by Headlee, Kim
“If my lord and lady will pardon me,” she heard Dafydd murmur, “I shall leave you two alone. You are welcome to join us when you’re ready. The feast should continue for quite some time.”
She pulled away from Arthur long enough to thank Dafydd, which he acknowledged with a smile and a nod. He sketched a blessing and reached for the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him as he left.
Arthur lifted her off the floor to carry her up the stairs.
She laughed, wrapping her arms about his neck. “I think I can make it by myself, Artyr.”
Passion smoldered in the steely depths of his eyes. “The abbot had his plans for this reunion, and I have mine.” He kicked open the bedchamber door, laid her on the bed, bolted the door, and joined her.
“But the other guests—”
“Are staying at Port Dhoo-Glass, where they’ll board their ships on the morrow.”
“Part of the plan?”
“A well-received suggestion.”
She bit her lip and frowned, hating her next question. “Will you be leaving in the morning, too?”
“Only if my lady so commands it.”
She buried her fingers in his hair, guiding his head closer. “I think you know your lady won’t be doing any such thing.” Before he could reply, she pressed her lips to his.
He untied the laces of her gown. She had not bothered using a breastband, since the bodice performed the same function. Now, she was doubly thankful for that decision. He worked the gown off her shoulders, kissing each newly bared patch of flesh. Tingles scurried through her body. Easing her arms free of the gown, she murmured her pleasure as his fingers reacquainted themselves with her breasts, and her nipples reacquainted themselves with the discipline of standing at attention under his gentle but commanding touch. The crackling flames of desire made it difficult to think rationally, but before she could yield, she needed to learn one thing more.
“What about my cohort? They will think something has happened to me if I don’t return as expected.”
“Your brother is in command at Dhoo-Glass. He sends his love.”
“What! Per knew, too?”
Arthur’s widening grin gave the only confirmation she needed.
Per’s repayment would have to wait. Arthur’s didn’t. She reached behind her head, freed the pillow, and swatted her consort. Laughing, he snatched another pillow to retaliate, and they battled like children until feathers burst free and flew everywhere. Still chuckling, he called for a truce.
“The great Pendragon surrenders so quickly?” she teased, brushing feathers from his hair.
“Only to the worthiest of his adversaries.” Although light, his tone held no trace of mockery.
“You haven’t heard my terms.”
“Which are?”
“That you never leave my side.” She held her fingers to his lips to hush his inevitable protest. “I know we both have duties and”—she tried her best not to think of the man who kept wedging between them—“other reasons that render the fulfillment of these terms impossible. For now. So here is what I propose.” She tugged off his leather tunic and linen undertunic, and lay back onto the feather-strewn coverlet, drawing him down beside her and delighting in the feel of his chest muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. “That we make the best possible use of the time we’ve been given.”
“Fair enough.” He removed his leggings and, with her help, worked her gown the rest of the way off. Grinning, he started caressing her inner thigh in that soft, circling pattern she enjoyed, especially when his fingertips strayed over her tingling banasròn. She hitched her hips to convince him to linger in that spot. “More than fair,” he whispered. As he leaned over to kiss her, his touch quickened and deepened, setting her upon the journey toward ultimate ecstasy. “And if we have a child?”
With one hand, she reached behind his head to lower his mouth to hers. She tugged at his loincloth’s knot with the other. He pulled back to regard her expectantly. “I will deal with having a child when I must, Artyr.”
The knot yielded, and she guided him toward fulfilling her most immediate and urgent need.
ASIDE FROM their frequent lovemaking, she and Arthur spent countless hours together talking, sometimes in the privacy of their chamber in the guest cottage but more often while strolling about the monastery’s compound or sitting in a reading room on the upper floor of the library.
In this latter retreat, he began honoring his promise to help nurture her faith.
“Battles? Campaigns?” She peered at the stack of bound parchment leaves illuminated by a splash of late-afternoon sunlight, not bothering to hide her incredulity. “What have those to do with faith in the One God?”
“For the ancient Hebrews, plenty. For us, too.” Arthur flipped through the stack. Finally, he tapped a Ròmanaiche passage. “Start here.”
The battle she read about seemed as improbable as the concept of men striding across deep water without a bridge: a battle against tens of thousands, won by three hundred men recruited because of the way they drank water. She squinted at the text, looking for places that had been rubbed out and copied over, different handwriting styles, large gaps, or letters too close together. She found nothing of the sort. Surely, someone at some time in the manuscript’s history had misrepresented the size of this force. Three thousand she could believe, not three hundred, and she said so.
“Unusual tactics,” Arthur agreed. “But a small, elite unit stands a much better chance of slipping past sentries, which may not have been very many, owing to the apparent overconfidence of the enemy. Gideon’s men attacked at night, when the enemy troops were no doubt sleeping the most soundly. They used sudden noise and light to create the illusion that far more Hebrews had infiltrated the camp. Perhaps the enemy troops were drunk, which would account for their turning against one another. The most important thing to remember”—Arthur looked up from the parchment to capture Gyan’s gaze—“is that Gideon trusted God to make good on His promise of victory. God didn’t fight Gideon’s battle for him but gave him and his men the strength and courage and wits and confidence they needed to defeat the enemy by themselves.”
She nodded slowly. “Explained like that, Gideon’s story makes a lot more sense.”
“Explained like that, one might believe that Gideon and his men had won under their own power, rather than by Almighty God’s sovereign decree.” Brother Stefan darkened the archway, leaning on his cane as a warrior might lean on his sword between bouts. “Did Bishop Dubricius teach you that interpretation, Lord Pendragon?”
Gyan felt her consort bristle, and she gripped his arm. “Please forgive Brother Stefan, Arthur. Being master of students—”
“Gives him no right to intrude upon a private conversation between those who are not his students.” Before Gyan could diffuse the situation, Arthur said, eyes narrowed, “Bishop Dubricius taught me how to think for myself.”
Stefan gave Arthur a conciliatory nod. “I’m sure that serves you well”—his eyes glinted like obsidian chips—“on the battlefield.”
The tendons of Arthur’s forearm writhed beneath her fingertips as he clenched and released his fist. “It serves me well everywhere.”
“Perhaps,” said the monk. “But I suggest you keep to your battlefields, Lord Pendragon, and leave divine matters to the theologians.”
Gyan said, with as much sweetness as she could muster, “Brother Stefan is right. Battles are what you and I excel at, my love.” She cocked an eyebrow at the monk. “But I believe we can all agree that Gideon’s God is a good ally to have, on or off the battlefield.”
“Aptly put, Chieftainess,” conceded Stefan with a slight bow.
He plowed through the knot of students that had gathered to witness the exchange, brandishing his cane to herd them back to their studies like a shepherd with a wayward flock. Only after Stefan and the others had gone did Arthur visibly relax.
She caressed his sword-side forearm. “Brother Stefan is always like that,�
� she whispered. “Pay him no mind.”
“I won’t.” Arthur laid his hand atop hers, a grin slowly dawning. “But if you ever lead a ridiculously high-risk operation like Gideon’s, you had best pray for divine help to explain it to me.”
Their laughter ended in the meeting of their lips.
GYAN AND Arthur were resting in the monastery’s orchard as the glowing afternoon retreated before the dusk. He lay with his head in her lap, eyes closed and looking peaceful. She sat with her back braced against an apple tree, facing west. A half-eaten apple nestled in her palm as she watched the cloud-shrouded sun stain the sky with vibrant reds, golds, and salmons as though igniting a wall of fire.
She glanced down and ran her fingers lightly through Arthur’s sunset-colored hair, wishing their idyll wouldn’t have to end.
The sound of a distant shout drew her attention.
“Ifrinn fuileachdach!” she whispered. It was the Caledonaiche version of an epithet her consort might have chosen: bloody hell.
A ship was closing fast upon the island. A warship.
Chapter 7
ARTHUR SCRAMBLED TO his feet. He gave Gyan a hand up, and they scanned the western horizon.
“Scotti?” she asked. The vessel’s shape and direction of origin fit the guess, but she recalled that several Scáthinach-built vessels sailed in the Breatanach fleet, thanks to Bedwyr’s salvage efforts. Only by its sail could they be certain of the ship’s allegiance.
Arthur seemed to be having similar trouble. The sun had broken through the clouds, and he tilted his hand to shade his eyes, swearing under his breath.
“One of ours,” he said at last.
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed.”
She had no idea how long Paradise had lasted for Adam and Eve, but for her and Arthur, it had been only three days. She looked at the apple clenched in her fist, sighed, and flung it away. It collided with the trunk of a nearby tree with a resounding thud that shook more fruit from the boughs.
Arthur caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Let’s hear the message before we leap to conclusions, my love.”
The tide of her resentment rising, she yanked her hand free. “An order, Lord Pendragon?”
“Common sense.”
He strode toward the gate in the monastery’s wall that led to the western beach, giving her no choice but to follow or stay.
Curiosity reigned over stubbornness.
By the time she’d picked her way down the steep, sand-slick stairs to the beach, the warship had ground onto the sandbar. Foam-laced water swirled about Arthur’s knees as he awaited the messenger—a Caledonach, by his battle-gear, whom she didn’t recognize. The man waded through the shallows with a grim sense of purpose etched across his face. Arthur returned the messenger’s salute with a nod and held out his hand to receive the leather-wrapped parcel.
Behind Arthur’s back, she couldn’t begin to guess the message’s contents until his shoulders tightened, his head snapped up, and he faced her with an expression as grim as the messenger’s had been.
Her stomach knotted.
“Gyan, I must leave.” He turned to the messenger. “Optio Dileas, have two men report to the monastery’s guesthouse to retrieve my gear. The rest of the oarsmen are to report to Tanroc’s garrison commander for temporary reassignment. Tell Commander Conall I need twoscore soldiers to man the oars for my return voyage. I don’t have time to write a dispatch.” Arthur unpinned his cloak, yanked it from his shoulders, and slapped the gold dragon onto the messenger’s palm. “I will send Conall’s men back and recall the others within a week. Have one of the replacements return my badge.” He cast a glance at the disappearing sun. “I want to be under way before full dark.”
Dileas saluted with the fist that clutched the cloak-pin. “I will return it personally, my lord.”
“Good.” Arthur returned the salute. “Now, move!”
As the messenger began relaying the orders to the men, who’d been watching the exchange from the near rail, Arthur waded onto the beach and stormed up the stairs, his cloak draped over one arm and snapping like a battle banner.
Gyan broke into a run to catch him in the orchard, latched onto his arm, and pulled him around. “What is it, Artyr?”
She had never seen him look so furious. “A severe discipline problem at headquarters.” As their gazes held, his expression softened. “Beyond that, for your sake, please don’t ask.”
She had intended to honor his request when its strangeness hit her. The only army problem having anything to do with her would involve her clansmen and…
“Urien.” She spat the name like a mouthful of brine. “What did that machaoduin do this time?”
“What did you call him?”
“You might say ‘illegitimus.’ Machaoduin is much worse. What did he do?”
“In either language, it fits, then. He meted out an undeserved punishment. The soldier almost died.”
Hand to mouth, Gyan gasped. “Who?”
“Mathan of Fifth Ala.” Arthur’s neck tendons writhed. “The unit is threatening rebellion. Merlin is doing what he can to prevent it, but he needs my help.” He resumed his pace.
Like his namesake the bear, Mathan of Clan Argyll was better known for his brawn and quick temper than his wits, a deadly combination with Urien to bait him. “What did Mathan do?”
“When I get to headquarters, I will find out.”
“I must go with you.”
He said nothing. Upon reaching the guesthouse, he mounted its steps two at a time, dragged open the door, followed her into the building, and slammed the door behind them. He slung his cloak over one shoulder and faced her, feet planted and arms crossed.
“You will not.”
“What?” She felt her eyebrows lower. “Who do you think you are, Artyr mac Ygrayna, to even try to stop me?”
“Your commanding officer.” He snatched the cloak from his shoulder and stomped up the stairs, his boots smacking wetly against the planking.
Commanding officer, indeed!
Fury blazing, she chased him into their bedchamber, stopping in front of the chest containing his personal effects.
“First and foremost, you are my consort. That makes you answerable to me.” She folded her arms and did not quench her glare. “Whether you like it or not.”
He tossed the cloak onto the chest’s lid and gripped her shoulders. “Mathan is my clansman now, too. If you prefer, think of it as your consort handling the matter on your behalf.”
“Ha.” She wrenched free of his grip to plant her hands on her hips. “This is one matter I would prefer to handle myself.”
“By killing Urien? Setting Moray and Argyll at each other’s throats? Getting yourself, your kin, and God knows how many others killed in the process?” He shook his head, reaching for her hands. “You know this is the response Urien wants.” He searched her face.
She knew, and hated the knowing. Because knowing bred logic, and logic had to be heeded, else chaos would result.
Heartily, she wished for the freedom to act on gut instinct and let the chaos tend to itself.
A sound halfway between a scream and a growl passed her lips, and she stepped forward to bury her head against his chest, shutting her eyes against the stinging tears. Her clansman had been flogged nearly to death. Others stood poised for insurrection. The One God alone knew what that would do to Arthur’s army and the people that army protected.
All this misery because she, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, had refused to marry the man to whom she first had been betrothed. A mad dog couldn’t be held responsible for his fever-driven reactions, but its handler could be.
She doubted whether she could ever bring Urien map Dumarec to heel.
How many others would fall victim to his rabid attacks? How much more innocent blood would drip from his hands to spatter hers?
The tightening of Arthur’s arms about her shattered the dam holding her emotions in check. He stroked her hair, murmuri
ng words of comfort and endearment. Sobbing against his shoulder, she clung to him as if he were the only lifeline to her sanity.
She swiped at her face with a tunic sleeve, donning the best smile she could manage. “The One God be with you, Artyr. I pray He will guide you to deal with Urien in the most appropriate”—and severest—“way.”
“So do I, my love.”
He kissed the backs of her hands and released them to cup her face, covering her mouth with his.
When they parted, however, she felt compelled to say, “If Urien does something like this again, I will deal with him.” She felt the full force of conviction leap to life in her gaze. “My way.”
“PERMISSION FOR the Pendragon and his party to come aboard, sir?” called Dileas to the warship’s captain.
“Permission granted!”
Arthur boarded the warship amid the taut salutes and even tauter expressions of the replacement crew, trailed by Dileas and the men lugging his chest. As he accepted his badge from Dileas with a word of thanks and donned his cloak, he wished for the luxury to dispose of Urien in Gyan’s way. But as satisfying as that might be in the short term, it would buy far more trouble than he or Gyan or their two nations could ever afford.
The men who had rowed the warship to Maun stood in the shallows, arrayed on both sides of the prow, palms to the hull, awaiting the captain’s signal to shove the vessel clear of the sandbar.
Gyan stood on the bluff above them, her form awash in the light shed by the torch she clutched in one fist. The other held Braonshaffir aloft. As the captain shouted the command and the warship scraped free of its sandy mooring, Arthur drew Caleberyllus to return Gyan’s farewell.
No torture he could devise would come remotely close to the punishment Urien deserved.
Except, he mused with the barest of smiles, perhaps one thing.
It would have to wait, however, until Arthur got all the facts from Merlin, from Mathan’s ala commander, and from Mathan himself.
He sat atop his chest where it had been stowed in the stern. Leaning back against a tall crate, he drew his cloak about him and glumly watched the men pull him farther from his beloved bride.