Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  “That obviously didn’t sway Gyanhumara. Why should I feel any differently?”

  The smile vanished. “Gyanhumara is a ruler in her own right. You are not.”

  Simple, brutal, and the absolute truth. This reminder caused her to dislike Gyanhumara—and the culture that spawned her—all the more. To achieve status in man-dominated Brytoni society, Morghe would have to wed Urien or a lesser nobleman. Although she despised this rule by which she had to play, she despised even more her powerlessness to change it.

  She fingered her chin. Given the right marital circumstances, perhaps she might effect changes so that her daughters and daughters’ daughters wouldn’t have to struggle with this problem.

  And why settle for less power when more was ripe for the plucking?

  “Very well, Arthur. I will marry Urien.” When his smile returned, she held up a finger. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Get me off this God-forsaken Scotti steppingstone of an island!”

  “Consider it done.” He gave her one of his intense appraisals that always made her uneasy. “After you make a public appearance with Urien, for the announcement of your betrothal. He should be here soon, in fact, to escort you to the market square.”

  Morghe cast her gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, please. Is all that really necessary, Arthur?”

  “When have you ever known me to do anything that wasn’t necessary?”

  She laughed from sheer astonishment. “Exiling me here, for one thing.” When he didn’t reply, she pressed her advantage. “Letting me get captured by the Scots. Why, I was lucky they didn’t—”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Point taken.” He started to reach toward her, seemed to think better of it, and lowered his hands. “Morghe. I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this war. And I’m relieved you didn’t get—hurt. More than you may realize.” Glancing up momentarily, he sighed. “Putting you at risk was the last thing I ever wanted to do.” He extended a hand, palm up. “Can you forgive me?”

  For the surprise attack over which he’d had no control, yes. For her incarceration at the priory, no, but he didn’t need to know that distinction. She took his hand with a nod and a smile.

  After all, she lost nothing by casting this illusion of cooperation and could potentially gain much by it.

  URIEN STORMED down the corridor toward Morghe’s chamber. Sleep had done nothing to improve his temper; as tumultuous as his dreams had been, he doubted whether he had done much sleeping at all. But a lifetime of sleep couldn’t make him any less tired of doing the Pendragon’s bidding.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. Without thinking, he rubbed it and winced when his cut stung. He wished he hadn’t ripped off the bandage before leaving his quarters, but thanks to Arthur’s order, there was no time to remedy that.

  He found the right door and pounded on it. Beneath his fist, he pictured Arthur’s face. It helped dispel only a little frustration. From behind the door came an irritated-sounding voice that definitely was not Arthur’s. On principle, he pounded again.

  The door opened just wide enough for a scowling Morghe to poke out her head. “I said I was—” The scowl turned into a sly grin. “Well, well. Look what’s escaped from the dragon’s lair. He certainly got a claw on you, didn’t he?” She opened the door the rest of the way and motioned for him to enter.

  He snorted. Wondering why he had ever agreed to marry this irksome woman—and in the same breath recalling that he’d never had a choice—he shouldered past her into the room and faced her. “I’ve been ordered to escort you to the market square for Arthur’s announcement. So, if you’ll come with me—”

  Sauntering up to him, breasts jutting and hips swaying, Morghe made a sound of disapproval with her tongue. “Come now, Urien, is this any way to treat your wife-to-be?” Moistening her lips, she ran her fingertips up his arm, across his shoulder, and up his neck to his cheek. But despite the stirring in his loins, he resolved to remain stoic. The idea of becoming intimate with Arthur’s sister was too bizarre to contemplate. She took a step backward, crossed her arms, and frowned. “Well. I can see why Gyanhumara got rid of you. Arthur knows how to treat a woman.” The sly grin returned. “So I’ve heard.”

  Urien clenched his fist but, with effort, did not raise it. Punishing Morghe for her insolence was so tempting, so easy, and so very stupid. Arthur would dig out Urien’s heart with his bare hands and feed it to the ravens. He hoped a splash of honesty would cool her off. “Look, Morghe, I don’t want this union in its fullest sense. I can’t believe you do, either. All we need to do is display an act for your brother’s sake. You don’t even have to live at Dunadd.”

  “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Urien.” She moved in close and pressed her body against his, standing on tiptoe to reach behind his head. “I want to be your wife, at your side in Dunadd and everywhere.” Her lips parted invitingly as she pulled his face to hers. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. There was something enchanting about the lavender scent of her hair, with its earthy-sweet hint of another fragrance he couldn’t identify. His pulse quickened as she whispered, “I want everything you can give me.”

  As Urien wrapped his arms around her and covered her mouth with his, he couldn’t prevent himself from visualizing Gyanhumara. Then again, he could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of times Gyanhumara’s kisses had been this arousing. While Morghe could not hold a candle to Gyanhumara’s beauty, she was pretty in a darker way. Thank God she didn’t look like her brother.

  He had to admit being glad to have a properly bred and trained Brytoni wife with whom he would not be constantly competing. Morghe’s lust for knowledge was perplexing, but Urien could deal with that easily enough. Kissing her neck and enjoying the sound of her throaty sigh, he imagined how he would educate her in the art of lovemaking.

  But when he began to caress her breast, she wriggled free, flashing an apologetic smile. “My dear Urien, someone we both know will kill us if we miss his little gathering.” She didn’t need to mention the fact that if Urien succumbed to his overwhelming urge to make love to Morghe now—or at any time before they were wed—Arthur would kill him anyway. She combed her fingers through her hair and laid the hand against his cheek. It was warm and deliciously fragrant. “But I do thank you for giving me something to look forward to.”

  He clasped the hand and brought it to his lips. Her smile was one of pure delight. Another wave of lust jarred his body, more intense than anything he’d ever felt for any woman, Gyanhumara included. It took every scrap of will to hold that lust at bay, and every scrap of logic to keep remembering why.

  Gazing into her eyes, he noticed what an alluring shade of violet they were. “So have you, Morghe.” If last night someone had told him how he would be feeling this morning toward the sister of his hated rival, he’d have laughed himself sick. But this was nothing to laugh at. “So have you.”

  URIEN AND Morghe were waiting on the market square’s central stone platform when Arthur and Gyan arrived, trailed by Angusel. Morghe smiled at their approach.

  Gyan bade Angusel stay at the platform’s base. After she and Arthur mounted the platform, Urien gave Arthur a salute one step shy of blatant insubordination. Arthur didn’t bother to acknowledge it. Urien’s scowl looked even worse than usual beneath the long red line across his forehead. With effort, she ignored him. She would much rather have drawn her sword—left-handed, if need be—to finish the job her consort had begun. Arthur, she noted with a wry smile as she turned to face the townsfolk, positioned himself between her and Urien.

  The people seemed to greet Arthur’s announcement of the two couples’ marriage plans with unanimous approval.

  A shout rose from behind the crowd, in the direction of the Dhoo-Glass gates. “Make way!” A legion-uniformed horseman pulled his mount to a sliding stop to avoid plowing into anyone. “Make way for the messenger of General Cai!”

  An avenue formed. As the horseman appr
oached, Gyan stifled a gasp, not because of the messenger but because of who was riding behind him.

  “Cynda!” Gyan clutched her tunic, over her heart, as relief and happiness coursed through her.

  The messenger reined his mount at the platform, dismounted, and helped Cynda down. She stood where he set her, rubbing her backside as Gyan all but flew down the steps to greet her.

  Cynda’s tunic was rumpled and soot-smudged. A streak marked her brow. Her hair was a mass of tangles and smelled of smoke. Otherwise, she appeared to be unharmed. The smile that lit her face brought tears to Gyan’s eyes; it was the most precious sight she had ever seen.

  She drew Cynda into a long embrace.

  “Ach, Gyan, my dove…” Cynda returned the hug in a fierce, possessive way. “I feared I’d lost you.”

  This was exactly what Gyan was thinking, but she couldn’t voice it without the risk that the words turn into sobs. Instead, she whispered, “Not that easily.” Blinking away the tears, she offered a silent prayer of gratitude for Cynda’s safe return. Louder, she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, well enough, no thanks to those bloody Scáthinaich.” Cynda released her hold and fixed Gyan with an all-too-familiar appraising stare. “Better than yourself, it would seem.” She gestured at Gyan’s wounded arm. “You look as if you haven’t slept in a week. Don’t the stupid Breatanaich know what dulls pain?”

  Gyan had no concern that their allies might react to the insult, since she and Cynda were speaking in Caledonaiche. Morghe could understand them, but her reaction was even less of a concern. “The wound will mend. I haven’t slept a lot because”—she grinned—“Arthur became my consort last night.”

  “Ha, well, there’s another story you’ll never tell me, I’ll wager!” Cynda sobered. “Truth be told, his war-leader sent me here.” She jerked her thumb in Arthur’s direction.

  Gyan gazed up at him. There had been no time to issue such an order either last night or this morning, which meant he had to have done it sometime before the fight, the feast…and before they had confessed their love. As her smile widened, her heart pulsed with even greater love for him. His smile was brief but no less loving.

  “Report,” he ordered the soldier.

  Thumping fist to bronze-clad breast, the messenger began, “Tanroc and St. Padraic’s Isle are free, Lord Pendragon.”

  The crowd’s cheers flew heavenward. Arthur nodded.

  The messenger untied a canvas-wrapped parcel from his saddle horn and handed it to Gyan. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, General Cai sends his thanks. This was a great help.”

  “Casualties?” asked Arthur.

  “The original detachment lost eight horses and two hundred sixteen men in the first assault, sir.” The messenger drew a breath and let it out slowly. “The surviving soldiers were flogged, even the wounded.”

  Hand to mouth, Gyan gasped. Arthur said nothing, but his clenched jaw betrayed his fury.

  She asked, dreading the answer, “What of Centurion Elian?”

  “His right leg was crushed when a horse fell on him, my lady.” She felt her eyes widen. Had he been the one riding Brin? The soldier added, “He lost the leg, but he’s expected to recover.”

  Not even a ripple of sorrow touched Urien’s flinty face for the fate of his cousin, which angered Gyan but didn’t surprise her.

  Head bowed, she silently recited the Caledonach warrior’s lament and commended the souls of the fallen to the One God. For the wounded, especially Elian, she offered a special prayer for the healing of their bodies and their spirits.

  Continued the messenger, “General Cai’s cohort suffered thirty-four casualties. Fleet Commander Bedwyr lost no men. The wounded total one hundred thirteen. The fight to reoccupy Tanroc was brief. After spending their arrows, the Scots at the monastery surrendered.”

  “Cai is still at Tanroc?” Arthur asked.

  “Aye, my lord. Awaiting your instructions.”

  “First, Cai must select a contingent from his cohort to restore Tanroc to its original complement. Second, he is to appoint someone to serve as interim commander until the replacement arrives.”

  “Lord Pendragon,” began Urien, “may I ask who—”

  “No, Tribune. You may not.” To the messenger, Arthur said, “Finally, Cai is to take the remaining men, the Scotti prisoners, and any wounded fit to travel, and sail for Caer Lugubalion on the morrow. Repeat it.”

  And the man did, perfectly.

  Gyan left Cynda’s side to join her consort on the platform. “Arthur,” she whispered, “what of the captives?”

  “Cuchullain is the barbarian, not I.” The intensity of Arthur’s glare took on frightening proportions. “My prisoners will be treated exactly as their crimes warrant. But to take the battle to Cuchullain’s shores and expect to win, I need a second legion.” Though he kept his voice low, vehemence shaped each syllable. “One that doesn’t exist yet.” Gaze softening, he reached for her hand. “Gyan, I’m sorry. It’s Cuchullain I’m angry with. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  She understood all too well; captivity had taught her the frustration of being powerless to dispatch an enemy. “We will build up our forces and deal with that Scotti cù-puc when the time is right for us, mo laochan.” An irreverent thought occurred, one she hoped would cheer her consort. “I don’t know about Cuchullain’s language, but in mine his name sounds like ‘hound puppy.’”

  “I’ll remember that.” Chuckling, Arthur gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it. To the soldier, he said, “Get a fresh mount from the stables, and ride back to Tanroc at once.”

  The townsfolk began to disperse as the messenger saluted, collected the reins, and led his horse away. Urien stepped off the platform, Morghe on his arm, and headed back toward the fort without so much as a glance in Gyan’s direction.

  Gyan descended and gave the bag containing her battle trophy to Cynda. She said to Angusel, in Caledonaiche, “Please show Cynda to my quarters. I’ll be along soon.”

  As Angusel and Cynda left, Arthur joined Gyan below the platform. Few townsfolk remained in the square, but even if the place had been packed, Gyan wouldn’t have cared.

  “Thank you, Mel-Artyr,” she murmured, “for thinking of Cynda.”

  “I’m glad Cai was able to find her for you.” His eyebrows lowered. “What did you call me this time?”

  “Artyr. It’s your name in my birth tongue.”

  “I gathered that. But the other part—‘mal’?”

  “‘Mel.’ It means…” She reviewed the list of Breatanaiche and Ròmanaiche equivalents, examining each meaning like trying to decide what to wear. The Ròmanaiche word she selected could not convey all the nuances, but it came the closest. “Consort. The honored consort of the àrd-banoigin.”

  “A title, then. Sometimes I think I have too many.”

  A gentle smile tugged at her lips. “You don’t have to use it.” Not all àrd-ceoiginich changed their names to reflect this status; her father, for one. “It’s the consort’s choice. Receiving my clan-mark is a different matter, of course.” She caressed his shield arm, imagining the blue Argyll Doves soon to be winging across the bronzed flesh. “Mo laochan.”

  “God help me, Gyan. I love you so much!” Naked desire flared in his eyes. “Let’s get married right away.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “By Caledonian law, we already are.”

  “For our union to be legal in Brydein, it must be sanctified by the Church. Any child born too soon after the ceremony would not be considered legitimate. I was such a child. It has caused problems.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t inflict that fate on anyone.”

  Although she failed to understand a culture that didn’t recognize the inherent holiness of the soul-bond, she sensed that her consort’s concern was real—and this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Another matter, however, completely eluded her. “You must return to headquarters soon. And you still want me to stay here to lead the Manx Cohort?”
>
  “I don’t like it, either. But I like the alternatives much less.” His grin returned. “So, my love. Shall we go to St. Padraic’s and ask the abbot to conduct our ceremony?”

  The church at St. Padraic’s Monastery was…the Sanctuary of the Chalice! What had happened to it during the Scáthinach occupation? The messenger had only reported military details, as duty demanded. But what of Dafydd and his family, Father Lir, and the other monks? Gyan was smitten with a strong desire to find out, and not from the mouth of any messenger.

  Arthur was regarding her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t responded to his suggestion about a Breatanach joining ceremony. She did want to honor his people’s custom, but a difficulty occurred to her, as well as a solution.

  “We can’t, Artyr.” She softened the words with a smile. “That church is too small, and too remote. I imagine many people will want to attend, Caledonians as well as Brytons. After all, it’s not every day that the Pendragon of Brydein marries a Caledonian chieftainess. Caer Lugubalion would be best. The event will require planning, and we must allow time for folk to arrive, especially my clansmen, who will have the farthest to travel.” She searched his face for a sign of agreement and was a bit concerned when she didn’t find it. “That is, if my lord Pendragon believes the Manx Cohort can do without its commander for a fortnight.”

  His eyes lit with a vivid blue twinkle. “You, my lady,” he declared with mock reproach, “can be entirely too sensible.”

  Her smile deepened as he bent his face closer to hers. “One of us has to be,” she whispered. Their lips met, not with the blazing passion of the night before or the warm earnestness of the morning, but she still felt the full force of his love.

  Even with the sounds of the Dhoo-Glass marketplace clamoring in her ears, it was all she could do to keep her desire in check. One of them, she thought with an inward grin, had to be sensible, indeed.

  Chapter 31