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

  Lóegaire's voice trembled with anger. "I have put up with your sacrilege too long. You are no longer welcome in the house of druids, and the gates of Tara will be closed to you."

  "I spoke no satire against you, Ard Ri," Patraic said more mildly. "I do but speak a prophecy."

  "A prophecy spoken in revenge."

  "That makes it no less true."

  "Go, now!"

  Patraic nodded and turned away, but Yseult the Wise didn't see him leave. Instead, she saw a vision of the fire that had been haunting her for years, saw for the first time what the fire was made of.

  It was a bonfire of ogham staffs — the knowledge of her people going up in flames.

  Chapter 2

  I arise today

  Through the strength of heaven:

  Light of sun,

  Radiance of moon,

  Splendor of fire,

  Speed of lightning,

  Swiftness of wind,

  Depth of sea,

  Stability of earth,

  Firmness of rock.

  "St. Patrick's Breastplate"

  Young Yseult longed to get off her horse. She had begged to come along on the trip to Connachta, but so many hours in the saddle were exhausting, especially given the unseasonable warmth of the last few days. Only a month had passed since Beltaine, but the weather was as hot as at Lugnasad, the festival of high summer. On the journey, many of the rivers they had forded were high with snow melt. Her tunic clung to her, damp with sweat between and beneath her breasts, and the leather saddle chafed the insides of her thighs through the material of the breeches she wore for riding. The young warrior Gamal had entertained her on much of the long ride, but today it was even too hot for flirtation.

  They had stopped at a number of raths held by local kings on the journey, but they never stayed more than a day, and everyone in the party was tired from traveling nearly the breadth of Eriu. The High King's negotiations with the Bretain kingdoms of Dumnonia and Venedotia were going well, and a marriage between his daughter Eithne and the Dumnonian king Marcus Cunomorus was being arranged to seal the peace. Lóegaire had decided it was time to fetch Eithne from Cruachu, where she and her younger sister were in fosterage with Ailill Molt, king of Connachta; he seemed to think the kings of Eriu would be more likely to accept a peace already made than to make peace themselves with their Bretain enemies.

  Originally, her mother and Lóegaire had not planned on bringing Yseult along, but she was fourteen years old, stubborn, and of mixed blood. Those of both Gael and Feadh Ree descent were known for their wild eye and passionate temperament.

  Yseult accompanied them to Cruachu.

  She had always wanted to see the royal seat of famous Queen Mebd, the greatest queen who had ever ruled in Eriu, and the extended complex of hill-forts and houses didn't disappoint her. Cruachu was not just one rath, it was many, spread over a larger area than any other in Eriu. Earthworks loomed on all sides as they wound their way toward the main hill-fort of the king of Connachta. The bustling atmosphere of the settlement reminded Yseult of Tara during a fair.

  When they rode through the high wooden gates between the earthen ramparts, Eithne, her sister Fedalma, Ailill Molt, and his wife Ronait were there to meet them, flanked by druids and warriors. Eithne was fourteen, marriageable age among the Gael. Marriageable or not, Lóegaire's daughter looked frightened and young. Yseult's talent for knowing was not as strong as her mother's — her own strongest power was that of calling — but she didn't have to read Eithne's mind to know that her step-sister did not want to be married across the sea to a Bretain king.

  And Yseult would not have wanted to be in her place.

  "Welcome your arrival, greatest king of the fair island of Eriu," Ailill Molt said formally to Lóegaire after they dismounted. The High King checked a frown. The words were perfectly correct, but even Yseult noticed that the other king had not added any praise of Lóegaire's exploits and excellencies as was custom when greeting an honored visitor. Perhaps Eithne's foster father didn't approve of sending her across the sea in marriage.

  Yseult wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of one hand and glanced at Lóegaire's elder daughter. She was a lovely young woman with hair the color of ripe wheat, braided formally in three plaits that reached past the tops of her thighs, each fixed with a fine silver ball. Her sister Fedalma was brighter in coloring, with hair the color of sunset and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

  What would it be like to be forced to marry a man she had never met, far away from anyone she knew? Among the Tuatha Dé Danann, arranged marriages were frowned upon. At the same time, Yseult was well aware that her mother's two marriages had been the result of political considerations. No one had made the decision for Queen Yseult, but she had nonetheless chosen men for the good of her tuath and for the good of Eriu, going along with the dictates of her role as kingmaker.

  "Baths are being prepared for you," Eithne said quietly to the travelers, and Yseult nearly sighed in relief at her words. "But you may take refreshment first if you wish."

  Yseult was thirsty and hungry, but she wanted a bath more. It hadn't rained all week and the roads of Connachta were dusty. Her mother went with Lóegaire and Murchad to the mead hall, while Yseult, Brangwyn, Aidenn, and Gamal followed Eithne and Fedalma to the bath house.

  "Do you fight with my father's champion Murchad?" Eithne asked the two young warriors.

  Aidenn and Gamal nodded.

  "Have you ever accompanied him to the land of the Romans?" she asked.

  "We have been all over the known world with the giant Murchad," Gamal claimed in his booming voice. Gamal loved nothing better than the chance to tell a tale. But Eithne obviously wasn't interested in a good tale; she wanted information about her future home and husband.

  Aidenn gave Eithne a long look and she blushed. "Do you mean the island of the Bretain or the lands to the south?"

  "The island of the Bretain."

  "Yes, we've been there," Aidenn said, totally ignoring his friend Gamal's exaggerated claims.

  Eithne's blush grew deeper. "Perhaps after you have bathed and eaten you will tell us about where you've been?"

  "Of course."

  Gamal let out his loud laugh. "We will tell you tales of Romans and Africans, of people who put rings in their noses and their gods in houses, tales of beasts as high as the gate of a rath and birds as tall as a human who feed on the dead. You want to hear about Romans? We can tell you of magical bath houses where hot water never grows cool, of huge places with wall of gleaming stone, of games lasting more than a moon in which men fight wild animals from all over the world, some looking almost like men themselves."

  Eithne's expression was growing increasingly apprehensive, and Brangwyn and Yseult exchanged a long look. With the mutual understanding of the Feadh Ree, the cousins nodded. Brangwyn would talk to Aidenn and make sure he didn't tell Eithne anything to make her more nervous than she already was. Unfortunately, Yseult probably would not have much luck persuading Gamal to tame his unruly tongue.

  * * * *

  After a dinner of salmon caught in the nearby rivers and wild boar caught in the nearby woods, the young people left the hill-fort to wander beneath the stars. Luckily, Gamal had listened to Yseult and did not exaggerate as much as usual when telling Eithne tales of her future home. Hearing the Bretain were not giants or monsters with three heads seemed to calm her.

  The six of them stopped on a rise and looked out over the raths and round-houses below them, circles in shades of gray and blue in the moonlight. Yseult felt Gamal lean into her and smiled.

  "What do you want most in the world, Fedalma?" Brangwyn asked to steer the conversation away from Eithne's future.

  "To be with my sister always," the youngest replied, linking her arm through Eithne's.

  "And you, Yseult?" Aidenn asked, jumping in. Yseult was grateful; Fedalma's answer could only remind Eithne of what she would be losing in marrying across the sea.


  Yseult repressed the memories of older half-brothers and sisters and answered Aidenn's question with the second thing that came to her mind. "I would like to be as wise as my mother and rule over kings, commanding hearts and minds."

  "You already command the heart and mind of one man," she heard Gamal whisper in her ear.

  "Certainly not an impossible dream for the daughter of the kingmaker," Brangwyn said, chuckling.

  Yseult shook her head. "Ah, but not as easy as it may seem. People will always compare us. She is 'Yseult the Wise' and I will always be 'Yseult the Fair.'"

  "You don't know that now," Eithne said.

  "Mebd was only sixteen when she became queen of Connachta," Yseult pointed out.

  "She certainly commanded the hearts and minds of men," Aidenn commented dryly.

  Yseult burst out laughing. It was said of Queen Mebd that every man stood in the shadow of the next. The legends counted nine husbands — and as many bed companions as men who helped her fight against Cú Chulainn.

  "Perhaps I can make due with a few less than she," Yseult said in a tone of mock modesty, and even serious Eithne laughed.

  Yseult was glad.

  * * * *

  The weather changed the day after they arrived in Cruachu. Although all had longed for a little rain while riding the dusty roads, none had longed for driving gales from the northwest, turning false summer to false winter and postponing their return to Tara. After the unseasonable heat of the last few days, the ground was too dry for such a downpour, and instead of absorbing the moisture, it rejected it, turning roads into rivers, with the exception of the timber roadways across the bogs. No right of safe passage through the five provinces of Eriu could make travel in those conditions less than hazardous. As a result, they were confined to the round-houses and each other's company, to tales ancient and recent, listened to the ballad of Diarmuid and Grainne, heard how the wiseman Patraic had climbed a nearby mountain and made Christians of those who followed, played fidchell and brandubh and dice.

  When the sun returned after four nights, everyone was eager to get out again. Crops needed to be checked and livestock tended to, but exercising horses and sword arms was the far more popular duty. It was a perfect day, the sun warm and the breeze cool on bare skin.

  After a midday meal of salt pork, oat porridge and mead, Yseult was making her way to what was left of the rath's herb garden after the destructive downpour. She was concentrating on avoiding mud and puddles when a soft voice stopped her.

  "Yseult."

  She looked up, surprised that she hadn't noticed her stepsisters' presence.

  "Would you like to go swimming?" Eithne asked. "Fedalma and I are going to the stream to wash off the smell of smoke from being stuck inside for so long."

  Yseult shook her head. "It sounds tempting, but I promised my mother and Ronait I would help see what can be saved of the herb gardens after that downpour. Afterwards, I have weapons practice with Brangwyn and Murchad."

  Eithne made a face. "It's much too nice for weapons practice."

  "You could also say it's finally nice enough for weapons practice," Yseult said, laughing, and waved them on their way.

  * * * *

  Eithne wasn't too disappointed that Yseult wouldn't be joining them — she liked the other girl well enough, but they were both blond, and no one would look at Eithne if Yseult was near. Yseult was blonder than blond, her coloring the silver-white of the Fair Ones. Not even the queen's coloring was as dramatic, and she was pure blood of the Feadh Ree.

  But soon, Eithne wouldn't have to worry about anyone looking at her or not; she was to marry a foreign king. She didn't want to think about leaving Eriu and her sister and marrying a man old enough to be her father. Other girls chose the men they would marry themselves, danced with them at Beltaine and joined hands with them through the stone at Lugnasad. But those girls didn't have kings for fathers and the future of kingdoms to consider.

  It would be pleasant to choose her own husband, perhaps even more pleasant than being a queen. But now the sun was shining and she was going swimming with her sister, and she wouldn't think of it anymore.

  Hand in hand, they headed for the creek, laughing and running. They still had to dodge puddles here and there, but the air was clear, the breeze sharp, and the sun warm on their skin. The shimmering hills around them were intensely green from the recent rain.

  No, Eithne did not think she wanted to marry across the ocean.

  The stream was higher and wilder than usual, but in most places still shallow enough for wading. When they reached the banks, they pulled off their tunics and stepped into the water, surprisingly cold given the warmth of the day.

  Fedalma shivered and laughed and splashed water on her older sister. "Come, Eithne!" Then she jumped out into the middle of the creek while Eithne hung back, trying to get used to the cold water.

  One moment Fedalma was there, teasing and laughing — and then she was gone.

  A head bobbed up farther downstream, too far. "Eithne!"

  Fedalma must have slipped, and the current had pulled her out of reach. Eithne plunged into the middle of the stream after her sister. The force of the run-off from the recent rains knocked her off her feet. She felt a moment of panic, and then her head hit a rock, and the panic was over.

  * * * *

  Patraic's disciple Ciaran was wandering in the shade of the trees near the stream with his master and several others, enjoying the wind off the water and intelligent arguments among like-minded men, when they heard a muffled cry and a splash. Conversation halted, and the group dashed through the trees to the banks. They saw one head bob up in the water followed by another, only to disappear again.

  "Quick," Patraic said, pulling his white robe over his head and wading into the creek. Ciaran, Mochta and Benen followed close behind, gasping at the shock of cold water on bare skin.

  "This way," Ciaran called, swimming just downstream from where they had last seen the young women. A blond head appeared only a few handspans away from him, and he grabbed her, getting one arm around her shoulders.

  "Mochta!" The nearest of the other disciples swam over to help. Together they pulled her to the shore and into the sun. Ciaran saw now who they had fished out of the stream — probably too late. The king's daughter was breathing, but shallowly. There was a bruise above one temple and her hands and feet were cold, so cold. She was shivering uncontrollably. He and Mochta turned Eithne over, lifting her by her limbs to try to empty the water from her lungs, but she gave only a weak cough followed by too little liquid. They turned her onto her back again, laid her down in the grass, and chafed her hands vigorously.

  By this time, Patraic and Benen had located the other girl and dragged her out of the water to lay her next to her sister near the bank. Ciaran looked down at the two young women, pale and beautiful against the green grass. Fedalma was shaken with violent shivers at regular intervals, even though Benen and Patraic were doing their best to warm her.

  "Here, let me, master," Ciaran said, taking the older man's place next to the redhead and rubbing her hands. Ciaran watched while Patraic rose slowly and walked upstream to retrieve his long white robe from the ground. But the master was not as old he sometimes seemed to his youthful followers — his limbs were well-muscled and he was as strong a swimmer as any of them.

  Patraic returned, dressed again in his tunic, his face sad. "Thank you, my son." Ciaran made way for him and the master knelt between the two girls.

  Ciaran returned his attention to Eithne, stroking a strand of wet hair away from her forehead. She was still shivering from head to foot. "They're so cold. We must warm them."

  "Try using the heat of your own body," Patraic suggested.

  "Someone bring our tunics, quickly," Ciaran barked out. He could feel the tears poised at the corners of his eyes as he lay down next to the princess and gathered her in his arms. Mochta did the same for Fedalma as Benen gathered up their clothes and brought them over.

  "Fil
i?" came a weak voice. Eithne's eyes were open a slit. She must have taken the master for a druid in his long white robes. She was gazing from Ciaran to Patraic, her expression dazed. At least she had stopped shivering.

  "Fili?" Eithne repeated weakly. Patraic took her hand while Ciaran wrapped one of the tunics around her as tightly as he could. He took her in his arms again and Eithne turned her dazed blue eyes to him. "I'm so tired," she whispered. "Tired and cold."

  "Sleep, my child," Patraic murmured.

  "No!" Ciaran rubbed her upper body. "If she sleeps she will not wake."

  "Are you druids?" Eithne asked drowsily.

  "No, daughter," Patraic replied. "We are disciples of Christ."

  "The druids have great magic."

  "There is no greater magic than that of Christ, who gives everlasting life," the master said gently.

  "So cold. Will we die, fili?"

  "It is in God's hands."

  "Which God?"

  Ciaran had to smile despite the tears pushing at the backs of his eyelids. She had been raised on druid logic, as he had, and craved clarity even now, when she could hardly hold on to reality.

  "Christ, the one true God," Patraic told her. "If you let me baptize you, you will go to him as his brides."

  Eithne looked at Ciaran. "Is this Christ young?" Ciaran hugged her tighter, but she didn't seem to feel it.

  "There is no age in the land of eternal life," Patraic said.

  "Do what you think is wise, fili," she whispered, her eyes closing again.

  Patraic apparently decided their immersion had been recent enough for a baptism, for Ciaran heard the lyrical Latin spoken above him, followed by the final sacrament. Eithne's lips curled up in a smile at the lilting rhythm of the master's voice.

  Ciaran pulled her head to his shoulder. He felt her breathing still, but the smile didn't leave her face.

  Patraic quickly repeated the ritual for Fedalma, and Ciaran let the words wash over him while he cried.

  "Did you know her well?" Patraic asked gently.