Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (21 page)

Boinda leaned forward. "There are ways to shield your thoughts. Would you like me to teach you?"

"Yes," Drystan said fervently.

* * * *

"Gelu rigentis colubra sustulit sinuque fovit, contra se ipse misericors," Yseult said slowly, watching her tutor's face. It was a very pleasant face to watch, she had to admit; the ready smile, the eyes like a forest, the hair the shades of leaves in autumn spread out over his shoulders. Today the braid he usually wore was undone, his hair freshly washed and shining in the light of the fire.

"Regentem colubram," Tandrys corrected.

The bard still rarely left his pallet, but he was awake most of the day now — awake and bored. Her mother had suggested they begin with Latin lessons, since Tandrys did not even need to sit up for that. He was sitting up now, however. He was growing livelier every day, and his laughter echoed through the round-house more and more often. Yseult didn't much care for learning the Roman tongue, but she enjoyed her time with the bard, looked forward to sitting next to his pallet and watching the play of expressions on his face, enjoyed making him laugh or seeing his eyes light up when he caught sight of her. It was the most pleasant flirtation she'd had since her affair with Gamal.

But Latin? She found it hard to believe she would ever need what he taught her. The foreign traders who sometimes sought out the larger fairs usually knew enough of the tongue of Eriu for the purpose of buying a buckle.

Yseult sighed. "Perhaps you can teach me some phrases I might be able to use when bargaining with a Gaulish merchant for a shipment of wine?"

Tandrys was silent for a moment, thinking. "Num ista condicio optima est?"

"What does that mean?"

"Is that your best offer?"

Yseult nodded. "Good. I would rather learn about offers than those odd creatures called snakes."

Tandrys laughed, and she watched the way his green eyes lit up. She couldn't help smiling back. His laughter was like music, a song that made those who heard want to join in.

"Yseult?"

She turned. Brangwyn entered the round-house, a teasing smile on her face. "Had you forgotten? We were to collect mistletoe and all-heal root with your mother this morning."

"I was just coming," Yseult said, feeling her cheeks flush. How could she have forgotten it for
lessons in Latin
?

"You must excuse me," she said to Tandrys, took her cloak from a hook next to the door, and turned to follow Brangwyn out of the round-house.

In the days and weeks that followed, she had little time to forget her duties for Latin lessons — or a pair of green eyes. Although members of the warrior class, the
aes dana
, or the Tuatha Dé Danann did not officially have to take part in working the land, such rules were meaningless in the month after the first harvest and before Samhain. Crops harvested in the previous weeks had to be either stored or dried, and late fruits and vegetables harvested as well. Any produce not collected by Samhain was forfeit to the gods, and every hand in the fields and orchards meant a more comfortable winter for all. The choice had to be made how many sheep, cows, goats and pigs would be butchered after they were brought down from their summer pastures — not all of them could be fed through the winter, and the tuath would need meat to carry them through the cold months. The heavy work continued for several weeks after Samhain, when the carcasses were salted and smoked and hung up in the beams of the round-houses, where the winter fires in the fire pits would continue to cure the meat through the rest of the season.

Everyone was relieved when the hard weeks were over and the new year celebration was upon them. The residents of Ard Ladrann were up early to begin the preparations for Samhain and the start of winter. All day they worked to get everything ready before sundown. The cattle were driven down from the hills to their winter grazing grounds close to the rath, pigs slaughtered for the festivities, wood collected for the bonfires, and quarters made ready for the additional warriors Crimthann had demanded from the nearby subject kings to protect Ard Ladrann —mostly to protect his queen from the High King. Little fighting took place after Samhain and the beginning of the dark half of the year, but Lóegaire might try to use that to his advantage. Crimthann didn't intend to take any chances.

Yseult had taken her dogs Bran and Ossar along to help drive the cattle down from the hills. This was one of her favorite jobs this time of year; the walk in the cold, crisp air, the yapping of hounds and the lowing of cattle. Many of the children of the tuath seemed to feel the same as they scampered along, taking the part of hounds, keeping the cattle in line with loud noises or a slap to the haunches.

Finally, the cattle were in the winter pasture, and the laborers and serfs would begin the sorting and butchering. Yseult led her dogs and the children back to the rath, a task nearly as arduous as herding the cattle. One of her hounds had decided to play chase with three little girls, and they were lagging behind. Yseult gave a loud whistle. "Ossar, to me!"

The wolfhound's ears perked up, and he loped over to her, the children shrieking after him.

When Yseult entered the gates of the rath, children and hounds bounding around her, she saw Tandrys at the door of the round-house, leaning on the shoulder of the old druid Boinda. The bard was pale from over-exertion; tight lines of pain ran up his forehead from his eyebrows, and his eyes were narrowed in a squint of concentration.

She sent the children on their way and hurried over to him, Bran and Ossar by her side.

"Tandrys! What are you doing out of your bed?"

He grinned. "I wanted to see what a day is like that is not of one year and not of the next. And I need some fresh air."

Yseult shook her head, tempted to be amused but also worried. "It's still too soon for you to walk much on that leg of yours."

His grin grew wider. "I noticed."

"Yseult, sometimes it is wiser to ignore wisdom," Boinda said. "He wanted to see our Samhain celebrations. I think we may let him watch a little."

Yseult looked their patient up and down, her lips pursed. There was a light in his eyes as he scratched Bran behind the ears with his free hand, and the brisk air was slowly bringing color to his cheeks.

"Good. But then you must let me show him around," she said to Boinda. "I can support his weight better." She was nearly of a height with the bard, while Boinda was perhaps half a head shorter. She stepped behind the old man and slipped under Tandrys's arm, placing her own arm firmly around his waist and taking the hand that came around her shoulder in a tight grip. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.

"Very." His voice sounded on the edge of laughter, and she decided she had to agree with Boinda: sometimes it was wiser to ignore wisdom.

Not only that, she had to admit the feel of his arm across her shoulders, his hand in hers, made her breathing come a little faster and her cheeks feel a little warmer. Body to body with the injured bard, she was strangely nervous, strangely exhilarated, as she used to be on a cattle raid with Illann's war band.

"If you will take over the entertainment of the bard, I think I will take a nap before the bonfire is lit," Boinda said, a twinkle in his eye.

Yseult nodded. Was her reaction to Tandrys obvious to everyone in Ard Ladrann?

"Is Samhain not celebrated in Armorica?" she asked, guiding the convalescent in the direction of the gates of the rath. On the playing fields beyond, the young men were competing in the Samhain games; a hurling game was in progress on one side of the field and a javelin competition on the other.

They stopped to watch the hurling. "Not officially, at least not in the towns," the bard said. "But Armorica shook off Roman control nearly a hundred years ago. In the hills and on the northern coast, areas that were never completely Romanized, they still remember the old ways, and Samhain is celebrated as the night of the spirits. But the new year is reckoned in the Christian fashion, two moons from now."

One player scored a goal, batting the ball underneath the beam at one end of the playing field, and his teammates cheered and hugged him and clapped him on the back.

"What is it like in the lands where you have traveled?" Yseult asked. The bard leaned on her, a weight she liked. She tried to touch his mind, but to her surprise, she found that he was shielding his thoughts.

"Very different," he said after a long pause. "While some places look a little like Ard Ladrann, there are many communities where hundreds or even thousands of people live all year around. And laws and beliefs ...." His voice trailed off.

Yseult drew a deep breath. "But you must have some magic left in your world, if you know how to hide your thoughts from me."

She felt the bard start, and then he laughed. "I have Boinda to thank for that."

"Perhaps you have some blood of the Old Race in your veins."

"I wouldn't know. We have no legends of a race such as the Tuatha Dé where I come from."

They watched the games in silence for a while, and Yseult felt the bard's weariness, although she could not touch his mind. His physical weakness made him lean on her more, and he grew heavier.

She did not want to take any risks with him, today of all days. At Samhain, the veil between the worlds was thinnest, thinner than at any other of the in-between times. Yseult was of the blood of the Feadh Ree and did not have to be as careful as those of the Gael; the opening of the doors to the Otherworld held no fear for her. But the bard, while his talents were great, was still Gael, and his body was yet weak.

"Perhaps we should return to the rath," she said gently.

Tandrys nodded. "Not very entertaining company, am I?"

Yseult smiled. "Now that you have managed the walk between the round-house and the playing fields, you will surely soon be able to sing for us, and how could we better entertained than that?"

The bard laughed out loud, despite his weariness, and a feeling of happiness stole over Yseult, mixing with the excitement and the physical awareness. She would probably miss much of the Samhain festivities caring for him, but his laughter was fine and strong, and she would trade any number of the handsome young men they had watched playing at the games for it.

* * * *

In the weeks following Samhain, Drystan felt stronger every day. He spent more and more time on his feet, leaning on Boinda and Brangwyn and Yseult less each time. During the days, he explored the rath and studied with Boinda and taught Yseult Latin, while the evenings were spent in the main round-house, learning from Laidcenn and any visiting bards who happened to seek out Ard Ladrann. Every night, twenty to thirty people collected around the fire to listen to the filid recite tales and sing songs. Women worked on their spinning or weaving during the entertainment, while the men polished weapons or carved wooden toys for the children.

Drystan sat up on his pallet, his back propped against the wall. He listened to the stories and music and gazed on Yseult when she wasn't looking, allowing a quiet happiness to invade his soul. It was illusory, he knew; the way he had to shield his thoughts made him constantly aware just how illusory. He didn't know what would happen to him if his true identity were discovered, but for some reason, fear refused to take hold in his soul. He was alive, and the fairest woman in the world was not far away.

Laidcenn put aside his harp, and a round of applause and thanks followed.

"Perhaps Tandrys will perform for us next?" Yseult said, looking across the room at him with those unnaturally light eyes. "We are all curious to hear the voice it would have angered the Dagda to lose."

"Anger the Dagda?"

"That is how the fishermen who found you described your voice," Brangwyn said with a smile.

"Are you feeling well enough?" the queen asked.

Drystan nodded, getting up. "I think so." He got his harp out of the wicker box where his belongings were stored next to his pallet and ran his fingers over the strings. He didn't think he would disgrace himself, even though his fingers weren't as limber as they were in the best of times. At least in the last few weeks he'd had a chance to practice again: Boinda had begun teaching him the seven times fifty stories he needed to know to become a bard in Eriu.

He moved to the center of the round-house and the place of honor next to the fire reserved for the bard. And next to Yseult.

Drystan sat down in the seat vacated by Laidcenn. "Shall I sing a tale from Armorica?" he asked, plucking out a tune on his harp. He looked up from the strings into the light, bright eyes that haunted his night dreams and daydreams.