

Drystan laughed. "No, I don't think it is." He knelt down and picked up a small stone from the floor of the cave, rough and wet between his fingers, then stood and flung it out of the opening where a slit of blue sky was visible. "I think I must always have had the inclination to sing the songs rather than have the songs sung about me."

"Perhaps I should remind you that you come from a family of kings?" Kurvenal said sardonically, his arms folded in front of his chest.

"No need for that. I know my duty. But I'm sure I will remain a disappointment to the king my father. I'll never be a great general — and I'm unlikely to be elected king after him."

"You're young yet, Drys, and your talents with a blade are not to be scoffed at."

"But I will never develop a taste for war."

"Does anyone? A good general is a man who knows what needs to be done and does it."

"You may be right." It had been many years since he'd seen Ambrosius Aurelianus, but he would swear the High King of the Britons had little taste for war either. He wouldn't know about his cousin Arthur. When he'd left for Armorica, Arthur had barely begun his military career. Drystan sighed. "I can't help thinking that it is partly my father's disappointment with me which has led him to seek a young wife, one who can bear him other sons."

Kurvenal didn't answer, and Drystan looked at him sharply. Unfortunately, he couldn't see the other man's expression in the shadowy light of the cave.

"Perhaps," Kurvenal finally said.

Drystan crossed his arms and leaned the back of his head against the cool stone. "Oh, I know it's a very unappealing thought, my father wedding a young woman barely out of fosterage. Every instinct rebels."

"It might not be as bad an idea as it first sounds, Drys." Kurvenal's voice was quiet and full of meaning.

"Why? So that you or I can warm her bed when she grows tired of sleeping with an old man?" Drystan pushed away from the wall and took his friend's arm, forcing him to look at him. "Come, what are you hiding from me?"

Kurvenal gazed into his eyes, hesitating. "You remember what your father said last night? That the Christian priests were urging him to marry again?" Drystan nodded. "There's a rumor among the soldiers that would explain it."

"What is it?"

"It's said your cousin Labiane is pregnant by your father."

Drystan's grip tightened involuntarily, but he didn't notice until a grimace passed over Kurvenal's features. He dropped his friend's arm and flung away, hitting his fist against the wall of the cave. "By all the gods!" It was bad enough that his father wanted to take a woman to wife who was over three decades his junior, but taking his own niece to his bed would be unforgivable.

Labiane had gone into fosterage with his father and mother before she reached the age of eight; now she would be no more than fifteen. Marriageable age, certainly, but she could not marry her uncle. Fosterage was not supposed to include warming your foster child's bed. According to the old ways, foster father was as much a taboo relationship as uncle-by-marriage in the Christian religion. Drystan rammed his fist into the wall again and would have followed it with his head, but Kurvenal's hands on his shoulders stopped him.

"Drys, calm down," his friend said soothingly. "Perhaps there is nothing to the rumors. But I thought you should know."

Drystan clenched his fists at his sides and took a deep breath. "Yes."

Kurvenal pulled him around so that they were facing each other. "You need to talk to your cousin."

Drystan nodded. Kurvenal was right — the story might not be true.

But whether it was or not, Labiane would have to leave. "Do many people seem to believe the rumors?" Drystan asked.

Kurvenal gazed at him for a moment and then nodded slowly.

"Damn! Damn, damn, damn!" He wanted to hit something again, but he held himself back.

"Find your cousin," Kurvenal urged. "Ask her."

"I will." Drystan rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "What a homecoming."

* * * *

No, it definitely was not a pleasant homecoming. Drystan paced Labiane's chamber in the Lower Hall, wanting to explode with the dishonor and the
wrongness
of it — no, wanting to feel Marcus Cunomorus's throat beneath his thumbs. He would have been willing enough to love the father he barely knew, but not now, not after hearing what his young cousin had to say. If he stopped moving, his whole body would be trembling with anger. So he paced, long strides, rapid, using the movement to contain the trembling of his limbs.

"Your father is not of my blood," Labiane insisted, her charmingly full lower lip thrust out in a way that was less than charming. "There is nothing unnatural about it."

"That is not what the priests would say. And what of your parents?"

"Marcus is a king. How could they object?"

"He is your uncle, and you were sent to him in a spirit of trust."

"He hasn't harmed me. We love each other." Her exotic, expensive perfume, frankincense and myrrh, filled the room, and her Roman-style stola fell seductively from one shoulder. The woman before him bore little resemblance to the girl he had known in Armorica, the companion of his explorations into the woods and around the grounds of the hill-fort. Drystan believed readily that the illicit relationship was not only his father's doing. But Marcus Cunomorus should have had enough sense to realize what the complications would be. Apparently honor was too much to ask.