Morning's Journey (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 2)

by Headlee, Kim

  He let his ears tell him how successful the throw had been. A metallic thump meant a direct hit. If the javelin missed, the crowd’s cheers and jeers conveyed whether or not it had landed within one of the nested chalk circles.

  His cast fell short but landed inside the innermost circle. After correcting for the distance on his second attempt, he heard the javelin bounce off the soldier’s shield. As he began his third pass, his jubilation grew.

  He had given no thought to his opponent. After making his final toss, he looked up to see the other warrior beginning his third pass. Fitting four ovals onto the parade ground hadn’t left much room between the tracks. Still, if both horsemen rode carefully, they could pass each other without mishap.

  Angusel tightened his grip with knees as well as hands.

  The warriors had drawn abreast when the Bhreatan horse shied. Shouts rang out. Stonn reared and threw back his head, pawing and screaming. Angusel’s head collided with Stonn’s. His vision grew blacker by the heartbeat. He clung to consciousness as desperately as he clung to Stonn’s neck. He had to complete his round! His honor, and the honor of Clan Argyll and its chieftainess, depended on it.

  A shadow appeared before him. It might have been Rhys. Or another rider. Or a fence post or the gods alone knew what. Angusel squinted at the shape, fervently hoping for Rhys.

  Gods, how his head throbbed!

  Groaning, he braced against Stonn’s neck, stretching out his leaden arm. He felt the ring slide off and heard shouts and receding hoofbeats. His fingers went numb, and he lost his grip.

  He slammed to the ground. Darkness reigned.

  Chapter 3

  “ANGUSEL!” THE ANGUISHED cry tore from Gyan’s throat. Several inquisitive faces turned her way.

  She’d already thrown a leg over the rail before Arthur’s hand gripped her arm. “Gyan, no!”

  “Arthur, let me go.” Not a plea, but a command.

  The Pendragon did not obey. “It’s too dangerous down there.”

  “Ha. I took my first steps around wilder horses than these.”

  “For me, then. Please.” The last word barely reached her ears.

  Most of the horsemen eliminated in the earlier rounds still roamed the field, either astride their mounts or attending their needs as the final race ended. Guards strained to hold back the crowd. Other folk scurried about on foot: women dispensing food and water, lads running errands for the games marshals, medics toting bandages and ointments, grooms lugging armloads of fodder and pails of oats, drudges collecting spent javelins from the tracks. Anyone with even the remotest excuse had contrived to be on the parade ground.

  Reluctantly, she swung her leg back over the rail and called to a guard standing below her. “You, soldier! Order the medics to bring the injured Argyll horseman up here.” She silently prayed that Angusel hadn’t been badly hurt.

  The guard glanced at Arthur, who nodded tightly, lips pursed. The soldier thumped his leather-clad chest and departed to do Gyan’s bidding. She realized she’d trespassed upon her consort’s authority and flashed him an apologetic smile.

  After committing Angusel into the One God’s hands, she turned to discover Caius on the platform. His legion ceremonial uniform had been styled much like Arthur’s, in silver rather than gold, matching the silver dragon brooch pinned to his silver-bordered scarlet cloak.

  Fair of face and hair, broad of shoulder, sturdy of limb—and legendary in the bedchamber—she understood how so many women could fall under Caius’s spell.

  “Well come.” She offered her sword hand for the warriors’ armgrip. “My brother.”

  Caius grunted.

  She ignored his reluctance to clasp the blue woad Argyll Doves adorning her forearm. “Your men marched well, Caius.”

  “From what little you saw, Chieftainess”—the title came dangerously close to sounding like an insult—“how can you possibly make an assessment?”

  “Some manners would become you, Cai.” Bedwyr laid a hand on Caius’s shoulder, his glare charged with warning. Caius shrugged it off like a grouchy hawk in molt.

  For Arthur’s sake, Gyan strove to keep her tone pleasant. “An oversight I do regret, General, I assure you. I never would have believed a large body of foot soldiers could execute such complicated moves had I not seen it for myself.” Her smile rose on the wings of a pleasant memory. “This morning, my husband was most insistent.”

  If her use of Caius’s rank pleased him, he didn’t show it. “Aye,” he allowed. “Arthur is nothing if not insistent.”

  “And I insist, Cai,” said Arthur, quietly but firmly, “that you show more courtesy to my bride.”

  The two men locked gazes. Caius burst into laughter.

  “You two, what a pair!” Still chortling, he slapped Arthur’s shoulder. “Saints in heaven, preserve us all!”

  She failed to see the reason for Caius’s mirth, but Arthur shared the laugh as he reached for her hand.

  “Time to reward the victors, Gyan.” He signaled a boy holding four wreaths standing a respectful distance away. The lad marched forward to surrender them to Gyan and withdrew with a bow.

  Amid the chorus of cheers, three of the four Argyll horsemen cantered to the platform.

  Despite her anxiety for Argyll’s absent teammate, she couldn’t suppress the surge of pride for her clan’s victory. The winners received more than the traditional laurel crowns. To the throng’s obvious delight, she leaned over the rail to bestow upon the brow of each warrior a lavish kiss.

  A hand pulled her back from the rail. “He’s here,” Arthur said.

  She looked past him toward the far end of the platform, where two medics descended the steps and departed in opposite directions as fast as the crowd would allow. On the platform, crimson-and-green-banded sky-blue cloaks of Clan Alban swirled beside legion scarlet as several men stood in a semicircle. Ogryvan, Per, and Rhys dismounted and made their way toward the group, as did Ygraine and Morghe. From the back, Gyan recognized Merlin by his silver ceremonial uniform and balding, iron-gray head. The slender, white-robed figure at his side presented another welcome sight, although how Niniane, renowned physician and prioress of Rushen Priory, could have reached the platform so quickly from where she’d been standing with other members of the clergy was a miracle in itself.

  A thicket of legs concealed the object of everyone’s attention from Gyan’s view. She sensed rather than saw her consort’s presence as she neared and the group parted to admit them.

  Blood and dust masked Angusel’s face. More blood matted his curly black hair and spattered his battle-gear. If his chest moved beneath its leather shell, only a person with a falcon’s eyes could see it.

  “I’ve sent a medic to fetch my medicines, Your Grace, and another for water and bandages.” Niniane regarded Merlin, clutching her crucifix. “With this crowd, it may be some time before they return.”

  “Then we must do what we can for the lad, Prioress,” he said.

  With the ease of a man half his age, the warrior-priest sank to his knees beside Angusel. Niniane joined him. They loosened the thongs holding Angusel’s breastplate and pushed it aside. Angusel didn’t respond. His limbs might have belonged to a child’s rag doll.

  Morghe stooped to pick up the breastplate, clutching it possessively. A mixture of sadness and fear pooled in her violet eyes, totally at odds with the Morghe Gyan knew. Then she recalled that Angusel and Morghe had been close companions before he’d chosen to devote himself to Gyan’s service. Ygraine wrapped her arm around Morghe’s shoulders.

  A medic joined the group, water sloshing over the rim of his bucket and a bandage roll tucked under one arm. Prioress Niniane tore off a strip and dipped it in the water. While she swabbed the blood and grime from Angusel’s too-pale face, Merlin laid an ear to the sweaty undertunic pasted to Angusel’s chest.

  When Merlin lifted his head, his look wasn’t encouraging. “His heartbeat is weak and irregular.” Gyan’s hopes fell.

  “What more ca
n we do, Your Grace?” whispered Niniane as she gently wrapped Angusel’s bloody head. “Without my herbs and salves—”

  Merlin bowed his head and softly, in Ròmanaiche, began to pray. Niniane’s hand rested lightly on Angusel’s bandaged brow. She, too, bowed her head and added her treble voice to his chant.

  Caledonaich and Breatanaich alike moved to adopt an attitude of supplication. Morghe tightened her grip on Angusel’s breastplate and closed her eyes. Like Merlin and Niniane, most of the other Breatanaich—Arthur and Ygraine included—bowed heads and clasped hands together. Where room permitted, some knelt. The Caledonach way required eyes open, face turned skyward, arms outspread.

  Gyan scanned the heavens, but the God she sought reigned above the Caledonach pantheon.

  Earnestly, she begged the One God to heal her fallen comrade at whatever cost…even to the sacrifice of her life. She refused to contemplate how devastating his death would be to her.

  She heard a ragged gasp and glanced down, dashing away tears. Angusel’s chest rose and fell with a strong rhythm. His eyelids fluttered open. Slowly, he raised a hand to his temple and moaned.

  An image flashed to mind of a day several months earlier, when she’d seen a slave injure his back so badly that everyone believed he’d never walk again. After the intense prayers of his fellow Breatanaich, Rudd had limped from the accident site.

  Today’s results startled her no less.

  “It does work,” she murmured, in Breatanaiche, to no one in particular.

  “Indeed it does, Chieftainess.” The warrior-priest pushed to his feet, captured her hand, and gave it a pat. “If you have faith the size of but a mustard seed.”

  Merlin and Niniane stepped back into the circle of onlookers as Gyan dropped to one knee beside Angusel.

  “Did—did we win?” His Caledonaiche words sounded alarmingly weak.

  “Yes, Angus,” she answered in kind. Only then did she remember the fourth laurel crown, some of its leaves bruised by her fist. She pressed the fragrant wreath to his palm and closed his fingers around it. “You rode superbly. You have brought great honor to Argyll, to Alban, and to my consort and me.”

  He rewarded her praise with the crooked grin she’d come to love so well. Returning it, she silently thanked the One God for Angusel’s healing and vowed to discover the identity of the horseman who’d brought harm upon her sword-brother, though her heart presented but one choice.

  And the machaoduin would pay for his near-fatal mistake.

  URIEN FINISHED fastening his new bronze cavalry prefect’s brooch to his cloak and slipped its iron cousin into the pouch tied to Talarf’s saddlebow. “If anyone asks, Lucius was the second rider.” He kept his voice low, mindful that the games helm’s mouth slit amplified sounds, and glared at his teammates. “I rode fourth.”

  His men nodded, one with more vigor than the other two. Although the helms robbed identity, Urien knew the confident one. His clansman and longtime friend, Accolon, had done a commendable job of feigning trouble with his horse to set the stage for the accident. Of Accolon’s loyalty, Urien had no doubt.

  For the benefit of Lucius and Cato, Urien said, “The man who fails to remember this won’t live long enough to regret it.”

  With an angry jerk on the reins, the heir of Clan Moray wheeled his mount around and set heels to flanks. Talarf sprang toward the viewing platform, followed by the rest of the team.

  There she stood, the woman who should have been his: tall, proud, and as stunningly beautiful as on the wet October day he’d met her, clasping hands with the man who’d stolen her. After being forced to attend their wedding and nuptial feast, Urien thought he’d been exposed to all the pain he was ever going to feel. Seeing her again, though, like this…

  The heat under his helm wasn’t the only thing to rise, damn her.

  His gaze roved to the woman he would be marrying instead. In the last fortnight, Morghe had insinuated herself into Urien’s affections so thoroughly that the sight of her violet gown coyly draping her figure’s bewitching curves made him yearn for time to speed ahead to their own nuptials, and to the devil with Gyanhumara and Arthur and everyone else.

  To the devil, in fact, was exactly where Urien itched to send the Caledonian whore. Morghe’s proximity to Gyanhumara sparked an idea. He grinned behind the mask.

  “First Ala team,” said Arthur, “identify yourselves.”

  Urien’s leisurely compliance didn’t appear to irritate Arthur as much as he’d hoped it might.

  Gyanhumara stared at Urien, her face stripped of emotion. She might as well have been wearing a games helm.

  “First Ala team reporting as ordered,” Urien said. “Sir.”

  Executing a salute with enough enthusiasm to keep it from being construed as an insult required more precision than a cavalry drill, but Urien’s latest stint at headquarters had afforded many opportunities for practice.

  “Your team rode well today, Prefect,” Arthur began, cordially enough, though he chose not to employ the title “tribune,” Urien’s preferred manner of address. “However, I noticed the difficulty your second rider experienced in the final race.” His face transformed into a mask as rigid as the one tucked under Urien’s arm. “Who was he?”

  “Lucius, my lord.”

  “Is this true, Decurion?” asked Arthur sternly.

  “A-aye, sir. ’Twere an accident, Lord Pendragon. I swear!” Lucius twitched in his saddle under the Pendragon’s fierce scrutiny.

  “Your negligence could have cost your opponent his life. Decurion Lucius, you are banned from cavalry games for one year,” Arthur said.

  “Banned from—from games?” Lucius didn’t disguise his astonishment. I can still fight with First Ala, my lord?”

  “Of course. With no reduction of rank or pay.” Arthur’s countenance relaxed slightly. “You are far too valuable an asset to your unit. And to me.”

  Lucius responded with a salute and a look that, for all his attempted self-discipline, appeared decidedly grateful.

  “What says Chieftainess Gyanhumara?” Urien ignored Lucius’s gasp and stared at her. “Surely you would want something more done to the man who hurt your friend.”

  She exchanged a swift glance with Arthur, but whatever silent message passed between them, Urien couldn’t decipher it.

  “I support my consort’s decision.” Eclipsing her sword’s pommel with her fist, she spat the words through clenched teeth. “Angusel has taken no permanent harm. Luckily for you, Urien map Dumarec. Being the leader makes you responsible for the actions of everyone under you,” she snapped. “Good and bad alike.”

  Urien scarcely heard Arthur’s agreement or curt dismissal. He glared at the woman who’d caused all his problems.

  Somehow, he would break that iron pride of hers. Urien ran his tongue across his lips. Revenge would taste sweet, and like a prime vintage, he would savor each drop.

  BY THE time Arthur escaped from the dining hall, the moon had sailed high overhead. Gyan had made a sensible retreat much earlier. Part of him didn’t regret having spent time with his men, but the rest of him wished he’d chosen to accompany her.

  The statue of the Roman goddess Diana in the praetorium’s courtyard loomed before him. Moonlight transformed the water cascading from her jug into a silvery stream, and it glittered in the ripples around her feet. This chunk of marble had witnessed countless hours of Arthur’s time as a student, sometimes with Merlin at his side to lecture and rebuke and praise, but more often not. Arthur map Uther preferred the luxury of solitude.

  He wondered whether marriage would change that. Yet having Gyan for his partner made it a welcome prospect.

  As a boy, he had viewed the stone goddess as the perfect embodiment of womanhood. Every detail shone flawlessly beautiful, down to the neatly sculpted fingernails. When the first stirrings of manhood had come upon him, he’d found fleshly women to be somewhat less than perfect. Some, a lot less. More than once, the doubt had nagged him that he’d ever find
his own goddess on earth.

  In Gyan, that doubt never would trouble him again.

  “She is beautiful,” murmured a female voice. Arthur turned to see Ygraine gliding toward him. He noted with a flash of irritation that the guards had withdrawn from their posts, except the pair flanking the door, and they stood too far away to overhear a conversation conducted in normal tones. The teeth bared by Ygraine’s smile gleamed like moonlit pearls. “I haven’t forgotten how much a little privacy costs.”

  He snorted as an image of her and his father came to mind. Shoving it aside, he squelched the urge to reprimand her for bribing his guards. The men would hear from him soon enough.

  “Don’t be too hard on them, Arthur,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts. “They believe they’re doing us a favor.” As he glared at her under lowered eyebrows, her grin widened. “Your father used to get that same look whenever I did something like this.”

  He conceded with a sigh. Some battles weren’t worth the effort.

  Of the reasons Ygraine might seek private speech with him, he had a reasonable guess. Very little befell Clan Cwrnwyll without the consent of its chieftainess. After having grown to manhood in the fosterage of Cai’s late parents, Ectorius and Calpurnia, he felt less like Ygraine’s son than her liegeman.

  “If you are displeased because I didn’t consult you about my marriage—”

  She waved dismissively and gathered her skirts to settle onto the pool’s raised lip. “I gave you both my blessing yesterday, and I’m not of a mind to retract it now. Last night, Cai told me everything the bards couldn’t: that certain events rather…outpaced everyone.” She patted the lip beside her in an invitation. When Arthur shook his head, she chuckled softly. “Arthur map Uther, you are most definitely your father’s son.”

  Unsure whether she meant that as a compliment, he let it pass. “Did he also tell you that by the laws of Gyan’s people, we’ve been married for a fortnight already?”