by Headlee, Kim
IN ANGUISH, Badulf watched another man fall beneath the sentry’s spear before his sword became too busy trying to save his own skin. Hoarsely, he bellowed retreat, fervently praying that his surviving men could hear him.
He broke away from the skirmish line. As he lumbered across the meadow, with the enemies’ pursuit thundering in his ears, he drank hope from the sight that some of the others had escaped.
THE REMAINING Angli warriors bolted for the woods.
No! They have no right! I want them all dead around me!
As Dwras began to follow, something snagged his heel. He glanced down and laughed. A fallen raider was feebly attempting to hinder his pursuit. Smirking, he raised his sword for the finishing blow.
The man blurted a single word that sounded a lot like…
Mercy.
He pressed the sword to the wounded warrior’s throat. The captive looked up at him through pain-hazed yet hopeful eyes.
Mercy?
Talya had begged for mercy. Had this man’s companions shown mercy to her or Gwydion or the others? Would they have shown mercy to him, had they found him alive that night? Or tonight? Fresh hatred gusted through him. Did this Angli dog deserve what had been denied to Dwras’s loved ones?
Could this be the man who had murdered Talya and Gwydion?
He stared at his enemy’s grimy, blood-smeared face, racking his brains for the tiniest trace of recollection.
But it had been so dark, and the warrior had struck so quickly…Dwras abandoned the effort. Proof or no, it mattered naught. If this man hadn’t killed them, another Angli warrior had. By heaven, he, Dwras map Gwyn, would make them pay! Every last stinking fatherless son!
He tightened his grip. The captive’s eyes squeezed shut.
I like your spirit. The memory of that voice surged forth as real as if the Pendragon were standing beside him, ankle-deep in the icy mud and gore. I would like to put it to better use.
Surely there could be no better purpose than to help Arthur rid Brydein of these Angli vermin.
Yet he couldn’t forget the fathomless compassion welling in those eyes. When Chieftain Loth had been prepared to pass sentence, Arthur the Pendragon had bestowed mercy.
The man at his feet lay wounded, unarmed, and helpless. Killing him would make Dwras no better than his family’s murderers.
So be it. He cocked his sword.
Talya never would have approved.
“No!” Stiffness seized Dwras’s newly healed shoulder as he flung the weapon away. Arcing across the sky, the sword flashed golden in the sun’s first rays before plunging into a clump of heather.
Conflicting emotions collided within him. Feeling faint, he cast about for something on which to brace himself, but no tree or boulder or building stood close enough. He bent double, hands to trembling knees, panting. His gaze fell upon the warrior he’d spared, who was regarding him with tearful gratitude. Dwras’s vision misted.
His mind’s eye beheld his beloved wife standing before him, not—thank God—as on that fatal night, but smiling broadly, arms outstretched in loving welcome. How he ached for her touch! For the assurance that she’d forgiven him for failing to protect her and Gwydion—and for the ability to forgive himself. Face in hands, he dropped to his knees, heedless of the slushy chill soaking his leggings, his shoulders shaking from the force of his sobs.
Invisible warmth enveloped him in tingling waves. After his salty well had run dry and the warmth dissipated, he inventoried his emotions, amazed to find that his rage and hatred and frustration had yielded to new sensations of lightness, of cleansing, of deliverance. And forgiveness.
“Well done, Dwras map Gwyn!” A hand clapped his shoulder. Wiping his eyes, Dwras scrambled to his feet to gape at the grinning unit commander. “Or should I say, Dwras Gwyn Peldyr?”
Dwras Gwyn Peldyr? Surveying the pale heavens, he pondered the name…and liked it.
Farmer Dwras, son of Gwyn, had died with his village. This day had witnessed the birth of a warrior, Dwras White Spear.
He saluted his commander and gave the wounded Angli captive a hand up. The blood-price for Talya and Gwydion had been paid in full. Dwras Gwyn Peldyr vowed to spend the rest of his life in the Pendragon’s service, honoring their memories with deeds of valor.
VICTORY CHEERS replaced the sound of pursuit. Badulf didn’t care. Though his desperately pumping arms and legs felt like stone weights, the shame of being caught in the trap goaded him. It took nigh unto forever before he found the horses. Another age passed as he waited for the rest of his men. Fewer than half had escaped.
Shouting the order to mount and retreat, his thoughts centered upon home and revenge. First, he had to usher his war-band home.
Revenge against Arthur the Dragon-King of Brædæn would come in good time. And he, Badulf Colgrimsson, Prince of Einglaland, would lead the assault.
Chapter 18
ARTHUR TILTED THE parchment to catch the oil lamp’s glow. An afternoon mid-April snowstorm had driven Arbroch residents to the safety of stone, timber, and the hide window-coverings that sealed out the weather as well as what daylight might have ventured into the room.
Bedwyr’s report detailed damage wrought to the fleet at Caerglas by an earlier storm. Extra mooring lines hadn’t kept a warship from colliding with its neighbor. Other ships had suffered less debilitating damage. Repairs were under way, so the news easily could have been much worse.
While thankful for his best friend’s expertise, it did little to put him at ease.
Glancing at the closed door leading to the sleeping chamber, he sighed. He didn’t regret his choice to winter with Gyan, for the knowledge he was gaining daily about Caledonians and their language counterbalanced the sacrifice of separation from Bedwyr, Cai, Merlin, and the rest of his companions.
But he felt as if his limbs were tied to four horses, each straining to race in a different direction.
Someone knocked purposefully on the door but not hard enough to rattle the timbers. After setting down the report, Arthur rose from behind the table, crossed to the door, and opened it, grateful that its well-oiled hinges didn’t thwart his efforts to be quiet.
In the hallway stood Per, a sealed parchment roll in one hand. Finger to lips, Arthur motioned him into the antechamber.
Per cast a worried glance at the sleeping-chamber door. “How is she today?” he whispered.
Had this been legion headquarters, the Pendragon would have delivered a rebuke for the breach of discipline. Yet at headquarters, where the living quarters and workrooms existed in separate wings of the praetorium, Per’s question never would have arisen.
His wife’s half brother looked troubled. The message could wait.
Arthur shrugged. “Napping. She needs it.” Since Per had initiated the conversation in Caledonian, and Arthur didn’t mind the practice, he answered in kind.
“Aye.” This sounded less like a word than a grunt as Per sank into a chair by the hearth. “I will be glad to see this bairn safely birthed. Then mayhap I’ll get my real sister back.”
Arthur laid a sympathetic hand on Per’s shoulder. “Cynda says this is normal.”
“She would know. She helped birth both of us, and the gods alone know how many other bairns besides.” Per sighed as Arthur withdrew to the other fireside seat. “But Gyan seems even more changed lately. Less talkative, more broody, ever since—” The copper head jerked up, emerald eyes aglitter in the leaping firelight. “Artyr, what did the High Priest tell her Àmbholc night?”
What to say? She hadn’t sworn Arthur to secrecy, either then or at any time during the past six weeks, but the prophecy’s nature demanded silence. And Per deserved an explanation.
Arthur made a choice. Not a particularly good one, for an intentional omission was a lie, but he hoped this time the end could justify the means. “Our child will be a boy.” Slowly, Per nodded. Into the protracted silence, Arthur offered, “I understand Caledonaich do not interpret this as a good omen.” Per’s sh
rug failed to hide the flicker of pain. Too late, Arthur remembered that here sat an “omen” in the flesh. “I meant no offense, Per.”
The pain yielded to Per’s customary grin. “What do mumbling old mages know? The omens pointed to Caledonach victory at Abar-Gleann!”
As the shared chuckle died, Arthur asked, “Dispatch?” He pointed at the parchment clutched in Per’s fist.
“Gods! I almost forgot.” He thrust it at Arthur. “From Loth of Dùn Pildìrach.”
Arthur read the message that heralded the moment he’d both hoped for and dreaded.
“Three more raids on the same night. All repelled with the help of our men.” He didn’t mention Loth’s footnote about farmer Dwras map Gwyn, whose efforts had earned him the respect of his unit and the appellation “Dwras White Spear.” Arthur felt a nudge of satisfaction.
“Your next move?” Per asked.
Arthur rose and crossed to a parchment-laden shelf. As he separated the leaves, he identified aloud each dispatch’s purpose.
“To Dumarec, Alain, Ygraine, Bann, and the other members of the Council of Chieftains of Breatein, to notify them that the campaign begins. Loth, of course, doesn’t need one.” Arthur fanned the stack and set it aside.
Per’s eyes widened. “So many? What if even one falls into the wrong hands?”
“If Arbroch were any closer to Angalaranach territory, I would be more concerned. But as a precaution, I have coded each message.” Arthur picked up the next pile. “To Cai at Camboglanna, to mobilize the foot troops.” A brief smile formed at the thought of Cai’s reaction. He slapped the parchment onto the table.
“To Gereint, to begin organizing the staging area at Senaudon and prepare for the troops’ arrival.” Alayna probably wouldn’t like this, but she had no choice. The message joined Cai’s.
“To Merlin, to appoint a temporary garrison commander at headquarters, issue the legion recall order, and gather supplies to help Gereint.” Normally, Arthur wouldn’t remove a senior officer from his post, especially one who also shouldered pastoral duties, but for overseeing the troop-staging efforts, Merlin carried the best qualifications in the legion.
“To Bedwyr at Caerglas—sorry, you call it Dùn Ghlas—to increase fleet patrols.” A necessary precaution, even though Arthur expected no trouble from the Scots. The last time they had defied his expectations it had almost ended in disaster.
The final message he liked least: “To Urien at Dùn At, recalling him to Senaudon to head the cavalry.”
“The whole cohort, Artyr?”
Arthur read concern in Per’s eyes and appreciated the sentiment.
He’d have preferred to rely on someone whose loyalty he could trust—someone like Peredur mac Hymar of Argyll—but keeping Urien busy with the Horse Cohort would prevent him from troubling Gyan. He hoped.
“The whole cohort,” echoed the Pendragon. He shuffled the sheets into a stack, leaving them on the table beside the oil lamp, a scarlet wax stick, and his dragon seal. “Today’s snow should melt quickly. Find men to carry these dispatches—”
“What dispatches?”
Gyan stood framed in the sleeping chamber’s doorway, her once-slim form all but filling it. Her gaze lit on the parchment, and she extended her hand.
Arthur gave her the dispatches and shot Per a glance.
Per stood. “I’ll be in the feast hall, recruiting couriers.” To Gyan he said, “You look wonderful! Did you sleep well?”
Grunting noncommittally, she lumbered into the antechamber. “As well as I ever do these days.” Her smile seemed forced.
If her brother noticed, he made no comment. He planted a kiss on her cheek and left the room. Arthur secured the door.
He turned to his wife. She had taken a seat by the fire to read the dispatches; he had taught her his encoding scheme so they could share private messages, too. “So. It begins, then.”
Arthur nodded toward the scroll on the table. “More raids were attempted a few days ago. Our men helped repel them.”
“Our men!” She spat the words at the fire. “Ha. I have nothing to do with this.” She slapped the dispatches. “Only this.” Her hand settled upon her belly.
Arthur dropped to one knee at her side, his hand gripping hers. With the fingers of his other hand, he reached for her chin.
“Gyanhumara nic Hymar, I love you, no matter what happens.”
As though to emphasize the truth of his words, the baby kicked. Grimacing as she glanced down, she massaged the spot. Arthur helped her. She did not resist.
“And I love you, Artyr.” Her hand stilled as she contemplated the flames. “But you can’t understand what I’m going through.”
“I’m isolated here, too—isolated and useless. Me, Arturus Aurelius Vetarus, Dux bloody Britanniarum! Playing the pampered prince in my wife’s stronghold while everyone else does my work.”
She blew derision through pursed lips. “Spare me. You can remedy that any time you damned well please.” Her gaze sharpened upon him. “You consider me useless?”
Clenching a fist, he studied the rafters. His hand relaxed with his sigh. “God, no. Gyan, if this”—he gently pried the dispatches from her fingers—“is your heart’s desire, you will find a way to come back to it. I know you will.”
He leaned in to kiss her. She didn’t refuse—or react. His redoubled efforts yielded only the barest response, as if she had given up on life. On him.
It disturbed him to the core of his soul.
SYMBOLIC OF the vast, glittering fabric of the heavens, the Arbroch meadows glowed under a thousand Belteine fires. Each had been banked within a small circle of dirt and stones with plenty of wood at hand. These fires would claim more attention as the night’s celebration waxed to its climax. Now, they burned low and untended.
Gyan watched the central bonfire, progeny of the Sacred Flame, with mounting dread.
The bonfire flared ever higher with each offering. A tithe of harvest stubble invoked blessings upon the fields for the coming year. The bones of livestock that had fallen victim to disease or accident or predator summoned protection for the flocks and herds. Women brought winterkill from their kitchen gardens for ritual cleansing of the home. Warriors sacrificed shields, split and irreparable, as a vow to improve fighting skills. Married couples offered damaged household items in pledge to repair broken relationships.
She studied the progress of one man and woman as they struggled toward the bonfire with a large, boxy structure—a table or perhaps a bed frame. The fickle light made it hard to ascertain. Since custom dictated offering an object in proportion to the size of the problem, she wondered about the nature of this couple’s difficulty. As the fire consumed their sacrifice, they twined their arms about each other in a long embrace and rejoined their clansmen, hand in hand.
Gyan’s tears welled. As short-tempered as she’d been toward Arthur, especially during his final days at Arbroch, it was a miracle he had tolerated her presence. Most days, she couldn’t tolerate herself.
After the bonfire had claimed the last purification offerings, twoscore young women stepped up to prance around its perimeter while the rest of the clan shouted and clapped.
Swiping at her eyes, she remained silent in the face of more evidence that her life had forever changed. All maidens old enough to bear children joined the Dance of the Virgins to consecrate the people’s offerings. Gyan would have danced in this circle for the past three Beltean, had she not been living on Maun last year, though she doubted whether the One God would have approved.
Even so, she missed not being able to join her clanswomen.
As the Dance of the Virgins drew to its frenzied close, she labored to her feet and trudged down the grassy knoll toward the arc of pregnant women forming around the maidens. Some had borne other children; some, like Gyan, had not. Some had recently conceived and looked as slender as reeds. Others, like Gyan, bore robe-shrouded proof of milk-swollen breasts and bairn-rounded bellies. These women had come to present their un
born children to the clan for all to partake in the natal blessings.
Partaking of the blessing meant laying hands upon the belly of the mother-to-be. Typically, a woman received attention only from her kin and friends, but at Belteine bonfires all across Caledon, everyone sought their gravid àrd-banoigin for a special blessing.
Gyan tried to imagine what it must have been like for her mother to have been touched by so many hopeful hands and glumly wondered whether her frightful moodiness would keep her clansfolk away.
And she fretted that the One God might not take kindly to a mortal attempting to dispense blessings. If she’d been early in her term, she might have opted to deal with this concern another year. Today, she had no choice.
Yet, she reluctantly admitted to herself, the central issue had naught to do with her doubts about religious practices.
Caledonaich believed a woman would bear as many children as the number of Beltean she had danced with the virgins. If this proved true, Gyan’s return to the world of swords and spears would be short-lived at best. When the Doves of Argyll had first adorned her sword arm, bearing children hadn’t ranked highly on her list of priorities. But she firmly believed in taking all her responsibilities seriously.
A chilly gust made her reach for the edges of Arthur’s heavy black traveling cloak. She’d felt a wee bit silly when she’d asked him to leave it with her, wielding the excuse that as the weather warmed, it would be excess baggage. She inhaled deeply of its masculine scent, regretting not having told him that she needed it as a reminder of his presence. In the next breath, she despised the circumstances that birthed that need—and in the breath after that, she despised her resentment.
Her bairn squirmed, as if sensing her turmoil.
She laid a hand over the spot and squeezed her moist, stinging eyes shut. Please forgive me, my son! This is not your fault. Or your father’s.
The fault lay with her chosen response.
She still loved Arthur, she insisted to herself, fingering the cloak’s edge. During the past few months, the character of her love had changed; gone was the unbridled passion they’d enjoyed. Cynda called it normal and temporary. Gyan hoped both would prove true.