by Headlee, Kim
After dropping into the chair behind the work table, he reached for parchment, ink pot, and quill. And stopped before a single word hit the page.
“Well? Aren’t you going to recall the fleet?” Merlin laid the dispatch on the table and took his customary seat against the wall. “That seems like your best course of action to me.”
“Time is Cuchullain’s ally. I must find a way to change that.” Staring into the oil lamp’s flame, Arthur tried to formulate a solution using distance and time factors. He slowly shook his head. “It’s impossible. Even if my courier rides all night, Bedwyr can’t get his ships down here before late tomorrow afternoon, at best.”
“Which means that even if the troop boarding went all night without a hitch, you couldn’t engage the Scots until the following day.” Merlin’s gaze remained steady. “Barring inclement weather or any other problems.”
“Exactly.” Scowling, Arthur stood. The pacing resumed. “God alone knows what will have happened by then.”
And God alone knew what was happening to Morghe and Gyanhumara. Visualizing the worst was disturbingly easy. The current task was difficult enough without the distraction of a galloping imagination. He squelched private speculation about the fate of his sister. Banishing Gyanhumara from his mind was much harder, but he managed. Their lives, and the lives of everyone on Maun, might well depend upon the fruit of this night’s labor.
The bloody irony of it all was that he had prayed, more often than he could count, for one more chance to see Gyanhumara. If this relief operation was to be the answer to his prayer, God must have a bizarre sense of humor. But if anything were to happen to Gyanhumara or Morghe at the hands of the Scots, he would never forgive himself…or God.
“You could sail with as many troops as you can squeeze onto the seventeen ships,” suggested Merlin, “and have Bedwyr follow when he can with the rest.”
Arthur stopped at the window to brace both hands against the ledge and gaze at heaven’s vast ebony fabric. No clues glimmered there. Not that he was expecting to find any, but at present he would have accepted aid from any quarter.
“I don’t like the odds,” Arthur admitted. “Too many things could go wrong. If I have to use that plan, I will. But there must be a better solution.”
Merlin closed his eyes to the young warlord’s circling. The enticing aroma of baking fish from the praetorium’s kitchen floated in through the open window to become ensnared in Arthur’s whirlwind. So there was to be salmon for dinner this evening, Merlin mused. Salmon or…
“Herring!”
Arthur stopped in mid-stride. “What?”
“The herring fleet is at port. Why not commandeer the fishing boats to transport the rest of your troops?”
As Arthur considered the possible scenarios, he felt his lips stretch into a smile. “Cuchullain’s beachhead is probably on the western coast of Maun. With most of the army ashore, even if he’s left his entire fleet at the beachhead—which I doubt—the Scotti vessels should be minimally manned. Seventeen fully manned warships will be more than a match. Once the Scotti fleet is ours, the fishing boats can bring in the rest of our men. Bedwyr’s fleet should sail straight to Dhoo-Glass, in case Cuchullain has decided to blockade the port.” He clapped his cousin’s shoulders. “Merlin, you’re a genius!”
But Arthur’s elation vanished into the gaping maw of economic reality. “The fishermen will have to be compensated for the loss of at least a week’s income. Fifty boats…” His voice dropped into a bleak whisper as the excellent plan began to shipwreck. “My treasury can’t take that kind of strain.”
Merlin put a hand on Arthur’s forearm. “You can count on my help, of course.”
Arthur briefly smiled his gratitude. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d be forced to tap into Merlin’s vast personal wealth. And if the fortunes of war didn’t improve soon, he suspected it wouldn’t be the last time, either.
THE PENDRAGON’S summons came as Peredur was dictating the last of the weekly duty roster to the ala’s scribe. Per’s Breatanaiche had improved markedly since his arrival at legion headquarters, and he no longer needed the services of an interpreter, so these tedious but mandatory administrative chores weren’t taking as long to complete, thanks be to all the gods. But he had to admit that leadership in the Pendragon’s army carried certain advantages, and not all of them, he thought with a grin, were military in nature. The pretty lass who had volunteered to be his Breatanaiche tutor and occasionally shared his bed, for one. But he’d have traded the status and female companionship and everything else for just one chance to fight a real battle, instead of the mock fights against the other alae and centuries.
His only consolation was that Gyan’s daily routine, emphasizing scholarly rather than physical activities, had to be even more boring than his was. But if he knew his sister, she probably had found a way to turn her studies into a grand adventure and was having the best time of her life.
He dismissed his scribe, donned his cloak and badge, and set off for the praetorium. Of the reason for this summons, he hadn’t a clue. Seventh Ala had been performing well lately, so he ruled out a reprimand—but not so well that his unit deserved special recognition, either. A mission of some sort, then, perhaps a covert foray into enemy territory? There was an interesting idea; not as exciting as combat, of course, but far better than these endless drills. As he quickened the pace, his heart began to throb with eager anticipation.
The saluting praetorium gate guards brought to mind the first time he had visited there, months ago, with Gyan. Nothing much had changed, either in the strange style of furnishings or in his opinion of them. However, he knew better than to gawk in open-mouthed awe.
He turned down the corridor leading to the Pendragon’s workroom, as directed in the summons, found the right door, and pushed it open. A courier—one who was on his way out with a message, to judge by the freshness of his uniform and the spring in his step—was just leaving. They exchanged salutes. The centurion sitting behind the antechamber’s table looked up from his soft clay tablet, gave Per a nod of recognition, and pointed with his short, blunt iron writing tool toward the door leading to the inner chamber. Per gave a perfunctory tug on his battle-tunic, squared his shoulders, and went inside.
The Pendragon wasn’t alone. He was standing across the room, near the window, conversing with the garrison commander, the man called Merlin on the battlefield and Dubricius inside their temple. At the sound of Per’s entry, both men turned. While the Pendragon’s expression was unreadable, the warrior-priest gazed at Per with something approaching…sympathy?
Arthur acknowledged Per’s salute with a nod. “There’s no easy way to say this, Centurion. But you need to hear it from me, not the rumor mongers.” Per felt his eyebrows lower. “Maun has been invaded by the Scots.”
“What!” Per clamped his mouth shut, regretting the outburst and expecting a reprimand. Surprisingly, none came. Dreading what the answer might be, he asked, “And Gyan?”
Merlin spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “We don’t know, Peredur. We just found out about the invasion ourselves. The only thing we do know is the number of enemy ships.”
“Thirty,” Arthur said, as though sensing Per’s unspoken question.
“Gods! That’s more than a thousand men. And Maun has…” He ransacked his brain to recall the number Gyan had mentioned.
“Eight hundred.” The Pendragon’s expression became grim. “If they can make a unified stand. Which, at this point, I doubt.”
Per felt his heart begin to hammer its response to his kindling battle fury. He clenched his fists to retain control. “Sir, what do you mean, if—”
“We believe our forces had very little warning of the attack,” Merlin said quietly. “It’s a miracle they were able to alert us.”
Though no easy task, Per tried to curb his worry for Gyan; she wouldn’t approve, if she ever found out. If! That one tiny word raised image after terrible image of what his sister might be e
nduring as a victim of a surprise attack. He had to make sure she was all right!
Per saluted. “Lord Pendragon, I’ll ready my men at once.”
“No, Centurion,” he said. “You will not.”
Per’s jaw dropped open. “We aren’t going to relieve Maun?”
“I will.” Per didn’t like Arthur’s emphasis on the personal pronoun. “You—and your ala and the entire Horse Cohort—are staying here.”
“What? No! But I have to—” Unwilling to believe what he had heard, and not caring that his breach of discipline could earn him the lash, Per stalked up to Arthur. Arms folded and face stern, the Pendragon stood his ground. “Sir, you don’t understand. She’s my sister. You must take me with you!”
“He does understand, Peredur. All too well.” The warrior-priest approached Per to grip his shoulder. “His youngest sister is on Maun too.”
Per shrugged the hand away and kept glaring at Arthur. “Then you know why I have to go with the relief force. Sir.”
“Yes, I do,” Arthur said. “But on this mission, cavalry will be more of a hindrance than a help.”
“I can fight on foot just as well!”
“Centurion. You have a unit to command. I cannot—” The Pendragon’s vivid blue gaze intensified. “I will not start making exceptions for every soldier with a personal stake in the matter.” Uncrossing his arms to clasp his hands behind his back, Arthur faced the window. Whether he realized it or not, he was presenting Per with a sorely tempting target. “You must hate me for refusing your request.” His shoulders shifted in what might have been a slight shrug, or a sigh. “I don’t blame you.”
Hate him? Per inventoried his emotions and found anger in great abundance, along with frustration, disappointment, and a boatload of concern about Gyan’s fate. But no hatred. Arthur was only doing his job as he saw fit. If that meant leaving the cavalry behind, well, it was the Pendragon’s decision to make, whether Per agreed with it or not. His promise to Gyan bound him to serve Arthur to the best of his ability, and neither disobedience nor insubordination had a part in that vow. Besides, how could he hate the man his sister so deeply loved?
“Go with the gods, Lord Pendragon.” Arthur turned, and Per thrust out his sword hand. “And take good care of her.”
Clasping Per’s forearm, Arthur’s lips twitched in the barest of smiles. “I swear to you, Peredur mac Hymar, as God and Merlin are my witnesses: I will find Gyanhumara and defend her to my last breath.”
That Per could believe. But he couldn’t resist saying with a grin, “If she’s in any shape to fight, sir, she’ll be defending you.”
ARTHUR WITHDREW his hand. “Of that, Centurion, I have no doubt.” Once again, he saw Gyanhumara in her brother’s face, and despite his concern for her safety, he couldn’t suppress his answering smile.
For several seconds after Peredur’s departure, Arthur stared at the closed door, realizing that for the first time, he had ordered someone to do something he himself would not have been willing to do.
“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was full of concern. “Is something wrong?”
Arthur shook his head. The burden of leadership hadn’t felt this heavy since the day his father died, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone.
The door burst open, and Cai stormed into the room, dripping sweat from his wild ride from Camboglanna. The sight of his foster brother always buoyed Arthur’s spirits, no matter the circumstances. He greeted Cai with an arm grip and a thump on the back.
“What’s all the stir, Arthur? Rousting a man in the middle of the night like this?” Cai thrust out his lip in a parody of a pout. “And she was a sweet lass.”
“If she’s that good, you can go back to her later.” Cai was the only man Arthur knew for whom eating was secondary to sex. Yet Cai forgot even sex when there was a battle to fight. “And there should be plenty more like her where we’re going.”
“What? Where are we going?”
Grinning, Arthur asked, “My brother, how would you like to command a fishing fleet?”
THE FOLLOWING morning, well before sunrise, the Brytoni herring fleet appeared to be putting out to sea. In the hold of each boat crouched a score of soldiers. Cai, swathed in a sealskin wrap of the kind favored by fishermen, stood on the deck of the lead vessel to direct the movements of the fishing flotilla. Arthur and his warships sailed in their midst, the fleet’s customary blue leather sails exchanged for undyed sheets to conceal their presence from enemy lookouts. The total size of the relief force was more than sixteen hundred men. And once Bedwyr received word from Arthur’s courier, another four hundred troops would be mobilizing to join the operation and seal the victory.
NOT LONG after dawn, the clouds marshaled over Maun to assault the island with their misty moisture. It was the kind of rain that threatened to stay forever, to dampen the spirit as well as the body.
Wearing only the linen tunic and breeches she’d been captured in the day before, Morghe looked miserable. Gyan, dressed in her leather battle-gear, was not much better off.
Two hooded woolen cloaks were produced for the hostages. Morghe quickly wrapped herself in the cloak offered to her. Though the gooseflesh stood out on both bare arms in the chilly drizzle, Gyan refused.
“Why, Chieftainess?” Commander Fergus seemed genuinely confused by her reluctance.
“I am a warrior. A little cold rain does not disturb me.” In reality, she was determined to resist her captors as much as possible. Any victory, however small, was well worth the fight.
Morghe, huddled in her borrowed cloak, muttered, “Spare me.”
“Quiet,” Fergus rumbled. “Nae one gave ye leave to speak.” He thrust the garment at Gyan. “Ye shall put this on. Now.”
“No.”
“Lady, donna test my patience. Put it on yourself, or I shall have your guards do it for ye. And I guarantee they willna be gentle. I think they’ll like that verra much.” He smirked. “Mayhap you like it rough too.”
“Call them over. That’s the only way you’ll get me to wear that saddle blanket you call a cloak.”
As Gyan donned an insolent grin, murder flashed across the commander’s face. He poised his hand to strike. She gazed at him through unwavering, unrepentant eyes.
Evidently remembering his orders regarding the prisoners’ treatment, the Scáth relaxed his arm. He spun and motioned to the guards. Each man gripped one of Gyan’s arms while Fergus draped the cloak around her shoulders and settled the hood over her head.
“Much better. After all, we wouldna want Urien to think that ye’ve been mistreated, would we?”
“The thought had not occurred to me.”
“Indeed.”
In silence, he escorted Gyan across the camp, followed by the two soldiers. One man carried a coil of rope slung across his chest. Both walked with a spear at her back.
A sharp pounding punctuated the wet late-morning air. Gyan turned her head toward the sound but saw nothing in the immediate vicinity.
Fergus’s mustache twitched as his lips twisted into a wicked grin. “Ye shall find out about it soon enough, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”
The pounding grew louder as they approached the rear of the camp. Then silence. On the rise beyond the tents stood a platform made of pine logs. Another log, stripped of branches, stood upright in the center of the platform. The soldiers who had built the structure were trudging down the muddy embankment with their tools. Of the Scáthinach sentries Gyan had seen stationed on the ridge the night before, there was no sign. She presumed they had been withdrawn to the back slope.
Encouraged by the spear points, Gyan began the slick ascent, followed by her guards. When they reached the top, the soldiers hauled her onto the platform and shoved her against the stake.
“I always thought you Scáthinaich were madmen,” she growled as she was bound to the stake. “Now I have proof. Urien will never fall for such an obvious ploy.”
“We shall see. Comfortable, my dear?” Smirking, Fergus
reached behind her and jerked the hood away. The raindrops began to dot her face and hair. “Well, we canna let it look like ye be enjoying yourself out here.”
Commander Fergus and his men walked down the hill, their laughter muffled by the curtain of mist.
ABOARD THE Scotti warships rounding Maun’s northern tip, the soldiers seemed to ignore the approaching swarm of fishing boats. Perhaps they believed that anyone the fishermen might be able to warn would arrive far too late to prevent them from taking control of the island.
Squinting against the glare, Cai watched the more than two dozen Scotti vessels until the headland blocked his view. It wasn’t difficult to guess where they were going, hugging the coastline as closely as they were. But he did not signal Arthur for instructions. It mattered little if those fish got away; if all went according to Arthur’s plan, Bedwyr would be dealing with the Scotti fleet in Dhoo-Glass Harbor soon enough. Cai and Arthur were stalking a bigger catch, one that probably was entrenched at Tanroc.
Cai languidly licked his lips as the anchored Scotti ships bobbed into view. Only three; this was going to be easy. He gripped the fishing boat’s rail and grinned with fierce anticipation.
Arthur had ordered Cai to wait until the fishing fleet was in position to cut off the Scotti vessels’ escape. For a man of action, this was nigh unto impossible when there was real fighting to be done, not all this frolicking about in the water like a gaggle of silly children.
Finally, he judged the time to be right and ordered the hoisting of the red signal flag.
The herring boats dropped anchor. Arthur’s warships shot forward, oar-driven, to engulf the remnant of the enemy fleet.
THE SOAKING rain rendered the use of flaming arrows impossible for both sides. Arthur, however, had no intention of conquering the Scotti vessels by fire. He was more concerned with preserving as many of their warships as possible to swell the lines of his own fleet.