Morning's Journey (12 page)

“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, murmuring 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.

Well into the midnight watch, the warship reached Caer Lugubalion. Arthur sent Dileas ahead to tell Merlin and Fifth Ala’s centurion to meet Arthur in the main infirmary, where he presumed Mathan would be recuperating.

Midway there, a winded Dileas intercepted him. Though he made a credible effort to repair his military bearing, exhaustion weighted his features. “Lord Pendragon, General Merlin requests to meet you and Centurion Airc in the prison’s infirmary.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow but otherwise made no comment. He clapped Dileas on the shoulder. “Have your commander remove your name from the duty roster for three days, Optio Dileas, and go get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a final salute, Dileas departed for the barracks. Arthur wished he could do the same, for on the warship he’d only dozed. Suppressing a sigh, he strode in the opposite direction, toward the corner of the fortress that housed the least pleasant but no less vital functions: the slaughter yard, the tannery, and the prison.

Outside the latter, Merlin and Airc were waiting for him. Both men’s faces looked haggard in the fitful torchlight, as if sleep had eluded them for weeks. He wondered whether his countenance appeared the same to them. Merlin gave him a brief nod, compassion tempering his gaze.

Arthur motioned them away from the guards, which put them closer to the tannery and its pervasive stench, before requesting their reports.

“The Fifth finished drills early that day,” Airc began. “Me and Mathan and some of the other lads went to the tavern for a few rounds. We’d been there a while, when in comes Tribune Urien. He gets a flagon and passes our table at the same moment Mathan decides to visit the midden. I tried to warn him, but”—Airc sighed—“too late. Mathan jumps up without looking and knocks into Urien, and Urien spills his ale all over himself.”

Arthur felt his forehead crease. “For that, Urien flogged him?”

“No, sir,” Airc said. “All the men laughed—who wouldn’t? Of course, that just got Urien madder. He started insulting Mathan, his looks, his swordsmanship, his horse, his lineage, anything he could think of. At first, Mathan took it—even tried to apologize. You’d have been proud of him, Lord Pendragon. But when Urien claimed that he and Mathan’s sister had—”

“Never mind about that,” said Merlin. “The point, Arthur, is that Urien goaded Mathan into throwing the first punch.”

Naturally.
“Do you have more to add, Airc?” Arthur asked.

“Aye, sir. Mathan knocked Urien clean across a table and onto the floor on the other side. But all Tribune Urien did after he got up was call for guards and a whip. I sent for General Merlin, but that didn’t keep them from dragging Mathan outside to start the flogging.”

“By the time I arrived”—sorrow and regret clouded Merlin’s face—“the deed was already done.”

Naturally!
“So that’s why he’s in the prison’s infirmary.”

“As much for his own protection as for the offense itself,” Merlin said.

Fighting to check his rising anger, Arthur said to Airc, “Did you and your men rebel?”

Airc looked away. “There were some…remarks.”

“And drawn swords,” Merlin said.

Fists knotted and eyes flashing, Airc met Arthur’s gaze. “We were angry, my lord, aye! Angry enough to chop that Breatanach machaoduin into crow feed!”

Merlin opened his mouth, but Arthur cut him off with a slight shake of the head.

“And still angry enough to revert to Caledonian for an epithet to describe your commanding officer that means far more than ‘bastard,’” Arthur offered coolly. Merlin cocked an impressed eyebrow.

Arthur’s diffusion tactic worked; Airc’s color rose. “I am sorry, but that is how we all feel about him.” Airc relaxed his fists. “We drew but held our peace. What other choice had we? Any of us to split one hair on Tribune Urien’s head would have been flayed alive too.”

While Airc looked down again, Arthur and Merlin exchanged glances. Merlin’s nod confirmed the truth of Airc’s words.

Arthur laid a hand on Airc’s shoulder, and the centurion looked up. “Forgive me, Lord Pendragon, but I wish I had run Urien through. For Mathan—and for Chieftainess Gyanhumara and you.”

That sentiment Arthur well understood. He just couldn’t give himself the luxury of making a public admission. Removing his hand, he said to Airc, “I appreciate your restraint, yours and your men’s. I also appreciate how hard it must be for you and the other Caledonians to continue having Urien as your cohort commander.”

“You are not going to replace him? One of us could easily—”

“Centurion. You serve in my army by treaty, and you will abide by my decisions. Understood?”

“Aye, sir,” Airc muttered. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”