Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (24 page)

"You are making it much too obvious that you are not happy," she murmured while leaning past him to help herself to the smoked duck. Modrun had never been famed for her diplomatic skills, and this painful wedding feast was no exception. "I may consider Yseult my friend, but you are dearer to me, and she was not always fair with you. I think that for you, this marriage is an opportunity rather than a loss."

Gawain stared stonily at his plate. "How so?"

"You know as well as I that Yseult never would have married you. Now you are free to move forward with your life."

"I know no such thing!" he lashed out — too loud for a wedding feast, given all the heads that turned in their direction. He lowered his voice. "Have you seen something in my future?"

Modrun took a sip of wine, smiling enigmatically. "Given my reputation, I can claim anything, and my audience believes me or not, depending on religion and inclination. What are you inclined to believe, Gawain?"

"It depends on what you are inclined to tell me."

"I think you will find comfort much sooner than you expect. Now if that does not make you believe in my magic, I do not know what will."

Finally Gawain too smiled. "For a prophecy it is very vague."

"Is that not the nature of prophecy?" she said, shrugging.

Gawain chuckled. "I doubt Myrddin would agree with you."

Modrun glanced around the banqueting hall, grimacing. "Do you see Myrddin anywhere here? I think not. And even if you did, who knows what kind of answer you would have. He is losing his famed wisdom between a pair of young legs."

Although he knew Modrun well enough, and knew that she spoke her mind more bluntly than many, Gawain still shot her a sharp glance. "You are not the only one who is irritated that Myrddin is spending more time paying court than advising Arthur."

She gave an unladylike snort. "Paying court? Fucking, more like."

"Modrun!"

"What, don't tell me you wouldn't have used the exact same word if you had been among other men."

"But I am not, and this is a wedding banquet."

"Yes, for the woman who threw you over for a good friend."

He realized that she had very effectively distracted him from his brooding. He shook his head, smiling. "Nonetheless, there are too many here to overhear your words."

She waved his objection away. "I am too old now to bother worrying about such things."

"You are hardly old, Modrun."

She chuckled — someone who did not have as much affection for her might have heard it as a cackle. "Any woman past fifty is old, my dear near-nephew. Men past fifty can buy themselves wives in their teens for the price of a treaty, or with the promise of a kingdom, but those times are over for women." Modrun nodded towards the end of the table where the newlyweds sat. "If Yseult had remained in Eriu, and if things had not changed so rapidly there since she was carted to Britain to marry Marcus, a marriage to her would have meant inherent power, a marriage to the land. Her stepfather Crimthann knew well enough what he was doing when he courted her mother, the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Did you know what you were doing when you courted her daughter?"

Gawain shook his head, surprised at the odd lecture. "I'm not sure if I ever 'courted' her."

"No, you just fucked her, did you not?"

Despite himself, he felt anger growing. "That's what she wanted."

"You wanted to marry her, though."

"Yes, I did," he hissed. "But this is not the place to discuss this."

"Where else?" Modrun asked. "What better time to begin accepting that you lost Yseult than at her wedding? Besides, do you see anyone taking note of our conversation?"

Gawain glanced around the table. Across from them, Peredur flirted with a young princess of Powys, oblivious to anything improper going on nearby. On Modrun's other side, Gareth was having an animated discussion with Yseult's cousin Brangwyn. Near the newlyweds, Kustennin was head to head with Cai's daughter Celemon. Beside Gawain, Bedwyr's daughter was debating political developments to the north with Gaheris — and not even Gaheris seemed to notice anything amiss in his brother's conversation with Modrun.

"Yes, I have disguised us a little," Modrun admitted, and he could hear satisfaction in her voice.

"I presume I should be grateful," Gawain ground out. But once he voiced the words, he realized he
was
grateful; Modrun had given him an opportunity to vent his anger.

* * * *

Kustennin could tell already that he had partaken too much of the wine that was flowing freely at the wedding feast. "Sometimes I hate being the result of a legend," he murmured to Celemon, the next best thing he had to a sister. She too had been in fosterage with Cador for several years before returning to her father Cai, and they had grown close as a result of their mutual passion for horses.

Celemon shrugged her skinny shoulders. She had turned fourteen in the spring, the age of choice for a woman. But she still had the figure of a girl — a very tall girl. "Look at me — my dad's a legend too."

Her father truly was a legend; Cai, Arthur's Master of Horse and one of his closest companions beside Bedwyr. "Yes, but —"

She leaned into his shoulder, shaking her head. "Stop whining, Kustennin," she whispered. "And keep your voice low. It cannot have been easy for your mother, being married across the sea to a man over twice her age. Be glad you still
have
a mother."

Kustennin drew a deep breath. Celemon had already lost two mothers. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't," she said, taking a modest sip of her wine. "You should think more often, Kustennin."

"You're right, I should."

When Celemon said things like that, they didn't offend him at all. The tone of her voice when she teased him was playful and serious at the same time; she didn't do it to hurt, like Gildas had.

Luckily, Gildas was no longer part of his life — except during events like this. He glanced down the table to where Gildas sat with his sister and her husband Medraut. Kustennin should be above such petty feelings, he knew, but he suspected he would dislike Gildas for the rest of his life.

And that the feeling was mutual.

* * * *

As Medraut helped himself to the sweet wine cakes, he was thinking about his own wedding nearly five years ago. He'd been so hopeful then; Cwylli was young and charming and full of life, her father Caw old, and her brother Gildas young — a perfect constellation for Medraut to take over power in Bro Leon. But then her kinship group had passed him by.

Nothing had gone as he planned, and his advantageous marriage had become a liability. Burdened as he was by a wife who not only had no inheritance, but who had dragged him down through the actions of her brothers, how was he ever going to turn his life around again? If not for Cwylli, surely Arthur would have been more forthcoming with advancement; Medraut had saved his life, after all. But it had been for nothing, it seemed. They had been told (if not in so many words) to stay away from Gwythyr's funeral, and Medraut was still second tier among Arthur's companions — at best. Instead of being a king in his own right, he was a poor relation, condemned to mediocrity. He could return to Armorica, but his father Budic's seat was little more than a fortified farm compared to what Arthur commanded.

He glanced over at his wife. Not far from Cwylli sat Ginevra, surely one of the most beautiful women in Britain, although she was now over thirty and mother to a son of an age with Gildas. By contrast, Cwylli had not regained her figure after the birth of Melehan and was growing practically matronly, although she was ten years younger. He wondered if Arthur's wife and Arthur's companion were sleeping together yet. Cai acted immune to Ginevra's advances, but Medraut suspected that was for Arthur's benefit — assuming his uncle even cared at all.

As he watched, Cai rose and moved down the table to where Gawain and his brothers sat. Lot's brats were yet another sore point. They were not even Arthur's blood relations as Medraut was, yet they had all the honor.

For some reason, things never went Medraut's way — and he doubted his luck would turn again any time soon.

* * * *

Had Gawain really thought he'd faced his demon when he'd watched Yseult and Cador wed? What a fool he'd been! The true torture was now, as they rose and he knew they were leaving the banquet to seek their marriage bed.

"Do not stare so," Modrun admonished him. "I can only cloak you in illusion for so long."

"How long is 'so long'?" Gawain asked, knowing his voice sounded bitter. "For the life of me, I cannot help myself. It was a mistake to come to this wedding."

She touched his arm. "No, I don't think so." The sarcasm had disappeared from her voice. "There, the way they are leaving together, right in front of your eyes, that is the end of your relationship with Yseult. Eventually I think you will appreciate having such clarity."

Gawain had no idea what the hell she was talking about with her stupid clarity. He did not need philosophy when his guts were burning with pain and rage.

"Yes, you do," she said quietly.

Damn the woman for reading his mind.

* * * *

Cador gave Yseult a long kiss and then rolled onto his back, laying his arm across his forehead. "I'm sorry. It's been a long time. I fear I was a bit overeager."

Yseult propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at him, her own temporary frustration suddenly much less important. "You mean — there hasn't been anyone since Terrwyn died?"

He didn't answer, not returning her gaze.

Yseult took the silence for embarrassed assent. "But — you are comely, and a king."

He let out a choked laugh and laid his arm aside, finally meeting her eyes. "Being a king is part of the problem, my dear — women would be happy to claim their brats are mine, but if I have not slept with them in the first place, they are much less likely to do so."

"But there are so many precautions a woman can take to avoid pregnancy," she said.

"Ah, but you must
want
to avoid pregnancy," Cador said with a smile. "What if you would much rather be mother to a king's bastard?"

"True enough," Yseult said, still surprised at his cautious attitude. Most men she knew did not think so far ahead. "But I would have thought you wouldn't mind a child, even if it was out of wedlock."

Cador's smile faded. "If I could not marry the woman, it would not be fair to her."

Yes, in terms of British society, that was true. Although even here in Britain there any number of women with a bastard who went on to marry well. Arthur's own mother Ygerna was a perfect example.

"Besides," Cador continued, "if I were to sleep in every bed that tempted me, not only might I end up with a string of bastards of uncertain parentage, I could end up with their mothers. I have seen too many friends involved in too many disputes with former mistresses to be tempted to join their ranks. I have two good hands, after all. And little inclination for complicated relationships. Besides, if I get tired of myself, there are always the sheep."

Yseult shot up, gazing down at him in surprise. By the single candle that still burned, she saw the way the corners of his mouth curled up. She chuckled, pushing at his shoulder playfully. "Cador! You are impossible!"

He pulled her down and laid an arm across her waist. "Ha! I made you laugh! It cannot have been all bad then."

"Of course it was not 'all bad'."

He pressed closer and laid a series of nipping kisses on her ear and along her jawbone. A shudder of enjoyment went down her spine.

"Nonetheless, I think I must try to make it up to you," he said between kisses. She could feel that he was ready — again — to follow up on his promise.

"If you really think it's necessary," she murmured, returning his embrace.

"Absolutely necessary," he said firmly and kissed her mouth.

Yseult wondered if she might enjoy being married after all.

* * * *

After all the fears plaguing her during the previous weeks, Yseult was surprised how calm she felt in the days following her wedding. Marriage to Cador was a very different thing than marriage to Marcus. Of course, rationally she had known that, but on some level she could not control, the knowledge would not take hold.

Now, as she strolled past the Whitsun fair outside of the city walls on this early summer day, her hand tucked into the crook of Cador's elbow, she was beginning to trust what logic had told her all along:
life with Cador could be very pleasant
. They could remain friends within marriage — and while she had certainly had more practiced lovers, Cador's enthusiasm was inspiring. It appeared he had been living a more chaste life than many a Christian monk, and she was impressed that he could be abstinent on the simple grounds of reason and sympathy. She thought of Gawain, with lovers the length and breadth of Britain, the kind of man who rarely, if ever, turned a woman down — and damn the consequences, including at least three bastards that she knew of.

In the fields beyond the market stalls, wrestling matches and foot races and other games were being held. Yseult kept an eye out for Kustennin, but she wasn't sure which competitions he would try his hand at today. The sun was warm on her back, and she had just eaten a fresh bun with currant and honey compote. The sweetness of it seemed to be spreading from her stomach to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes.