Morning's Journey (17 page)

“I think you’re right,” Per said. “I also think you haven’t told me what’s really troubling you.”

She sucked in a breath. Though the crashing waves and squealing gulls and boisterous crew provided more than enough noise, she kept her voice low. “I know how to be Artyr’s warrior and leader of warriors.” Sighing, she studied the cliffs on the north bank of the firth, banded by the docks and ramparts of three-sided Dùn Càrnhuilean, “Fort of the Rock-Elbows,” called Caerlaverock in Breatanaiche, where the dream of a united Breatein had become flesh. Gyan wanted to help Arthur shape that dream into reality, but on her own terms.

She stared at the frothy chaos created by the warship’s wake, her life seeming just as chaotic. “I don’t know how to be his wife.”

“It won’t be easy, I suspect. With the Pendragon comes much more than a single clan.” Per leaned close. “Listen to your heart, Gyan, and you’ll do fine.”

She hoped he was right. Another set of footsteps made her glance up. As Arthur joined them, Per winked at her.

“What are you two plotting?” Arthur smiled, clasping her hand.

Listen to your heart.

“We were trying to decide which of us should challenge you for the Pendragonship.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“And what, may I ask”—she crossed her arms, pointedly settling the Argyll Doves on her sword arm over her shield arm’s dragon—“is so amusing about that?”

Her acerbity didn’t extinguish his eyes’ gleam. “God, I love your spirit!” She felt a tingling rush as Arthur’s finger traced a line along her jaw, and she met his gaze, which had become intensely earnest. “I have no doubt, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, that you could attain whatever position you set your heart upon. Even the Pendragonship.” His grin returned as he glanced at her arms. “And if you’d like to be on top next time, I’ll gladly defer.”

Per hooted a laugh. Gyan felt her face flush.

“Beathach!” Chuckling, she uncrossed her arms and slapped Arthur’s shoulder. To his questioning look, she said, “It’s not a curse.” She flashed Per a grin; she couldn’t count how often her brother had earned the epithet. Returning her attention to Arthur, she explained, “Just a family endearment.” She kissed her consort, but a muffled cough interrupted her too soon.

They parted to discover that Bedwyr had joined them.

“We’re approaching port.” Bedwyr looked apologetic.

Arthur nodded, extending his hand, which Gyan clasped. Together they strode to the bow, with Per and Bedwyr following them. Cynda and the prioress rose, steadying each other as the ship kept surging forward. Gyan presumed the concern tempering their smiles was directed solely at her. Even Dafydd had demonstrated his feelings by giving Niniane permission to travel to headquarters to continue treating Gyan’s injuries. Heartily she wished everyone would stop worrying so much and be more like Angusel, who had already abandoned his high perch and was leaning over the rail, every line of his stance radiating excitement.

Gyan could well understand the lad’s reason. Scores of troops, infantry as well as cavalry, were lining both banks of the narrowing estuary, weapons poised in salute.

“Why this formation?” she asked her consort. “We’re not returning from battle.”

“I wanted my second-in-command to receive a proper welcome.”

She overpowered Angusel’s “Gyan!” with, “Your what?”

Arthur tapped her gold dragon, the brooch identical to his in every way save the eye’s gemstone.

She tilted it to catch the light. “I thought this was just a wedding gift, like Braonshaffir.” She clapped a hand to her sword’s sapphire-crowned hilt.

“For now. I’ve made no official declaration yet. Nor can I until you’ve proven yourself on the battlefield and in the council chamber.”

“Battlefield—ha.” As she fixed her gaze upon the troops, her sole thought revolved around how precipitously he had removed her from the Manx command. “That’s the last place you want me to be.”

He latched onto her uninjured arm and pulled her close. “It’s the last place I want
any
of my soldiers to be. War is only a means of achieving peace, and only after all other avenues have failed.”

“This is how you think of me, as just one of your soldiers?” She meant it only half in jest.

“Lord God in heaven, no!” The crushing force of his lips upon hers spoke more loudly than words ever could. A level of peace she hadn’t felt since the accident blanketed her heart, and she deepened the passion of her response.

On the shore, shouts erupted. Amid the chants of “Pendragon!” she could make out “Caledon!” and “Argyll!” She pulled back to grin at her consort, ignoring the giddy flutter in her chest that died as a surge of strength flooded her veins. “Some of our men know who is truly in charge.”

His smile adopted the enigmatic quality that could be so maddening and so endearing. “Indeed they do.”

As the warship slowed, she noticed a group of officers clustered beyond the docks. At the forefront of the unit, looking none too pleased, stood Urien. Her left hand dropped to her hilt.

“I will not let him trouble you.” Arthur glared at the officers. “I promise you that.”

In this she did not doubt him.

TILTING THE parchment to catch the last afternoon light, Arthur stood at the window in his workroom.

Eight Brytons had been executed at Anderida for leading an attempt to overthrow their Saxon masters.

Though these people lived and died far beyond his sphere of influence, the news of their fate distressed him no less than if they’d been his own clansmen.

One day that would change. Repelling the Scots and forcing Caledonia to release all Brytoni slaves were good starts, but the task was painfully far from complete. He, Arthur map Uther, Pendragon of Brydein, would not rest until every Bryton stood free to enjoy peace and prosperity.

Permanent peace, not just the occasional respite from war.

If the Saxons and Angles and other peoples that shared Brydein chose to live in peace with their Brytoni neighbors, so much the better for everyone.

And if not, he would serve them their peace at swordpoint.

The sound of voices in the outer chamber disrupted his reverie. He wasn’t expecting visitors. He crossed from the window to lay the dispatch on the table but remained standing. A knock rattled his door.

At Arthur’s command, Marcus opened the door, stepped into the room, and—in a departure from routine—closed it behind him. “Sir, Tribune Urien asks to speak with you.”

Arthur quelled his surprise. Urien never came to the praetorium unless summoned. “About what?”

“He wouldn’t say, sir. Whatever it is, it seems to be urgent.”

“Let him in.”

Marcus saluted, turned, and pulled the door open. Garbed in Moray-patterned tunic, trews, and cloak, Urien marched in, strode to Arthur’s table, and thrust a rolled parchment sheet toward him.

Arthur accepted the document but made no move to break the Black Boar seal. “What is this, Tribune?”

“My resignation.”

When Marcus started to leave the room, Arthur ordered him to stay. To Urien, he said, “Why?”

Urien shot an irritated glance at the centurion, who was doing his best to remain inconspicuous near the door. “It’s in the letter.”

Arthur crushed the parchment in his fist and cast it to the floor. “Request denied.” Moving from behind the table, he pinned Urien with his glare. “You are out of uniform. Correct that error at once.”

Murderous rage flashed across Urien’s face. He stood immobile except for his jaw, which worked back and forth. His lips pursed, and he spat. It landed squarely between Arthur’s feet.

Marcus gasped. Arthur folded his arms and arched an eyebrow. “You are dismissed, Tribune. For the entire winter. Take as many of Clan Moray as you wish.” He sharpened his glare. “But if you or your men fail to return to headquarters in the spring, I will send the legion to retrieve you. Understood?”

“Understood.” Urien’s rage dimmed but didn’t die. “Sir.”

He pivoted with a flare of his cloak, blustered past Marcus, and stormed from the room. Imagining that cloak with a chieftain’s gold trim was far too easy—and chilling.

Marcus closed the door and stooped to retrieve the parchment wad. “Watch your back with him, sir,” he whispered as he straightened.

Gyan’s back concerned Arthur most, though he didn’t need to share that with his aide. “Post a general order releasing all men who must attend to the harvest and other duties at home. Word it as you see fit. Just make it clear that they should expect recall at any time but no later than the ides of May.”

He remained confident that Caer Lugubalion, Camboglanna, Caerglas, and the other garrisons would stay staffed above one-third strength; more than a thousand men called the legion their home. If Urien had hoped to foster division by claiming that Clan Moray had received preferential treatment, the general dismissal would rob him of that opportunity.

“The men will appreciate early release, sir.” Marcus offered a rare grin. “It’s been one hell of a year.”

Studying the slimy glob at his feet, Arthur laughed ruefully. He couldn’t have phrased it better himself.

“SERVE YOURSELF.” The pitcher hit the tabletop with a thud. Wine sloshed over the rim. “Or have your wife do it. This should be her task, not mine.” Morghe raked Gyanhumara with a sharp glare.

Arthur caught her arm before she could escape. “Caledonian noblewomen do not serve at table, Morghe. You know that better than most.” She felt his grip loosen, and she wrenched her arm away. His face mirrored concern. “Tell me what troubles you.”

As if he really cared how she felt.

She wanted to spit in her brother’s face but wasn’t in a position to show such defiance. Not yet. Not until she married Urien in a year and a half, the lengthy betrothal designed to give her enough time at Caerlaverock to learn from her mother the intricacies of clan rule. With such knowledge at her command, she planned to become indispensable to her future husband.

However, she had hoped to stay at Caer Lugubalion for a few more weeks, to become better acquainted with him before they retired to their separate homes for the winter. Arthur had stolen this opportunity from her with no regard for her feelings.

“Dismissal” was the official term describing the imminent departure of Urien and his clansmen. Morghe would have selected “banishment.” Either way, it lay beyond her power to change. As usual.

She molded her countenance and posture into the image of weariness. “It’s nothing, Arthur.” She dragged the back of a hand across her brow. “Merely fatigue.”

It wasn’t a lie. She had long since wearied of being a pawn in his political gwyddbwyll game.

“Rest well, then,” he said. Gyanhumara murmured a similar sentiment.

Before Arthur could change his mind, Morghe stepped down from the dais and quit the hall.

After the boisterous, smoky warmth of the fort’s main dining hall, the brisk evening provided a refreshing change. Wrapping herself in her cloak’s thick woolen folds, she strode down the deserted thoroughfare toward the mansio. The dignitaries’ inn appeared dark and quiet, with most of the guests probably still gorging themselves at the feast.

She craved solitude, but not the whitewashed boredom of her guest chambers. Instead, she opted for the stone bench in the mansio’s inner courtyard.

A tall figure stood at the rustle of her approach.

“Urien!” Pulse racing, she swallowed her surprise. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you, since I know the feast is long from being over. But I won’t.” Smiling, he extended a hand. “I was waiting for you, my dear.”

Instinct warned her that he wanted something other than the pleasure of her company.

Curiosity flaring, she decided to play his game.

“You were? To say farewell?” She accepted his hand and squeezed it briefly. The feast’s aromas clung to him: smoke, beef, and ale. Mostly ale. She forced a smile. “I’m so glad!”

He answered with a surprisingly passionate kiss. His tongue seemed to have a mind of its own as it explored the inside of her mouth. So did his fingers; they burrowed under her cloak to caress her breasts. The exquisite sensations made her fling her head back and gasp with pleasure. Urien’s lips savaged her throat, and she arched closer, feeling his body’s reaction between her thighs through the wool of his trews.