Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 4

  Ciaran shook his head. "The son of a simple freeman who sold his honor-price? One of your followers? No." An ironic smile diverted the path of the tears down his cheeks. He stood, wiping them away with the back of his hand.

  Patraic took Ciaran's face in his hands and gazed into his eyes. "You are a kind soul, Ciaran. But she has received the sacrament and can now enjoy eternal life."

  Ciaran shrugged. "What good does that do those of us who would have cared to gaze on her?"

  The master looked down at the motionless young woman at their feet and nodded. "True. Some beauty has gone out of life this day."

  He turned to Benen and Mochta. "What of the other princess?" They shook their heads. "Then come. We must return them to their family."

  Ciaran lifted Eithne in his arms tenderly while Benen took Fedalma, and they began their slow walk to Cruachu.

  * * * *

  Yseult and Brangwyn were both dressed in breeches and short tunics, jewelry fit for warriors gleaming on their wrists and upper arms, and golden torcs around their necks. Each held a battle sword in one hand and a round wooden shield covered in leather in the other. Their finely balanced blades, Tuatha Dé work from the famous swordsmith at Bruig na Boyne, glittered in the sun, the points protected by guards of wood. Their hair was braided to keep it out of their way, one long, thick plait hanging down each back, black and palest gold; Yseult a tall, white flame, and Brangwyn her shifting shadow. They were outside the ramparts of the main rath at the parade grounds where military exercise took place. All around them were warriors similarly equipped and similarly engaged, some with wooden swords, others with real blades for the heft of the heavy metal.

  "Ready?" Murchad called out to the two young women.

  They nodded.

  "Begin!" the giant bellowed.

  They circled each other, swords lifted. "You black crow of a woman," Yseult threw at her cousin. "You couldn't beat me even if I were to lie down in the dirt."

  Brangwyn waved her sword at Yseult in a subtle taunt. "You are always much too fast for your own good, Cousin. Try to attack and you will run right past me." The smile on her lips was far from the gentle expression she usually wore.

  Aidenn, Gamal and Lithben, one of the few female warriors in Lóegaire's employ, stood on the sidelines watching the foreplay of insults; the young men avidly, the gray-haired veteran critically.

  "You'll see," Aidenn said. "Brangwyn is right. Yseult has the energy of a man but no patience."

  Gamal chuckled. "I wouldn't dare bet against you, my friend."

  "It doesn't do to bet so early in the fighting," Lithben said witheringly.

  A look of concentration had replaced the smile on Brangwyn's face, and the silver of Yseult's eyes gleamed in the sunlight. The circles they made around each other grew tighter as each watched her opponent warily, exchanging insults and feinting, wearing each other out with words. Finally, Yseult made a dash for Brangwyn, but her cousin blocked the attack with her wooden shield. Then Brangwyn struck before the younger girl had time to resume a defensive stance, and Yseult was barely able to step out of the way. Brangwyn made good her advantage and struck again, but this time Yseult lifted her sword in a parry, following through with an attack of her own. The older girl dodged it and faced her. Already, the muscles of their arms and calves gleamed with sweat.

  Yseult prowled around her cousin, looking for an opening. Brangwyn was not fond of swordplay, but anything she did, she did well, with discipline and attention to detail. Yseult's advantage could only be in speed and surprise. She made a feint and quickly changed the direction of her attack, forcing her cousin back and about. As she did, she had a wider view of the warriors around them. She noted with surprise that many had abandoned their weapons and were staring down the incline with unusual intensity.

  Brangwyn saw her advantage and lunged, but Yseult put up her shield and threw down her short sword. "Hold! Something has happened."

  She gestured with her shield in the direction of the silent warriors. Trudging up the avenue came a small party, the Christian wise man Patraic in the lead, two of the white-clad figures following burdened with the limp forms of young women.

  Murchad was the first to recognize the significance of what they carried.

  "Fetch the king and queen," he rapped out. Aidenn and Gamal hurried to do his bidding.

  Yseult stared at the distant figures, wiping the sweat out of her eyes to see better. One head blond and one red, the streaming hair in striking contrast to the white tunics of Patraic's disciples.

  "No!" she cried out. She threw down her shield and sprinted forward, Brangwyn close behind.

  Eithne and Fedalma, drenched and lifeless.

  She didn't stop until she reached the small party. Patraic and his disciples stopped as well, and Yseult bent over and leaned her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

  "What happened?" she asked when she straightened up again. "Are they seriously hurt?"

  Patraic shook his head. "Not hurt."

  "They're dead," the one holding Fedalma said.

  "No," Yseult whispered. It wouldn't have happened if she had gone along, it couldn't have.

  "Dead?" Brangwyn said, panting. "How?"

  The young men holding the sisters laid their burdens down at the side of the road and rubbed the muscles of their necks and shoulders to relieve the strain.

  "They were swimming," Patraic said.

  "We came too late," the one who had been holding Eithne added. A tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't seem to notice. Yseult recognized him. He was the one who had retrieved the Christian holy book from the water at Beltaine. Their eyes met and the young man looked away, back down at Eithne, lying still in the grass.

  Already, people were rushing out of the fortifications of Cruachu and down the incline, at their head the High King. When they reached where the two girls lay on the grass, Lóegaire dropped to his knees next to Eithne. Opposite him, Ciaran was once again holding her hand. Standing with Ronait and Queen Yseult, Ailill Molt looked on, his expression murderous.

  "Ah, my bright one," the king said, stroking her damp hair away from her forehead, the tears streaming down his cheeks and getting lost in his beard. The crowd was silent at the sight of the king's grief, the only sound an occasional sniffle from an on-looker.

  Lóegaire finally looked up, straight into Ciaran's face. "Who are you?"

  "Ciaran, Ard Ri. I am a disciple of Patraic."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "We were walking near the stream" — with a sweep of his arm he indicated the other members of Patraic's party — "when we heard a yell. We tried to save them."

  The king's gaze slowly traveled from one disciple to the next to rest on Patraic. "I thought never to see you again."

  "We are not in Tara," Patraic pointed out. "But perhaps it was for the best that we have been teaching here. We could not save the princesses, but we were able to offer them some comfort."

  The king nodded. "For that I thank you, fili."

  "We would have done more if we could."

  Lóegaire rose to his feet heavily. "You have done me a service this sad day. You are no longer banned from Tara."

  Patraic inclined his head respectfully. "I am honored, Ard Ri."

  The king turned away, his every movement seeming to come with effort. He glanced around at the crowd surrounding them as if unable to grasp why all these people were there. Then his gaze caught on Aidenn and Gamal and purpose and composure returned tenuously.

  "Take them up and bring them into the rath," he ordered.

  The royal party turned back towards the gates of Cruachu, and Yseult and Brangwyn followed.

  "They asked me to go along, Brangwyn," Yseult said. "I could have saved them."

  Brangwyn was silent for a moment. "Possible. But they also could have taken you with them into death."

  Perhaps. She would never know now.

  Yseult walked beside her cousin, muscles sore and hear
t weary.

  Chapter 3

  By the Prince's Truth, fair weather comes in each fitting season, winter fine and frosty, spring dry and windy, summer warm, with showers of rain, autumn with heavy dews, and fruitful. For it is the prince's falsehood that brings perverse weather upon wicked peoples and dries up the fruit of the earth.

  From the Audacht Moraind

  Gamal trailed one finger the length of Yseult's arm, and she felt herself smile. They had escaped the heat of the late afternoon sun and lay in the shade of a stand of hawthorn trees. The moon had gone through all its phases since the deaths of Eithne and Fedalma, and slowly it was becoming possible to enjoy a breeze bringing the smell of clover again, the touch of a hand or a pair of fine lips. Sadness still filled their days, but it was no longer as ever-present as it had been.

  There was something eating at Gamal's own enjoyment of this day, she could feel it, but she hoped he wouldn't bother her with it.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him lazily.

  "Is it true you will soon be marrying across the sea?" he asked.

  Yseult sat up abruptly. "Where did you hear that?"

  Gamal pushed himself up on one elbow, examining her with surprise. "You know nothing?"

  "No. I want to know where you heard it."

  "Among the warriors of the Fianna there's talk that Lóegaire means to substitute you for Eithne in his negotiations with the western kingdoms of the Bretain."

  She jumped up. "I am to marry Marcus of Dumnonia?"

  He nodded.

  Yseult stared at him for a moment and then turned and ran back to the rath.

  * * * *

  She found her mother and aunt Nemain working in the herb garden, doing their best to keep the most valuable plants from shriveling and dying. There had been little rain this summer; the fields were turning brown, and the fruit on the trees was small and hard. Between the women's shoulder blades, their tunics were damp with sweat, and their long braids were pinned high on their heads to keep the hair off their necks. Her mother turned when she heard her impatient footsteps, but at the sight of Yseult's expression, her welcoming smile died.

  She put down the pot she used for watering. "What is it?"

  "Gamal just told me of a rumor among the Fianna that Lóegaire plans to wed me to Marcus Cunomorus."

  "It can't be true. I would have seen it."

  Nemain laid aside a bundle of mint she had picked and stood up, brushing her hands off on her apron. "He can shield his thoughts from you when he wishes. And it fits. He desperately wants the peace with the Bretain, and with Eithne and Fedalma dead, he has no daughters left to marry off. What better substitute than his step-daughter?"

  "Why can't he marry one of his sons to a Bretain princess?" Yseult demanded.

  Her mother shook her head. "Marcus Cunomorus has no daughters. And he seeks a new wife."

  Yseult clenched her fists at her side. "Lóegaire can't force me to marry a Bretain king." She didn't want to be a queen in a foreign land with a Christian religion and Roman customs. According to Murchad, they had no respect for the old ways.

  "Yseult, you must learn to control your power of calling. Your thoughts are like a shout in my mind," Nemain said.

  As if to prove Nemain's point, Brangwyn hurried up, her face flushed. "What's wrong?"

  "It appears Lóegaire may mean to marry off your cousin in place of Eithne."

  Brangwyn shook her head. "And none of us saw?"

  "Perhaps the rumors aren't true," Yseult said, but she had little hope that would be the case. As Nemain had pointed out, it all fit too well.

  Her mother began to pace beside the herb patches. "We must find out. The chronicler Erc should know — he is one of the few who can write Latin. But if so, why did he not tell us?"

  "What will you do if it is true?" Nemain asked.

  "I don't know. But I will not have Yseult used to forge peace between Eriu and Alba because Lóegaire is a afraid of a prophecy."

  "What of the council?" Yseult asked, feeling desperate. "The regional kings have their pride; they will not be happy that the High King has gone so far without consulting the Oenach."

  Her mother looked at her approvingly. "The council. Yes."

  * * * *

  The meeting was held in the great hall of Tara. Yseult the Wise watched as the nobles slowly passed through the threshold of wide beams, beneath the lintel decorated with abstract carvings of animals and trees, and gathered around the massive wooden plank table, one of the many luxuries of Tara. Erc sang a song of welcome. Most of the buildings scattered about on the Hill of Kings were round, but the great hall was rectangular, a grand ceremonial building of wood with wide doorways and a lofty ceiling, the ground of the floor well-packed and the hangings clean. None of the other kings or queens present could boast such a proud hall.

  Rath na Riogh rarely had to accommodate so many people, and the smell of sweat was thick in the warm evening air.

  When all had taken their places according to their rank, the druid Lucet rose.

  The main item of business was the preparations for the festival at Lugnasad. Many local kings and queens of Midhe and Brega were present, as well as a number of druids and several leaders of the Ulaid and Laigin. Queen Yseult sat next to her consort, delegating responsibilities, making suggestions and biding her time. The regional kings gathered today would not be happy to learn how little the Ard Ri cared for their opinions or the approval of the Oenach. Occasionally, she reached out to touch Lóegaire's mind, but all she could discern besides impatience at the proceedings — what he saw as the boring, administrative side of kingship — were intermittent bursts of lust for herself.

  Finally, the most auspicious dates for events, ceremonies, and the all-important Oenach had been determined by the druids, and tent locations, amounts of food, and commissions to be charged for artisans to sell their wares at the fair arranged to everyone's satisfaction.

  The time had come.

  "I have another issue to bring up before we disperse," the queen said. "I would like to submit that the Oenach at Lugnasad consider the peace the Ard Ri has negotiated with the Bretain and demand that he retract his offer to the Dumnonian king of my daughter Yseult in marriage."

  The hall was strangely silent for a moment, and then the Laigin king Dunlaing spoke. "Is this true, Lóegaire? Have you completed peace negotiations without consulting the Oenach?"

  The High King did not face Dunlaing when he answered, staring instead at Queen Yseult. "I mourn the loss of a dutiful daughter. And I have offered Marcus of Dumnonia the princess Yseult in her place."

  Dunlaing's fist hit the table with a force that made the tankards of ale at the opposite end jump. "Not while the upstart Coroticus worries our coast!"

  The coastal leaders raised a racket of accord at this, thumping their wooden tankards on the table and clamoring agreement.

  "It is precisely now that we must consider peace," Lóegaire bellowed, shouting his opponents down. "Things are not as they were when my father Niall of the Nine Hostages conquered the lands across the sea. When the Roman troops withdrew a generation ago, their new kings were weak and inexperienced. Now they are hardened and strong. The lands of the Bretain are no longer ours for the taking."

  "The Ui Liathain of the Laigin still hold Demetia," Dunlaing pointed out.

  Lóegaire's older brother Eogan, king in Airgialla, waved the objection away. Niall had not only conquered half of the island of Eriu, he had spawned enough sons to keep it. "Brychan, king of Demetia, has become more Bretain than Gael," Eogan said. "And my brothers and I are not about to forget that it was a Laigin king who slew our father!"

  The debate was turning into a partisan battle between North and South, old resentments and old wounds coming to the surface faster than a stick of kindling in a pool. Queen Yseult had to get the discussion back to the negotiations. "Even if the Bretain are stronger now, that is no reason for the kingdoms of Eriu to sue for peace like a land conquered."

&
nbsp; "She's right!"

  "We have nothing to fear from the Bretain!"

  "You underestimate their strength," Eogan said, defending his brother. Yseult wondered if she was the only one who noticed that Coirpre did no such thing.

  Enna Cennsalach, chief king of the Laigin at Dun Ailinne, gave a derisive snort. "They have given up their eastern coast to the Saxons and their western coast to us — where is the strength you speak of?"

  Eogan shook his head. "Their High King beats back the Saxons bit by bit, and the kings in the west are carving out their own kingdoms from Erainn settlements."

  Some of the kings and queens at the table nodded assent —mostly from the tuatha of the north loyal to the Ui Neill.

  "That is still no reason to sue for peace!" Enna Cennsalach said.

  "The question must be put to the assembled kings of Eriu at the Oenach!" Dunlaing demanded.

  The hall was filled with the sound of cheering.

  "I am not suing for peace!" Lóegaire bellowed so loudly that the hall went quiet. "I am negotiating a treaty, a contract between equal parties, to create peace between the islands of Alba and Eriu. The Oenach will not be consulted."

  Lóegaire's eyes met hers. He was the chosen High King, and there was little the other kings could do.

  There was perhaps something she could do. Marriages took place at Lugnasad, but also divorces. She could repudiate their bond, and Lóegaire would have lost himself a kingmaker.

  But that was not until the quarter moon and the beginning of the summer festivities in honor of Lugh. In the meantime, all she could do was plot with his enemies and consult the goddess.

  * * * *

  Three days later, the queen, her daughter, and Nemain sought out the sacred rowan grove when the moon was full. Queen Yseult carried a large wooden bowl of water and the hide of a sacrificial bull, Yseult the Fair the torch and the twigs for the fire, and Nemain the sacred herbs. The queen set the cauldron down in the middle of the grove, took the dagger from her belt, and drew a large circle in the dirt. In the middle, she made a small pyre of yew branches and sprinkled dried leaves of mugwort, eyebright, and marigold over the fire. The grove filled with the smell of the burning herbs, and the three women took their places around the cauldron, Yseult the Wise with the bull-hide draped around her shoulders.