Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (20 page)

"Better every time I awake, thanks to you."

She smiled, a smile he realized with a start he hungered to see every day for the rest of his life. How could he have feelings so strong when he himself was so weak? Perhaps it wasn't surprising; if he were stronger, he might have himself more under control. Few things would be as stupid as falling in love with Yseult the Fair, princess of Eriu, daughter of the Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

A woman his father had intended to marry.

The queen joined them in the shadows at the foot of his bed. "Good evening, Tandrys."

"Good evening, Lady."

Yseult the Wise mustered him critically. "Good, there is more color in your cheeks now."

"The poultices of comfrey are bringing down the swelling," young Yseult said.

He could understand their speech — there had been several Erainn warriors at Bro Leon — but it often took more concentration than he was capable of with his brain still muddled from weeks of fever.

"How do you feel?" the queen asked.

"I'm tired much of the time, but at least now of an evening I can watch and listen to the other bards. Even three days ago, I could not have done so."

The queen smiled, and Drystan presumed it was his habit of counting the time in days. Here in Eriu, the measure of time was nights.

"Soon you will be able to play for us yourself," she said, and they all chuckled. He was recovering, but it was obvious to all that it would still be some time before he had the energy to perform.

"As soon as I can, Lady. I could never perform enough to repay you for saving my life."

"Perhaps there is something else you can do for us."

"Certainly."

"Yseult has not worked much on the harp since she left Druim Dara over a year ago, and Ard Ladrann has few bards. If you could work with her when you feel strong enough, we would consider that sufficient payment for treating you."

Drystan glanced back at the younger Yseult standing next to him, at that smile he longed for, and wondered what daily contact would do to his peace of mind. Somehow, he couldn't find it in him to worry. "Gladly, Lady."

"Don't bother trying to teach me to sing, though," the younger Yseult added. "I cannot. So in order not to dishonor myself or my rath, I don't."

Drystan grinned. His fair one had a sense of humor.

"Of course," the queen continued, "if you are willing to take on the duties of a bard here at Ard Ladrann once you recover, you can earn a place for yourself at the rath. The tuath takes care of its own. An ordinary patient would need to reimburse the tuath and its healers in gold or cattle or slaves for his treatment, but not filid."

He shook his head, finding it hard to believe how quickly they were willing to make a place for him here. "I can hardly claim treatment as a fili. I am not even fully trained."

"Perhaps one of the other bards will work with you."

The bards of Eriu were known as the greatest in the world. "I would be honored. You are far better to me than I deserve."

"It is we who are honored," the queen said, sounding almost stern, and Drystan had to smile. "According to the fishermen who brought you here, the world would be a poorer place if you had been allowed to die. A talent as fine as that deserves whatever we can do to save it and keep it. Perhaps you will bring honor to Ard Ladrann before you leave again."

Drystan stared at the queen. Her attitude was even more difficult to understand than the language. Because of his voice and his ability on the harp, talents which meant little in Armorica or Dumnonia, he was to be given a place of honor among strangers?

Queen Yseult smiled, for no reason that he could see. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice low.

The younger Yseult touched her mother's arm. "The bard grows tired."

The queen nodded. "One more thing, and we will leave you to your rest. In your delirium, you muttered words in every tongue we have ever heard on these shores."

Drystan's mind froze. He had been talking. Hopefully he had been talking nonsense in tongues no one here understood.

"If you could give Yseult and myself further instruction in Latin," the queen continued, "as payment I could perhaps arrange for transportation for you back to Armorica in the spring."

His heartbeat slowed again to a more normal rate. "As you know, I have lost everything but my harp and my sword and my life, and that I came close to losing as well. I have been wondering how I could afford the return voyage."

"Very good. There are few people here who know more than a handful of Latin words, mostly merchants and the men of Christ. But the rest of the world draws closer to Eriu, and the language of Rome is the language of the world."

"That is true."

The queen turned to her daughter. "Yseult, fetch me what we need to change the bard's poultice. We will do it now while he is awake and then leave him to rest."

While the queen removed the old poultice, Drystan watched Yseult move away until she blended into the shadows on the other side of the fire. Every day he would be with her, seeing her smile.

Until he left again in the spring.

Chapter 9

Then Mebd sent the druids and satirists and harsh bards for Fer Diad, that they might make against him three satires to stay him and three lampoons, and that they might raise on his face three blisters, shame, blemish and disgrace, so that he might die before the end of nine days if he did not succumb at once.

Táin Bó Cuailnge

Drystan awoke with his mind clear and the old druid Boinda sitting beside his pallet. The air was crisp, the fire burnt low in the central fire pit, but the other inhabitants of the round-house were already up and elsewhere in the rath, the curtains of their sleeping alcoves drawn back and their beds empty. He and Boinda were alone.

The chief druid of the queen of the Tuatha Dé was too old for Drystan to be able to tell his years, his face a map of deep wrinkles, but his step was still sure and his eyes still bright. He wore his hair in what Drystan had since learned was one of the tonsures of the filid of Eriu, long in back and shaved straight across in front.

Boinda was watching him, his eyes sharp and his expression speculative. Drystan wondered how long he had been sitting there, and for what purpose. The druid did not seem to be a healer. In fact, Drystan had yet to figure out what role he played in the small community.

The old man smiled. "Good morning, bard."

"Good morning."

"I've come to teach you something of the ways of the filid of Eriu. If you are strong enough, that is."

Drystan chuckled. "Strong? No. But I look forward to learning from you during the long hours when I am at least awake."

"That is good. Your mind grows clearer, and there is no time to be lost."

That seemed an odd comment. Perhaps it was time he finally earned his care and his keep by playing the bard they thought him. Or perhaps he was only referring to all that Drystan still had to learn. "I hear the training of a bard here in Eriu is more arduous than anywhere in the known the world."

"You have seen more of the known world than I," Boinda said with another smile. "But if you want to learn the seven times fifty stories for the qualification as a poet, you had best begin soon."

He blinked. "Seven times fifty stories?"

"So says the Book of the Laigin."

"I can never learn all that."

"Never is a long time. Perhaps there are stories you already know which you can count towards your repertoire. And I hear you are a great artist."

Drystan shifted on his pallet, propping his head on his hand. His healers had warned him to change positions often to avoid bed sores. "I have yet to prove it. Yet all treat me with respect as if I had."

Boinda chuckled. "It is best not to anger a bard, else he may write a satire about you."

A satire. He shook his head. "The power of the word in Eriu is hard for one unused to your ways to comprehend."

"Yes, I can see how that might be so. Roman ways purge much of the magic from life. What is left of the old ways in your own land?"

"We have druids and bards. Druids are advisors to kings and bards sing their praises. But they have little power unless the king they serve sees fit to make it so. Law is spoken by the kings themselves and their magistrates."

The old man nodded slowly. "And who corrects the king when he oversteps his bounds or makes a wrong decision?"

"Certainly not his magistrates." Drystan thought of the magistrates of his own father, whose main job lay in collecting the tribute and taxes due him for the defense of the territories under his protection. There was no one to correct the mistakes made by Marcus of Dumnonia except the High King of Britain himself.

"Be careful, my son," Boinda said quietly.

"What?"

"For one of your upbringing, it must be strange to find yourself in a land where the power of the druids is still strong."

Drystan nodded, wondering how the conversation had taken this turn. Perhaps the old man was becoming weak in the head, but he found that hard to believe. During previous conversations, he had found Boinda quick and entertaining.

The druid smiled. "Thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

"It is gratifying to still be found entertaining at my age, especially in one so young."

Drystan stared at the older man. It was as if the druid were reading his mind.

"Correct," Boinda said. Drystan was too surprised to respond, and the druid continued. "There is more danger for you here than you realize, young fili. The fog in your mind has protected you until now, but as your mind grows clearer, so do your thoughts. There are several here in Ard Ladrann for whom clear thoughts are as easy to see into as a clear pool."

Drystan sat up slowly and leaned against the rough wall behind him. He couldn't have this conversation lying down. Riwallon had told him Eriu was a place of music and magic, but he hadn't told him how much; Drystan probably wouldn't have believed him if he had. Druids in Armorica were highly respected, and the common people regarded them as powerful wizards. The people of the vici and civitates, however, had lost most of those superstitious beliefs even before becoming Christian was made mandatory for Roman citizenship.

Rome had long left Armorica, but her ways were still with them more than Drystan had thought. And he discovered that despite his adoption of Armorican over Roman ways, Roman ratio would not allow him to accept that an old man with a face like a map could read his mind.

He took a deep breath. "How can that be?"

"I have something of the power of knowing. You don't understand what I mean by that, do you?"

"No."

"The ancient race of this island, the Feadh Ree, reckon three special powers which many of our kind possess: the power of calling, the power of changing, and the power of knowing. Those with pure blood of the Feadh Ree often have the greatest powers. In these days, pure blood is rare, as the Gaels have been here for many centuries now. Yseult the Wise is one of the few. And she has a very strong power of knowing."

"Oh." Which meant if he weren't careful, she would be able to read his mind and find out who he was. "And what of Yseult the Fair?"

"She has the power, but not as strong as her mother. Her greatest power is that of calling."

Drystan leaned his head against the wall. Perhaps that was what had saved him — along with the fog of fever.

Boinda nodded. "I would agree."

"Why are you warning me?"

"You have an important role to play in the changes that are coming. Also, I can see farther than thoughts, and I see that despite your lie, you are honorable."

He rubbed his forehead. "I do not feel at all honorable."

The old druid gave him a wide grin which made the map of his face even more pronounced. "That is precisely why you are."

Well, honor wouldn't help him much when they found out who he was. He sincerely doubted whether Murchad's relatives would value the honor Boinda saw in him over their own revenge, and he could hardly blame them.