Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (78 page)

"Good, then we still have some secrets from you."

"Not as many as I have from myself," Drystan croaked. "Perhaps you can help me coax my mind out of hiding — I don't seem to be very good at it myself. I'm trying to push down walls and I don't have the strength."

"How can we help?"

"Tell me things."

The other man joined Kurvenal at his bedside and stretched out his hand. "I am your cousin Cador."

* * * *

They fed him and talked to him, and it seemed every waking moment was full of stomach aches and headaches; food and information were equally difficult to keep down.

And his joy was nowhere to be seen.

"Did I dream her?" he finally asked Kurvenal one day.

Kurvenal looked grim. "No."

"Then why haven't I seen her?"

"She has been tending you while you sleep. You could have seen her if you had awoken at the right time."

Drystan shook his head. "No, you are keeping her from me."

Kurvenal looked away.

"As little as I know, I do know that I love you dearly, Kurvi," he said, swinging his legs over the bed and sitting up. "But if you keep her away from me, I will run away again."

"You need to rest. You are little more than skin and bones, Drys."

"But while I was a wild man, I was running from every person I saw. Now you want me to remain in bed like an invalid."

Kurvenal pulled up a stool and sat across from him. "It's serious, Drystan. You need to regain your strength and your memory. Arthur needs his companions right now, especially you."

"Arthur." Drystan closed his eyes, trying to bring back memories associated with that name. They had given him facts, battles with names that also tugged at his memory, Portus Adurni, Caer Leon, Baddon. With each new name, he regained a little piece of himself: pushing stolen longboats into the surf, crawling through the mud, a wild charge across the Downs. Arthur was there among those images too, leading the charge, pacing in front of a tired army, his graying blond hair glinting in the sun, his expression grim, Dux Bellorum, leader of the defense of Britain.

His cousin.

"Why me in particular?" Drystan asked.

Kurvenal didn't answer for a moment, looking at him as if debating with himself how much to reveal. Drystan's mind may have been in hiding, but he saw the exact moment when Kurvenal decided to tell him everything.

"What do you remember of your father, Drys?"

The mere mention made Drystan clench his eyes shut; yes, there was definitely something here he didn't want to know. He looked up again and stared at the wall painting opposite, a hunting scene of a hound attacking a boar, and tried to get past whatever was blocking his memory. Finally, images of a winter burial came to him, the ground almost too hard for the grave to be dug. "I remember a funeral. Is he dead?"

Kurvenal shook his head. "You must be thinking of your foster father Riwallon. Your father, Marcus Cunomorus, is very much alive. He is in the north now, with the kings who want to place a 'legitimate' heir on the throne of Britain. They are going to vote."

Once again, once the thing was named, the memories followed. Marcus Cunomorus, his father — and Yseult's husband.

His father had sentenced him to death.

Drystan dropped his head into his hands. Images of his past rushed in on him, as if the dam in his mind had been kicked in and he was drowning in memories, all the things he had tried to keep out: the threat of being burned at the stake, the jump from the window of the chapel, the fear for Yseult, fear that they had succeeded with her where they had not with him.

His father's betrayal — and his own.

"Gods, I remember now. But why does Arthur want my help so badly if my father is an open traitor?"

"You are still your father's heir, heir to the kingdom of Dumnonia, despite the fact that you are not welcome in Dumnonia anywhere he still rules." There was a pause, and Drystan looked at his friend to see a slight smile on his serious face. "And you have become quite a hero, Drys. The people love you. They sing songs about your heroic deeds as one of Arthur's companions, romantic songs about you and Yseult. I'm sure your father hates it."

At the gloating tone in Kurvenal's voice, another rusty laugh escaped Drystan's throat. He shook his head. "Perhaps it is no wonder I tried to flee from myself."

Kurvenal scooted his stool closer and took Drystan's hands in his. "No, but you're stronger than that. And there are people who need you. You can't afford to hide from them or yourself."

Drystan drew a deep breath and pulled his hands out of Kurvenal's to rub his eyes and his forehead. It was so much. But Kurvenal was right — others carried burdens just as great, lived with memories just as bad, and those others needed him to be strong. He nodded and smiled.

"I think you should tell me what happened while I was building defenses in the sand."

* * * *

It had rained much of the last week, and weeds Yseult had little use for were taking over the herb garden on Dyn Tagell. At least the garden was still there. She had not been on the Rock since the summer before Arthur had arranged the 'reconciliation' between her and Marcus and took over the running of the site himself, but it appeared that someone had at least maintained the garden.

She pulled out the bindweed between the selfheal plants while Kustennin played with Judual nearby. Bindweed was good for wounds and bites, and the roots were excellent purgatives, but unfortunately, it had a tendency to strangle other, more helpful plants.

She thought she heard a footstep and looked up; unfortunately, it was only the boys.

Kurvenal had promised that he would finally allow Drystan to see her when he was conscious and lucid. She hoped that would be soon. Arthur was due to arrive in Dyn Tagell any day now, and he would most likely take Drystan with him no matter how lucid he was.

She had to talk to him before that.

It was only a few months since he had disappeared, from November to April, but so much had changed. After Marcus had traveled north to King Lot when the major roads were clear again, she had been able to convince enough of her guards of his treachery to escape with Kustennin to Cador at Dyn Draithou.

Strictly speaking, the plans of the rebel kings to name a new king were not treachery, but after his victory at Baddon, Arthur was king in fact if not in name — especially for warriors such as Ian. But since Arthur refused to try to take the throne himself, it was a perfect opportunity for Marcus and the others to create their own facts as it suited them.

At Cador's seat at Dyn Draithou, the news had reached her that Drystan had been sighted living in the caves near Dyn Tagell. She and Cador had come as quickly as they could.

"Mama!" Kustennin called.

Yseult looked up from the long, pale roots of the bindweed trailing out of her hand to her son. No longer digging in the dirt in imitation of her, he was standing and pointing. Judual held on to his other hand, his thumb firmly in his mouth.

Yseult's gaze turned in the direction of her son's arm, fear and anticipation making her mouth go dry. Drystan stood a little distance away, silent, watching them. Ah, Danu, he was so thin and pale.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither moving. Then Yseult dropped the bindweed and rose, wiping her dirty hands on her apron. At that sign, he began to come forward across the level expanse of the Rock in her direction, and she stepped away from the herb patch where she had been working.

His gaze was fixed on her as he walked, and she too stared. She had seen him every day, knew his condition better than most — the cheekbones that were so high now that he looked gaunt, the ribs she could count — but since that first day, she had not seen him awake and aware. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?

He stopped an arm's length away from her. His hair had been cut, and what could be saved from the tangles whipped in gold and bronze and brown curls around his face. She missed the thick braid, but he would look good with his hair short like this too, once he gained more weight again.

She took a deep breath. "Drystan. I was hoping Kurvenal would finally allow you to speak with me."

He grinned, and suddenly the stark lines and planes of his face no longer seemed so harsh. "I told him I would run away and play mad again if he didn't."

A relieved laugh escaped her. "Ah, Drystan, it is so good to hear you joke once more." She could feel tears start in the corners of her eyes, and she brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

He caught the hand in both of his. "What's this?" He turned her hand over, tracing one finger across the wetness from her tears and down to her fingers. "You have dirt under your fingernails."

And then she was laughing and crying at once, her arms around him and his around her, and Kustennin and Judual were next to them, clamoring to know what was going on.

Drystan lifted Kustennin up and propped him on his hip; he was astonishingly strong for someone who looked so weak. Kustennin had turned five in February and was not exactly small for his age.

Kustennin inspected Drystan seriously while Yseult picked up Judual. "You're my brother, Drystan," he announced.

Drystan nodded.

Yseult was surprised Kustennin recognized him so easily. He had not seen him for almost two years, and then Drystan wore a braid as thick as her fist and had the muscled body of a warrior.

"But now the two of you must play alone for a bit and let me speak with your mother," Drystan said, his tone as serious as Kustennin's had been.

Kustennin slid down his body obediently and ran with Judual back to the pile of dirt next to her garden.

"He's a fine boy," Drystan said and took her hand.

Yseult looked around instinctively, fearing enemies, fearing betrayal — but there was no longer anyone here at Dyn Tagell who would care to betray anything to Marcus. She had run away from Marcus when he had marched north, against Arthur, and the northern coast of Dumnonia was loyal to the Dux Bellorum.

She still couldn't get used to being safe, being without Marcus, being free of the everyday pain of a life she abhorred.

The discomfort remained, however, as they walked hand in hand towards the western edge of the island.

"He is a fine boy, but I have done wrong in Kustennin's name," she said, extremely aware of her hand in his. When was the last time she had walked hand in hand with a man? Certainly not with her husband, except perhaps at some official function, long ago.

"How so?" Drystan asked.

"I wronged you, wronged both of us. I thought I would be stealing Kustennin's future if I decided to leave Marcus and live with you. And now see what I have caused."

Drystan shook his head. "Did you force me to marry Yseult of the White Hands? No. I am quite capable of making my own mistakes."

"Ah, but look at you now," Yseult said, her voice low and intense.

To her surprise, he laughed. "I am here, at Dyn Tagell, with you, and there is no one here who wants to take this away from me. I called you to me. And it is you who are supposed to have the power of calling. I may have regained my memories, but I still cannot resist the temptation to feel happy that I am here, now, with you."

"But I turned you away. If I had not, you would not have hidden all these months from reality."

"What were you to do? Marcus had your son, had guards on you."

Yseult noted that he called his father "Marcus." She halted at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the churning water. "It seems to me you have not regained all of your memories."

He squeezed her hand. "I think I have."

"The last time, it wasn't because of Marcus that I turned you away. If I had not been so hurt by your marriage, I could perhaps have found a way."

She was still staring down at the ocean as she felt her hand being lifted, felt him press his warm lips against the back near the wrist and hold there. She closed her eyes tight, against the sensations which flooded her from this one seemingly innocent kiss.

It was one of the most erotic moments of her life.

She took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes again, turning to him. "How can you forgive me so much?"