Read Online Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur by Ruth Nestvold - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Nestvold
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assembly of all the kings of Eriu. Everyone who had some leisure and their health came, from the bo aireg , simple peasants and freemen; to goldsmiths and blacksmiths and traders, who did excellent business at the fair; to warriors and nobility and filid. The druid in charge of record-keeping kept track of the arrivals of the most important guests to compose a poem about the event when all had departed again.
Yseult and her cousin Brangwyn sought out the stalls of the merchants in the early afternoon, a modest assortment of ring money and Roman and Bretain coins in the purses at their belts. If they wanted anything of greater value, they could barter for a cow or a slave. The festival would not officially start until sunset signaled the dark half of the new day, but the merchants were happy to begin business early.
The artisans and merchants had set up their stands and tents below the Hill of Tara to the east of the ceremonial entrance, opposite the training grounds where the horse races were to take place. The cousins strolled between the stalls, eagerly examining the offerings spread out before them. Tara had craftsmen for everything they needed, from fine goldsmiths to stone workers to enamel workers famous throughout the five fifths of Eriu, but it was only at fairs like this that such a wide variety of specialty wares from other regions were available — musical instruments from the master at Emain Macha, intricate bronzework from Rath Bile, decorative bridles from Uisnech. Not to mention the exotic goods from across the sea, jars for cosmetics and goblets of glass from the lands of the Mediterranean, flagons of fine wine from Galicia, and Bretain-Roman fibulae. Young Yseult did not care for the Roman style of decoration, but she was drawn to the stands anyway. It was a symbol of something so foreign and distant, it attracted and repelled her at the same time.
She stopped in front of a stall selling Bretain trinkets, elaborate beakers of glass from Gaul and pottery from the lands to the south where it was never winter, and stared at a silver platter decorated in the Roman style. What was the world like that created these things, so different from the art of her own country? She knew about the world beyond the sea, knew of the different lands which had once been a part of the vast empire of Rome, even knew a smattering of Latin, but their way of life existed only in her imagination.
"It will work out somehow," Brangwyn murmured softly.
Yseult took her cousin's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Brangwyn's talent was for changing, not for knowing; her words were comfort, not prophecy. Both had that talent to a lesser degree, but neither could see what would come of the events now unfolding. "I worry what Lóegaire will do."
Brangwyn nodded. They could hardly speak openly in public about the queen's plans to repudiate her marriage to Lóegaire on the marriage day, the day before the Oenach. Many couples would be reaching their hands through the stone and saying their vows, among them Brangwyn and Aidenn — but other marriages would be ended.
Yseult picked up the platter she had been staring at and examined the raised design of a prancing horse and rider, so much like life it was easy to imagine them jumping off the plate and cantering to the race grounds nearby. She traced the horse with her finger. "It leaves nothing to the imagination, does it?"
"No, it doesn't." There were many at Tara who preferred Roman wares, seeing them as a sign of status, but Yseult was not among them.
"You like?" the merchant asked in poor Gaelic. He must be from farther away than Alba or Armorica; Gaul or Galicia perhaps.
"No." Yseult returned the platter to the table and took Brangwyn's elbow. "Come. Shouldn't you be looking for a wedding gift for Aidenn?"
A faint blush touched Brangwyn's pale cheeks. "I thought to get him a scabbard," she said with a wicked smile, and the two young women broke out in peals of laughter.
* * * *
The
Yseult and her cousin Brangwyn sought out the stalls of the merchants in the early afternoon, a modest assortment of ring money and Roman and Bretain coins in the purses at their belts. If they wanted anything of greater value, they could barter for a cow or a slave. The festival would not officially start until sunset signaled the dark half of the new day, but the merchants were happy to begin business early.
The artisans and merchants had set up their stands and tents below the Hill of Tara to the east of the ceremonial entrance, opposite the training grounds where the horse races were to take place. The cousins strolled between the stalls, eagerly examining the offerings spread out before them. Tara had craftsmen for everything they needed, from fine goldsmiths to stone workers to enamel workers famous throughout the five fifths of Eriu, but it was only at fairs like this that such a wide variety of specialty wares from other regions were available — musical instruments from the master at Emain Macha, intricate bronzework from Rath Bile, decorative bridles from Uisnech. Not to mention the exotic goods from across the sea, jars for cosmetics and goblets of glass from the lands of the Mediterranean, flagons of fine wine from Galicia, and Bretain-Roman fibulae. Young Yseult did not care for the Roman style of decoration, but she was drawn to the stands anyway. It was a symbol of something so foreign and distant, it attracted and repelled her at the same time.
She stopped in front of a stall selling Bretain trinkets, elaborate beakers of glass from Gaul and pottery from the lands to the south where it was never winter, and stared at a silver platter decorated in the Roman style. What was the world like that created these things, so different from the art of her own country? She knew about the world beyond the sea, knew of the different lands which had once been a part of the vast empire of Rome, even knew a smattering of Latin, but their way of life existed only in her imagination.
"It will work out somehow," Brangwyn murmured softly.
Yseult took her cousin's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Brangwyn's talent was for changing, not for knowing; her words were comfort, not prophecy. Both had that talent to a lesser degree, but neither could see what would come of the events now unfolding. "I worry what Lóegaire will do."
Brangwyn nodded. They could hardly speak openly in public about the queen's plans to repudiate her marriage to Lóegaire on the marriage day, the day before the Oenach. Many couples would be reaching their hands through the stone and saying their vows, among them Brangwyn and Aidenn — but other marriages would be ended.
Yseult picked up the platter she had been staring at and examined the raised design of a prancing horse and rider, so much like life it was easy to imagine them jumping off the plate and cantering to the race grounds nearby. She traced the horse with her finger. "It leaves nothing to the imagination, does it?"
"No, it doesn't." There were many at Tara who preferred Roman wares, seeing them as a sign of status, but Yseult was not among them.
"You like?" the merchant asked in poor Gaelic. He must be from farther away than Alba or Armorica; Gaul or Galicia perhaps.
"No." Yseult returned the platter to the table and took Brangwyn's elbow. "Come. Shouldn't you be looking for a wedding gift for Aidenn?"
A faint blush touched Brangwyn's pale cheeks. "I thought to get him a scabbard," she said with a wicked smile, and the two young women broke out in peals of laughter.
* * * *
The
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