Gawain loosed his hand from Ragnell's, wiped his bloody weapon off on his breeches, sheathed it, and turned to face the warriors who had helped him win this day. "Men, we could not have broken this enchantment without your help. My wife and I thank you from the depths of our hearts. Not only is this a new year, it is a new life."
The volume of the cheering rose, and villagers and soldiers crowded around them, tripping on the headless body of Bertilak in their fervor.
It was certainly an odd setting for the beginning of a new life. But Gawain already found himself nearly reconciled to Ragnell's previous deceit, even without a complete explanation. He would have to do his best not to think about the woman somewhere whose revenge had been thwarted, would not think about how much of his sudden joy might have to do with his wife's extraordinary powers.
There were worse things in life than having a beautiful wife, with a seat fit for a king. That was what he would think of now — and hopefully for some time to come.
END
If you enjoyed the story of Gawain and Ragnell, an expanded episode from Shadow of Stone, you might also enjoy the story of Yseult's youth, and her tragic love for Drystan. Here is an excerpt from the first book of The Pendragon Chronicles, Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur.
Excerpt:
The next day, his leg and the weather were both much improved, and Drystan took his harp and fled the close confines of the rath. With his instrument slung across his back and the blue wool cloak whipping around his ankles, he walked through the winter forest, its trees bare of leaves, until he could hear the pounding of the surf and smell the salt in the air and see the dark gray-green water come up to meet the mottled iron gray sky.
Before the grass gave way to sand and the trees could no longer find a grip in the shifting ground, he found a stump and sat down, settling his blue cloak around him. He liked to imagine that it carried the scent of her fingers, the scent of a life beyond his reach, liked to imagine them working the wool which surrounded him now, long fingers, quick and strong, as capable with a loom as with a sword.
Ah, how would he ever be able to forget her?
He pulled the harp from his shoulder and began to play a random succession of chords, allowing his fingers to drift over the strings at will, picking out a haphazard melody. After a while, he found a pattern which appealed to him and hummed beneath his breath, adding words as they came to him, using the dialect of Armorica, his first language when it came to music. He had discovered his love for music before going into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, but only with them had he been able to indulge in his passion as he pleased. Good foster parents, they saw that he received the training of a prince, a complete course in arms and horsemanship and Latin, the language of the world, but as long as he completed the required lessons, he was free to spend as much time as he wanted with the bards of Bro Leon, learning whatever they were willing to teach him.
The music he played blended in with the rhythm of the surf and the calls of the gulls, and his soul was soothed, at least for the moment. He remembered how he used to flee to the cave at Dyn Tagell, where all he could see were the sea and the sky, and the only sound was the crash of the waves against the rocky cliffs of his home. Here in Eriu they said the water held spirits, and he could readily believe it; spirits that were sometimes angry, sometimes benign. His song became a paean to the spirits of the sea, the korrigans and sea serpents and water women. He sang, his voice lifting above the bare gray trees and gray waves and gray winter sky.
She was here, he felt it. His fingers stilled and he turned. She stood 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 whispers in his mind of things he couldn't allow himself to think. But what was to keep him from remaining Tandrys, a lone bard from Armorica? He had come here alone, and for all his friends and family knew, he could have died here alone as well. Could Drustanus die? Did he want that? Could he do such a thing to his father and Blodewedd and Riwallon — and Kurvenal?
Even if he could, there was always the danger of meeting someone from Murchad's company and being recognize
d. The danger that someday his guard would slip and she would see into his mind, see who he really was — a man she had sworn to kill.
End of excerpt.
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Check out some of Ruth's other books:
Fantasy:
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur
Shadow of Stone: The Pendragon Chronicles
Never Ever After: Three Short Stories
Dragon Time and Other Stories
Science Fiction:
Looking Through Lace
Beyond the Waters of the World
The Future, Imperfect: Six Dystopian Short Stories
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About the author
Ruth Nestvold's fiction has appeared in numerous markets, including Asimov's, F&SF, Baen's Universe, Strange Horizons, Scifiction, and Gardner Dozois's Year's Best Science Fiction. Her work has been nominated for the Nebula, Tiptree, and Sturgeon Awards. In 2007, the Italian translation of her novella "Looking Through Lace" won the "Premio Italia" award for best international work. Her novel Yseult appeared in translation as Flamme und Harfe with the German imprint of Random House, Penhaligon, in 2009, and has since been translated into Dutch and Italian. Since 2012, she's been concentrating her efforts on self-publishing rather than traditional publishing, although she does still occasionally sell a story the old-fashioned way. She maintains a web site at https://www.ruthnestvold.com.
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