Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Read online

  Chapter 7

  under zwein übele kiese ein man,

  daz danne minner übel ist.

  (Given the choice of two evils, always choose the lesser.)

  Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan

  Labiane had not spoken to Drystan during the entire journey up the coast to Caer Custoeint near the old Roman port of Abona. She thought he had betrayed her, and Drystan agreed, although for different reasons. Caw was his father's age, and his sons were even older than Drystan. His eldest son Hueil had a wife older than Labiane.

  But there had been little choice if they were to avoid scandal and war. Most men would not take a bride rumored to have a bastard in her belly. But Caw, as his father had foreseen, had no fear of a bastard — and greater need to have the King of Dumnonia in his debt. Caw was a newcomer to the South, holding the seat of Caer Custoeint for Ambrosius and Marcus against the Erainn raiders. Only a few years ago, he had been fighting against Ambrosius's forces himself, but a series of victories led by Arthur in the north, culminating in the battle of Cat Coit Celidon, had gone far to "persuading" the kings of the northern tribes that they would all be stronger if they joined forces against the Saxons and the Erainn. In the resulting negotiations, Caw had agreed to come south, leaving his seat in Camboglana in the hands of his son Hueil. The rest of his grown sons had joined the army of Ambrosius and Arthur, as much hostages for the good behavior of their father and brother as recruits.

  When they reached the port of Abona, Caw met them with a small party. Caer Custoeint, a hill-fort named for Drystan's grandfather Constantine, was half a day's ride away, but the marriage would take place in the church in Abona. They handed Labiane over to Caw and stayed only long enough for the hurried wedding and a good night's sleep.

  Which Drystan could not claim to have had.

  To his surprise, Labiane sought him out on the docks early the next morning, a dark cape clutched tight around her shoulders. Her generous lips were pressed tight, and she looked as if only anger was keeping her from bursting into tears. "I will not forget this, Cousin."

  "Nor I, Labiane. But if we had sent you home to your father with a brat in your belly, it would have meant war."

  "You persuaded your father not to marry me."

  Drystan shook his head but said no more. Labiane had no interest in the truth, only the fiction she had created for herself. The whole business left a bad taste in Drystan's mouth.

  "I hope someday you will be able to forgive me," he said.

  She turned on her heel and ran back through the streets of Abona.

  The return trip took longer than the trip up the coast; without the wind at their backs, they had to tack back and forth and make the best of the crosswinds. Luckily, the coastal waters were calm for the most part, and even after a swell that sloshed over the entire deck, they were in no danger of running out of fresh tunics.

  Drystan was tying his wet tunic to one of the foresail lines when the shout of warning went up. He hurried to the side where he was joined by Kurvenal and the crew of the ship.

  Three deep-bodied Erainn ships were visible on the edge of the horizon.

  * * * *

  Drystan couldn't help thinking he deserved being returned to Dyn Tagell with his hands tied behind his back. He had delivered his cousin into the hands of a man she didn't know, and although her parents would surely take her back if Caw didn't treat her well, she would at least have to stay with him until several months after the child was born to give credence to the story that it was his. There was a certain justice that he was now the one bound and helpless.

  He doubted he was in any danger — the captain, Murchad, had indicated he was interested in negotiations with Marcus. Neither Drystan nor his crew had revealed his identity, but the quality of the golden torc at his throat and the bracelets on his forearms were evidence enough that this particular captive would ensure the safe passage of the Erainn raiders. Their leader was a giant of a man, his hair dark, his eyes blue, and his voice gentle. Drystan admired the way he treated his men, and if he weren't the enemy, he would probably have liked him.

  Drystan, Kurvenal and their crew were put them in the hold of the ship Murchad commanded, where they joined a dozen others, British hostages who had spent years in Eriu. After several hours in the hold, Drystan felt the ship slow and stop, and then he and Kurvenal were brought above deck again. The Rock stood before them, the ocean surrounding it reflecting the bright summer sun. Drystan blinked from the glare. A white flag was hoisted at the masthead, and already a small rowboat was on its way out to the Erainn ships. The rowboat pulled up next to them, and Justic and Iaen clambered over the side. Drystan indicated with a short shake of his head that they shouldn't show any recognition. Iaen nodded.

  Murchad stepped forward. "We have brought forty Dumnonian hostages captured from Lóegaire as well as six captured on your coast. We will exchange these six for safe passage to discuss the fate of the other forty with Marcus of Dumnonia."

  "Granted," Justic said. Iaen moved forward to untie Drystan and Kurvenal but the giant stopped him with one broad, outstretched arm. "You will have two landing boats sent out to us, and we will go ashore with the hostages."

  Murchad and half-a-dozen Erainn warriors, one for each of their charges, landed on the beach of Dyn Tagell and were led up to the Lower Hall where they were met by Marcus.

  "You delivered your cousin to Caw safely?" Marcus asked Drystan as Justic untied the ropes at his wrists.

  Drystan nodded, rubbing the raw skin below the bracelets on his lower arms. "Luckily, we did not meet with the Erainn ships until afterwards."

  Marcus turned to Murchad. "Iaen tells me you have other hostages on your ships."

  Murchad stared down at the king from his great height. "We are thirsty from our long voyage."

  Marcus motioned Justic over to him. "See that our guests are brought ale." He led them to the main hall. Cador was seated at the center table with his tutor Antonius, but they started up and moved back when their party entered.

  Marcus went to the head of the large table. "Please be seated."

  Slaves arrived with tankards of ale, and Murchad and his men drank deeply. After his thirst was stilled, the giant spoke again.

  "I come from the Laigin king Enna Cennsalach," Murchad said. "I carry forty hostages which I will return to you in exchange for forty more."

  "And what of the High King Lóegaire?" Marcus asked. "It was he who held the hostages and he with whom we were negotiating a peace."

  "Lóegaire has abused his authority as High King. The kings and queens of the south no longer support him."

  "And the other chieftains of the five fifths of Eriu?"

  Murchad paused briefly before answering. "They bide their time."

  "And you would exact tribute from us when the situation is so uncertain?" Marcus asked evenly. "What are my people to do when Lóegaire also comes to demand tribute?"

  "He no longer has that authority. The position of High King is granted by the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and she has withdrawn her support from Lóegaire."

  "We are speaking of your sister, are we not?"

  Murchad nodded. Marcus shot a look full of meaning at Drystan, his eyebrows raised, and returned his attention to the champion from Eriu. "You come from your sister, not the High King of Tara."

  "I come from the kings of the Laigin."

  "Does any of them have the authority to speak for the five provinces of Eriu?"

  Murchad leaned across the table toward Marcus, and his father's personal guard stepped forward. "My authority to speak," Murchad said quietly, "comes from the forty hostages on the ships in your harbor. No more and no less."

  Marcus returned his stare unflinchingly, but the muscles of his lower arms resting on the table were tense. "Then I must refuse to pay any further tribute of slaves until a new High King is elected."

  "We speak of hostages, not of slaves." The giant possessed a strange gentleness, the assurance of a man who
had no need to make a show of strength. Watching him with his father, it reminded Drystan of the behavior of a pair of dogs, one large and one small. But Cunomorus — the great hound — was not the bigger of the hounds in this confrontation. His hackles were raised, and his threats were like yapping in the face of a beast larger than he.

  "It matters not what you call them. I see no need to provide hostages to a regional Erainn king when I am conducting peace negotiations with the High King of Eriu," Marcus insisted. "I will only reconsider under one condition."

  "And that is?"

  "You bring back the Princess Yseult as my wife to seal the alliance."

  "No!" Murchad thundered. Drystan looked at him curiously. It was the first time he had seen the giant ruffled. "Yseult the Fair does not wish to leave Eriu," he added more calmly, but his voice still shook. He must be inordinately fond of his niece.

  "Then I see no reason to acknowledge the claims of the Laigin by what in essence would be paying tribute."

  "And I will return to Eriu with the hostages I already command."

  "The hostages remain here."

  "Not without new hostages to replace them."

  Marcus gave a sign and the soldiers at the doors surrounded Murchad and his men. "We will hold you until the hostages are released."

  Murchad smiled grimly. "You have three Erainn warships in your harbor, with forty of your people aboard — sons and daughters of your subject kings — in the power of my warriors, and you threaten me?"

  Drystan watched the proceedings, unbelieving. He knew Murchad was the enemy, one of the warriors who had been ravaging their coast off and on for decades, but he also knew that they had been granted safe passage to Dyn Tagell. Labiane and now this — an unclean patrimony.

  Murchad's eyes found his, the expression in them an accusation. He dropped his gaze to the torc at Drystan's neck and slowly looked up again.

  Drystan pushed back his chair and rose. At the scrape of the legs on the stone floor of the hall, he had the attention of all present. "There is another way," he said. "According to the old ways, if we can beat your champion in single combat, we will no longer owe tribute."

  The approval on the face of the giant was well worth the disapproval on the face of his father. "I myself am the champion of the kings of the Laigin. Who is yours?"

  "I will fight you," Drystan said.

  "This is not necessary," Marcus protested.

  "But it is a solution."

  "You do not have to do this, Drustanus."

  He heard murmurs of surprise from the Erainn warriors, and one whispered to his neighbor, "We had the Great Hound's whelp himself!"

  Drystan faced down his father. "We cannot let the hostages be sent back to bondage."

  "We will accept your challenge," Murchad said, as if the soldiers posted on either side of him, hands on the hilts of their swords, were nothing. A smile played around his wide lips and Drystan thought he saw a gleam of acknowledgment in his eyes.

  "Drystan is the champion of Dumnonia!" Cador piped up from where he sat on a couch with Antonius, and a huge cheer went up from the men in the hall, accompanied by the sound of clapping and wooden tankards pounded against the tables. The decision was no longer Marcus's to make.

  * * * *

  The fight was set for the next morning. Drystan slept poorly that night. He had been well-trained in battle skills, but he was as yet untried in serious combat. Life and death. Drystan had never before killed a man, and it was either that or be killed himself. But perhaps the latter was not such a bad option.

  When he rose barely refreshed just after dawn, he sought out the baths. Kurvenal found him there, almost dozing in the hot water.

  "Drys, you are an idealistic fool," he said, handing him a thick towel.

  "And my father is a dishonorable bastard," Drystan replied, feeling much better after the soothing influence of the bath. Somehow, it was curiously liberating to know how little he would lose if he lost his life. "Someone has to uphold the honor of the family."

  "Why you?" Kurvenal's voice caught, and Drystan finally noticed that he was near tears.

  Drystan looked away, not knowing what to say. He might not care whether he lost his own life or not, but Kurvenal —Kurvenal was like a brother to him. He knew how he would feel if Kurvenal were to die.

  And his friend felt the same way about him.

  He draped the towel around his shoulders and led the way to the changing room where he had left his clothes. "I may not lose, you know," he said, pulling on his breeches and tying them at the waist.

  "You don't believe that yourself."

  He sighed. "Not really, no." Murchad was over a head taller and probably twice as heavy. He was the champion of kings. Drystan was no more than the son of a king.

  Together they went to Drystan's room and Kurvenal assisted him with his armor in silence, lifting the ring mail over his head. Drystan preferred the garment of leather and metal to a Roman breastplate; it was not as heavy and didn't restrict his freedom of movement as much.

  Kurvenal handed him his belt and their eyes met. "If you won't think of yourself, Drys, think of the hostages."

  Drystan nodded and took his friend in a quick, hard embrace.

  "Drustanus?"

  The two young men released each other and turned to face the king, who was standing in the doorway bearing a finely made Roman helmet. It sported a horsehair crest dyed red and long flanges to protect the face, connected under the chin with a leather strap.

  "I would like you to wear this," Marcus said.

  "I — "

  "Please."

  Drystan took the helmet. It was gaudy but solid, certainly more protection than the leather cap covered with metal plates which he usually wore. Heavier too.

  "Thank you," he said, accepting the helmet from his father. Affection was a very odd thing. Despite all he had learned about his father which he couldn't like, he now felt gratitude — and affection. He held the cold metal in his hands, staring at it. "I will look quite the mongrel."

  Marcus began to pace. "This whole business is barbarous."

  "There is little we can do with those ships in the harbor."

  "We could fight off an attack for months, I'm sure."

  "Or the Erainn warriors might simply take the hostages back to Eriu."

  "They may still."

  Drystan grinned. "Chin up, father. I'm not dead yet." He picked up his Armorican shield, with the intricate designs which Marcus Cunomorus would surely also term barbarous, and headed out of the hall with Kurvenal.

  * * * *

  They met at the practice area east of the soldiers' lodgings. The wind coming in from the sea whipped his braid around, and he put on the Roman helmet, tucking his hair up underneath.

  Murchad was waiting for him, tall and broad, not deigning to use armor, his dark hair waving in the wind. At least he was a large target. And Drystan knew this island, knew its every rock, knew the behavior of the wind and the slant of the sun. All those details just might even the odds a little.

  The five Erainn warriors who had come ashore with Murchad were waiting as well, along with another dozen of their compatriots, thickly muscled arms crossed in front of broad chests. Behind them, most of the residents of Dyn Tagell had assembled around the edges of the practice grounds: the warriors from both the island and the mainland; the merchants and their wives from the mainland; the whores who — as in all the legionary towns — plied their trade. Cador stood near the front with Antonius, and when Drystan strode up to face Murchad, his young cousin called out his name, starting a chant.

  "Drys-tan, Drys-tan, Drys-tan, Drys-tan!"

  The Erainn giant grinned, and Drystan found himself once again inclined to like him. "I see I must dispense with hurling insults, or your mob would run me down before we came to blows."

  Drystan nodded. "My mob is well trained."

  Murchad laughed, deep, booming, sincere. "Ah, young Roman, it is a shame we must meet like this."


  "Roman, you call me? I thought you wanted to dispense with insults."

  Murchad smiled. "The gods have surely reserved a place of honor for you in the Otherworld," he said quietly.

  "Or for you," Drystan replied.

  They took up places across from each other, battle swords drawn.

  The captain of the guard called out for the battle to begin, and the two men circled each other, judging the best time to attack. Before Drystan could maneuver the giant around where he wanted him, with the wind from the west and the sun from the east, Murchad attacked, raining blows on him so that he had no time to think of tactics. The other man surely had the energy and strength of four. Drystan dodged thrust after thrust, able to do little more against the giant than raise his shield — and that was growing heavier by the minute. As difficult as it was for him to fend off the attacks, he had the feeling his opponent was playing with him, fighting as he would in combat between friends, not a battle to the death.

  Drystan misjudged the angle of a thrust and had to duck. Murchad's sword nearly caught him in the side of the head, glancing off the metal flange of the Roman helmet. If it hadn't been for the helmet, that stroke might have taken off the top of his head.

  He would be dead now.

  Drystan suddenly realized he didn't want to die: he wanted to continue feeling the sun on his back and the wind in his face; he wanted to see Kurvenal's sardonic smile and feel the curve of a woman's hip under his hand again.

  His head rang from the glancing blow, but he kept his balance and redoubled his efforts. He thought he detected a look of surprise in the giant's eyes as he began to take the initiative, turning his small size to his advantage, striking quick and low. The slight smile left Murchad's face, to be replaced by a look of concentration.

  He could feel the sweat collecting beneath his leather tunic and on his brow. His muscles were beginning to ache from wielding shield and sword. Again, Drystan misjudged the angle of an attack, holding his shield too high, and Murchad leapt under his guard, stabbing into the soft flesh of his upper thigh. The point cut through cloth, skin and muscle, and he felt shrieking anguish jolt through him. The giant withdrew his sword, and a spurt of dark blood followed, drenching one leg of Drystan's breeches and coloring the ground at his feet. Drystan clenched his teeth, parrying another blow, and shifted his position so that Murchad had to squint against the rising sun. The wind blew his dark hair forward, further hampering his sight.