by Headlee, Kim
“That won’t be necessary, Lord Pendragon.” Gyan wrenched free of Urien’s grip and escaped.
After emerging from the kitchens with a newly filled pitcher, Angusel intercepted her at the door.
“Stay here. I—” His hurt-puppy look softened her heart. “Thank you, Angus. You’ve done well tonight. I appreciate it very much. I’m sure the others do too. I just need to be alone.” She squeezed his shoulder and gave him a nudge in the direction of the dais. “I’ll be all right.”
She hoped that wouldn’t prove to be a lie.
OBEDIENT TO Gyan’s command, Angusel refilled the flagons at the high table. Urien downed his at once, dragged the back of one hand across his mouth, belched, and demanded more. After similar performances by some of the other officers, Angusel’s supply was soon depleted. Trudging back for a refill, he wondered whether they even noticed his presence, never mind appreciating it.
He returned to discover that both Arthur and Urien were gone.
GYAN’S RESTLESSNESS prevented sleep. Nor did she even try. She stood in the antechamber, looking out over the harbor, which appeared purple-gray in the fading twilight.
She had made a true mess of everything.
Urien’s anger she couldn’t give a horse’s tail for. She was through with his disrespectful arrogance and would tell him so come morning, then return home to lead her people to war against Clan Móran, perhaps even all Dailriata. And the death and devastation would begin again, because of her accursed womanish selfishness and stupidity.
Having experienced combat firsthand, at least she would know what to expect, more or less. For, unlike the Scáthinaich, from Urien there would be no mercy.
And Arthur—if his glare had been any sharper, she would have bled to death all over the food. Refusing to speak with him had been an incredibly childish move. Her first glance at him upon entering the feast hall had told her that. If he never forgave her, she wouldn’t blame him.
But losing him would make life unbearable even without Urien at her side like a grinding-stone hanging around her neck.
She leaned against the stone framing the window, absently flicking flecks of mortar free with a fingernail, watching the bobbing points of light on the ships moored at the docks and anchored in the harbor. A cool evening breeze caressed her face but was of little comfort.
The door banged open. Hand to dagger, she whirled.
“Arthur.” The dagger stayed in its sheath. She folded her arms. “Don’t you believe in knocking?”
“Forgive me.” He slammed the door, took two paces into the room, and stopped. Fury blazed across his face. “I am unaccustomed to disobedience.”
An angry flush rose in her cheeks as her heart kicked into a canter. “And I am unaccustomed to being whistled for. Like a dog.” Fists to hips, she thrust out her chin in defiance.
“I do not whistle for anyone, Chieftainess. Nor do I issue summonses without reason. Furthermore, as my ally, you are obligated to answer to me. Contrary to what you may think.” The scowl darkened. “Why did you refuse?”
She tried to craft a suitable retort, but, confronted with his scalding wrath, her wits felt as soft as horse manure. So she settled on the truth.
“I could not bid you farewell in front of your men.”
“You couldn’t—God’s wounds, Gyanhumara!” He looked up, gritting his teeth. Much more quietly, he continued, “I have things to discuss with you, and all you can think about is yourself.”
Inwardly, she winced at the truth of his accusation. And here was the chance she craved: to be alone with him, a heartbeat from his arms, to confess her secret desires. Yet there he stood, unreadable except for the blue fire writhing in his eyes. That fire could mean anything. What if she was wrong about him? What if he only saw her as an ally—and a wayward one, at that?
Her instincts screamed caution. For once, she obeyed.
“What…things?”
“Good Lord, you mean I have to spell it out?” His surprise seemed genuine. Hope ignited in her breast. “I thought you were more perceptive than that.”
He stepped forward and pulled her into his crushing embrace. Her heart leaped from a canter to a gallop at the explosive meeting of their mouths. Joy surged anew with each beat. With Urien, such a kiss had made her feel like a pigeon in the talons of a falcon. Not so with Arthur! They were falcons together: conquering the clouds, racing the sun, mastering the winds. All her pent-up emotions burst free on the wings of that one kiss.
His fingers began tugging at the thongs holding her sword belt.
Reluctantly, she pushed away. “Arthur, no. Please. I can’t.”
“What do you mean, no? It’s what we both want.” Hands cradling her cheeks, he peered into her face. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes…” What in heaven’s name was she saying? “No! I mean, I—” She wanted him so achingly much! But not like this. Not while other matters remained unresolved. Biting her lip, she turned to the window, hoping the relentless rhythm of the sea could ease her torment. “You don’t understand.”
Behind her, he slipped his arms around her waist, clasping his hands over the bronze dragon. His cheek rested against hers. “I understand the implications when an àrd-banoigin”—he used the correct Caledonaiche phrase easily, to her amazement—“makes love with a man.” He kissed the side of her neck, below the ear. An ecstatic shudder scurried through her body. “But I don’t want you only because you’re wealthy,” he whispered. “Or beautiful. Or because marrying you will strengthen my alliance with the Caledonian Confederacy.” He ran his hands down her arms, going lightly over the bandage and bruises. “These reasons might satisfy another man. But even if you were none of those things, Gyanhumara, I would still love you.”
She felt her mouth curve into a smile as she faced him. Her hands slid up over his leather-clad chest to settle behind his head. He bent his face to hers. Their lips met slowly, tenderly. His hands found their way down her back to cup her buttocks, pulling her even closer as he deepened the kiss. Firm yet gentle, his touch sparked a flame so intense, she thought her heart would surely burn to a cinder. Every fiber of her being yearned for the fulfillment of her greatest desire: to claim Arthur as àrd-ceoigin according to the custom of the Caledonaich, to be his warrior and wife, his battle-leader and lover.
The face of her betrothed shoved its way into her mind’s eye.
She sighed. “Urien will provoke war. Against you as well as Argyll.”
“I know.” He began to explore the curve of her throat with his lips, drawing forth her murmur of pleasure in spite of her concerns. When he neared the base of her neck just above the torc, he paused. “Leave Clan Moray and Dalriada to me, Gyanhumara. My solution will eliminate the need for bloodshed.”
“Really, my lord?” said a new voice.
Startled, Arthur and Gyan turned and stepped apart. Urien stood in the open doorway, naked sword gleaming in his white-knuckled fist. The One God alone knew how much he had seen.
“I should be most interested to hear how you would solve our little dilemma.” Murderous rage flared across his face as he advanced into the room. “If you live to tell it.”
Arthur’s hand flashed to his left hip, where Caleberyllus should have been.
Urien laughed harshly. “Poor planning, Lord Pendragon. Where is that great sword of yours now?”
Chapter 29
GYAN WASN’T ABOUT to let Urien have the advantage. Before either man could move, she dived at Urien’s legs. Momentum carried her to the corner where the weapons stood, and she rolled to her feet. She snatched the long-bladed sword that she’d taken from a Scáthinach corpse to use against the dead man’s leader and tossed the sheathed blade to Arthur.
Urien flailed backward, trying to recover his stance. Arthur whipped out the sword, threw down the scabbard, and closed in. His swift and furious attack drove Urien back through the door. In the lamplit corridor, Urien lunged into a vicious counterattack.
Poised on the threshold, Gy
an wanted nothing more than to help Arthur slice Urien into crow bait. The short sword Arthur had given her during the battle burned in her palm. She couldn’t recall picking it up; her warrior’s heart was thrumming too loudly.
Yet she was honor-bound to ignore the persistent prompting. Whether Arthur realized it or not, he was engaged in the dubh-lann challenge of Urien’s right to become Àrd-Ceoigin of Clan Argyll. Gyan’s father had won her mother in this manner—although, by everything Gyan had heard, it hadn’t been much of a fight. But regardless of differing skill levels or armaments, Caledonach law decreed that only the dubh-lann combatants could affect the outcome. Evening Arthur’s chances with the loan of the sword was a violation she would never confess to anyone.
With bloodless knuckles, she gripped the short sword as she waged war against her battle fury and tried to concentrate upon the fight raging before her. Being taller, Arthur had the greater reach. Otherwise, the men were closely matched in skill, speed, and strength. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed watching the deadly poetry of the two swordmasters.
Fervently, she prayed for Arthur’s victory. The clause governing the dubh-lann overrode her legal right to select her consort, leaving her no choice but to accept the victor of this combat.
A lifetime with Urien would redefine the word “misery,” however short that lifetime might be.
The prophecy of the High Priest of Clan Argyll slammed into her mind, and she redoubled the urgency of her prayer.
The duel’s clamor brought guardsmen running from both ends of the corridor. Without explanation, Gyan forbade them from interfering and ordered them back to their posts. The men crowded into other doorways along the corridor. Though this wasn’t complete obedience, she was satisfied. She shouted a new command for them to prevent anyone else from getting in the way. The guards nodded their agreement. Two men edged away from the fight to secure the building’s entrance.
Both warriors were sweating and panting. Blood oozed from countless places where hard leather had yielded to the bite of steel, yet neither man would relent.
Urien made a low lunge. As Arthur tried to whirl clear, the blade tore a gash in his shield-side thigh. Gyan stared in shock as the injured leg collapsed and Arthur dropped to one knee.
Crowing triumphantly, Urien charged.
Arthur scrambled to a crouch. As Urien rushed in, swinging his sword overhead for the deathblow, Arthur sprang. The sword’s point sketched a cut across Urien’s forehead with lethal accuracy. Blood cascaded over his astonished face.
The blinded Boar of Móran roared with rage, trying to dash the blood from his eyes. Arthur struck away Urien’s sword, drove his shoulder into Urien’s chest, punched him in the gut, and shoved him onto the stone floor, pinning the heaving chest with his foot. The point of Arthur’s borrowed sword came to rest on his adversary’s throat.
All at once, Gyan wanted to laugh, cheer, and sigh with relief. Instead, she sheathed the short sword and grinned at Arthur, who was too busy trying to control his breathing to do much more than nod.
“Renounce your betrothal vow,” he said between breaths, “Urien map Dumarec of Clan Moray of Dalriada.” When Urien mumbled his reply, blood sprang from under the blade. “Louder, Tribune, so all may hear.”
“I said, I withdraw my claim to the hand of Gyanhumara, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll of Caledonia,” came the sullen response. “And may you never have a day’s happiness with her. My lord.”
“Don’t wager on that, Tribune.”
“What other treaty terms are you going to dissolve?” Urien’s sneer was grotesque through the bloody mask.
“A wise man does not deliver insults from the business end of a sword,” said Arthur coolly.
“And a wise man does not interfere in the affairs of others,” Urien retorted.
“You would do well to remember that yourself.” The deadly warning rang clear. Without removing the sword, Arthur continued, “Incidentally, the solution to our—little dilemma, as you put it, is for you to take the hand of my sister, Morghe.”
Urien laughed mirthlessly. “Have I a choice?”
“No.”
“Then I accept your gracious offer, Lord Pendragon.”
“Excellent decision. We will finalize the details later.” Arthur lifted the sword and took his foot from the chest of his future brother-by-law. Unassisted, Urien rolled to his feet, swiping at his bloody forehead with the back of one hand. “At Caer Lugubalion.”
“What?”
“I am recalling you to headquarters, effective immediately.”
Urien seemed taken aback by this development. “But who will take over here?”
“I will appoint someone. It is no longer your concern. You are dismissed. All of you,” he added to the guardsmen, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Back to your duties.”
When the corridor was clear, Arthur dropped the sword and lurched into Gyan’s arms.
URIEN STOPPED by the infirmary to have his head wound dressed. Fortunately, the attending physician was wise enough to refrain from asking questions, and Urien did not volunteer an explanation.
By the time he reached his quarters, his fury had cooled enough to permit rational thought. After stripping off boots and tunic and breeches, he sank onto the bed. But sleep was the last thing on his mind. He stretched out on his back, hands clasped behind his bandaged head. As he studied the age-darkened ceiling timbers in the glow from the room’s only lamp, he tried to pinpoint where his strategy had gone awry.
Why he had lost the swordfight was not difficult to explain. He had never sparred with Arthur before. The few times he had observed the Pendragon in one-on-one action had been in training situations with opponents of vastly inferior skill—including that accursed match Arthur had fought against Gyanhumara. If he had known then what was going to happen tonight, he’d have yielded to his impulse that day to run Arthur through, and dealt with the consequences later. But indulging in that fantasy did him no good. He railed at himself for committing the basic mistake of underestimating the enemy.
A second basic mistake came to mind: he had let his wrath blind him. Absent those two factors, he should have won the encounter, easily.
What he had ever done to drive Gyanhumara into Arthur’s arms remained a complete mystery.
Losing the duel didn’t rankle half as much as being forced to give up the woman. His plan to establish himself as overlord of Dalriada and Caledonia—and his bid for the Pendragonship itself—lay in ruins.
With one blow, he could have had it all! Now he had nothing. No Gyanhumara, no Argyll, no Caledonia, no command…probably no rank at all, for that matter. Nothing.
Rolling over, he caught sight of the bronze dragon brooch glaring up at him from its perch on the discarded leather tunic. He yanked it free, tried to crush it in his fist, and succeeded only in spearing his palm with the pin. As he sucked the bead of blood from the puncture, his other hand sent the brooch spinning across the floor. It hit the wall and careened into a corner. The jet eye chipped, but the dragon refused to break.
Urien shook his head in frustration, only to be rewarded by a stab of pain. He spat a stream of curses against Gyanhumara, Arthur, and the world in general. Finally, the pain abated. The curses did not.
And then there was Morghe: some consolation. Shutting his eyes, he tried to conjure her face. The one to heed his summons had emerald eyes framed by copper hair. That image would never be expunged.
Still, the thought of marrying Arthur’s youngest sister was not completely unpleasant. This new alliance would open avenues with Arthur’s other brothers-by-marriage, Loth of Dunpeldyr and Alain of Caer Alclyd.
Taking Morghe would not be a bad move at all.
But revenge upon Gyanhumara would have to proceed subtly, to make it appear as though Clan Argyll had provoked him. The seeds of a new plan were beginning to germinate, and the first idea to take root was a way to remove his father from the Seat of Moray. As chieftain, Urien could escape f
rom under Arthur’s thumb, free to develop and implement the details of his plan.
With Arthur supporting Gyanhumara, timing would be critical.
He could wait. A lifetime, if need be. The woad tattoo encircling his left wrist and the scar he would bear across his forehead were his assurances that he would never forget the humiliation he had been dealt at swordpoint this night.
ARTHUR’S ARM lay heavily across Gyan’s shoulders as she helped him along the deserted corridor to her quarters. His drawn face betrayed how much pain he was suffering, which he had hidden from Urien and the guards.
He could have met eternity on Urien’s blade. The stark realization echoed and reechoed in her brain, threatening to drive her mad. And he had risked that danger only for her, to set her free.
Inside the anteroom, they paused for Gyan to bolt the door. She returned to his side, and he embraced her.
“Let’s see to your leg first. Before you bleed to death on me.”
“What, from this? I’ve had worse. This is just a scratch.”
“Right.” She smiled briefly. “And I’m Iulius Caesar.”
“God, I hope not!” They resumed their hobbling pace toward the sleeping chamber.
Despite her concern for his condition, she chuckled. She made him sit on the bed while she locked the inner door and began hunting around the sparsely furnished chamber for something resembling a bandage.
“Here. Use this.”
Gyan turned. Arthur’s tunic lay in a heap on the floor at his feet, and he was holding out his scarlet linen undertunic. His tanned chest gleamed like living bronze in the soft lamplight, like an ancient god. But the netting of white scars crossed by crimson scratches belied the notion of immortality.
Yanking on the reins of her racing heart, she stepped forward to take the garment. While she tore strips from the undertunic, he removed his boots and, grimacing, eased off his leather leggings to expose the wound. Blood welled from the gash.
“You ought to get this looked at by a physician tonight,” she advised as she applied the bandages as tightly as she could. Rocking back on her heels, she locked her gaze to his. “Promise, Arthur?”