Free Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) by Ruth Nestvold Page A

again.
    "Enough," she called, burying the tip of her practice sword in the ground beside the herb garden and leaning her forearms on the hilt.
    "You are making progress, Lady Yseult," Ricca said, putting up his own sword.
    "Thank you."
    She didn't believe it. They were just the polite words of a man-at-arms who owed her obedience. Perhaps she shouldn't even be trying to relearn old battle skills, as out-of-practice as she was. When was the last time she'd wielded a sword? It was after Drystan's death when she had gone with a party of Arthur's companions to Armorica to avenge him.
    Straightening, she wiped the sweat off her brow with the arm of her tunic. She did not want to think about that, did not want to think of how the spirit of Drystan had visited her, had stayed with her until the duel with Marcus Cunomorus. She had fought with Drystan's skill — and his conscience. It was Bedwyr who had dealt the killing blow.
    She shook her head, as if that could shake the unwanted memories away. It was no use dwelling on the past. It was over, along with the peace that had brought prosperity to Britain. Yseult would practice fighting techniques despite the aches in her shoulders and the backs of her thighs, would make the sword in her hand a natural thing again. Her son would not be the only one to defend their way of life.
    A boy dashed through the gate. "Enemy soldiers approach!"
    Yseult pulled up her practice weapon and hurried to the herb garden, Ricca beside her. With their bare hands, they each dug a hole in the dirt at the head of a row of herbs and planted their wooden swords in the ground. Then she wrapped her long braids in her shawl and pulled the edge up over her forehead. Kneeling next to the lemon balm, she began plucking sprigs.
    Beneath the edge of her shawl, she could see a small band of northern warriors enter the churchyard gate. Illtud came out to greet them and ask their business. After what seemed like an eternity, they all went into the stone church.
    She continued to harvest lemon balm and verbena until the northern warriors emerged from the church again and left. Then she rose, wiping her free hand off on her breeches. "How was your harvest, Ricca?"
    Her man-at-arms glanced down at the random assortment of herbs he held in his fist. "I don't know, Lady."
    Yseult chuckled.
    Illtud came down the pathway, lips pursed and brows drawn together. "The northern invaders have 'requested' that I vacate my church," he said when he reached them. "They have brought their own priest and will not need my services."
    Yseult sat back on her heels and looked up at him. "Do you think they suspect something?"
    The priest shrugged. "I don't know, but it amounts to the same thing. You are not safe here."
    "Then my men and I will have to leave. Perhaps we can meet up with Marrek on the road."
    "But the Picts have posted guards on the roads to and from Dyn Tagell, and you are now more than an old woman with three sons," Illtud said, indicating the half-dozen men who had snuck into the grounds of the church and who wore the robes of Christian priests.
    "What do you suggest we do?" Yseult asked.
    "There is little we can do other than try to be prepared for every eventuality." Illtud yanked one of the practice swords out of the freshly turned earth, knocked the dirt off with a few sharp raps on the ground, and wiped the hilt off on his frock. With a surprisingly adept toss of the blade, he caught the hilt in his right hand and faced Yseult, sword in hand. "What say you, Yseult? After many years without practice, shall we measure our skills against each other?"
    Yseult pulled the other wooden sword out of the ground and faced the priest, weapon in hand.
    She inclined her head, smiling. "Done."
    * * * *
    Ahead of her, Yseult's hounds Bran and Ossar raced through a thick Erainn forest in pursuit of their prey. Tree branches slapped her face as she rode after her dogs, but the pain was nothing to the exhilaration of the chase, the feeling