by Headlee, Kim
The door opened wide enough for a head to poke through, bearing the furious-looking face of Cynda. She launched into what had to be a tongue-lashing, first aimed at the one soldier, then the entire group. When she laid eyes on Arthur, she stopped and blinked once in obvious surprise. She bustled into the corridor, latched onto Arthur’s wrist, and pulled him through the doorway. Over her shoulder, she gave Bedwyr and the others a final admonishment, presumably along the lines of staying put until further notice.
Inside the antechamber, she imperiously pointed at the door—or rather, Arthur surmised, the door’s bolt. As he moved to secure the door, Cynda nodded sharply and turned to stride into the inner chamber without as much as a backward glance.
The grim mental images had not prepared him for the reality. Gyan lay stretched out on the bed amid a tumble of covers, clad in an ankle-length, undyed, sweat-stained undertunic. Bandages swathed her head and upper arm, and her breathing came in labored gasps. What he could see of her hair was darkened with sweat and pasted to her head. The throes of battle frenzy had never made her cheeks appear so flushed. Bands of grief constricted his heart.
To either side, each clasping one of her hands, sat Peredur and Angusel. Cynda busied herself at a long table, preparing a salve amid the clutter of tools and herbs. To Arthur’s immense relief, Niniane stood helping Cynda.
Gyan began moaning and arching her back. Peredur and Angusel tightened their grips. Her head thrashed from side to side, and she moaned louder. Niniane scurried forward with a wet cloth and swabbed Gyan’s cheeks and neck while Cynda immobilized her legs.
Arthur could only watch in morbid fascination. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself. This person on the bed wasn’t his dear wife. It had to be some other unfortunate woman—
“Artyr!” Eyes tightly closed, she wrenched her arm from Angusel’s grip and thrust it upward, fingers splayed. Her hoarse plea spurred Arthur to her side.
Angusel stood and backed away for Arthur to take his place. Her fingers tightened around Arthur’s with viselike strength. He tried stroking her hand and arm and face, whispering words of endearment, to no avail. In frustration, he glanced at the others, questing for answers, but they only shrugged and shook their heads. Gyan kept crying the Caledonian form of his name and pulling on his hand…just like a drowning person.
“Easy, Gyan. I’m here,” he murmured. Gently, he tugged on her hand, reasoning that if she were dreaming of drowning, this might bring her out of it. She clutched his hand harder, but the thrashing stopped. His hope grew. “That’s it, my love. I have you, and I’m not letting you go.” Never again! When she increased the force of her pulling, so did he.
Her body went limp. Alarmed, Arthur squeezed her hand and tugged, but she didn’t respond. He felt her neck for a pulse and groaned his relief when he found it, weak but steady. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her cheek. It felt clammy; a good sign, he reminded himself. The fever had broken. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her lips. Still no response.
“Gyan, where are you?” His whisper sounded as frayed as he felt. Losing to the assault of emotions, he laid his cheek against her chest, careful not to interfere with her breathing. “I need you so much—don’t leave me. Gyan, wake up!” Tears stung his eyes. “Please!”
WAKE UP? She was awake. Drowning but awake. Wasn’t she?
Her eyelids refused to budge. With effort, she willed them open. Luminous swords slaughtered the darkness. Pain assaulted her head, arm, shoulders, back. Mostly her head. She winced.
Shadows slowly gathered, resolving into a flock of worried faces: Per, Cynda, Angusel, Niniane…and the most precious sight this side of heaven.
A HAND touched Arthur’s hair gently. To the tune of the others’ gasps and signs, he raised his head to gaze at his wife.
Her eyes had opened, and her lips wore the smile he loved so well. He couldn’t kiss those sweet lips fast enough! His tongue entwined with hers, conducting its own reunion.
He nuzzled her neck, whispering, “God in heaven, Gyan, I thought I was going to lose you.”
She expelled a puff of breath that might have been a sigh or a laugh. “Can’t—” She coughed, cleared her throat, and swallowed. “Can’t be rid of me that easily.” Her voice sounded alarmingly hoarse.
He couldn’t help but smile at the courage a sickbed couldn’t conquer. “What makes you think I want to be rid of you?” He lifted her hand to his lips, certain she would be pleased by his decision, and bestowed a lavish kiss. “In fact, it’s time you return home. I will stay here until you’re well enough to travel.”
“What?” She ripped her hand from his grasp. Pain-hampered fury blazed across her face as she struggled to sit up. Niniane and Cynda tried to assist her, but she waved them off and completed the movement herself. “You’re ending my command here? All because of a little fall from my”—pressing her hand to her temple made her wince—“horse?” She gritted her teeth, but her glare didn’t dim.
“Yes.” Arthur stood. Never mind that his decision reflected sound military reasoning. Never mind that he would sooner lose his right arm than see her hurt like this. Never mind that he couldn’t endure one more moment’s separation from her. Wife or not, Caledonian nobility or not, she had no right to question his judgment. He said to Peredur, “You are to assume command of the Manx Cohort for the duration of the season, effective at once.”
“Understood.” Peredur glanced at Gyan and back at Arthur. “But are you sure it’s wise to—”
Arthur felt his brow tighten. A miracle these Caledonians owned a shred of battlefield discipline. However, since Peredur was only trying to safeguard his sister’s best interests—something Arthur would have done in the man’s place—he refrained from delivering a rebuke. “You have your orders, Centurion. Dismissed. Both of you,” he said to Angusel. They saluted and left the chamber.
GYAN COULDN’T believe what she’d heard. Though no easy task, she’d grown to enjoy the challenges of commanding one of Arthur’s units. To Cynda, she said quietly in Caledonaiche, “Please leave us. I have something I must discuss privately with my consort.”
“Oh, aye.” Cynda’s look, as she folded her arms and glanced at Arthur, could have curdled milk inside a cow. “I can just imagine.”
“It’s all right, Cynda. I’ll be fine.”
Cynda snorted and tossed another glance at Arthur. “It’s himself who should be worried.”
Indeed, Gyan thought, and not just from the wrath of Cynda. Arthur owed her plenty of explanations, but not in front of the prioress, either. She rephrased her request in Breatanaiche. Niniane glided toward the door.
Arthur intercepted her. “When can she travel, Prioress?”
Niniane gave Gyan a long appraisal. “Difficult to say, since she’s just awakened after two days. But—”
Gyan felt the blood drain from her face. “Your pardon, Prioress.” Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard. “Did you say two days?” It would explain why Arthur and Cynda and the others had looked so worried, why her voice sounded worse than a bear in heat, and why she felt like devouring an entire Lugnasadh feast.
Nodding, the prioress approached the bed and laid a cool hand on Gyan’s arm. “If you eat and rest well tonight, it will be much easier to determine when you’ll be recovered enough to endure the voyage.”
As if she were cargo to be hauled about! She held her peace; her quarrel wasn’t with the prioress. Niniane removed her hand and left the room.
After a final glance at Gyan, Cynda followed. The door swung to behind her.
Arthur stood facing the window. His hands clenched together behind that rod-stiff back. Corded muscles writhed beneath his skin. She got the distinct impression that he was waiting for her to speak.
She obliged him. “What gives you the right to order me about like one of your underlings in front of my clansmen?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Evidently, the same right that allows you to publicly question my judgment.”
“I question anything that doesn’t make sense.”
He faced her, his gaze alight with fiery intensity. “Just as you questioned my judgment to send you here, to protect you from further encounters with your enemy.” Your enemy. The words ground out from between his teeth.
He blamed her for Urien.
Biting her lip, she sorted through the events of the past year, certain she could have done something to diffuse Urien’s hostility.
Perhaps if she’d refused his suit at the outset…
No. He had always coveted Argyll lands. Besides, the treaty still would have obligated her to marry a Breatanach lord. If not for his arrogant insistence to show her off to Arthur…no, that wasn’t true. She had insisted on meeting Arthur, and Urien had been more than happy to arrange it. Either way, she never would have discovered her soul’s true mate.
And there he stood, silhouetted against the blazing golden sunset like a statue, cold and forbidding.
This shouldn’t be happening! They should be celebrating the passing of her fever, not facing off like blood enemies.
Her heart ached.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the softness of the pillows and, as much as it galled her, to Arthur’s logic. “I understand. You’re doing what you think is best for me.”
The swish of his cloak and the slap of his sandals on the tiles announced his approach. She caught a whiff of his leathery and altogether male scent and inhaled deeply. His lips brushed her throat, sending waves of tingles through her neck.
“Gyan, you don’t know what the thought of losing you does to me. Madness can’t even begin to describe it.” She opened her eyes to find his face a scant handbreadth from hers. “Of course, I want to protect you. I wish you wouldn’t put up a fight every time.”
She couldn’t resist the temptation to say, grinning, “But I like to fight.”
“I know.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I’d be stupid to waste your martial skills by forcing you to mind my hearth.” It was his turn to grin. “Even if I thought I could get away with it.”
“Ha. I’m glad you recognize the futility of trying.” If she’d possessed a fraction of her normal strength, she would have swatted his shoulder.
“I hope this isn’t futile.” His face hovered over hers, lips to lips and tongue to tongue.
A voice nagged her not to give in so easily, but she ignored it.
PRINCE ÆLFERD mounted the gallows, set his stance, planted hands on hips, and glared at the crowd. A gust chased a handful of dead leaves across his feet and flared his cloak. Behind him, the last of the rebellious Brædan thralls had become crow bait. Before him stood their countrymen, most looking sullen and uncowed. Ælferd’s troops surrounded them, weapons at the ready.
“Who shall be next?” His voice thundered across the town square. As it died, an eerie silence descended, broken only by the creaking of the ropes bearing their grisly burdens. He stabbed a finger toward a man in the front row. “You?” To Ælferd’s satisfaction, the man’s defiance melted into abject fear as the woman beside him tightened her grip on his waist. “You, then? Or you?” Ælferd’s other random targets displayed similar transformations.
He’d have hanged the bloody lot if not for the fact that he needed their brawn and skills to turn Anderceaster into a proper staging base. From his elevated position, the lack of progress evident in the half-completed barracks and armory and sheds and silos loomed painfully clear. Ælferd didn’t want to even contemplate the sorry state of the harbor defenses.
King Cissa wasn’t going to be pleased.
At least, the Brædan leaders would no longer be plaguing him, encouraging the others to damage the work by night and covertly fomenting rebellion by day. New leaders doubtless would arise, but he hoped this day’s example would brand their memories, because the next time he would execute the entire whore-spawned lot. Plenty of good Saxon folk in the Fatherland would leap at the chance to move to this verdant island, help him here at Anderceaster for a season, and settle rich steadings as reward for their efforts.
Ælferd stroked his chin. The idea had a lot of merit.
However, getting the word back to Saxony, recruiting volunteers, packing their belongings, and transporting them to Anderceaster would impose delays he could ill afford.
“Look to your necks, all of you!” He signaled to disperse the crowd.
Prodded by the soldiers, the Brædeas shuffled off to their various duties. Before long, the sounds of hammering and sawing, swearing and grunting penetrated the crisp autumn afternoon. Ælferd ordered the executioner to cut down the bodies and cast them, headless, into the sea. He gave a snort of derision as the executioner set to work. The collection rotting on the battlements revealed the only real progress he’d made during the last four months.
He departed the gallows and strode toward headquarters, ignoring the horsemen, wagons, people, and animals in the street, his thoughts immersed in the task of crafting a report for King Cissa. No matter how he might cloak the words, he couldn’t deny the truth. Because of supply problems and these gods-cursed rebellious Brædan thralls, it had become too late to mount an invasion of Maun this year.
“Aren’t you going to greet me?”
Ælferd halted, certain he’d dreamed the voice. He spun toward the sound, fully expecting to find no one there.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. His beloved Camilla slid from the back of her mare and rushed to meet him as fast as dignity allowed. Gods, what a heavenly vision, her golden hair flying about her head like a sunny nimbus, her smile a silvery crescent moon, her eyes twinkling like twin stars. He quickened his pace.
They clasped hands, and he raised hers to his lips, savoring their softness and rosy scent. He marveled that she could keep them so delectable after the countless hours she devoted to training with sword and seax. Magic, he decided with a grin.
“What are you doing here?” Too late, he realized how that might sound. “I mean, I’m delighted to see you, of course, but I—you never sent word!”
Her light laughter rescued him from making an even greater fool of himself. “Father”—she nodded over her shoulder toward King Ælle, walking toward them amid a knot of bodyguards—“and I have news.” Her face radiated joy. “Your uncle has agreed that we may wed!”
Ælferd’s first impulse was to sweep her up in his arms, spin her around, and kiss her until all the stars fell from the sky. Her father’s presence, however, restrained him to a wider grin, which disappeared as reality reasserted itself.
“Ælferd? Does this not please you?” she asked.
He couldn’t bear her stricken look. He kissed her hands again. “Of course, my beloved, but there is something you must know.” Upon ushering Camilla and her father into his private workroom and pouring a measure of wine for each of them, he proceeded to explain his failures.
“That is why,” he concluded with a sigh as he gazed into the bloodred ripples of his wine cup, “I believe my uncle will withdraw his permission for our union, Camilla.”
King Ælle cleared his throat. “You can’t do anything about poor harvests, lad, or supply ships lost at sea.”
Ælferd looked up, feeling bitterness well like bile in his throat. “But the thralls and their rebellion—”
“Defeated, is it not?” King Ælle asked.
“Yes, but the destruction, the delays—”
Ælle imperiously waved a hand. “Cissa will understand. I will see to that.” As Ælferd began to voice his relief, Ælle continued, “On one condition.”
“Name it, Your Majesty!” Ælferd would walk to the Orkneys barefoot and blindfolded if it meant Camilla would greet him at his journey’s end.
A sparkle lit Ælle’s eyes as he glanced first at his daughter, then at Ælferd. “Acquit yourself with honor on Maun next year. Claim it for your king, your people.” His smile deepened, and he saluted Ælferd with his goblet. “Our people.”
Maun. That word had become the most vulgar of epithets for him.
He shook off his apprehension and kissed Camilla’s hand. “For you, beloved, I will capture any island on earth.”
Or die trying.
A chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature shivered his spine.
Chapter 10
BRACED AGAINST THE rail at the stern of the Breatanach warship, Gyan watched Maun recede. A flock of gulls, hunting for handouts, provided noisy escort. It had been only a sennight since her accident, and her full strength hadn’t yet returned. In a few short hours, the ship would arrive at Caer Lugubalion, where she and Arthur could truly begin their lives together. Yet as she felt the wind blow salt spray against her face and through her hair, a part of her didn’t want to leave.
Per had insisted on accompanying her to legion headquarters rather than assuming command of the Manx Cohort. She frowned at the memory. After much persuasion, Arthur had granted Per’s request but refused when she’d reiterated her desire to remain on Maun. She told herself Arthur loved her too much to want to be separated from her any longer.
Perhaps if she repeated it often enough, she might begin to believe it.
The hollow thump of boots on deck planking broke her reverie, but she knew that stride and didn’t bother to turn around.
“Having second thoughts, dear sister?” Per said in Caledonaiche. An undercurrent of seriousness flowed through his tone. He joined her at the rail.
“A few.” No surprise that he’d sensed her mood, but she didn’t feel ready to divulge all the reasons to him. Or to herself. “I will miss the monks.”
Memories stirred of the men who’d been her tutors since the spring, some of whom had been the first to die for her in combat. They had possessed a quiet courage, not the maniacal frenzy of the Caledonach way yet just as strong. The magnitude of their sacrifice still filled her heart with awe. She also would miss Dafydd, who’d awakened within her a love for the One God and His Son the Christ. This was one thing she couldn’t tell her brother, who followed the Old Ones. Perhaps one day…