Free Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur by Ruth Nestvold

—the time for Yseult the Wise to sever her marital ties with the High King. The summer sun was sinking towards the horizon; vows would be given before sunset and celebrated at the start of the new day after it disappeared beyond the rim of the world.
    The queen shook her head. "As spiritual leader, you can speak for the Tuatha Dé as well as I. I am worried for my daughter. I want to get away."
    Brigid nodded. "You're right, it's best you leave quickly. Would you like to precede me to Druim Dara? You could spend the winter there and Yseult could continue her training as a healer. I hear she already shows great promise."
    For a moment, the queen had difficulty answering. Brigid had been ban file and representative of the goddess less than a year, and they had known each other little more than that. They were allies by necessity, but she knew the offer meant more and she was grateful.
    "I had intended to go north to Bruig na Boyne with Nemain, but that may be too close to Tara."
    "Yes. It's wiser if you go south."
    "Thank you. We will do that."
    It was the dog days, and heat hung in the air, accompanied by the scent of dried grass and the sound of insects. The queen sighed. "Is it my doing, Brigid?"
    "No. No, it's not your doing. Lóegaire grows irrational, grasping at anything he can to maintain his power. The kings are discontent — not only the kings of the south."
    "That's what I tell myself, but I'm not sure."
    The sound of merriment beyond the stand of trees grew louder as they approached, and the two women fell quiet. They followed a well-worn path and stepped out onto a spacious meadow. In the center stood the marriage stone, a large, round boulder at shoulder height on top of a cairn of flat rocks. In the middle was a wide hole where the couples willing to try staying together for longer than a season would clasp hands. Already half-a-dozen pairs were lining up to reach their hands through the stone, while Lochru spoke the words of blessing, promise, and good will. Everyone had already been partaking liberally of the ale in the vats scattered around the clearing. The songs of the bards were not always on key and their fingers on their harps not always sure.
    Despite herself, the queen had to smile. Her gaze found her niece Brangwyn, arm-in-arm with Aidenn, both laughing and flushed. Nearby, Yseult held a tankard of ale while three young men, similarly equipped, leaned into her eagerly. With the awareness of the Feadh Ree, her daughter looked up, met the queen's eyes, and waved.
    Queen Yseult smiled and waved back, and her gaze continued on a circuit of the festivities.
    Yes, the High King was there.
    Along with nearly every major king of Eriu, she noted. Ailill Molt stood on the outskirts of the crowd with his wife Ronait, in earnest conversation with the Christian wise man Patraic. The Laigin kings, Crimthann one of their party, conferred in a knot with a number of the most famous warriors of the Fianna, their gazes on her. Not far away, her former consort Aengus, king of Cashel, strummed a harp he had stolen from a hapless bard. Coirpre stood apart from his brothers, the Ui Neill kings of the north, gazing at her expectantly.
    Yseult the Wise returned her attention to the marriage stone, to hope rather than hate. Not that she was feeling particularly hopeful, but for Brangwyn's sake she would be, at least for the space of a dance.
    Two by two, the couples walked on either side of the stone, reached their hands through to each other, clasped and released. After the hand-clasping, friends waited for them on the other side of the cairn with wreaths of summer flowers. Her daughter hugged Brangwyn and Aidenn and gave them each a fresh mug of ale, and they toasted each other. The queen hung back with Brigid. She would congratulate them later, after she had done what she came to do.
    After the couples had all passed by the stone, they were swept into a wild dance. The druid Erc even stole Patraic away from Ailill Molt and