Read Online The Story of Gawain and Ragnell by Ruth Nestvold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Nestvold
Tags: The Pendragon Chronicles
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between the bare trees, a white flame flanked by her two sleek Erainn hounds.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "The gatekeeper was starting to get worried, you had been gone so long."
He glanced up at the sky. It was already late afternoon, and he hadn't noticed. "If you hadn't come, I probably would have stayed until dark and not found my way back," he said with a smile.
"Was that a song of your homeland?"
"No song. I was singing to the sea, making the music up as I sang."
She took a quick breath. "You are like the Dagda, the good god — good at everything you do."
How could he listen to such words, listen to what was behind the words, and still leave her? But how could he stay, hiding for the rest of his life from what might someday be revealed? "A little song? Everything?"
"You fight like a warrior trained and sing like the god himself. You have the gift of tongues and learn from Boinda as fast as he can teach you. You ride like a prince, and when you hunt, your arrow always finds its mark." As she spoke, Yseult moved through the trees to him, her great gray hounds at her side. Her words were a spell, and when she stretched out a hand to him, he put aside his harp, took it and rose, beyond safety, beyond care. She was as potent as the warmth of spring in the middle of winter; she slipped up against him, her hands gliding up his back, and he sucked in his breath, his hands coming to her waist.
"Yseult."
She leaned into him, molding her body to his. "Tandrys."
Tandrys. No, he couldn't, he wasn't. He leaned his forehead against hers, pushed her body away from his gently, still holding her waist. "Lady, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I must return to Armorica. I am not of your world."
"What, are you Roman?"
He shrugged. "I grew up with Roman ways as well as Armorican."
Her hands, her long fingers, so capable with both sword and loom, slipped up his shoulders and to the back of his neck, lifting the heavy braid from his skin. "Is this Roman?"
"No, Lady." Drystan closed his eyes. Her fingers were gently massaging the skin at the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and the reasons he had to resist were harder and harder to recall. He looked at her again, her skin glowing like a meadow in moonlight, her eyes like the midwinter moon itself, the outline dark and the center bright.
"Do you not honor the ancient ones?" she murmured. Her hounds stood on either side of them, silent, obedient.
"For me the ancient ones are a collection of tales, more entertainment than belief."
"Then perhaps I should show you how we honor our gods." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, warm and moist. He could no more resist her than he could a natural catastrophe, and with the hands which had still been resting at her hips, he jerked her to him. The sweet taste of her mouth broke over him like a flood.
Suddenly sanity returned, and he pushed her away. Yes, she wanted him. This dream of a woman wanted him, but when she found out who he really was, the warmth in her eyes would turn to hate. He grabbed up his harp and rushed away through the trees in the direction of the rath, turning back only once to see her as she watched him go, her back straight and her hounds motionless beside her.
Drystan pulled the heavy blue cloak she had made him tighter around his shoulders. Caught up in his music, he hadn't noticed the cold wind which had come up. He walked as quickly as his limp would allow to keep warm.
He could have been warm with Yseult in his arms.
It was getting harder and harder to remember that she was not for him, couldn't be for him; she was Yseult of Eriu, princess of the Feadh Ree, one of the ancient people, and he was Drustanus of Dumnonia, son of Marcus Cunomorus, a Romano-British prince, a rebel with a braid perhaps, but still the prince who had killed Murchad of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
The old leaves whispered beneath his feet as he walked, in accompaniment to the irregular rhythm of his gait, echoing the
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "The gatekeeper was starting to get worried, you had been gone so long."
He glanced up at the sky. It was already late afternoon, and he hadn't noticed. "If you hadn't come, I probably would have stayed until dark and not found my way back," he said with a smile.
"Was that a song of your homeland?"
"No song. I was singing to the sea, making the music up as I sang."
She took a quick breath. "You are like the Dagda, the good god — good at everything you do."
How could he listen to such words, listen to what was behind the words, and still leave her? But how could he stay, hiding for the rest of his life from what might someday be revealed? "A little song? Everything?"
"You fight like a warrior trained and sing like the god himself. You have the gift of tongues and learn from Boinda as fast as he can teach you. You ride like a prince, and when you hunt, your arrow always finds its mark." As she spoke, Yseult moved through the trees to him, her great gray hounds at her side. Her words were a spell, and when she stretched out a hand to him, he put aside his harp, took it and rose, beyond safety, beyond care. She was as potent as the warmth of spring in the middle of winter; she slipped up against him, her hands gliding up his back, and he sucked in his breath, his hands coming to her waist.
"Yseult."
She leaned into him, molding her body to his. "Tandrys."
Tandrys. No, he couldn't, he wasn't. He leaned his forehead against hers, pushed her body away from his gently, still holding her waist. "Lady, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I must return to Armorica. I am not of your world."
"What, are you Roman?"
He shrugged. "I grew up with Roman ways as well as Armorican."
Her hands, her long fingers, so capable with both sword and loom, slipped up his shoulders and to the back of his neck, lifting the heavy braid from his skin. "Is this Roman?"
"No, Lady." Drystan closed his eyes. Her fingers were gently massaging the skin at the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and the reasons he had to resist were harder and harder to recall. He looked at her again, her skin glowing like a meadow in moonlight, her eyes like the midwinter moon itself, the outline dark and the center bright.
"Do you not honor the ancient ones?" she murmured. Her hounds stood on either side of them, silent, obedient.
"For me the ancient ones are a collection of tales, more entertainment than belief."
"Then perhaps I should show you how we honor our gods." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, warm and moist. He could no more resist her than he could a natural catastrophe, and with the hands which had still been resting at her hips, he jerked her to him. The sweet taste of her mouth broke over him like a flood.
Suddenly sanity returned, and he pushed her away. Yes, she wanted him. This dream of a woman wanted him, but when she found out who he really was, the warmth in her eyes would turn to hate. He grabbed up his harp and rushed away through the trees in the direction of the rath, turning back only once to see her as she watched him go, her back straight and her hounds motionless beside her.
Drystan pulled the heavy blue cloak she had made him tighter around his shoulders. Caught up in his music, he hadn't noticed the cold wind which had come up. He walked as quickly as his limp would allow to keep warm.
He could have been warm with Yseult in his arms.
It was getting harder and harder to remember that she was not for him, couldn't be for him; she was Yseult of Eriu, princess of the Feadh Ree, one of the ancient people, and he was Drustanus of Dumnonia, son of Marcus Cunomorus, a Romano-British prince, a rebel with a braid perhaps, but still the prince who had killed Murchad of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
The old leaves whispered beneath his feet as he walked, in accompaniment to the irregular rhythm of his gait, echoing the
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