Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (32 page)

Kurvenal repressed a sigh. If only his friend would keep his drunken fantasies to himself. Drystan may have had too much of the foreign wine to notice the effect his words were having on his father, but Kurvenal was neither drunk nor blind, and he could see the way a kind of greed was entering Marcus's eyes. In the long months waiting for Drystan, he had come to the conclusion that greed was the King of Dumnonia's most dominant trait — greed for riches, greed for women, greed for power.

Kurvenal suspected that was the true reason Arthur was here now. Whatever the kings of the south who were conspiring with Marcus thought, gray hair and failing health had not deprived Ambrosius of his shrewdness. He and Arthur were probably as aware of the frequent visits between Marcus and the Dumnonian kings Gwythyr, Cynan, Gurles and Idres as Marcus was himself.

"I knew an Essyllt of Venedotia once," Cai said now in his rumbling bass, falling under the spell Drystan was weaving with words, the image of desire he conjured.

"Sounds as if a soul would be a good trade for one such as this Yseult," Arthur said with a faint smile. "Assuming, that is, that she regards your rath as her own."

"And what of you, Artorius?" Marcus asked. "Have you found any likely prospects in your search for a new wife?"

Arthur made a dismissive gesture with his empty hand. "I am not searching for a new wife. Ambrosius has suggested it, but I have no time for courtship. With better weather, the Saxons will soon be worrying our borders again."

Kurvenal saw Bedwyr and Cai exchange a quick look and wondered what it meant.

"And what of the tribute you owe to Ambrosius, Marcus?" Geraint asked outright. "How many men can you spare to fight off the Saxon threat?"

"I already sent two centuries."

Arthur smiled and finally took another sip of his wine. "That was two years ago."

"Here on the coast, the threat comes from the Erainn across the sea," Marcus said testily. "As protector of Dumnonia, I need my troops to fight them."

"Fight them?" Bedwyr drawled. "We had heard you were intending to sleep with them until the developments in Eriu fouled up your plans."

Kurvenal saw Marcus's lips tighten. "Well, yes. As I said, I've been trying to negotiate a peace."

"Ambrosius knows that the threat of Erainn raids is not to be taken lightly," Arthur said. "But with your tin mines, you are one of the richest kings of the south, and you could surely hire a few extra men if need be." Although his voice was quiet, it held an undertone which Marcus obviously understood.

"I will be happy to send some troops to Caer Leon with Drustanus once he's recovered," the Dumnonian king said. "I merely wanted to point out that I might not be able to spare as many as you or Ambrosius would like."

"Oh, my men and I could use a few days rest, especially in a hall with such fine wine. We will wait until Drystan can accompany us." Arthur turned to Drystan, who did not seem to have been following the conversation very closely. His head rested on the back of the couch, his wine glass in his hand, seemingly forgotten.

"What of you, Cousin?" Arthur asked. "Would you be willing to join my company to fight the Saxons? It would take you away from Dumnonia, but you would also be in less danger of meeting this Otherworld Amazon in battle."

Drystan lifted his head slowly from the back of the couch and gazed at Arthur for a moment until he seemed to come back to the company present. "Fight the Saxons? Yes, yes, I think I would like to join you."

"Then it is decided," Arthur said, his voice businesslike.

Kurvenal was overjoyed that they would be leaving Dyn Tagell. He'd had enough of Marcus Cunomorus to last him a lifetime. Unfortunately, the man was his best friend's father.

* * * *

They departed Dyn Tagell six days later with only two additional contubernium, eighteen men total, but at least all of them were mounted. The number of men was low, but what Arthur really needed were the horses, so he let it pass. Cavalry was much more important for his purposes than infantry. And all told, he had received promise of nearly three centuries of fighting men from the kings of Dumnonia.

Drystan was glad to go, glad to do anything that would help him escape his thoughts. But even the feel of a good horse beneath him and the sun on his back weren't enough. He tried to find pleasure in small things, in the first spring flowers, in Kurvenal's smile, in the hero-worship on Cador's face when he rode next to Arthur, in the calm melody of Arthur's voice. Now that he'd been spoiled by days of good food and physical comfort, the survival instinct which had driven him on his journey from Eriu could no longer keep dark thoughts at bay.

It didn't help that the trip to Arthur's training camp took over a week and was without incident: it gave Drystan more time with his thoughts than he cared for. And the last half of the journey was through a constant spring rain, which made riding miserable.

All of them were relieved when they arrived at the garrison town of Caer Leon. The town was situated inland from the Sabrina estuary on the river Usk in an area of gently rolling hills and fertile fields and thick woods, now disguised by a film of gray mist and rain.

Riding next to Kurvenal, Drystan inspected the place that might well be his home for as long as he remained among Arthur's companions. It had been many years since he had spent any length of time in a town still as obviously Roman as Caer Leon. Of course, his father had been at pains to maintain the reminders of the Roman port of Durocornovium on the promontory of Dyn Tagell, but despite the tin exports, it had never been as important as Caer Leon. Drystan had spent much of his first years in Isca Dumnoniorum, civitas and provincial capital, but Drystan's memories of those years were vague.

The old Roman fort stood near a bend in the river. As Arthur's principal training camp, Caer Leon was a bustling place, the streets full of soldiers and merchants and whores. The barracks still standing could house nearly four cohorts of six centuries each, and now, in late spring, they appeared almost full. Young men lounged under the colonnades near the taverna. Soldiers wandered together in groups between the workshops and the barracks, eyeing the young women who passed, or calling out evening appointments to each other in a mix of Latin and native British tongues. Their clothing too was a mix of Roman and British garb, and Drystan assumed they also adopted a mixture of British and Latin names.

They came upon the impressive baths complex, a tall building with a red-tiled roof and wide courtyard. The southern wall surrounding the baths had been torn down, and workers were still clearing rubble away to create an open entrance to the complex. On the journey, Arthur had told him that the baths within the fortress walls were still largely functional, but one side of the courtyard was being used as a cattle pen, and small dwellings had been built into the portico of the surrounding colonnade. Many buildings which had fallen into disrepair had been replaced by buildings of timber rather than stone: the knowledge of stone masonry was eroding with the buildings. What would have been fixed when the oldest were the youngest, was now dismantled and used for the construction of more modest buildings when repairs could not be made.

Opposite the baths, several larger building appeared to have been converted to whorehouses, if the inviting gestures of the dark-haired beauty leaning on the balustrade who caught Drystan's eye were any indication. The weather was barely warm enough for it, but a number of scantily-clad women lounged against the columns in front, some waving to the troops riding down Via Praetoria, some merely watching their prospective customers.

The headquarters stood in the middle of the garrison, where Via Principalis met Via Praetoria. The closest barracks buildings to the west had been converted to stables, and they gave their mounts into the hands of stableboys before entering the principia, a wide building nearly as impressive as the baths, with two arcades supporting a high nave roof. Caradog, son of King Honorius in nearby Caer Gwent and Arthur's deputy in Caer Leon, met them in the atrium of the headquarters.

Arthur drew off the gloves he had worn for riding and turned to the newcomers. "Drystan, there should be a room for you and your man-at-arms in one of the former tribune's houses. After you have settled in, I would like you to report to me in my offices here."

Drystan had hardly expected to be housed in the barracks eight to a room, but after seeing how full the fortress of Caer Leon was, he was relieved anyway.

Relieved. What an odd thought — he was miserable and tortured, remembering over and over the look of hatred in a beloved pair of pale blue-gray eyes, and he was relieved he would not be sleeping on a bunk in a room with seven other fighting men. Shaking his head at the strangeness of his own moods, he and Kurvenal followed the servant to one of the tribune's houses reserved for Arthur's companions and were shown into a very comfortable room with two beds and a low couch pushed up against one wall.

"Better than I would have expected."

Kurvenal nodded, watching him carefully.

Drystan shoved the satchel containing his harp into a corner of the room and returned to the headquarters building, eager to get away from his friend's watchful eyes.

When he found his way to Arthur's offices in the principia, in the former aedes which had once housed the legion's eagle and banner, Cador's father Geraint was already there.

"I have a special job for the two of you," Arthur began, coming forward across the patterned tile floor. In places, the tiles had been replaced by simple mortar, blotches in the regular pattern. "You have some experience at sea, I believe, Drystan?" Arthur asked.

Drystan nodded. "When I was still in fosterage in Armorica, I led several sailing expeditions for my foster-father, Riwallon."

"Good. I would like you and Geraint to be in charge of putting together a small force capable of fighting at sea. You will need to interview the men, find the ones who have some experience at sea, and begin training them as soon as possible."

"A number of my men from Caer Gurrel on the coast of Dortrig will be perfect for the job," Geraint said. He was a big man — if Cador was ever to take after him, he still had a lot of growing to do.

"My armsman Kurvenal is experienced at sea," Drystan added, "but I know nothing of the men my father sent with us." He was surprised to be given so much responsibility so soon after joining Arthur's companions, especially since he suspected Arthur did not completely trust Marcus.

Arthur smiled. "Then you will have to get to know them, will you not?"

He turned to Geraint. "That will be all for now."

As Drystan turned to leave with Geraint, Arthur touched his arm. "Stay. I still wanted to speak with you in private."

When the door closed behind Geraint, Drystan glanced at him, curious.

"Cousin," Arthur began. "I will not be so callous as to tell you it will pass."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Erainn princess."

Drystan looked away, at the arched alcove where the legionary standards had once been kept. It now housed the banners of the Pendragon Ambrosius Aurelianus and his general Arthur the Bear.

He turned his attention back to Arthur. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But I do."

"Why?"

"You are one of my men now. And however little you might care for your own life, I do not want you endangering the lives of others."

Drystan drew in a deep breath. "Oh, I care for my own life. I dragged myself back, didn't I?"

Arthur gave a business-like nod. "Yes, you did. You are stronger than you think."

"And you?"

A faint, sad smile touched the young widower's lips. "Oh, I too am stronger than I think. But I do not let others see it as much." He grasped Drystan's shoulder in a brief, hard grip and released it.

Drystan repressed a sigh, trying to be as strong as Arthur seemed to think him. He didn't feel strong. He felt wounded and miserable, felt as if he would never be able the enjoy the soft touch of a woman's hand or a glass of fine wine the same way again. He gave himself a mental shake. He was not the only one suffering from loss. But it was his loss he felt. And when memory and regret twisted in his stomach like rotten food, it was hard to sympathize with the loss of others.

"I will try not to let others see it as much anymore, Cousin." Arthur's cause was his cause. He wanted to save Britain, his patria, from barbarism and ruin. The fine, tall buildings of Caer Leon were a testament to what was good in this land. While he found the way his father clung to the glory of Rome exaggerated, he too preferred living where tiles still graced the roofs and the baths were still functioning. He had enjoyed the music and magic of Eriu, but Yseult was the true reason he would have stayed.