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

by Headlee, Kim

“Three days ago.”

  She buried her forehead against his neck. His arms tightened about her, but that only intensified her sorrow. The Scáthinach invasion had broken Father Lir’s spirit and, ultimately, his heart. If anyone deserved to transcend the tears of this world, this gentle servant of the One God did. With a long blink and an even longer sigh, she gripped Arthur’s tunic and battled to keep grief from crippling her.

  “I suppose Brother Stefan has taken over?” she whispered, unwilling to dare a louder tone.

  Arthur released her and strode to his worktable. After thumbing through a stack of parchment, he pulled out a sheet, returned to Gyan, and handed it to her.

  As she read the message, written in precise Ròmanaiche with a neat, compact script, she guessed the author before reaching the signature.

  Confirmation prompted her smile. “Abbot Dafydd, now, is it?” she murmured, half to herself. “Good for him!”

  While this success never could erase the decade he and his family had spent in slavery to Clan Argyll, she hoped he was as happy with the appointment as she was for him.

  Arthur placed his hands on her waist. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “Very much. So Merlin and the other bishops have been invited to attend his investiture, but what about you? Will you join them?”

  “This is an ecclesiastical matter.”

  “Ha. You think I won’t attend the ceremony? They’d have to set an army around the church to keep me out! And it would do no good.” She felt her smile fade. “You won’t come even as an excuse to visit me?”

  He uttered a bark of laughter. “As if I need one.” His mouth descended upon hers, leaving no doubt as to the depth of his love. “Gyan, you know I cannot make promises that are too easy to break. But if I get the slightest opportunity to come to Maun, I will.” Again he kissed her, hotter and more lingeringly than before. “Go, my love, before I change my mind and give someone else the Manx command.”

  “I wish you would.” She laid a finger on his lips before he could speak. “I appreciate that you think highly of my leadership abilities, but…” Sighing, she dropped her gaze. His finger gently but firmly lifted her chin, and his earnest expression compelled her to continue. “Artyr, I am afraid.”

  “Of the Saxons?”

  She gave a contemptuous snort. “Of disappointing you.” Contempt gave way to concern. “And,” she whispered, “of my own men.”

  He already had made it clear to the cohort what the cost of disobedience would be, but Maun’s Clan Móran contingent couldn’t possibly be pleased with having a new commander who was Caledonach, a woman, and their future chieftain’s greatest enemy.

  “Clan politics have no place in my legion,” he growled. “All who fight under the Scarlet Dragon must answer to me.” His gaze softened. “I don’t like it, either, but I must watch Urien, and I want him as far away from you as possible.”

  “I wish we had another option.”

  “I could always send you back to Arbroch.” The sapphire twinkle in his eyes betrayed the tease.

  “Ha. And I could always take another swing at you.”

  Their laughter died, and she touched his cheek, imprinting its warm, smooth feel upon her palm. He pulled her hand away and kissed it. “I will support whatever course of action you take with the men. Be tough but fair, Gyan, and you’ll do just fine.”

  “I HOPE you are right,” Gyan murmured.

  Arthur hoped so too.

  After giving him one last kiss, she disengaged and left the chamber. Her departure ignited an acute burning in his chest, as if his heart had deserted him to accompany her.

  THE MANX Cohort’s obedience came reluctantly, and as Gyan had feared, respect was all but nonexistent. The former she didn’t hesitate to demand. The latter she’d have to earn, but with combat drills and the managing of the mundane activities around the fortress as her only tools, it promised to be an arduous journey.

  At the worktable in the anteroom of her private quarters, with the never-dwindling stacks of supply requisitions and unit reports piled about her, she was pondering the cohort’s morale problems when Cynda entered from the bedchamber. She approached Gyan, clutching a web-snarled broom in one fist and a small metal object in the other.

  “What do you make of this? I found it in a corner.”

  Like petals of a rose, Cynda’s fingers opened to reveal a bronze legion brooch encircled by a green-and-red enamel ring. Dried blood darkened the pin’s tip. The damage to the dragon’s jet eye gave it a half-lidded, dangerous expression.

  Its features pointed to only one owner.

  Into her mind’s eye sprang the terrible dream images that had plagued most of her nights since the last turning of the moon.

  “Gyan? You look as if a goose has trodden upon your grave.”

  She grimaced at Cynda’s unwittingly accurate word choice. Given half a chance, Urien would tread—nay, dance upon her grave.

  Setting her jaw, she pushed to her feet, glaring at the brooch. A warrior unable to face fear wasn’t fit for the rank.

  “Please pack it away.” No telling when such a trinket might prove useful, but if she never saw the accursed thing again, she’d count herself that much happier. She flung her clan mantle about her shoulders with feigned indifference, glad to secure a gold dragon to its folds, not a bronze one.

  “Where are you going?” Cynda trailed in Gyan’s wake as she stepped briskly toward the door.

  Gyan needed the larger working area and its unsurpassed harbor view, so moving to different chambers wasn’t an option. At present, however, even the eternally fiery caverns of ifrinn seemed preferable to Urien’s haunt.

  For Cynda’s sake, she stated, “Tanroc. To inspect the progress of the palisade’s repairs. I should be back before the evening meal.”

  An hour later, confronted with the sight of the thorn-hedged fort and its inner palisade’s charred remains, the Scáthinach invasion assaulted her in all its bloody detail. Standing clear of soldiers hauling wood and rubble, she closed her eyes. The clang of hammers and mallets evoked the clash of arms. Her memories intensified: the deaths of the monks, her capture, being forced to watch the slaughter of soldiers and common folk alike, the nauseating stench of burning flesh…and the seething frustration born of the powerlessness to prevent any of it.

  She clenched her fists, the nails digging into her palms.

  “Aunt Gyanhumara? Everything all right?” The male voice spoke in Breatanaiche.

  Aunt? She opened her eyes with a start and relaxed her hands. One of the workmen stood before her, soot smeared across his face so badly that she scarcely recognized him. The bone dragon pinned to his undyed tunic marked him as one of the legion’s foot soldiers.

  “I am fine, Gawain.” Odd to think of him as her sister-son-by-law, since they were of an age. The relation he shared with Arthur showed in his handsomely angled features. There the resemblance ended, for Gawain was shorter and stockier, his hair raven dark. “And it’s Commander Gyan, soldier.” She underscored her tease with a smile. “Back to work.”

  “Aye, Commander Gyan.” His grin assured her that one Breatan on this isle didn’t resent her authority, thanks be to the One God.

  Gawain saluted smartly. He bent over a massive unburned timber lying nearby and, grunting and straining, lifted one end to commence dragging it toward the pile of reusable timbers. She marveled at his strength, regretting the limitations of her female form.

  A Dhoo-Glass courier ran up, panting. Without preamble or salute, he thrust a rolled scrap of parchment toward her. She wordlessly accepted the message, hoping her glare conveyed the full measure of her displeasure. Discomfiture flashed across his face.

  She broke the seal to read the dispatch and quelled a groan. According to the Dhoo-Glass harbormaster, the horse-transport ship carrying the Tanroc centurion and cavalry reinforcements had been sighted offshore and was expected to dock within the hour.

  Exactly what I need: more Breatanaich who
have no desire to be commanded by a Caledonach. Or a woman.

  She crumpled the parchment and promptly wished she hadn’t. With seven of the eight Horse Cohort alae composed of Caledonaich, odds favored the replacements being her countrymen. Of the centurion, she felt less certain. Arthur probably had appointed someone he knew well, which would rule out the Caledonaich and potentially cause more trouble in the ranks. She sighed.

  “Orders, Commander?” A brief hesitation punctuated the courier’s use of her rank.

  She regarded the courier levelly. Orders, indeed. Longing for her husband competed with a twinge of bitterness. Arthur never would face the dual hurdles of race and gender.

  “Dismissed.” The junior officer rendered a passable salute and turned to leave. An idea occurred—not a strictly military one and perhaps not one Arthur would have employed, but she didn’t care. “Take your midday meal with the men here, if you wish, before returning to port.” She wanted no company on the ride back and no more witnesses to her meeting with the reinforcements than necessary.

  He nodded once and strode toward the mess tent, which was attracting more occupants as the shadows shortened and the work crews reached sensible stopping points. As she vaulted onto her horse and spurred the animal toward the hawthorn hedge wall’s main portal, she caught tantalizing whiffs of bread and roasted pork. Her stomach grumbled. She ignored it.

  Ten miles of brooding left her ill prepared for what awaited her at the Dhoo-Glass docks.

  The twoscore and ten Tanroc reinforcements had been culled from the best horse-warriors of Clan Argyll.

  As Rhys and Conall and the others streamed by, she welcomed each with words laced with heartfelt gladness. They greeted her with respect mixed with affection before swaggering toward shore.

  She felt a tug on her braid and whirled around.

  The offender stood before her, hands on hips and a cocky grin painted across his face. She threw her arms around his neck, blinking back tears and releasing a long sigh.

  “Missed me that much did you, dear sister?”

  She let him go and swiped at her eyes, returning his grin. “Beast!” She enjoyed using the familiar epithet, but reality blunted her smile. “Yes, I did. You, and”—she glanced over her shoulder at the last of their clansmen disappearing into the crowd arrayed between the wharfside storage buildings and merchants’ shops—“them.”

  Per clasped her hand. “And Artyr?”

  She turned her head, not to look at Per but beyond him, a hundred miles north and east. “Constantly,” she whispered.

  “He asked me to give you this.”

  Per lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a lingering kiss.

  Intense longing for her consort threatened to sunder her heart.

  Mercilessly, she reined in her emotions; the Breatanach soldiers would never come to respect her if they saw her in this condition.

  Drawing a determined breath, she thanked him and stepped back to inspect his appearance. Over traditional Caledonach black leather battle-gear he wore a woolen mantle woven of Clan Argyll’s deep blue highlighted with crossing bands of saffron and scarlet. A red-and-green-ringed copper brooch rode the cloak’s folds. Its dragon winked with a sapphire eye, Per’s due as an Argyll nobleman.

  “You have a new legion badge,” she said. To signify his status as an ala commander, the ring of his old badge had been red. Copper designated centurions—infantry, cavalry, and navy alike—but the presence of the dual colors could only mean, “Artyr put you in command of Tanroc?”

  “Who else? No Breatan could hope to keep Conall and the others in line.” He displayed the teasing grin she loved so well. “Your consort is smart enough to know it.”

  She answered him with her own smile. “And is my consort’s brother-by-law smart enough to recognize who’s in command here?”

  Per swept her an elaborate bow. “You have always ruled my heart. Why should this arrangement be any different?”

  “Beast!” As he straightened, she gave his shoulder a playful shove, and he chuckled.

  They stepped off the dock to make way for the dockhands reporting to unload the ship’s hold. Listening to the restless stomping and whickering of the horses, she wondered what else might be stowed in the belly of the huge cargo vessel.

  Before she could voice her question, Per said, “You look wonderful, Gyan.” Switching to Breatanaiche, he added, “Marriage favors you.”

  Without thinking, she also switched tongues. “So. I imagine Arthur told you…” She looked at him, astonished. “When did you learn Brytonic?”

  In Caledonaiche, he said, “All of us had to learn enough to get by. Cavalry commands, where to piss, how to get meat, ale, women—”

  “Peredur mac Hymar! You are terrible.” She laughed. “I wager you ran right out to test that newfound knowledge of yours.”

  “I didn’t have to run.” His smile deepened. “My tutor was quite pretty and willing.”

  “Ha!”

  “I never could keep secrets from you.” Draping an arm across her shoulders, he leaned closer. “But for her, I would have been bored out of my skin. Nothing but drills, drills, drills. New tactics, new formations, and new gear, like those saddle toe-loops.”

  “Hard to believe something so simple can help a horseman so much.” Gyan nodded pensively. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

  If the Caledonaich had possessed such devices, the Ròmanaich never would have troubled the Highlands.

  Nor would she have met her soul’s mate.

  “Aye, amazing wee things they are. And I cannot forget those backbreaking stints on wall and road repair—gods!” Hand to neck, he stretched as though reliving a particularly painful event. “You have seen all the real action this summer.”

  “Ha.” She rolled her eyes as they trod the path their clansmen had taken. “If you expect to escape repairs, think again. Tanroc’s palisade is far from being finished. Not for lack of effort, either.”

  “Tanroc’s palisade can wait.” Per paused at the tavern’s door. “Care to join me? The salty air has given me a powerful thirst. Besides, now that we’re not caught up in bondings and joining ceremonies and cavalry games and the like, I want to hear about your battle.” His gentle elbow found her ribs. “According to the latest tales, you stand ten feet tall, wear three skulls for a headdress, and wield a firebrand for a sword.”

  “Indeed! I don’t know where people come up with these stories.”

  “It’s the stuff legends are made of, Gyan.” His abrupt seriousness banished the teasing banter.

  “Me? A legend? Ha! You need that drink, Per.” She tugged on his tunic sleeve. “The sun and sea have addled your wits.”

  He pulled open the door, and she stepped inside to a chorus of shouts and cheers. Her clansmen, grinning through foam-flecked mustaches and beards, raised flagons in salute.

  “You planned this!”

  “What of it? They are here and so are we. Go on in, Gyan.” Per gave her a nudge. “They have saved us some seats.”

  Indeed they had, she observed with wry amusement, in the center of the gathering.

  Conall called for her story of the Scáthinach invasion. The rest escalated the chant, punctuated by the drumming of fists upon tabletops, until the noise threatened to blow the timbers from the tavern’s roof. Gyan shot her brother a teasing I’ll-get-you-for-this-later look and stood. Silence descended.

  “Tavernkeeper,” she called, in Breatanaiche. “Please bring out the jars. Another round for everyone.” Her upraised hand forestalled the cheers. “One round while I tell you my tale, mo ghaisgich.” My heroes. And she meant it. “Then it’s to work.”

  Good-natured groans melted into grunts of pleasure as the ale went around.

  In Breatanaiche, the words rushed forth: her capture by the Scáthinaich, imprisonment on the rainy ridge, rescue by Arthur, the ensuing battle, the wound inflicted upon her by General Niall, and that duel’s final result. The story unfolded easier than she’d expected, perha
ps because in a month’s time she’d gained enough distance from the harrowing events.

  “And you may see the Scotti cù-puc,” she concluded after the roaring approval had died, grinning at the association of Niall with the impossible offspring of a hound and a pig, “when you report to my workroom for your assignments. Now, to the quartermaster with you.”

  She shook her head at Per when he rose to join the men. He sat again, and they watched the tavern empty.

  The proprietor scurried over with a jar of his best wine, demonstrating a remarkable memory for her preferences. She hadn’t returned to this establishment since the day, months ago, when she had first begun to understand the depth of her folly in becoming Urien’s betrothed.

  Gyan accepted the wine with thanks and downed the first cupful in one breath.

  “You didn’t talk about the other fight,” Per said quietly, in Caledonaiche.

  She didn’t believe Arthur would have mentioned his duel with Urien but wasn’t surprised that Per had found out. “I’ll defer to the storytellers,” she answered, also switching to Caledonaiche.

  “But you were there?”

  “Oh, yes.” Closing her eyes, she relived that whirlwind night, when at swordpoint Arthur had challenged Urien’s right to become Àrd-Ceoigin of Clan Argyll. For the first time, she felt the full impact of how many lives had ridden on the outcome. Gyan’s people, and Urien’s, and Arthur’s army, and those who depended upon the army for aid in peacetime and in war. “But I was too nervous about who was going to win. I don’t remember many details,” she confessed. “Let it grow with the retelling. There is no harm in it.”

  “Not for Artyr, and no mistake.” He gripped her shield arm over her consort’s dragon tattoo. “He is a good man, Gyan. But Urien…”

  She sighed, staring into her empty cup, half expecting to see Urien’s face leering back. “I suppose this was Artyr’s idea. To give me extra protection.”

  “What, sending some of our clansmen to Maun? In a way, it was. He gave me leave to select my men.”

  She debated whether to be irritated that Arthur seemed to think she couldn’t take care of herself or grateful for his considerate actions. She opted for the latter. Thinking about him heightened the ache of their separation, but the harder she tried to clutch pleasant memories, the quicker her thoughts returned to the enemy of everyone she held dear.