Morning's Journey (10 page)

Chapter 6

A
S THE SUMMER ripened, Gyan spent every free moment with Macmuir, who had been broken to bit and saddle, but in combat drills was as raw as a foal. Confronting her own weaknesses in that aspect of warfare, she practiced daily with the Argyll horsemen, though the healing wound on her sword arm limited her participation.

Angusel had insisted on remaining with Gyan at Port Dhoo-Glass. To keep him busy, she placed him on the courier roster, a duty he performed cheerfully and with an ocean of enthusiasm, even though his youth prevented him from being an official legion conscript. When not galloping messages to and from Per at Tanroc, or to the detachments at Ayr Point and Caer Rushen, he all but slept on the Dhoo-Glass practice fields.

“Has fine makings, he does, Commander Gyan. Gaining more lann-seolta by the day.” Rhys, the clansman she had selected to be her aide and horse-combat mentor, stroked his ebony beard. “Another half a dozen summers, and he will be one of the best.”

On the field, Angusel, spear in hand, was weaving Stonn at a hard canter through a stand of posts to retrieve the fist-size iron rings set atop each. He halted before Gyan and Rhys.

“I know, Rhys.” Pride and affection warmed her tone. Every post had yielded its ring. Strictly speaking, lann-seolta referred to a swordsman’s ability to anticipate his enemy’s moves in hand-to-hand combat, but she suspected she might be watching an entirely new definition in the making. “Well done, Angus!”

Angusel grinned. The rings jangled a jaunty tune as he cast the spear to stick into the turf. He slid from Stonn’s back and patted the glossy neck. After giving the stallion’s reins to a stable hand, who began walking Stonn to cool him, Angusel grabbed a practice sword from the nearby rack. “Ready for a go, Gyan?”

“Who said you were done with cavalry drills, lad?” Rhys folded his arms and donned a scowl, although Gyan saw mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. “And do not forget the commander’s proper form of address.”

“Yes, sir.” Angusel transferred the sword to his other hand and saluted Gyan in the Ròmanach way, fist to chest. “Commander Gyan.”

Although she and Angusel had been through too much already to let formalities stand between them, Rhys had a valid point. No sense in fostering more division by showing favoritism.

She said to Angusel, “Centurion Rhys swears your lann-seolta is improving before his very eyes, but my sword arm isn’t healed enough to give you a challenging test.” Massaging the spot, she glanced at her second-in-command, who nodded and selected a practice sword.

After exchanging salutes, they assumed attack stances.

The key to developing lann-seolta, “blade-cunning,” lay in learning to observe the opposing warrior’s elbow, which governed the sword’s basic movement. When instinct and knowledge of the foe, together with superior speed, skill, and strength, alloyed with lann-seolta in the furnace of battle frenzy, devastating results occurred.

Gyan’s father was a renowned lann-seolta master. She considered herself adept but still improving, though no longer by Ogryvan’s hand. Having begun practicing the drills only a few months ago, Angusel faced a long road.

Yet to his credit and Rhys’s, Angusel showed remarkable improvement. She caught him betraying his moves only a few times while accurately anticipating most of Rhys’s. His strength, she realized as he succeeded in driving Rhys backward more than once, also was increasing dramatically.

At this rate, she wagered proudly to herself, Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban of Caledon would become a lann-seolta adept in half the time Rhys had predicted.

GYAN PULLED her clan mantle closer to stave off the chilly September breeze as she entered the Sanctuary of the Chalice and chose a place near the doors. Before her thronged the Breatanach bishops and archbishops who’d braved the quickening autumn seas to honor Dafydd in his formal installation as Abbot of St. Padraic’s Monastery. The monks not engaged in feast preparations had crammed into the chapel along the walls and in the back with Gyan. A lucky score of musically gifted brethren occupied benches behind the gilt choir screen.

Only two other women had joined the assembly: Dafydd’s wife, Katra, and Prioress Niniane. Gyan could barely make out Katra’s shawl-swathed form at the forefront of the gathering as the intervening heads moved this way and that. Presumably, Dafydd the Younger accompanied her, though Gyan couldn’t see the lad. Prioress Niniane stood near Merlin, who favored the name Dubricius in church, Gyan reminded herself.

The candle smoke and incense’s spicy-sweet fragrance overpowered the mustiness of so many closely packed bodies, the choir’s braided voices evoked a glorious sense of the divine, and the alabaster Chalice sat enthroned upon its golden platform, ever a wonder to behold. Gyan rejoiced for her friend and spiritual father, and she could think of no better man for this many-faceted job.

She watched Dafydd kneel, his white ceremonial robe flowing around him as the portly archbishop poured a ribbon of oil onto Dafydd’s head from a gold-embossed silver ewer. The archbishop, a hand on Dafydd’s head, commanded the congregation to join him in prayer.

Although she didn’t bow her head—only Dafydd and Arthur knew of her conversion—she closed her eyes, resurrecting images of her joining ceremony, which smote her with intense longing. Merlin had delivered the regretful message that legion duties had prevented Arthur’s attendance. Though immeasurably disappointed, she understood. Holding together men from such diverse cultural backgrounds surely would try the patience of the Christ Himself, to say nothing of welding those men into an effective fighting force.

She sighed, fingering the silver threads of her mantle’s trim and indulging in the vain wish that she could speed the seasons’ dance. Another turning of the moon would see her at her consort’s side for the winter, helping him bear his burden of leadership. She chewed her lip to suppress a grin as she envisioned the days they would share, and the nights.

Especially the nights.

The rustling of robes, the muted murmur of conversation, and the stamping and shuffling of feet alerted her that the ceremony had concluded. She flicked her eyes open and glanced around. To avoid being trapped within the exodus, she quickly threaded a path to the sanctuary’s main door and slipped outside.

The rich aroma of roasted pork failed to lure her to the feasting tables. She headed toward the apple orchard, where she could observe the proceedings privately. As the only secular leader present—a female foreign leader whose faith in the One God had to remain a secret—she felt as conspicuous as a snake in a rabbit warren. And, judging by some of the looks she’d already received, likely regarded as such by some of the Breatanach clergymen.

No sense in worsening the situation.

The orchard grounds had been raked of windfalls. Doubtless, the best of these had been simmered into sauce to complement the pork. She hitched her skirts and cloak, settled onto a bench beneath an apple-laden tree, and leaned back, thankful for the trunk’s sturdiness after having been obliged to stand for the past hour.

On the sward defined by the church, refectory, abbot’s cottage, guesthouse, and library, the new abbot intoned a blessing to inaugurate the feast and his tenure. Katra and the other monks’ wives circulated among the ribbon-festooned tables, the blues and greens and yellows of their dresses bright against the men’s black robes. Children either helped or played boisterously underfoot, as their ages and natures demanded. The cheery strains of reed pipes wafted on the breeze, punctuated by drums and rattling gourds and spirited clapping. Gyan silently blessed whoever had planned this merry departure from the monks’ routine. After Abbot Lir’s death and the horrors they’d suffered at the hands of the Scáthinaich—a portion of which had been Gyan’s fault, although she’d been absolved and had forgiven herself for her involvement—these decent men and their families deserved this respite to help them trudge past their grief.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back against the tree to enjoy the music and succulent aromas, recalling her nuptial feast and again wishing Arthur could share this moment with her. She wondered if separation enforced by the press of duties would shape the pattern for their future. Never mind the other reason for her being on Maun, which she refused to name because she despised that Móranach bastard’s siege upon her thoughts. She doubted that she and Arthur would ever be granted any time to simply enjoy each other’s company without having to worry about the doings of the rest of the world.

Her heart’s ache began anew, and she indulged in another sigh.

“My lady?” asked a man in Breatanaiche.

Gyan opened her eyes. Dafydd stood before her, still dressed in his ceremonial robe, one hand outstretched. She clasped it and rose.

“My lord abbot.” At his look of mild discomfiture, she added with a grin, “Get accustomed to the title, Dafydd. You’ll be hearing it often.” Completing the journey from slave to freedman to monk to abbot in one year was nothing short of miraculous, and she could understand his unease. “How did you escape from your well-wishers?” Releasing his hand, she inclined her head toward the feast.

He smiled. “The excellent food is keeping the others occupied. For now, at least. In fact”—the smile dimmed—“some of us were wondering why you haven’t joined us.”

“Ah. Well, I’d planned to.” She didn’t think it wise to refuse Dafydd’s implied request. “Now seems as good a time as any.” She strolled toward the festivities, and Dafydd fell into step with her.

“You don’t sound convinced, my lady.”

She offered a wan smile. “I’m sorry, Dafydd. I truly am happy for you. I just needed some time alone.” She never had gotten into the habit of prevaricating with him. “To think.”

“About Arthur?” She must have looked as surprised as she felt, for he chuckled softly. “I know what it’s like to be separated from my bride. I suspect your husband feels much the same way.”

“Ha. In all this time, he hasn’t visited me once.”

Dafydd didn’t reply. Gyan lowered her head and concentrated on the gravel path as shame burned her cheeks. Of course, Arthur loved her as much as before. Didn’t he? He claimed so in his frequent letters, though words could be an easy alternative to actions.

When Dafydd stopped, she glanced up, surprised to find herself standing before the guesthouse. Pushing the door open with one hand, he motioned with the other for her to step inside. She cocked a questioning eyebrow at him, but in answer he only smiled. Curiosity propelled her across the threshold. Dafydd left the door ajar, which Gyan found even more puzzling. She voiced the question.

“I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” He settled into one of the chairs near the common room’s window and invited her to do the same. “I was hoping to continue our conversation in private.”

She studied the room with its large, bare central table, chairs and benches shoved back along the walls, a sideboard laden with empty tin plates and tankards, cold hearth, and braided rugs of undyed wool covering the worn floor planks. Through the back window, she glimpsed the structure that housed the kitchen. A stairway led to the sleeping chambers. A large crucifix made of well-oiled dark oak had been affixed to the wall opposite the hearth. Gyan removed her cloak, selected a chair near Dafydd’s, and sat.

“Our conversation about Arthur?”

“About you,” Dafydd said. “I know the cohort keeps you busy.” He shifted forward, adopting an intense expression. “Too busy to continue your studies in the faith?”

To herself, she conceded the point. While a student at the monastery, she’d enjoyed studying the Christian texts, perhaps on some level even more so than the writings of Iulius Caesar, Livy, Horace, Galen, Marcus Aurelius, Suetonius, and other authors in the monks’ impressive collection. Lately, cohort duties had consumed all her time. But rather than admit it to Dafydd, she asked with a grin, “Being abbot doesn’t give you enough souls to worry about?”

“I worry about whoever the Lord lays upon my heart.” Concern dampened his smile. “My lady, you’re young in the faith. This is a vulnerable time for any believer—for you, especially, because of Clan Argyll’s prevailing religion. If you don’t strengthen your faith through study and prayer, I fear it may wither.”