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

by Headlee, Kim

  His chest moved with each breath, but he’d need help. Soon.

  She stood to tear strips from the hem of her robe, and knelt beside Angusel’s head. Before she could wipe dirt from the wound, she felt a hand grip her shoulder. “Nay, Prioress.” Not Caledonian but accented Brytonic. Eyebrows raised, she glanced up to find herself staring into the green eyes of Gyanhumara’s brother. “Ye cannot interfere.”

  “What?” Niniane rocked back onto her heels, trying to dispel her astonishment. “Why? What’s happened?” She had a sick feeling she knew the answer but asked, “What has he done?”

  Grief flashed across Peredur’s face. “My sister’s son is missing.” She could hear his quiet despair as clearly as a thunderclap.

  She closed her eyes, swallowing a sigh. Too late! A hundred questions bombarded her about how it had happened, and when, and who was responsible…and why God had caused her to fail.

  Immediately, she rebuked herself. Misfortune had made her too ill to attempt this journey sooner, not an act of God. She clung to His promise that He could make all things turn out for the best, bad as well as good, for those who loved Him.

  But what good could possibly come of this travesty?

  Peredur continued, “Angusel mac Alayna may be involved.” His tone made it clear what part he thought Angusel had played.

  Dizziness overcame her, and she bowed her head.

  She had failed everyone.

  Angusel hadn’t been one of Loholt’s kidnappers, but Niniane couldn’t share this without divulging her secret and exposing herself to allegations of witchcraft.

  She studied the prone figure, profoundly wishing she could do more for him, and whispered, “I don’t believe that, Lord Peredur. He has no reason to betray Clan Argyll.”

  “Strange, aye, Prioress.” Sympathy softened his features’ rigid mask. “He is death-loyal to Gyan.” Peredur snorted. “He was.”

  Death-loyal? She banished her curiosity in the face of her most pressing concern—and Angusel’s. “Let me bind his wounds.”

  He shook his head. “During the deuchainn na fala, he speaks to no one.” He slammed his gloved fists together. “I cannot question him.”

  She staved off more confusion to lock her gaze with Peredur’s, her gesture indicating Angusel’s unconscious form. “Obviously, he can’t speak. If I could treat him—”

  “Nay. Caledonian law forbids it.” As Niniane tried to form a counterargument to this bizarre custom, Peredur’s hand went to his chin, and his expression grew pensive. “But he may die. We need answers.” He stood and backed away a pace. “Help him, Prioress.” No compassion thawed his words.

  She thrust Peredur’s attitude from her mind to concentrate on her work. At her request, one of the soldiers brought her water in an upturned helmet. As she took the offering, the memory of treating the lad at the cavalry games smote her. That day, Angusel had been a fallen hero. Today, he may as well have been a condemned criminal.

  With a sigh, she moistened a cloth and carefully cleaned off the blood and dirt. He moaned and jerked his head but didn’t wake. She rued the haste that had caused her to forget to pack her usual array of salves. Several of Angusel’s wounds, the head gash in particular, looked as if an infection had already flared. She hoped they would let her correct this once they arrived at Arbroch.

  As she bound the bandage around Angusel’s head and tied it in place, she asked Peredur, “Why do you believe he might be—involved?”

  Peredur reached under his cloak and drew out a tattered length of fabric. “He held this.”

  Niniane gasped. Across Peredur’s outstretched palm lay the blanket of her visions, but she had never Seen it torn and stained with blood. She watched in stunned silence as Peredur allowed his nephew’s blanket to slip to the ground.

  She tried to deny the evidence of her eyes; she had Seen the child alive in a peasant’s hut while someone bartered for his future. Her visions never lied.

  Something terrible must have happened to change all that. Something she had failed to See.

  Dear God, no!

  “I—” Tears left cold tracks on her face. “Lord Peredur, I am so very sorry.” Sorrier than he could ever know. Unable to say more and unwilling to meet his gaze, she buried her face in her hands.

  “Not your fault,” Peredur whispered.

  Not true!

  “You—you found the—the child’s—” She couldn’t finish. More tears coursed down her cheeks, and she stanched them with the back of her hand.

  “Nay.” But only a matter of time, apparently.

  Gently, he helped her to her feet. She felt guilty for accepting even that small kindness.

  A weak groan drew her attention. Angusel moved his head, flailing his arms and kicking as if fighting for his life. His eyelids fluttered open. No fever-madness glowed in his eyes, only despair.

  He rolled to his feet. Although he made no sound, winces and stilted movements betrayed his suffering. He grabbed his staff to support himself.

  Pressing his free hand to his head, his eyebrows shot up as his fingers encountered the bandage. He started to remove it, but Niniane firmly shook her head. She answered his inquiring look with an encouraging smile.

  With a sigh, he let his hand drop to his side. Slowly, he turned in a full circle. When he saw the blanket lying on the ground, he gave a small cry and stooped to snatch it up. The sudden motion must have made him dizzy, for he kept his neck bent, head supported by one hand, as he straightened. Sorrow seemed permanently etched into his face and sagging shoulders, but when he beheld Peredur, his anguish deepened. He clutched the tattered blanket to his chest. Niniane felt tears burn her eyes.

  Emotionlessly, Peredur thrust a hand toward Angusel. Angusel looked at the blanket, then back at Peredur, before yielding to the unspoken demand. Peredur’s fist closed over the bloody fabric, and he turned to address, in Caledonian, one of the horsemen. The warrior mounted, took the blanket, and spurred his horse toward Arbroch. Peredur called another warrior to him and again uttered a Caledonian command. This time, Niniane discerned one word: Senaudon. The man directed his horse into the woods, heading south.

  No one hindered Angusel as he left Peredur and the other soldiers. Their faces remained impassive.

  Angusel shuffled away, head bowed and looking as if he’d lost his last friend on earth.

  Niniane ached to console him, walk with him, anything to let him know he wasn’t alone.

  She despised the Sight for rendering her powerless to help.

  Chapter 25

  ARTHUR FOUGHT FOR patience as he rode with his escort through the crowds leaving Arbroch. People, dogs, livestock, carts, and wagons created a flood of activity, and he and his men were bucking the current like salmon returning to spawn.

  Thank God Loth had stopped him at the Antonine Wall.

  As they crossed Arbroch’s meadows, Arthur gauged the greetings. Some waved and cheered as if nary a thing in the world were amiss. Others gave nods laden with concern and sympathy. Apparently, Loholt’s disappearance wasn’t yet widely known. Nor was he about to change that. Even his men didn’t know the reason behind this abrupt mission. Arthur hoped for a happy resolution, but his gut’s tautness cautioned him against indulging in too much optimism.

  While he returned the people’s gestures with an occasional nod or salute, he tried to think through the situation.

  According to Gyan’s message—not penned in her hand, which fueled his worry—Loholt’s wet nurse had taken him past Arbroch’s gates. To judge by the number of festival participants, a lion could have stalked among them unremarked, never mind one woman with a baby.

  Still, to have disappeared so quickly, she must have had help, but from whom, and why?

  Only one name made sense.

  He ground his teeth. If any harm befell Loholt, and Urien could be linked to the deed, then to the devil with politics. Arthur would personally crush Urien’s bones to powder.

  Near Arbroch’s outermost rampart, th
e turma met a convoy of horsemen and wagons. The decurion, riding on Arthur’s right flank, gave the command to move aside. When the crimson banners flown by the other group came close enough to identify, Arthur lifted an eyebrow at his own clan’s symbol, the Ivory Unicorn.

  He recalled Morghe’s plan to return to Caerlaverock and finish preparing for her wedding. So today was the day.

  Guilt warred with revulsion at the thought of Urien becoming his brother-by-marriage next spring. Guilt won. Not only had he lost the chance to speak with his sister, but if he’d been here instead of pursuing nonexistent Angli threats, Loholt might be safe.

  Ruthlessly, he clamped off that reasoning. Loholt must be safe. It was simply a matter of finding him.

  The lead rider of Morghe’s escort recognized Arthur and saluted. The others followed his example. Arthur felt both amused and irritated by the men’s comical attempts to straighten in the saddle, but he had no time to waste rebuking a lax unit. As they passed, he armed his glare with disapproval.

  In its center, Morghe rode a spirited black mare, looking regal in her traveling garb. When she met Arthur’s gaze, her face contorted with a flash of—what, fear? No. He must have imagined it. She drew nearer, and her lips curved into a smile.

  He considered stopping to question her about Loholt. However, anything she knew, Gyan should know.

  “God grant you a safe journey, Morghe,” he said as she rode by.

  She nodded once. “Thank you, Arthur.”

  Fingering his chin, he watched her until the wagons and the escort’s rear ranks obscured her form. Why should she display fear toward him, even for a moment? And why the smile? If she knew Loholt was missing, she ought to have realized Arthur would be worried. Her smile hadn’t been one of reassurance, but—what?

  Perhaps she didn’t know about Loholt’s disappearance and was trying to be friendly. If so, then why the fear?

  He turned to address Gawain. “Did Morghe’s behavior seem strange?”

  “You’re asking me?” Gawain shrugged, grinning. “All women’s behavior seems strange, kin or not!”

  As the shared laughter trailed off, Arthur studied the fortress. His most acute concerns lay not with his sister but inside the gates. He kicked Macsen into a canter. The decurion shouted the corresponding command, and they thundered past the last ramparts.

  Gyan must have seen them coming. Waiting at the base of the gate tower, she looked as if she hadn’t slept in a fortnight, God help her. Arthur’s heart ached. He halted, dismounted, and shoved the reins into Gawain’s hands. While the decurion snapped orders to stable the mounts, Arthur strode to her. They embraced, and she pressed her face against his breastplate.

  “What news, my love?” he whispered, stroking her disheveled braid.

  Beneath his hand, she shook her head. “Nothing.” Although he’d spoken in Brytonic, she responded in Caledonian. When she looked up, grief flooded her gaze. With all his heart, he wished he could bear it for her. “Artyr, I—” She slumped against his chest. “I am so sorry!”

  As he hugged her tightly, one thought consumed his mind. Those who had abducted Loholt were going to be sorry. If he allowed them to live long enough to feel anything other than the most excruciating pain this side of hell.

  For her benefit, he switched to Caledonian. “Gyan, I will summon the legion, and—”

  “Your pardon, Chieftainess, Lord Artyr, but I do not believe that will be necessary.”

  He released his wife and turned toward the unknown voice. A soldier in Caledonian armor stood a few paces away. He wore an Argyll-patterned cloak fastened with a badge bearing the Argyll Doves rather than the legion’s dragon.

  Arthur waited for Gyan to order her man to deliver his report. Activity in the yard dwindled as more people stopped to watch.

  “Gyan?” Arthur nudged her. She seemed to be staring at a length of silver-edged Argyll wool clutched in the warrior’s hand. “Shouldn’t we hear his report? Perhaps somewhere more private?”

  “No need.” Her tone sounded bleak, and her eyes adopted a haunted look. “The clan will find out soon enough. Torr?” She nodded at the warrior.

  Torr approached, went to one knee in front of her, bowed his head, and offered her the fabric. As she unfurled it, her eyes widened. The material was slashed in several places and stained with blood.

  “Wh-what—” Her chin began trembling violently. She clamped her mouth shut and covered her eyes with one hand. With the other, she held the fabric to her chest.

  “What does this mean?” Arthur finished for her, gesturing at the cloth.

  Torr rose, shaking his head. “My lord, it belongs—belonged—to your son.”

  “His…his favorite b-blanket,” she whispered. The trembling of her lips and chin returned.

  Arthur wrapped his arm around her and asked Torr, “Where did you find it?”

  “The search party found Angusel mac Alayna on the west road. He was wounded, unconscious, and”—Torr nodded toward the blanket—“holding that.”

  “Angusel?” Arthur felt his eyebrows knot. “Is he all right?”

  “He awakened in our presence, my lord, and is on his way here. He limps but should arrive within the watch.”

  “What? Alone and wounded? Why did you not help him?” This sounded too strange, even for Caledonians. “What was Angusel doing out on that road? Was he questioned?”

  Torr spread his hands. “He finishes his trial of blood.”

  A singularly unhelpful answer. “His—what?”

  “A ritual required of every Caledonian warrior. The youth must not accept help or speak to anyone.” Gyan’s words sounded soft and hollow, and her gaze seemed leagues away.

  She shrugged out from under Arthur’s arm, spun, and headed toward the feast hall. He strode to catch up and grabbed her hand. The fury in her glare made him recoil in surprise.

  “Gyan?” Even pregnant, her mood swings couldn’t compare. “Do you think Angusel is involved in Loholt’s abduction?”

  “I know not what to think.” She resumed her course. “Torr,” she called without bothering to look back, “escort Angusel to the feast hall the moment he arrives.”

  Arthur didn’t know what to think, either. Or feel. Their son could be dead, if he took the meaning of that accursed cloth aright, but he couldn’t permit himself the luxury of succumbing to his grief. Not while he stood on the verge of losing his wife to hers.

  Trailing after her, he vowed not to let that happen.

  GYAN SAT with her back not touching the elaborately carved judgment chair on the dais, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her consort, her father, her brother, and the High Priest surrounded her, clucking meaningless syllables like a flock of witless biddy hens.

  The hall teemed with clansfolk come to witness the proceedings. Chieftainess Alayna entered with her entourage and stormed up to the dais. Perfunctorily, Gyan performed the rite of welcome. How Angusel’s mother had found out—and how she had managed to arrive so quickly—Gyan didn’t know and didn’t care. She wished everyone would leave her alone. Arthur and Ogryvan included.

  Loholt was dead.

  Even without the proof of his body, her heart screamed the truth. She would never see her beloved bairn again.

  Her tears had been seared by anger: at Tira, for obvious reasons, and at Urien. With sickening certainty, she knew he’d devised the plan. She also nursed anger toward Cynda for initially insisting nothing was amiss.

  Behind it all smoldered fury toward herself for heeding Cynda rather than her own instincts.

  Regardless of who had planned or committed the crime, she, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, had failed her son. She had been elsewhere when he needed her most, indulging in foolish, self-centered frivolities. The admission’s pain hurt as acutely as a sword thrust.

  The doors opened. A hush descended. The crowd parted.

  A lone youth approached the dais, limping, with head and shoulders sagging like a prisoner being led to the executioner’s block. His ar
ms, legs, and torso bore several fresh scratches, and he leaned heavily on a crudely fashioned spear. A clean bandage bound his head. His sack hung half-open at a crazy angle across his chest, and his soles left bloody traces on the flagstones.

  Feeling as if someone had wrapped up her compassion and hidden it away, Gyan could only observe Angusel’s progress with detached interest, caring for naught save what he knew about her son.

  Although if he had seen the deed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his report. Having her awful mental pictures augmented by the truth could only make them worse.

  First, however, the prescribed ending to Angusel’s deuchainn na fala had to be enacted.

  Angusel played his part, going to one knee below the dais. He slid the sack from his shoulder, reached in and pulled out a supple rabbit skin. The High Priest took it from Angusel’s uplifted hand. Upon examination, he pronounced it suitable for Angusel’s bian-sporan. Normally, the candidate greeted this announcement with elation. Angusel merely accepted the hide and thrust it into his sack.

  “Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban,” said the High Priest, “your trial of blood is complete once you answer these questions.” His ancient knuckles whitened as he gripped his carved staff, and he leaned forward. “By law, I must remind you that you are honor-bound to answer truthfully. Lies are punishable by banishment. Do you understand?”

  Angusel nodded limply, like a rag doll. The association brought to mind Loholt’s favorite toy. Gyan jammed her fist against her mouth.

  “Very well,” the High Priest said. “Did you speak with anyone during your journey?”

  “Nay.”

  She felt her eyes widen. If he had witnessed her son’s murder, he would have spoken out to try to save him. Wouldn’t he? Or did his deuchainn na fala matter more than Loholt’s life?

  “Did you receive help from anyone?”

  “Aye.”

  “The bandages?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet you did not speak to the person or request aid in any way?”

  “Nay. I was unconscious.”

  While the High Priest stroked his snowy beard, speculative whispers skittered about the hall.