Morning's Journey (15 page)

Niniane withdrew the lavender and a length of clean linen and looked up to find the servant giving her a stern appraisal. Jabbing thumb to breast, the woman spoke again to Angusel.

He translated, “Cynda agrees, but she wants the first watch.”

Niniane took the older woman’s measure. “Thank you, Angusel. Please tell her that I agree. It will give me a chance to prepare my medicines.”

And the vigil began.

Chapter 9

A
RTHUR GRIPPED THE slick rail, ignoring his cramping fingers as he mentally willed the warship to go faster. The sounds of swearing and grunting and creaking behind his back, driven by the faster-than-usual drumbeat, told him how vain a wish he’d conceived.

Another wave broke against the bow. He pulled back, but his eyes stung—not entirely from the salty spray. He couldn’t do a damned thing for his wife, trapped in this endless heaving netherworld between land and sky. Or, his pragmatic inner demon taunted, once he finally reached her side.

He knew only how to end lives, not heal them.

Even his father’s death hadn’t made him feel this powerless, and he despised it more with each breath.

Closing his eyes and tilting his head, he allowed the westering sun to warm his face, but it gave him no comfort. By all reckoning, her accident had been his fault. Never mind that ill-trained demon-spawn of a stallion, it was his fault for letting her out of his sight and for failing to deal with her enemy—their enemy—decisively enough to render this separation unnecessary. Chin to breast, he prayed for her as fervently as he knew how.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Fewer than half a dozen people would dare such a gesture. One lay gravely injured at his destination port and another was minding the legion’s affairs at headquarters for him.

Blinking, Arthur turned to regard his fleet commander. Bedwyr withdrew his hand, but his expression remained somber. He acknowledged Bedwyr’s sympathy with a short but appreciative nod.

“How soon? Within the hour?” He tried to bleed the raw plea from his tone.

Bedwyr’s gaze flicked out across the horizon, toward the slowly growing landmass. As he nodded at Arthur, compassion flooded his expression. “Want some company?”

“What I want is more speed. I’d grab an oar if I thought it would help.” Not a bad idea, in fact. He could spell one of the men. If nothing else, the exertion might blunt his worrying. He stepped from the rail.

Bedwyr caught his arm. “Save your strength. Gyan will have greater need of it.”

Scowling, Arthur pulled free, but Bedwyr had a valid point, damn him. He stared at the too-small island, resuming his prayer.

His best friend adopted a similar stance. Whether praying or not, or to which god, Arthur had no idea. Nor did he inquire. Details of faith belonged between a man and his Maker. He found it comforting that Merlin and perhaps Bedwyr, Niniane, Abbot Dafydd, and others were offering supplications on Gyan’s behalf, and it strengthened his feeble, distracted efforts.

After what seemed like a millennium, the docks and buildings of Port Dhoo-Glass hove into view, growing larger by the stroke. Bedwyr excused himself to direct the crew for the journey’s final leg. With each command Bedwyr shouted, Arthur felt his tension increase, as though he were a stretching bowstring.

The instant the warship docked, Arthur vaulted over the side, landed in a catlike crouch on the planking, sprang up, and sprinted toward the fort. He ignored the curious glances and queries, treating everything and everyone as either scenery or obstacles to negotiate. He tried to ignore his personal demon, who scolded him for his unseemly behavior; folks had learned to expect a calm and reserved Pendragon.

Calm and reserve could bloody well be hanged!

As the distance lessened, his mental picture intensified. Gyan lay bruised, bleeding, feverish, unconscious…dying…

God, no!

He dashed moisture from his eyes with the back of a hand and lurched onward. Across streets, through courtyards, around buildings, down corridors, up stairs, past doorways; he scarcely registered his location but let memories steer him. An ache flared in his chest.

Upon rounding a corner, he glimpsed the door to Gyan’s chambers and halted, panting hard. Several of her clansmen had congregated outside. To a man, their faces and postures and hushed tones conveyed stark worry. The ache pierced Arthur’s heart again, and he rubbed the spot with his fist.

He drew a breath, let it out slowly, and drew another. While he fought to regain composure, Bedwyr joined him. Arthur shot his winded friend a wan smile, tightened his jaw, and strode briskly forward, with Bedwyr gasping and trailing in his wake.

One of the men glanced their way and snapped a salute. Quickly, the others imitated his example. Wading into their midst, Arthur hunted the brambles of his memory for a Caledonian greeting and uttered it as he reached for the handle and pulled. Locked! The soldier who’d seen him first thumped on the door, shouting something. The only word Arthur could make out was the Caledonian form of his name, “Artyr.” His heart clenched.

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.