by Headlee, Kim
“Very well, Father.”
Gyan knew a dismissal when she heard one and was disappointed not to be sharing in this discussion. Such subjects had always been far more interesting to her than the mundane tasks of running a large household. Yet this time an argument was pointless. Days ago, she and her father had decided that she would not participate in the initial meeting of Chieftain Dumarec’s party. With no heir, she had to be protected from treachery.
She rose and grabbed her shield by the straps, careful to keep it away from her gown yet toying with the notion of creating a mishap as an excuse to change. But she quickly abandoned the tempting idea. With so much else happening, the wrath of Cynda was not something to invoke.
As she turned for the door, Ogryvan came from behind the table to pat her shoulder. “Gyan,” he whispered. “Give him a chance.”
She heard the plea in his voice and softened hers. “Him? You mean Urien?” Ogryvan nodded. “Don’t worry, Father. If he’s the right man, I’ll know it.”
Ogryvan bent to accept his daughter’s kiss. Per was not so lucky. As he moved into her seat, she teasingly slapped his leather-clad shoulder. His retaliation came too late.
With a chuckle, Gyan swept toward the door.
THE MANNER of Gyan’s departure made Ogryvan recall the feast after the Battle of Abar-Gleann, and how Alayna, bedecked in her costliest finery, had tried to place herself in Arthur’s path. Her behavior hadn’t seemed odd at the time, what with the noise and confusion in the overcrowded feast hall. Hindsight told him Alayna had wished to form a more intimate alliance with the handsome, unmarried Pendragon.
On the threshold, Gyan glanced over her shoulder. Per made an abrupt move out of his seat as though to chase her. With a mock squeal of fear, she made good her escape—and forgot to shut the door. Chuckling, Per settled back into his chair.
Their antics couldn’t distract Ogryvan for very long.
Stroking his beard, he wondered if he had been premature to suggest the betrothal of his daughter to the heir of neighboring Clan Móran in the Breatanach territory of Dailriata. He knew little of these Breatanaich off the battlefield except through his dealings with the slaves. Yet he knew enough to understand that outside motherhood and domestic duties, women played a very small role in their society.
What would happen if Gyan’s consort tried to extend his influence beyond the bounds set by Caledonach law? What would become of the clan if Gyan couldn’t hold him at bay? And what would become of her? Most lasses would have been frightened to tears by the prospect of meeting men so recently counted among the ranks of the enemy. Not his Gyan, he realized with a flush of pride. She had seemed to radiate youthful confidence. He hoped it would serve her well for the decision she would soon be forced to make.
Her acceptance of Urien map Dumarec meant more than the fulfillment of an agreement. To become her consort, he had to be right, not only for Clan Argyll but for her.
Had he, Ogryvan, done enough to prepare Gyan for this fateful day? Would she be able to make the best decision and face its consequences? More to the point, was he ready to release his beloved daughter to Urien of Dailriata?
“Father? You said you had more plans to discuss with me?”
Ogryvan set aside his thoughts to regard Per, who, like his half sister, so resembled Hymar that it was difficult to be angry at anything the lad did. “Aye, son. In a moment.”
He strode to the threshold and peered into the corridor, which was teeming with servants preparing for the arrival of the Dailriatanaich. Pushing the door shut, he again thought about the man responsible for all this activity…and the reason Gyan would have to marry a Breatanach lord, even if she decided to reject Urien.
Arthur the Pendragon, a leader whose authority was military in nature, not derived from one Breatanach clan but all. Such a man would pose no threat to the continued identity of Clan Argyll or to Gyan’s leadership.
Ogryvan suspected that if the two ever met, Gyan might come to like Arthur, if she could force herself to see past the Ròmanach influence and the conqueror’s stern countenance.
Gyan marrying the Pendragon, however, would not satisfy the treaty.
Chapter 3
ARTHUR MAP UTHER sat in a dim corner of the wayside inn’s common room, fighting to keep his anger in check. The ale helped, but not enough. He took another pull on the flagon. To his men, he always strove to present a cool demeanor, and the room was full to bursting with the fourscore horsemen of First Ala who’d been recovered enough from Abar-Gleann to accompany him on this mission. Strong emotions never won a battle, and as Dux Britanniarum, commander-in-chief of the Dragon Legion of Brydein, one of the duties he took most seriously was the presentation of a good example.
And “good examples” did not include throttling the woman whose refusal to release her son to Arthur’s envoy was the reason for his personal excursion into Caledonian territory. The image of his fingers wrapped around Alayna’s neck, however, was amusing. He felt his lips twitch in the barest of smiles.
“Want to share the joke, Arthur?”
Although his foster brother, Cai, had spoken, Arthur’s other close friend, Bedwyr, also was regarding Arthur expectantly. Neither man was assigned to the cavalry; Cai commanded the infantry garrison at Camboglanna, and Bedwyr headed the fleet. Arthur had invited them along to represent the other branches of Brydein’s military forces to demonstrate to Chieftainess Alayna the seriousness of his intent. And he had to admit he was glad of this rare opportunity for their company. The press of duties took the three of them in different directions all too often these days.
The only person missing from this assemblage—though Arthur couldn’t call him friend—was Urien, former commander of First Ala whom Arthur had recently promoted to command the new Brytoni-Caledonian cavalry cohort. But Urien was busy conducting another affair on behalf of Brydein, one just as vital in securing peace with the Caledonians.
In response to Cai’s question, Arthur shook his head and swallowed another mouthful of ale. Some things he did not share with a soul, and anything that might be construed as a breach of diplomacy certainly fell into that category.
“That’s our Pendragon.” Bedwyr’s grin was mischievous. Little more than a year after his appointment, Arthur was still getting accustomed to hearing the title that went with the position of Dux Britanniarum: Pendragon, “Chief Dragon.” And well Bedwyr knew it. “Secretive as ever.”
That won Arthur’s chuckle. “If you two must know, I was imagining what I might do to our wayward ally. And not what you might think, Cai.” He chuckled again as Cai, who had been ogling one of the buxom serving maids, whipped his head around at the sound of his name. He laid a hand to his neck and winced. “Careful, my brother. One day your lust will get you into real trouble.”
“As if yours won’t.” The serving maid bustled to Arthur’s side of the table and bent over farther than necessary to set before him a fresh flagon of ale, offering Arthur a tempting view of her cleavage. Cai snorted. “You see the effect that damnably handsome face of yours has on the women.”
Arthur saw. And he chose not to be tempted but kept his gaze leveled at Cai. “At least the word ‘discretion’ is in my vocabulary.”
Cai’s only reply was a short bark of laughter.
Bedwyr, it seemed, was not above vying for the young woman’s attentions, either. He interrupted the shy smile he was giving her just long enough to say, “But where’s the fun in that, Arthur?”
Fun, indeed. Although the pleasures of female company were not unknown to Arthur, such encounters had only satisfied an immediate physical need. The woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life would not be a mere bedchamber accessory but someone he hoped would share his vision for a united Brydein and help him usher that vision into being. Such a woman he had yet to meet. That included Chieftainess Alayna, despite her rather obvious attempts to convince him otherwise at the treaty-signing feast.
Not for the first time, he wondered
if such a woman even existed.
He rose from the table and addressed his friends. “You two settle this matter”—he jerked a nod toward the serving woman—“between yourselves. I plan to be as well rested as possible for my meeting tomorrow with Chieftainess Alayna.”
Was it his imagination, or did the woman’s lips purse into a pout as he passed her on his way toward the door? It didn’t matter; he had been perfectly serious about his intention to retire alone for the evening. Nor did he mind spending the night in a field tent, the innkeeper having informed him that all the rooms were bespoken. As much as he would have enjoyed the luxury of a bed, sleeping in a tent like the rest of his men gave him yet another opportunity to lead them by example, which he welcomed, even in this unseasonably chilly October weather.
He never made it out of the room. The drumming of hooves sounded outside, but before Arthur could wonder who had arrived, the door banged open, and the answer became apparent. Think of the devil…
Urien map Dumarec swaggered into the room, flanked by his father, Chieftain Dumarec, and more than a score of their clansmen. All but Urien were arrayed in the black-and-gold-patterned wool of Clan Moray. Urien was wearing his legion armor and short scarlet officer’s cloak, augmented by fur-lined boots, leather leggings, and a long-sleeved undertunic. Every man was shaking flecks of snow from hair and cloak while heading for the fireplace. After exchanging hearty greetings with their comrades-at-arms, the men of Arthur’s unit made way for the newcomers.
Catching Arthur’s gaze, Urien plowed through the crowd toward him. “My lord. Well met.” He did not offer a salute, which was within the bounds of protocol since they were in a civilian setting.
“Indeed, Tribune.” Arthur wondered about the sincerity of Urien’s greeting. They’d never been on friendly terms, and Arthur’s appointment to Dux Britanniarum had put even more distance between them. But since Urien was the son of a staunch ally, there was no wisdom in antagonizing him. “Your father bespoke the rooms here for your party?”
“We had to. This is the last inn before we head into Picti territory. No telling what we’ll find in our beds once we get there. Fleas, rats, daggers, you name it.” His eyebrows knotted. “Isn’t that why you stopped here, Lord Pendragon?”
Arthur saw no need to explain himself to a subordinate, nobility or not. “I had my reasons.” He regarded Urien closely. “Just as I have my reasons to advise you that if you wish to be successful in your dealings with our new allies, you might consider leaving your prejudices on this side of the border.”
Urien laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like”—he tossed a glance over his shoulder at Chieftain Dumarec, who was hunkered in front of the fire—“someone else I know.” The woman who had been serving Arthur’s table sidled up to Urien with a sultry smile and a frothy flagon, which he accepted with a grin. “Besides, tavern wench or warrior, Brytoni or not, these women are all the same. Even with the language differences, it shouldn’t be too hard to convince the Picti chieftainess of my”—his grin widened as he patted the lass on the backside to the sound of her giggle—“charms.”
Charms, Arthur thought dryly, and an ego to match. But it was no exaggeration to say that Urien was also a formidable warrior, and Caledonians seemed to respect strength. The union of Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s clan with Urien’s was as good as done. Such a marriage could make Clan Moray more powerful than Arthur cared to contemplate. Yet for the sake of lasting peace in Brydein, he sincerely hoped it would work out for the best.
“Be that as it may,” Arthur said, “I advise caution.”
“Caution, indeed.” Urien’s look adopted a hard edge as he ground fist to palm. “I don’t trust these Picts. In fact, I don’t understand why you didn’t obliterate them with Caledfwlch when I”—he stabbed a thumb at his chest—“gave you the chance.”
With effort, Arthur resisted the impulse to touch his sword’s ruby-pommeled hilt, the smith’s inspiration for naming it Caleberyllus, Latin for “Burning Jewel.” After Abar-Gleann, Cai had coined a Brytoni name for Wyllan’s finest creation: Caledfwlch, “Caledonia’s Bane.” It was perfectly apt, and it had almost caused a diplomatic disaster.
He spared a glance for his friends and was thankful they were too far away—and too engrossed with flirting with two more serving women—to have overheard the exchange. Two months was enough time to heal flesh wounds but not enough time to salve Cai’s pride for having to endure Arthur’s public rebuke in order to preserve the fragile peace. He returned his attention to Urien. “Do not forget that your charge was carried out under my orders.”
Urien glared but let the remark pass. “The Picts have been a menace to our borders for time out of mind. Why didn’t you—”
“The same can be said about the Saxons, Angles, and Scots.” These last two Arthur spat like the curses they were to him. The Angli had killed his father. And the Scots…he banished a grisly memory with a long blink. “None of them have demonstrated a willingness to negotiate with us for peace. The Caledonians were willing, and Brydein will be getting a much stronger cavalry as a result.” Arthur grinned. “You should thank them for your promotion.”
Urien grunted. “By the way, I thought it was quite magnanimous of you to word the treaty to preserve the Picti woman’s customary right to choose a husband, providing he’s a nobleman on this side of the border. So if you’re so set on this alliance, Lord Pendragon, why don’t you see if she wants to marry you?” He gave an elaborate shrug. “But I forget. By the terms of your own treaty, you don’t qualify. How clumsy of me. Sir.” His smile was so thick with insubordination that, had they been anywhere else, Arthur would have settled the matter with Caleberyllus. And then he’d have renamed it Urienfwlch.
“Yes, Tribune, it was.” He let enough warning seep into his tone to convey his irritation without alerting anyone around them.
What irritated him far more than his subordinate’s attitude was the fact that, because Clan Cwrnwyll had never waived the illegitimacy of Arthur’s birth, Urien was absolutely right.
“I DON’T like it.”
Gyan glanced up to see Cynda, hands on hips, scowl at the pattern of rushes and crushed lavender strewn across the floor of the guest chambers. These rooms would soon house men who, as recently as midsummer, had been Argyll’s sworn enemies.
The slave girl clutching the shallow basket of lavender looked up, startled. The basket tipped. A pile of petals fluttered to the floor. With a squeak of alarm, the girl tried to scoop them back into the basket.
Cynda softened her gaze. “Never mind that, dear, just spread them around now. Ach, that’ll be fine.” She pointed toward the window. “Perhaps a wee bit more over there.”
The slave bent to her work. In moments, she finished and, bowing, scurried from the room.
“What is it, then?” Gyan smoothed the wool-lined wolfskin sleeping fur on one of the beds. “Have we forgotten something?”
Stepping back, she surveyed the chamber. Everything seemed to be in place: fresh linens and furs on the beds, a fire snapping in the fireplace with a generous stack of wood nearby, clean rushes on the floor, an empty trunk for clothes against the far wall, a basin and pitcher of water on the table, the lamps lit and brimming with oil. Anything else Chieftain Dumarec or his son might need could be sent for easily enough.
If something were amiss, Gyan couldn’t see it.
“Nay.” Cynda made a gesture of impatience with her hand. “The reason for all of this. That’s what I don’t like. Sheltering enemies at the Seat of Argyll, it’s unheard of!”
“They are not our enemies now.” Gyan wasn’t completely prepared to accept that a collection of strange scratches on sheepskin could be taken as proof, but she kept that confession to herself.
“Oh, aye, if you can believe the words of a flock of thick-witted men who spend most of their time fighting and drinking and wenching.”
Gyan laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell Father what you think of his exploits.”
&
nbsp; “You do that, young lady. Not that he’d listen. But his ‘exploits’ have gotten his daughter tangled up in marriage with one of these Breatanach curs. Your mother never would have approved.”
“I imagine my mother would have done whatever was best for the clan even if it meant accepting my marriage to a Breatanach lord.” She fixed Cynda with a hard stare. “But you don’t approve. Why?”
Cynda wrung her hands as her eyes adopted a faraway look. “You didn’t see what those savages did to our poor brave warriors.”
That was partly true. Blessed with a deft hand with bandages and a strong stomach for the sight and stench of blood, Cynda had accompanied the war-host to help with the wounded. Since Gyan had no heir, she’d had to stay behind. By Caledonach law, the clan chieftain and chieftainess could not be exposed to the same risk of death, lest there be a struggle for succession should the worst come to pass. Since Chieftainess Alayna had more need of Ogryvan’s wealth of fighting experience—although in hindsight his skill had not made a whit of difference to the outcome—Gyan had missed the chance for her first taste of battle.
Gyan had understood the reasons and even agreed in principle. But this had not stopped her from brooding over the injustice.
When the ragged remains of the host returned, she cauterized her wounded feelings to help tend to injuries of a life-threatening sort. This work gave her a glimpse of the harsh realities: the gaping gashes, the missing limbs and eyes, the raging fevers…and the blood-crusted bodies of clansmen who would never again feel the warmth of the sun, or hear a child’s laugh, or smell the furrowed earth after a spring shower.
No, working in the sickrooms was not a pleasant duty. But that was a consequence of war. Whether Caledonach or Breatanach, Angalaranach or Scáthinach, the best and luckiest warriors survived with their skins intact. The others did not.
She laid a hand on Cynda’s shoulder. “I saw enough, afterward. That can’t be the only thing bothering you about this visit.”