by Headlee, Kim
“Let me go, you oaf!”
“Bring her to me,” ordered Commander Fergus. As the man shoved her forward, the violet eyes widened in alarm. “Ye be nae monk. Give me your name, lass.” He grasped her arm to peer into her face.
Gyan’s spirits plummeted. Discovery of Morghe added the final stanza to the dirge of the day’s failure.
Morghe drew a deep breath. “I am—”
“Nobody! An orphan.” Gyan was pricked into silence by the sword of one of her guards.
Fortunately, Morghe possessed sense enough not to disagree.
“Being sheltered by the good brethren, is she?” Grinning wolfishly, Fergus thrust Morghe back into the warrior’s hands. “Then I imagine they willna mind having one less mouth to feed.”
“No! You promised—” Gyan’s outburst was rewarded with another pointed nudge.
“Chieftainess, permit me to remind ye that ye be in nae position to protest anything.” The Scáthinach commander strode up to Gyan, eyes sharp as dark daggers. “The lass comes with us. In good time, we shall find out who she really be.”
“I KILLED him, aye,” Angusel admitted evenly.
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I thought sending the signal was more important.” He locked his gaze with Bohort’s. “Wasn’t it?”
“I’ll be asking the questions here, lad.” The centurion’s tone was not unkind, but he regarded Angusel under narrowing eyebrows. “Do you realize that murdering a Bryton is punishable by death?”
A ghostly claw clutched Angusel’s heart. He drew his best weapon: truth.
“I didn’t murder him, sir. We fought, and I won.”
“Why did you fight him?”
“Sir, he was a spy.”
“A spy?” If not for what Angusel guessed to be at least a decade of military discipline, Bohort’s surprise might have forced him back a pace. “How do you know?”
“I saw him meet with the Scots on the beach. He told them something and was paid for it.”
“What did he tell them?” Bohort’s face loomed closer.
Angusel’s thoughts raced. Should he make up something to lend support to his story? Nay. A lie might destroy what little credibility he owned.
“I don’t know, sir. I was too far away to hear.”
The centurion stroked his chin. “You said he was paid. How?”
“I’m not sure.” Angusel bit his lip and frowned, trying to recall the elusive scene. “All I saw was a bright flash as the thing caught the sun. It was small. Maybe a buckle.”
“But you never saw it up close? The patrol noticed signs of a fight but didn’t report finding anything unusual on the body. You didn’t take it from him, did you? Maybe that’s really why you killed him.”
“No, sir! I didn’t even think about it.” Angusel wanted to quip that maybe the men of the patrol hadn’t made a complete report but decided the suggestion might buy him more trouble than he could afford. “I swear.”
Bohort paced to the window, which overlooked the brooding sea. To the north, a dark finger of Breatein thrust above the foam-speckled waves. The commander of the Ayr Point detachment slowly shook his head.
“I’m afraid this doesn’t look good. You say the man was a spy, but you have no proof.” As he faced Angusel, his countenance was as stern as the gray waters at his back. “I’d like to believe you, lad, but without evidence in your favor, I cannot let you go free.”
“Proof! You want proof?” Forgetting his swollen knee, he took a step toward the centurion. The knee collapsed. He stumbled into the work table, clutching it to brace himself against the agony. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he shook it off. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “My word as a warrior should be all the proof you need.”
“That might well be, Angusel. But this is beyond my authority. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir.” Pushing free of the table, he struggled to meet his fate squarely on both feet. He hoped his face betrayed none of the effort’s cost.
The door opened to reveal the centurion’s aide. “Sir, your pardon for the interruption, but the unit is formed up and ready for the march to Dhoo-Glass.”
“Good, Alun. We’re taking Angusel with us. Find a bandage to bind his knee.” As Alun left the chamber, Bohort faced Angusel. A flash of what seemed to be regret wrinkled his brow. “Angusel of Caledonia, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of the herdsman from Clan Moray of Dalriada. Tribune Urien must decide what to do with you.”
THE SCÁTHINAICH breached Tanroc’s outer defense much more quickly than Gyan would ever have imagined. By the time her captors had led her and Morghe across the channel to the Manx mainland, the invaders had hacked through all the thorn hedge’s portals. She saw no other sign of damage to the hedge, as though they had known exactly where to attack. There was no other explanation for this—and the Scháthinaich knowledge of her value as a hostage—than treason.
“Of course, Chieftainess Gyanhumara. What did ye expect?” The commander of the invasion force grinned. “In my position, would ye not also use every resource?”
Gyan refused to dignify the question with a response. If she lived through this, she would never permit herself to be in his “position.” She bore no respect for any leader who led from the rear and left his subordinates to do all the fighting and dying.
Well into the afternoon, the two women were forced to watch the assault from outside the general’s headquarters tent on a nearby rise.
The ground between the hedge and the palisade walls was littered with Scáthinaich who had fallen victim to Breatanach arrows. But that line of defense had to be abandoned as the Scáthinaich used their archers to set the wooden palisade ablaze. A huge section came crashing down amid a great shower of sparks. The greedy flames danced even higher.
One Breatanach archer, faithful to the last, tried to leap clear of the collapsing wall and failed. Of his body there was soon nothing left but a smoking husk. Gyan squeezed her eyes shut but could not blot out the horribly vivid sight or the gut-churning stench of charred flesh.
So this was war. In all her winters of listening to the fireside yarns spun by Seannachaidh Reuel, weaving mental pictures from the glowing words, nothing could compare with this. All the triumphant tales of raid and conquest by Clan Argyll were dead things next to the gasping reality.
Morghe screamed. Gyan glanced at her. Arthur’s sister stood pale and trembling between two burly guards, who were all but doubled over with glee at her terror. As Gyan watched, Morghe’s face hardened in anger, and her shivering stopped.
The Scáthinaich would get no such entertainment from the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll.
The invaders were pouring through the smoldering gaps in the palisade, shields lashed to their backs as protection from the flames. Several times, Gyan watched blazing debris hit a shield and bounce away without setting it alight. Those wooden shields had to be waterlogged. It would explain why, when she and Morghe had been taken from the monastery, the soldiers had dragged their shields through the water as they waded the channel.
Through the ragged curtain of fire and smoke, she could catch only glimpses of the fighting inside the fort. It appeared that anyone who resisted, soldier or not, was brutally cut down. Gyan did her best not to think about what would happen to the feisty Cynda if she tried to defend herself. Or what would happen if she did not.
Both images blanketed her brain. Neither was any comfort.
Sweeping around the palisade, the fire came perilously close to the stables. Frightened whinnies soared above the din. A group of Breatanaich rushed in to lead the horses to safety. There was only one black horse amidst the sea of browns: her Brin.
A Breatanach officer vaulted to his back and began slashing at the unmounted Scáthinaich. Gyan silently rejoiced to see her horse strike down some of the invaders with his deadly hooves. Then fresh gouts of flame obscured her view. When at last it cleared, Brin was down. A spear sprouted from his si
de. She felt the wrenching pain as surely as though she had taken the thrust herself.
A great shout arose from the battle. Several Scáthinaich were crawling across the roof of the fort’s headquarters, ducking spears and arrows as they scuttled toward the banner of Clan Móran. The Black Boar banner fell. A Silver Wolf loping across a pine-green background was hoisted up in its place. The ensuing cheers, magnified by the soldiers on the ridge, threatened to rip apart the fabric of heaven.
The commander clapped his hands and rubbed them with fierce glee. “Excellent. Now, for even more pleasant business.” He favored Morghe with an appreciative stare. “Who have we here, Fergus?”
“The chieftainess says she be just an orphan, General Niall,” Fergus answered, “but I think—”
“I am Morghe, daughter of Uther the Pendragon and Chieftainess Ygraine.” Her defiance was aimed solely at Gyan. “And I won’t stand for this outrage!”
Gyan wanted to wrap her hands around Morghe’s throat. The two guardsmen latched onto her arms rendered that impossible. So she settled for the next best thing. “Imbecile! What do you think you—” The accusation died at the tip of a Scáthinach spear.
“I’m trying to save my skin,” Morghe quipped. “Since you couldn’t manage it.” Her words too were rewarded with pain.
Gyan’s attempt at a retort was drowned by Niall’s harsh laughter.
“A good day’s work, Fergus. Ye’ve netted us two noble wildcats instead of just one. Aye, a good day, indeed. Laird Cuchullain shall be most pleased, especially with the daughter of Uther.” The coldness of his tone shivered Gyan’s spine. He leered at the women. “But this day isna over yet, my fine lasses.” To Fergus, he said, “Ready the prisoners for the next leg of the journey.”
Risking another jab, Gyan growled, “Where are you taking us?”
“Leave off with the spears!” Niall ordered. “Let the lady warrior keep her curiosity, for all the good it’ll be doing her.” He sauntered to Gyan. “I see nae reason for secrecy. Once Tanroc be secure, we march to Port Dhoo-Glass. Ye, my dear”—he caressed Gyan’s cheek with callused fingertips—“shall be my bait to draw out the forces of Urien, your betrothed.”
URIEN STUDIED Angusel as Bohort delivered his report of the Scotti invasion and the lad’s involvement. Angusel stood, shackled and unmoving, between Bohort and a guard. His right knee was swathed in a bandage. Save the rare flicker of pain, his face reflected the calm courage of the innocent. It was a most impressive act. And Urien was determined to strip off his mask.
“Why did you kill him, boy?” he demanded.
“I told you, sir. Because he was a spy.”
“That’s not good enough. You could have—should have—stayed hidden and let him live so that our own agents could monitor him. Angusel, I want to know what made you attack him.”
“Sir, I—” Angusel sucked in a deep breath. “Sir, I was furious at the herdsman’s betrayal. With the entire invasion force moving against Tanroc, I knew it couldn’t stand long. Believe me, sir, I was going to warn Tanroc and fight with them. With her.” He bit his lip.
“Gyanhumara?”
“Aye, sir. I wanted to, but then the herdsman came by, and I couldn’t move without being seen. So I waited to see what he would do. That’s when I saw him speak with the Scots.”
Angusel pounded his left fist against its companion leg. The chains jangled and bounced against the injured knee. A spasm creased his face. Bohort and the guard tightened their grip on his arms.
Quietly, Angusel continued, “I waited too long. And now she—she’s either captured or…”
“Dead,” Urien finished for him. “Which probably would have happened whether you had been there or not.”
Defiance flared in Angusel’s eyes, but the truth couldn’t be denied. “Aye, sir,” he whispered.
“What do we do with him, Tribune Urien?” asked Bohort.
“What, indeed?” Urien scrutinized his prisoner. “A pity there are no more druids on Mona to train him as a bard. This is the best performance I have ever seen. All it lacks is a harp.”
Up snapped Angusel’s head. “What do you mean, sir?”
“What I mean, boy, is that I think you’ve invented this spy nonsense to cover your real motive.” Urien’s eyes narrowed. “Revenge.”
“What!”
“Oh, yes. I remember that fight. That herdsman clouted you but good.” Urien saw a different face: a dusty one, scorched by shame. “You killed him to avenge the insult. And you confessed so readily because you thought I would swallow your ridiculous story.”
“But sir, it’s the truth!” His tone was shrill with desperation.
Anger mounting, Urien advanced to within an arm’s length of the lad. “Call me an idiot, do you?” He backhanded Angusel across the mouth.
He winced. “No, sir! But I—”
Urien silenced the protest with another blow. “Then where is this supposed payment? Or perhaps this bauble was something you merely found on the body after the fact?” He cocked his hand. Angusel didn’t flinch, but that didn’t convince Urien of his innocence. If anything, it was having the opposite effect. “So. Where did you hide it?”
Angusel refused to answer. Urien struck him again. Fury kindled in the gold-brown eyes, but no sound escaped the bloody lips.
“Very well. We’ll see if the rats can do a better job of loosening your tongue.” To the centurion, Urien said, “I have no more time for this murderer. I’ve got to organize the defenses before the Scots come screaming down our throats. Lock him up, and post a guard. Let me know when he’s ready to talk.”
A THOUSAND pairs of enemy feet pounded across the Manx countryside. Common folk fled in howling terror before the invaders and were ignored. The Scáthinach soldiers wasted no time at either of the two villages along the route. Their objective was to reach Port Dhoo-Glass as quickly as possible and lay siege by nightfall. On that mid-June day, it was not an unrealistic goal.
Morghe and Gyan marched with the rest of the soldiers, separated but unbound, each at the center of a heavily armed unit. No other prisoners traveled with the army.
Gyan was amazed at the courteous treatment she had been accorded. She had expected to be stripped of armor as well as sword upon her surrender at the monastery. Her distinctive belt had drawn several greedy stares, yet no one had touched it. Nor had anyone tried to remove the gold torcs from her neck and arms. From what little Gyan could see through the thicket of spears, it appeared Morghe was being treated equally well.
Gyan’s guardsmen made no attempt at conversation with each other or with their captive. She was grateful for their impassive silence, for it allowed her to sink undisturbed into her thoughts.
Her brave Brin had died a warrior’s death. Did this mean he would join the Old Ones in the Otherworld? Or was there a place for horses in the domain of the One God? She would have to ask Dafydd sometime, if their paths ever crossed in this life again.
The likelihood of her path crossing anyone’s seemed slim. Would she learn what had happened to Cynda? Or Angusel, who in a few months had become as dear as a brother?
And what of her father and brother and clansmen? Memories marched with her, mile upon dreary mile. Some of the strangest moments of her life chose to demand attention. Ogryvan bursting with pride as his six-year-old daughter hefted her first wooden practice sword. Cynda bandaging a scraped knee while delivering a scathing lecture to the nine-year-old Gyan on the dangers of scaling Arbroch’s walls. Per as a leggy lad of thirteen, howling with laughter as he sprinted away after smearing mud on his sister’s braids.
Through all this, her mind kept returning to the face of the only man who could help her. She clung to it as the drowning person clings to the log that drifts into reach. The reddish-gold-haired, sapphire-eyed image buoyed her spirits during the trek. But he was lounging in Ròmanach luxury, across a hundred miles of indifferent sea, ignorant of her plight. The hope of deliverance by Arthur’s hand was a vain one.
&n
bsp; Not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, she did neither. Past fought beside present to hold the future at bay. It was the only battlefield she could find.
Chapter 22
THAT EVENING, ARTHUR read the dispatch and swore, for two reasons. First, for being caught off guard by the Scots’ invasion of Maun. He honestly hadn’t believed Cuchullain would have attacked for at least another year, or he would have brought Morghe home. She and anyone else who wished to evacuate the island, although the person he was thinking of probably would never consent to turn her back on a fight. But no, Arthur reminded himself, the Scots hadn’t caught him completely unaware. He had sent reinforcements, just not enough.
The second reason for his frustration was that he had more than three thousand soldiers at his immediate disposal and nowhere near enough warships to transport them.
Arthur opened the door to the antechamber and thrust his head through. “Marcus,” he called to his aide. “Get me Merlin, and send someone to Camboglanna for Cai!” After a moment, he added, “Have Centurion Peredur report here too.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus thumped fist to breast and left.
Curse that murdering hound Cuchullain! Who did he think he was, sending half his fleet to attack Maun? And at night, no less. The dispatch didn’t say this outright, but it was the only plausible explanation that fit the timing of the report’s arrival.
The Laird of the Scots would have to be dealt a hard blow, and swiftly. But how? How?
Merlin arrived to find Arthur pacing like a caged beast. Arthur slapped the dispatch tablet into Merlin’s outstretched hand.
“Your opinion?” he asked as Merlin read the tablet.
Merlin’s lips thinned to a grim line. “They were fortunate to get the signal off.”
“Quite fortunate.” He didn’t bother to voice his concern that the beacon sites might be in enemy hands; capturing the high ground at earliest opportunity was a tactic he would have employed, one of the first tactics Merlin had taught him. “But I’ve got only nineteen ships here, and two of those are dry-docked. The rest, if they’re not on patrol, are on the Rigan and the Clyd.”