Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 10

  "Ah, but not as much as I do!"

  "It might be worth it to be free of your vile tongue."

  Drystan laughed and grabbed his friend by the elbow. "Come, let me show you around the island."

  The two left the Upper Hall together and Drystan led the way across the plateau to the edge of the sheer cliffs dropping away to the sea.

  "It's a general's dream come true," Kurvenal said, looking out over the white-capped water. The wind was strong here, but the sun was high, taking some of the bite out of the chill air.

  Drystan nodded. "From land, it's nearly invulnerable. Three soldiers alone can defend the entrance across the neck. And it's almost as hard to attack from sea, since the cliffs are so high."

  "At least when the Erainn ships arrive, we will see them coming."

  They looked to the north, their thoughts occupied with the seemingly insatiable raiders from across the sea. The problem had grown worse since the unity of Eriu had disintegrated —when Marcus Cunomorus had tried to take an Erainn princess to wife.

  Drystan took a deep breath of the salty air and looked at his friend. "Let's get out of this wind."

  He led the way along the rim of the cliff to the west. The pathway dipped a bit, and then they were standing in front of the mouth of a cave, the entrance of which was hidden from most of the rest of the island.

  "This was my favorite place in Dyn Tagell when I was a boy," Drystan said, ducking through the opening.

  Kurvenal followed. "At least it's protected from the wind."

  Drystan regarded the damp walls wistfully. "I felt quite invisible in this cave. Although as you can see, it isn't exactly a secret." He touched the smooth side of one of the tall amphorae containing wine and olive oil, imports from sunnier lands far to the south.

  "Why did you want to be invisible?"

  "Running away from my father's disappointment, I presume."

  Kurvenal nodded. "Ambition is not your strong point, is it, Drys?"

  Drystan laughed. "No, I don't think it is." He knelt down and picked up a small stone from the floor of the cave, rough and wet between his fingers, then stood and flung it out of the opening where a slit of blue sky was visible. "I think I must always have had the inclination to sing the songs rather than have the songs sung about me."

  "Perhaps I should remind you that you come from a family of kings?" Kurvenal said sardonically, his arms folded in front of his chest.

  "No need for that. I know my duty. But I'm sure I will remain a disappointment to the king my father. I'll never be a great general — and I'm unlikely to be elected king after him."

  "You're young yet, Drys, and your talents with a blade are not to be scoffed at."

  "But I will never develop a taste for war."

  "Does anyone? A good general is a man who knows what needs to be done and does it."

  "You may be right." It had been many years since he'd seen Ambrosius Aurelianus, but he would swear the High King of the Britons had little taste for war either. He wouldn't know about his cousin Arthur. When he'd left for Armorica, Arthur had barely begun his military career. Drystan sighed. "I can't help thinking that it is partly my father's disappointment with me which has led him to seek a young wife, one who can bear him other sons."

  Kurvenal didn't answer, and Drystan looked at him sharply. Unfortunately, he couldn't see the other man's expression in the shadowy light of the cave.

  "Perhaps," Kurvenal finally said.

  Drystan crossed his arms and leaned the back of his head against the cool stone. "Oh, I know it's a very unappealing thought, my father wedding a young woman barely out of fosterage. Every instinct rebels."

  "It might not be as bad an idea as it first sounds, Drys." Kurvenal's voice was quiet and full of meaning.

  "Why? So that you or I can warm her bed when she grows tired of sleeping with an old man?" Drystan pushed away from the wall and took his friend's arm, forcing him to look at him. "Come, what are you hiding from me?"

  Kurvenal gazed into his eyes, hesitating. "You remember what your father said last night? That the Christian priests were urging him to marry again?" Drystan nodded. "There's a rumor among the soldiers that would explain it."

  "What is it?"

  "It's said your cousin Labiane is pregnant by your father."

  Drystan's grip tightened involuntarily, but he didn't notice until a grimace passed over Kurvenal's features. He dropped his friend's arm and flung away, hitting his fist against the wall of the cave. "By all the gods!" It was bad enough that his father wanted to take a woman to wife who was over three decades his junior, but taking his own niece to his bed would be unforgivable.

  Labiane had gone into fosterage with his father and mother before she reached the age of eight; now she would be no more than fifteen. Marriageable age, certainly, but she could not marry her uncle. Fosterage was not supposed to include warming your foster child's bed. According to the old ways, foster father was as much a taboo relationship as uncle-by-marriage in the Christian religion. Drystan rammed his fist into the wall again and would have followed it with his head, but Kurvenal's hands on his shoulders stopped him.

  "Drys, calm down," his friend said soothingly. "Perhaps there is nothing to the rumors. But I thought you should know."

  Drystan clenched his fists at his sides and took a deep breath. "Yes."

  Kurvenal pulled him around so that they were facing each other. "You need to talk to your cousin."

  Drystan nodded. Kurvenal was right — the story might not be true.

  But whether it was or not, Labiane would have to leave. "Do many people seem to believe the rumors?" Drystan asked.

  Kurvenal gazed at him for a moment and then nodded slowly.

  "Damn! Damn, damn, damn!" He wanted to hit something again, but he held himself back.

  "Find your cousin," Kurvenal urged. "Ask her."

  "I will." Drystan rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "What a homecoming."

  * * * *

  No, it definitely was not a pleasant homecoming. Drystan paced Labiane's chamber in the Lower Hall, wanting to explode with the dishonor and the wrongness of it — no, wanting to feel Marcus Cunomorus's throat beneath his thumbs. He would have been willing enough to love the father he barely knew, but not now, not after hearing what his young cousin had to say. If he stopped moving, his whole body would be trembling with anger. So he paced, long strides, rapid, using the movement to contain the trembling of his limbs.

  "Your father is not of my blood," Labiane insisted, her charmingly full lower lip thrust out in a way that was less than charming. "There is nothing unnatural about it."

  "That is not what the priests would say. And what of your parents?"

  "Marcus is a king. How could they object?"

  "He is your uncle, and you were sent to him in a spirit of trust."

  "He hasn't harmed me. We love each other." Her exotic, expensive perfume, frankincense and myrrh, filled the room, and her Roman-style stola fell seductively from one shoulder. The woman before him bore little resemblance to the girl he had known in Armorica, the companion of his explorations into the woods and around the grounds of the hill-fort. Drystan believed readily that the illicit relationship was not only his father's doing. But Marcus Cunomorus should have had enough sense to realize what the complications would be. Apparently honor was too much to ask.

  "He can't marry you, you know," Drystan said bluntly. "Not by the old ways and not by the new."

  "We'll see."

  "You said it yourself, my father is king. Too many people take note of his actions. If he were to marry you, Ambrosius Aurelianus would see to it that the protectorship of Dumnonia is taken away from him. Marcus Cunomorus would not take that risk."

  "Perhaps I mean more to him than his position as protector."

  "Perhaps. But I doubt it. You have heard that he was trying to arrange a marriage with Yseult of Eriu?" He knew it was brutal, taking out his anger at his father on his cousin, but her stupidity made
him wild. Of course, she was only fifteen, but some women were mothers at her age. And others took lovers and took precautions. Labiane, however, seemed convinced that her affair with Marcus Cunomorus was a prelude to marriage. Couldn't she see that it was impossible for his father's intentions to be honorable?

  "That was before," Labiane was saying now, her expression stubborn.

  Yes, before. Before his father seduced a girl barely a woman, before Labiane had perhaps become pregnant with a child its father wouldn't claim, before Drystan was called back to serve a man he would rather have as an enemy than a friend, let alone as nearest relative. He could remember how he had looked up to the same man, awed at the impressive sight of the King of the Southwest, how he had yearned for a kind word or a sign of approval. Somehow, that feeling of admiration was mixed up with his repugnance now, in a tangle he couldn't sort out.

  Drystan stopped his pacing in the middle of the room and turned to face Labiane, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. "Are you with child?" he asked.

  Labiane gazed at him, silent, the full lower lip beginning to tremble and her blue-gray eyes growing moist.

  "Gods," Drystan muttered beneath his breath. He would have dearly loved to hit something. Again. Instead, he turned on his cousin. "Has the example of our Aunt Ygerna taught you nothing?" he barked out.

  She stared at him mutinously. "Marcus is not like Uthyr. He would never deny my child."

  Drystan turned away. Acknowledging paternity of her child would be as bad as marrying her, and Marcus was as likely to do the one as the other. By taking her to his bed, he had already endangered his position in the Dumnonian principalities across the sea if the story got out. Riwallon would hardly remain loyal to an overlord who had impregnated his daughter while she was in fosterage with him. Peace in Armorica would be at an end.

  Unless his father found a husband for Labiane. And soon.

  "I will speak with my father," Drystan said quietly, forcing himself to keep the anger out of his voice.

  Labiane's small face lit up, and he didn't have the heart to tell her what exactly it was he planned to speak with his father about.

  * * * *

  The sounds of the blades meeting and sliding away rang again and again in the flat area to the east of the turf-walled huts. Small as the lodgings for the common soldiers were, the walls still provided some protection from the winds that came in from the sea, and many a friendly skirmish had been fought here. Larger practice grounds were to be found on the mainland near the stables, and it was there that group combat was drilled. But anyone who was not obligated to be practicing such maneuvers with the king of Dumnonia had gathered near the huts on the island to watch his son cross swords with his armor-bearer.

  The regular clash of the blades was punctuated by sighs of approval and even alarm. Drystan was fighting with the fury of true battle, and an older warrior followed the combat closely, his forehead puckered in lines of worry.

  "Finish him, Drystan!" a youth on the sidelines called out, and his tutor put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Shhh, Cador, you don't want to distract them," Antonius said.

  Drystan heard his young cousin, and reason slowly began to return. Suddenly, he was aware of the sweat coating his forehead and gluing his tunic to his back, of Kurvenal panting and swinging his own heavy sword opposite him.

  Drystan jumped back and dropped his sword, wiping his forehead with his forearm. "Enough. Thank you, my friend."

  Kurvenal lowered his own sword, his relief palpable, and Drystan had to grin.

  "You may claim to be more bard than warrior," Kurvenal said, panting, "but that display just now gives you the lie." He rested his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths.

  Cador was at Drystan's elbow. "That is a fine sword, Cousin."

  "The finest to be had in Armorica." Drystan wiped the blade against his breeches and handed it hilt-first to Cador. His young cousin had only been a child of five when Drystan went into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, and Cador had not gone into fosterage with Marcus and Argante until he had turned seven — Drystan barely knew the youth who stood before him now.

  Despite his mere thirteen years, Cador examined the sword with the eye of an expert, hefting it for balance and sighting down the blade. "Soon I will join my father and help Ambrosius and Arthur fight the Saxons," Cador announced, returning the sword to Drystan. "Will you be joining them as well?"

  "I'll probably be needed here to protect the coast from the raiders of Eriu," Drystan said.

  Cador's expression made it obvious what he thought of patrolling the sea in ships. Drystan exchanged grins with Kurvenal over the youth's head.

  "Battles at sea can be just as important as on land," Drystan said, ruffling his cousin's tawny hair.

  "Perhaps." Cador didn't look convinced. "But then you can't be a general like Arthur."

  Drystan laughed. The swordplay with Kurvenal had allowed him to fight out much of his anger, and his natural high spirits were returning. He still did not look forward to speaking with his father, but he hoped he would now be able to face him rationally.

  When Marcus returned from drilling his foot soldiers, Drystan was waiting for him in the main room of the Lower Hall. Labiane had looked in, obviously with the same purpose in mind, but at the sight of her cousin, she scurried away again.

  Drystan approached his father as he made his way towards the baths. "We need to talk."

  "Then talk."

  "In private."

  "Join me in the baths." Marcus waved away his young armor-bearer, and Drystan continued with him alone to the back of the building where the baths were located. He had already bathed after his fight that afternoon, but the baths would be a good location for a private conversation.

  The two men stripped in the small apodyterium and entered the caldarium, the hot bath. The public bathhouse on the mainland was larger and included a tepidarium and a frigidarium, but Marcus preferred the privacy of the bath in the Lower Hall. Although it did not have separate rooms for water of different temperatures, it did have two pools. Marcus may have lost his villa, but he maintained what remained to him of Roman culture scrupulously. There was nothing like this at Riwallon's seat in Leonis, where the only baths were public and filled by hand.

  "So, what was it you wanted to speak with me about, Drustanus?" Marcus asked, stepping into the hot water.

  Drystan slipped on the wooden sandals for protection from the heat of the tiles and followed his father into the pool. "Labiane."

  "Ah."

  It was not an adequate answer, so Drystan waited, concentrating on the relaxing effect of the liquid warmth, the way his braid floated beside him, the steam rising from the surface of the water, the mural on the opposite wall of a young woman pouring perfume into a small vial.

  "What has she told you?" his father finally asked.

  "Everything, I presume."

  He must not have been successful in keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice, because his father immediately became defensive. "I assure you, it was not at all like Uthyr and Ygerna. She was more than willing."

  "Then you will acknowledge her child?"

  "Of course not!"

  Drystan nodded. The father he was slowly getting to know would not be swayed by anything as paltry as moral considerations. "I thought as much."

  "I couldn't, you know. Ambrosius would do everything in his power to unseat me."

  "You should have thought of that before you took her to your bed."

  "There are some situations where it is hard to be rational."

  "And some situations serious enough that they demand rational behavior. Everyone in Britain knows how Ambrosius feels about Uthyr's treatment of Ygerna."

  "I tell you, I didn't rape the girl."

  "But you can't marry her either."

  "No one need have found out. If she had not become pregnant —"

  A slave entered with scented oils and scrapers, and Drystan motioned his fa
ther to be silent. When the young man left, Marcus complained, "It was only a slave, Drustanus. There is no harm in that."

  "Slaves also have eyes and ears and tongues."

  "But who would listen to a slave?"

  "Anyone interested in what they have to say, I presume."

  Marcus dismissed this idea with a simple, rude noise. "Gossips."

  "Perhaps. But there are always those who will be happy to think the worst. You need to find a husband for her, soon."

  "I suppose you're right." He leaned his head back on the edge of the pool and gazed up at the ceiling. "It won't be easy."

  "No, it won't. He has to be willing to accept your brat, and he also has to have status enough to satisfy Riwallon."

  "Any suggestions?"

  "You must be much more familiar with the eligible local kings than I." Drystan leaned his head back too, examining the slight curve of the young woman's back in the mural, the look of concentration in her eyes as she bent to the task of filling the vial. Somehow, a matching concentration to the task at hand had replaced his own anger, at least on the surface. And he could not allow himself to delve below the surface. "A king subject to you would be good, but here in Dumnonia, not Armorica. Perhaps a widower with several sons of his own who wouldn't feel threatened by your bastard."

  Marcus considered Drystan's words, apparently not the least bit offended by his language. "Hm. Caw has recently been widowed again, and he has such a wealth of sons, he is the envy of every king in Britain. He's already outlived two wives, a third shouldn't hurt him." He chuckled, and Drystan felt disgusted, both at his father and at the role he himself was playing. Labiane wouldn't thank him, he knew. Perhaps for her it would be better to go back to Riwallon and Blodewedd with a brat in her belly. But that might well mean war between Marcus and the regional kings in Armorica.

  "You should make the proposal to him as soon as possible, then."

  "Yes. Excellent advice, my son." Marcus shot him a complicit grin, which Drystan ignored.

  How odd that his father suddenly seemed to be developing some affection for him just when he had ceased to care.