by Headlee, Kim
“Ah.” The scene dissolved into amber ripples within the cup. Perhaps paradise existed only in dreams after all. Besides, with the Lord’s war raging on so many fronts—physical as well as spiritual—this was not the time to retreat. “You’ve called my bluff. I suppose you want an answer.”
“Of course.”
Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, silently praying for wisdom. “As your adviser, I would say that refusal to comply with this Picti custom will cause problems with Argyll. With their allies, perhaps. To what extent, I can’t foretell. It will depend on Gyanhumara’s reaction.”
Arthur nodded. “And as my kinsman?”
“That’s easy. Do whatever you think is best, given what your bishop and your adviser have told you. Just remember, you have to live with the consequences. And your wife.”
“Great, Merlin. Thanks a whole bloody lot.”
ARTHUR SAT at the table in his workroom in Caer Lugubalion’s praetorium, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand. But the scouting reports looked like so much gibberish. With a single irate motion, he swept them from sight. The persistent vision of Gyan’s face destroyed his concentration. Not the face as he had come to love it best, with a mischievous smile dancing on her lips and mirrored in her sparkling sea-green eyes, but the way he was sure it would look when he informed her of his decision about the tattoo.
The parchment leaves fluttered to the floor. His chair grated against the tiles. He stood, bent to scoop up the papers, dumped them on the table, and began pacing to work off his frustration.
It wasn’t the prospect of brooking Gyan’s anger that bothered Arthur but the reasons themselves. As much as he wanted to deny it, Merlin had been absolutely right.
The legacy of Uther’s final defeat at Dun Eidyn, at the hands of Colgrim and his Angli horde, was a decimated, demoralized army and the loss of an important eastern seaport and surrounding territory. Two years later, Arthur was just building up enough strength to begin balancing the scales. Yet he was still a long way from buying any kind of lasting peace for the folk he had sworn to defend. Two years and two major engagements weren’t enough to secure the level of universal loyalty and trust he would need to weather the displeasure of the Church.
The Caledonian Confederates were another unknown factor. Their horsemen increased his cavalry tenfold and played a vital role in his long-term strategic planning. If the Caledonians perceived his refusal to wear Argyll’s mark as a slight, they might well shatter the treaty and plunge him back to where he had started.
Worse, even. For it also would mean losing the woman he loved more than life itself.
An insistent knock pierced his thoughts. He stopped in front of the door and opened it.
Gyan stood on the threshold. Her joyful smile almost made him forget what he had to say. He beckoned her into the room, closed the door, and embraced her. But as hard as he tried, he knew his kiss lacked the fire she had come to expect.
She regarded him with a quizzical frown. “Artyr, what is it?”
“Before I tell you, I want you to promise me two things. First, no interruptions.”
She nodded. “And second?”
Her hair smelled like a rose garden. Covering her mouth with his, he was able to unearth some of his buried passion, but not enough to persuade him to abandon his duty.
“And second, Gyan, remember that I love you.”
He grieved to watch the emotions battle across her face as he explained his refusal to be tattooed with her clan-mark. But she honored her promise. Toward the end, she stared down at the emblem on her sword arm as it lay folded with its companion across her chest. Even after he had finished, she made no move to speak.
He was mentally girded for a fierce outburst; her silence sliced through his defenses. He slipped his fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him.
“Well?”
She shook herself free of his touch. “Wearing the clan-mark is the consort’s way of pledging fealty to the clan. To refuse is a grave insult.” Her voice was low and lethally sharp. “At best.”
“I know, Gyan.” She didn’t have to tell him what the worst might be. Those scenarios still stormed through his head. “You must believe I do not intend it as such.” Within the tough shell of the command nestled the earnest plea.
Her cold eyes searched his face. Finally, they seemed to thaw. “I do, Artyr. But my clansmen, my father—”
“There must be another way.”
“There is,” she replied without hesitation. “But as warrior to warrior, not as husband to wife.”
Chapter 32
THE CAER LUGUBALION mansio’s dimly intimate dining hall was much as Gyan remembered it from her springtime visit: slabs of salted pork swinging from the rafters, a thin haze wending from the kitchens to curl around the wealth of pitchers and flagons and trenchers scattered across the groaning tables. Her boots clicked on the tiles as she advanced into the hall.
The main difference was the size of the throng. In the spring, the mansio had been all but deserted. Today, the innkeeper and his helpers scurried everywhere like mice at a cheese-making to serve their parched and famished guests. There was not a single empty bench or chair to be found.
One group of patrons had abandoned the quest for seats to cluster, goblets in hand, near the cold hearth. Spirited laughter attested to the quantity of wine that had disappeared.
Gloriously adorned chieftains and chieftainesses, high-ranking clergy and legion officers, fur-robed merchants—a thief’s fondest dream in the flesh. And they all had been invited to Caer Lugubalion to see Gyan and Arthur’s Breatanach joining ceremony in the Church of St. John on the morrow.
She sincerely hoped they would not be disappointed.
On an intellectual level, she understood Arthur’s refusal to wear the Argyll Doves. She could not force him to blaspheme the One God any more than she could be tattooed with the Sun of Lord Annaomh. And the depth of Arthur’s love certainly wasn’t in question. Her lips still tingled from his most recent kiss.
Yet his passion couldn’t entirely heal the hurt. By rejecting the most sacred tradition of her people, in a sense he had rejected her. As ludicrous as it seemed, she was unable to dismiss the idea. And it stung like the tongue of a whip.
Motionless, she pondered the sea of faces. Caledonach clan rulers seemed content to break bread with their Breatanach peers, peacefully ignorant of Arthur’s decision. What would happen to this camaraderie once the news became public knowledge? Would these warriors exchange meat knives for longswords and sever the trust Arthur had worked so hard to build?
Not if the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll had any say.
The probable reactions of her clansmen worried her least. She was certain they would support her solution; the trick lay in winning her father’s agreement. No chieftain alive was more thoroughly steeped in Caledonach traditions than Ogryvan mac Glynnis of Clan Argyll. The One God alone knew how he was going to respond.
And Gyan was about to find out. Grinning, Ogryvan strode through the crowd. “Gyan, my lass!” If he had held her any tighter, he would have bruised her ribs. Her reunion with Per a sennight ago had been deeply heartfelt by both of them but not nearly as exuberant.
Ogryvan and the Argyll contingent had arrived at Caer Lugubalion less than an hour before. Gyan wished this reunion could have occurred under different circumstances; concern over the matter of Arthur’s clan-mark held her other emotions hostage. She strove to keep her tone light. “Father, please!” After returning his embrace, she pushed free and put hands to hips. “I’d like to be in one piece for my wedding night, if it’s all the same to you.”
That won a hearty chuckle. Then he seemed to notice her bandaged sword arm. “One piece, indeed. What’s this?”
“It’s my first war-wound, Father.” Despite the more serious thoughts on her mind, she grinned. “The man who did this to me was kind enough to give me my first trophy too.”
“I look forward to seeing it.” He hugged
her more gently, but not by much. “By all the gods, Gyan, it’s so good to see you! Arbroch has been too quiet without you and Per to stir up trouble.” Adopting an inquisitive look, he released his hold and glanced around. “I thought he’d be here to greet me too.”
“He’s practicing with the best riders of his unit for the cavalry games.” If her father heard the note of disappointment in her tone, he made no comment.
She had hoped to speak to Per about the issue of Arthur’s tattoo before Ogryvan’s arrival, but by the time she found him, he and his team were so intensely engaged in their drills that she couldn’t attract his attention. She understood the fervor; these games were to take place the day after the joining as part of the nuptial festivities, and obviously Per wanted his team to win and bring honor to his sister the bride. If, she thought bleakly, his sister was going to be the bride.
“The games, aye!” Arms crossed, Ogryvan’s look grew stern. “I was expecting Per to ride on my team.”
She felt her lips stretch into a rueful smile. “Then you’ll have to take that up with him, Father.” Smile dimming, she drew a breath. “But first there’s a matter I must discuss with you.” The tide of laughter-painted faces washed closer, and she lowered her voice. “Alone.”
LIKE THE dining hall, Ogryvan’s guest chambers in the mansio were quite familiar to Gyan. They boasted the same three chambers for talking, eating, and sleeping, the same plain but adequate furnishings, the same timber-ribbed whitewashed walls. But if the floor tiles had to take much more of her father’s furious pacing, they surely would begin to shatter.
“Gyan, this is appalling!” He glared down at her as she sat on the long, low couch. “Wearing the clan-mark to show allegiance is the consort’s most sacred duty.” He tapped the graying doves on his shield arm. “Not to mention the personal benefits.”
Common wisdom maintained that a tattoo blessed its owner with the virtues of the creature it portrayed. The Doves of Argyll represented grace and speed.
“I know, Father. So does Artyr. Do you think he would have agreed to my idea if he didn’t believe in its importance?” Speaking the words silenced the mental nagging, but she swallowed the sigh of relief. “Do you doubt his willingness to swear allegiance to me? Or to Argyll?”
“Not his willingness. Only the method.” He waved a finger in her face. “Urien map Dumarec never would have created a problem like this.”
“You’re right. Urien map Dumarec would have done anything in his power to secure Argyll lands, murder included.” She countered his stormy gaze with hers. “My consort is a man of principle.”
“Oh, principle, aye. The sort of principle that calls for disregarding the traditions of his wife’s people.”
His angry echo of her secret doubts wounded like a sword thrust, but she refused to show her hurt. Any sign of weakness would do no good for her cause or Arthur’s.
“Would you have him risk the wrath of his priests?” When her father hesitated, she forged on. “Of his God?”
With a noisy sigh, he dropped to the couch beside her. Clasping her hand, he seemed to engross himself in the study of the repeating pattern of her betrothal tattoo. His thoughts she could only guess. None of those guesses seemed very promising.
At last, he asked, “Would you consider taking another consort?”
“No!” She gentled her tone. “Father, my idea will work. It must work.” Her other hand covered his. “But only if I don’t have to present it to the High Priest by myself.”
“He didn’t come with us. Proclaimed himself too old for the journey.” He shook his head. “Despite my efforts to change his mind.”
“Then obtaining the blessing of his subordinate should be child’s play, if you’re with me in this.” She searched his eyes for some glimmer of agreement and found only sadness. “You are, aren’t you?”
“What you’ve suggested is so different.”
“How so, Father? Warriors—”
“Warriors, aye. But not an exalted heir-bearer and her consort.” He rose and helped her stand. “I know you need an answer, lass. And I wish I could give you one.” Mercifully, his hug was not a bone-crusher.
“I’m sorry, Gyan, but I must sleep on it.”
AT DAWN on the first day of the month named in Ròmanaiche to honor the greatest leader Ròm had ever known—the same leader whose plan to conquer Caledon had failed half a millennium before—a boisterously merry Argyll company rode to the appointed meeting place in the forest beyond Caer Lugubalion. Now and again, horsemen detached themselves from the formation, weapons at the ready, to frighten away flocks of overcurious Breatanaich. The Caledonaich of the other clans knew better than to try to follow but greeted the procession with hearty waves and broad smiles. The ritual bonding of the àrd-banoigin and the àrd-ceoigin was a joyous occasion meant for no eyes outside the clan.
Gyan, riding beside Arthur at the head of the procession, did not share her clansmen’s mood.
Ogryvan had left to oversee the formation of the company before she could speak to him about his decision. And she could scarcely bring up the subject now without having everyone else find out.
In any event, her course was set. But without her father’s support, she wondered if it would be doomed to failure.
Glancing at Arthur, she ventured a small smile. His silent answer warmed her like the sun. If only they could put this day behind them to enjoy the pleasures of each other’s company! The mere sight of him, so handsome in his freshly oiled and polished ceremonial gear astride the proud-stepping Macsen, almost gave wing to her doubts.
Almost.
The track veered into the denser reaches of the forest. A faint hum grew steadily louder, like the chorus of a hundred hives. The last time she had heard such a sound was on the day she received the Argyll clan-mark. Although this type of chanting no longer held any influence over her, she welcomed its familiarity and the pleasant memories it bred.
The large, round pause in the march of trees had been meticulously cleared of vegetation. Fresh knife slashes decorated the trunks of the oaks guarding the perimeter. Shaped into the symbols of the Old Ones, the carvings were reminiscent of those covering the stones ringing the Nemeton at Arbroch. This clearing had been selected to fulfill the same function.
A rough-hewn rock occupied the center of the clearing. Across its flat top lay the knives and needles for the morning’s work, winking brightly in a neat row beside the pot of woad dye. Small heaps of smoldering ash discharged aromatic gray tendrils. Circling the altar’s base was a thick braid of mistletoe and ivy.
“Who is to conduct the bonding?” Gyan asked, in Caledonaiche.
A man stepped forward. “The Master selected me to officiate this ceremony, Chieftainess.” Like the other priests, his face was lost in the shadows of his robe’s hood. But there was no mistaking the oily voice.
“Vergul. Well met.” She resisted the impulse to modulate her tone to match his. “This must be quite an honor for one so newly ordained.”
“Indeed. Although without the Sacred Flame”—he swept an arm toward the cold altar—“I would hardly call this a proper bonding.”
“I have made arrangements, Priest, to occur during the other ceremony.” She raised a hand to still his protest. “Since it’s forbidden to remove the Sacred Flame from the temple—”
“Except to carry it to the Nemeton,” another priest added.
Gyan nodded curtly. “This will have to suffice.”
Vergul answered with that vaguely mocking bow she had come to know so well. Straightening, he lifted both arms to command the attention of his audience.
“The Exalted Heir-Bearer will commence the bonding by accepting the mark of her consort.”
A swift glance at her father produced a wink and a nod. Flinging her arms around his neck, she balanced on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek, to the delighted surprise of the crowd.
Vergul was not amused. “Are you quite through with deviating from the ritual, Chieftaine
ss?”
With her smile, she tried to convey nothing but sweetness and innocence.
She knelt beside the altar and bared her shield arm to the rock. Another priest presented himself to perform the work. Under his cunning fingers, a blue dragon took shape. More details would be added in the days to come; for this ritual, only the dragon’s outline was drawn. Yet even if not another drop of dye touched her skin, the tattoo still would be impressive. Undulating curves spiraled around her forearm from wrist to elbow. At her request, the priest contrived to make the betrothal-mark seem like part of the dragon’s lashing tail. He knew his craft well.
When he was finished and Gyan regained her feet, Vergul reached for the wrist of the newly painted arm. He thrust it toward the brightening heavens.
“Be it known this day that Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar wears the sign of the Great Fire-Beast. No other clan in the ancient history of the Hard People has ever claimed this formidable creature for their symbol.” No trace of mockery warped Vergul’s tone. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, may the power of the Great Fire-Beast guard your days and lend you countless measures of its awesome strength.” The sneer returned. “And may you prove worthy of this singular honor.”
“No fear there, Vergul. I shall never dishonor the clan.”
“Let us hope not.” He turned to address the company. “The Exalted Heir-Begetter shall receive the Doves of Argyll.”
“No.” Over the gasps and shocked murmurs, Gyan said, “By the laws of his religion, he is forbidden to wear the Argyll clan-mark.”
“Blasphemy! There is only one true religion!” The other priests vehemently voiced their agreement.
“That is what my consort believes too.”
“Ah.” Grinning, Vergul rubbed his hands together. “And do you share this belief, Chieftainess?”
How could he know that she had forsworn the Old Ones for the One God and the Christ? Or was he only making a shrewd guess? Either way, she could ill afford to fuel his suspicions. Caledonach priests were notoriously intolerant of anything falling outside the bounds of their parochial definition of truth, and just as notoriously merciless when passing judgment.