Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (63 page)

Yseult put a stoppered ceramic jar with an ointment of bog onion, comfrey and agrimony into her basket. "But you disagreed with your mother for retreating to the hills."

"Or maybe I will put on my breeches and fight the Saxons."

Yseult laughed. "Do that. Since they are already defeated, I will not stop you. But before you go in search of them, will you watch for me today?"

"Yes."

Yseult caught Brangwyn around the waist, whirled her in a circle, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "I love you so much, Cousin."

"It would be better if you loved less."

"You are getting old before your time."

"It is hardly surprising when I have to watch over you." Brangwyn poured the ground herbs into a small flask and added the heavy wine they used for their medicines.

Yseult could feel her cousin's worry and anger, but her own anticipation was too strong for her to care — or at least to pay it any mind.

She threw her cloak around her shoulders and hurried across the land bridge to the church on the mainland. After she gave Illtud the ointment for bruises that he'd requested, he would have been happy to sit on a bench in the gentle September sun with her for a spell, but she made excuses about the rounds she had to make in the village. To give the truth to her lie, she made brief visits to two families where there had recently been an injury and an illness, but her anticipation was growing so sharply, she could hardly concentrate on the words they exchanged, the complaints of joints that still ached and repeated dizzy spells.

By the time she was on the path that led down to the beach, her face was hot and her stomach hurt with a strange kind of joy, barely distinguishable from pain.

Soon she would touch him again.

She felt a sob catch in her throat, and she hurried down the narrow, zig-zagging trail.

Drystan was waiting in the cave when she arrived, and she went into his arms with a laugh that was also a gasp and a cry. He enfolded her in an embrace she had never thought to feel again, and she breathed in the smell of his sweat and his own anticipation, a biting scent that she could not for the life of her have described, but which she knew she could have distinguished from that of any other man.

They stood that way for a while in the dark safety of the cave, not kissing, not speaking, only embracing hard, feeling each other's presence again. The planes of his muscles were harder than when she had last held him, honed by years of marching and riding and fighting, the feel of him familiar and yet different. The joy that filled her hurt so much, it was an ache at the back of her throat. The smell of Drystan beneath her cheek mixed with the smell of the sea and the dank cave, a wet, dark smell, cloying and cold and salty.

Slowly Drystan pushed her head up from where it lay on his shoulder, his thumbs caressing the line of her jaw. In the deep shadows of the cave, she couldn't quite make out the color of his eyes, that green she had once wanted to drown in, a wish long since fulfilled.

She ran her hands down his chest. "I am so glad you survived these wars. I was afraid I would never see you again."

He nodded. "I was afraid of that too." Suddenly he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that she could barely breathe. "Yseult, come away with me."

She shook her head, and he lifted one hand and stopped the movement. They turned their faces to each other, and with no further words, they kissed. His lips were warm, moist, gentle. It had been over two years, but the way his mouth fit hers felt so right, so perfect, she was crying before she even knew she had begun.

He stepped away and unfastened the cloak at his throat, spreading it out on the sandy floor of the cave. Then he wiped away her tears with the back of his hand and drew Yseult down to the makeshift bed. She lay beside him, draping her own cloak over them to keep away the chill of the cave. He propped himself on one elbow above her and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face before he kissed her again, more urgently this time. She could feel him hard against her hip, and she shifted slightly, wanting him closer. With one hand, he bunched up the fabric covering her legs and drew it to her waist. The breath caught in her throat. He pushed her away just enough so that he could slip his hand between them and between her legs, and she heard herself whimper, a small pleading noise. At the sound, his own breathing grew heavier, and he dropped his head to rest his forehead against her own. Her hand went to the back of his neck to draw him down for another kiss, while the other went to his crotch to loosen the tie of his breeches. He gasped, and she felt herself melting all over the talented fingers at work between her legs.

"Please," she whispered against his lips.

Instead of doing as she begged, he rose on his knees, pulling her tunic up over her head. His own tunic and breeches followed, and she stared greedily at the fine hard lines of his body, glad she couldn't see the new scars in the dim light.

Drystan settled in between her legs, pushing warm and hard at her crotch. She moved against him, shifting to give him a better angle, and with one thrust, he buried himself in her as far as he could go.

They both gasped this time.

He remained there as she held him tightly, as close together as they could be, still except for the gentle pulsing of his cock. With each throb, her body responded, wanting to pull him in even farther, but she didn't move, drawing out the moment.

Finally, the tension was too much. Drystan pulled back and gave her a long kiss, his tongue touching and then darting away. With part of her brain, she could feel the dank cold of the cave on the skin of her legs splayed on either side of him; the cloak had slipped away. But that didn't matter as much as what he had taken away from her, even though it was only for a moment. He eased back into her slowly, so slowly, it was agonizingly perfect. She wanted it to go on forever, but she wanted the brink he was teasing her to as well. Beneath his lips, she moaned.

It was as if she had thrown a rock down a hill and started an avalanche. He gave a sharp intake of breath, and his kisses went from gentle to fierce.

"Yseult."

"Yes."

His thrusts became hard and full of need. She clutched him at the back of the neck beneath his braid with one hand and grabbed a bunch of material from his cloak with the other, panting. When she reached the brink, she heard him cry out. She came with a guttural growl of pleasure, falling and falling and falling, and took hold of his face in both hands, kissing him with a pain that wiped out the world.

Slowly they returned to reality. This time, she was aware of the dank cave with more than just part of her brain, and she sat up to draw the cloak over them again.

Drystan gathered her in his arms and they lay there, saying nothing.

Finally, Yseult had to admit to herself that more than enough time had passed, and she rose to gather up her clothes. Drystan remained on the cloak on the sand, watching her, his hands behind his head, his expression hidden in shadow.

"Yseult."

She shook her head. "No, Drystan, do not say it, please."

And he didn't.

She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. "I must return to Dyn Tagell."

He nodded, and she hurried out of the cave, her heart breaking.

As she crossed the neck, she tried to repress the thoughts of what her life had become, the hiding and sneaking, the denial of a love that deserved more, the lies, the endless lies. She returned to the small stone house between the herb garden and the turf-walled huts, grateful for the space here that was her own. Brangwyn was no longer there.

She sat down on a bench and leaned her head against the stone wall. Was this really for the best? She needed time to think.

Unfortunately, circumstances did not allow her any such reprieve; shortly after the mid-day meal, another large party was sighted to the northeast on the Tamara road.

Her husband had arrived.

* * * *

A bare two weeks after Arthur arrived in Dyn Tagell, his betrothal to Ginevra was announced, and he removed with his party to Celliwig on the Cammlann River. Although few people would be able to make a winter journey to join the festivities, a Christmas wedding was decided on.

Much to Yseult's dismay, Marcus intended to remain with them for the winter; not only did he regard it as important to attend the wedding of the Dux Bellorum, his mistress Trephina was highly pregnant.

He had no qualms about telling Yseult of it either. "The church officials in Isca have been making my life hell over her, I tell you, especially now that her condition is so obvious," Marcus told her one morning as he tore off a piece of bread. They were breaking their fast in the lower hall, alone with Kustennin.

"It doesn't usually bother you overmuch what others say," Yseult said, cutting a slice of cheese for her son. "Why now?"

Marcus gave her a knowing grin. "I have no taste for bloated women."

Yseult shook her head. "We have our agreement. I will only stand by it if you will."

Marcus shrugged. "Never fear, I will return to Isca in the spring. I have no need for a shrew when there are much more pleasant women to be had."

Luckily, Drystan and Kurvenal joined them at that point, and the discussion ended. Yseult thought Kustennin had not been paying attention, but later that morning, he asked her what a "shrew" was.

It would be a long winter.

* * * *

Shortly after they removed to Lansyen, the news arrived that Trephina had died in childbed.

Yseult heard out the messenger in the great hall of the hill-fort. Marcus was off hunting with the other men of the household; it was one of the duties of a ruler that he performed gladly, bringing in deer and elk and wild boar before the first snow, an essential part of the stores needed for winter.

"What of the child?" she asked the young man.

"Without a father there to claim him, he has been given over to the custody of the church."

Yseult went over to the writing desk and penned a few words on a piece of expensive parchment, a far cry from the thin slices of folded wood she had received from Drystan the last two years. She sealed it with Marcus's seal and handed the parchment to the messenger. "I want you to bring the baby here, and if a nurse has been found for him, see if you can hire her to come along as well."

She could feel the messenger's surprise, followed by reluctant admiration. "Very good, Lady."

The child joined their household two weeks after Samhain. Marcus was surprised when she told him of the arrangements she had made, but he hardly reacted to the news of his mistress's death, beyond saying that Trephina was a good woman and he would miss her.

To Yseult's relief, the nurse came to Lansyen with the baby. "We call him Judual," she said, handing the child to Yseult when Marcus showed little interest in inspecting his latest offspring.

The baby looked thin and sallow, and Yseult wondered if he would make it through the winter. She turned to her husband. "Shall we keep the name?"

Marcus shrugged. "Certainly."

And so Judual became a part of the family.

Brangwyn quickly laid claim to the sickly boy, seeming to see it as her personal duty to ensure that he survived until spring. She appeared sincerely attached to the little half-orphan, and Yseult was glad. After the overwhelming victory of Baddon, Yseult had hoped Brangwyn would allow herself to give in to the feelings she knew her cousin felt for Kurvenal, but other than hurrying to greet him when Arthur's party had arrived at Dyn Tagell, Brangwyn had remained distant, not trusting herself or the peace.

And it was not only from the unfortunate Kurvenal that she had closed herself off — she now closed her thoughts to Yseult as well.

Perhaps it was just as well. Yseult and Drystan did not often have a chance to meet, but meet they did, and she was well aware of Brangwyn's disapproval. Perhaps it was better that her cousin had put up a wall between them.

In the last week in November, they began to make plans for the trip to Celliwig and the wedding of Arthur and Ginevra. Yseult was in the smokehouse where she was inspecting the stores of cured and dried meats for the winter, deciding what to take on the trip, when Brangwyn sought her out. At the sound of the door opening, Yseult turned. Brangwyn entered, a small basket on her arm. "Good day, Cousin. I came to tell you I have decided not to accompany you to Celliwig."