Morning's Journey (30 page)

Chapter 16

“
I
SHALL ACCOMPANY the work party.” Gyan’s announcement won instant, open-mouthed attention among those clustered around her in the courtyard near Arbroch’s main gate. Her eyes flashed a challenge at anyone daring to meet her gaze.

The work party in question had been tasked to clear a path for the following night’s religious celebration to honor the advent of spring. Although how these folk could envision spring when snow still piled knee-high went beyond Arthur’s ken.

As near as he could gather, a clan ruler was required to oversee the priests’ handling of the workers, slave as well as free. Because of the Abar-Gleann treaty, no Brytons stood in the slaves’ ranks. Some had remained at Arbroch as free citizens, however, and had chosen to help with the day’s work. Of their compensation Arthur hadn’t a clue, perhaps their choice of lambs.

He studied his pregnant wife, proud of her devotion to her clan yet questioning her insistence to volunteer for the league-long hike. Bad enough that she’d have to make the journey during the ritual; as quickly as she tired lately, he didn’t like the idea of her making two such trips in as many days. But he held his peace, curious to see how this internal clan matter would play out.

One by one, the others remembered their tongues.

The High Priest said: “Is this wise, my lady?”

Cynda said: “Out of the question!”

Ogryvan said: “Have you gone daft, lass?”

Peredur said: “Aye, the bairn has addled her wits.”

Morghe said: “More than your wits will suffer if you insist on trudging about in this God-forsaken snow.”

Fists on hips, Gyan frowned. “You.” She stabbed a finger at Angusel’s chest. “I suppose you’re with them?”

Kicking at a lump of snow, he shrugged. “I think they’re right.”

“Ha.” Eyes narrowed, she faced Arthur. “What say you, husband?”

“What would you have me say? That you have my blessing to endanger our child?”

“Our child!” The words clotted into a ball of mist in the dim dawn. “That’s all anyone ever thinks about.
Our child
is about to drive me out of my skull!”

With a swish of her white rabbit-fur cloak, she stalked toward the living quarters. Clucking like a grouchy hen, Cynda set off after her, with Morghe not far behind.

Arthur, too, made to follow.

Ogryvan caught his arm. “This is women’s business.”

“She is my wife! I must—I want to—” He wanted to enfold her in his arms and never let go, but the Caledonian words danced maddeningly beyond reach.

“My wife acted the same way, and it’s not just the bairn.” He punched Arthur’s fur-swathed shoulder. “Gyan needs to be alone. Leave her be. You too, Angusel.” Ogryvan flung the command at the lad as he tried to edge away.

“In the feast hall, Angusel,” said Arthur. “I’ll join you for sword practice.”

“Not now!” Ogryvan’s thundering dissent surprised everyone. “Artyr comes to the Nemeton with me.”

“My lord,” began one of the priests, “no outsider may—”

Scowling, Ogryvan rounded on the man. The priest shrank back and winced as his shoulders grazed the snow-covered stone wall.

“In case that incense you snort all day has made you forgetful, Priest, Artyr mac Ygrayna is my son-by-law and father of the next heir to the Seat of Argyll.”

“Aye,” Peredur put in. “How can he learn our ways unless he participates?”

“What says the exalted heir-begetter?” asked Vergul, the priest who had presided when Gyan received Arthur’s dragon tattoo and Arthur swore his oath to her. His frosty stare sent a chill down Arthur’s spine. “Does he wish to join us?”

Arthur turned his gaze from person to person. The priests didn’t want him present; his wife’s kin did. So be it.

He answered, “I do.”

“Good, good!” Ogryvan clapped his gloved hands twice. “Then let us begin.”

Vergul cast Arthur a venomous glance before helping his brethren organize the workers. Arthur ignored him. He wasn’t about to let one sour-faced bigot jeopardize the hard work he and Gyan had invested to encourage unity between their peoples.

The High Priest selected another priest to accompany the work party. To Vergul’s credit and Arthur’s surprise, he did not argue with his superior.

Logic dictated the procession’s order. Those wielding picks and shovels worked in front, followed by the food and ale bearers, and behind them, the priest. Arthur and Ogryvan walked side by side to guard the rear.

Although accustomed to leading, Arthur recognized the position’s advantages. It let him watch the proceedings closely enough to step in quickly, yet far enough away to maintain privacy. The workers talked and sang among themselves, and the priest kept his own counsel, speaking only to direct the work.

This left Arthur and Ogryvan to each other’s company, which suited Arthur perfectly. As the work progressed across Arbroch’s meadows, he pressed his father-by-marriage for tales of Argyll’s history. Though claiming to be no bard—the word Ogryvan used sounded like “shawn-ah-kee”—he fulfilled Arthur’s request. Stories of battles and raids, famines and plagues, as well as periods of peace and prosperity, poured forth in Ogryvan’s booming bass tones. Arthur’s vocabulary expanded as he questioned unfamiliar phrases or concepts.

When the steepening path became treacherous with roots and ruts and rocks, however, he devoted more attention to how he might help Gyan navigate this route the following evening.

“Your turn, lad.”

He directed a quizzical glance at Ogryvan, who regarded him with amusement. The work party had halted, and the men, the priest included, were straining to lever a downed pine off the trail.

“Sir?” He wasn’t sure whether Ogryvan meant for him to help move the tree, or if he’d missed something Gyan’s father had said.

“I’ve told you about Argyll. Now, you speak.” He tapped Arthur’s chest. “About yourself. How did you come to lead the Breatanach army at such a young age?”

Arthur thinned his lips. Gyan didn’t know the whole story of Dun Eidyn. Hell, not even Merlin knew. “I could ask you the same of Gyan. She has much responsibility for clan rule.”

A shout went up, followed by a series of crashes and thuds as the tree rolled off the path and into the ravine, startling dozens of crows, sparrows, and grouse into flight.

As forward progress resumed and the birds’ squawks died down, Ogryvan stroked his graying beard. “Aye, that she does. It’s been so ever since she reached womanhood.” The chieftain gazed up the path. “My dear wife died birthing her.”

“And you still miss her.”

“Aye.” More a sigh than a word.

“You’re not afraid you’ll lose Gyan like that, too?”

“Gods, I hope not.” Ogryvan uttered a rueful laugh. “But I’d be a liar if I said I never thought about it.”

“So would I,” Arthur admitted. “But I believe she will be in good hands.” In death as well as in life, though he felt ill equipped to explain this to someone who worshipped other gods.

“Aye, lad. That she will.” After striding in silence for a while, Ogryvan said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

Since Ogryvan had chosen to bare his soul, fairness demanded the same of Arthur. He willed the guilt to stay submerged.

“Dun Eidyn—the fort you call Dùn Éideann—was my first battle. Colgrim had lain siege, and my father led the standing army to relieve the fort. He promoted me to lead the reserve troops. I wanted to fight in the main division, at his side, but command of the reserves was too great an honor to refuse.”

Arthur snorted, recalling everyone’s reaction, including his. “I never questioned my father’s judgment, even though most of his generals did. I thought I could do damn near anything.”

“Surely Uther had good reason to trust your abilities.”

“Only Merlin’s word.” In response to Ogryvan’s puzzled look, Arthur added, “Merlin, the priest who performed our wedding, was one of my father’s best generals, and he trained me.”

“Ah.” Ogryvan’s smile turned cryptic. “Then I imagine your father had good reason indeed to trust the man’s word.”

“I don’t know.” Memories rushed back, unwelcome but unchecked. “When we got to Dùn Éideann, we had no idea…” The Angli-infested scene returned as vividly as the accursed reality had been.

“That there were so many enemy troops?”

Arthur nodded, reliving his shock and fear as the Angli forces, outnumbering the Brytons by ten to one, had pulsed around Dun Eidyn’s walls. He forced himself to continue. “My father fought in the unit behind the phalanx.” With his hands, he formed a wedge to explain the formation. “A strong phalanx will open the enemy’s line for the main body. He posted many of his best men to the phalanx.”
Where I should have been.
Arthur grimaced at another bloody memory. “Against those odds, they didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his unit.” His chest ached as though the Angli spear that had taken his father’s life had struck him instead. Briefly, he ground his knuckles into the spot.

There were still days he wished it had.

“And your unit?” Ogryvan asked. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Arthur laughed mirthlessly. “That’s the hell of it. I was too surprised by the enemy’s numbers. I should have ordered my men to help my father’s troops, instead of holding them back.”

“As you were ordered to do.”

Arthur had never considered it that way before and told Ogryvan so. “Still, under the circumstances, I—”

Not even Merlin had heard this confession. He could scarcely admit it to himself. But here walked a man who might not feel the sting of disappointment upon learning of Arthur’s failure. He wished he could leave it unspoken but knew he couldn’t.

He regarded Ogryvan squarely. “I should have overcome my fears, sir, and reacted quicker. Maybe then my father would have lived.”

“Or maybe not.” Arthur started to protest, but Ogryvan put up a hand. “A similar quandary faced me at Abar-Gleann. The battle might have gone differently if I had beaten Urien in that race to the dike.” Arthur raised an eyebrow, and the chieftain laughed. “And don’t go abusing that notion, you whelp! Leave this old man a shred of pride.” His expression sobered. “Of course, that might not have changed anything. In battle, you never know when an insignificant event will turn the tide.”

True enough. One thrown horseshoe, one miscommunicated order, one ill-aimed arrow might rob victory from the winning side.

The chieftain said, “You feel badly about your father’s death, perhaps even responsible. Anyone would, lad.” Ogryvan gripped Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ll wager your guilt is undeserved.”

Arthur shrugged the hand away. Guilt he deserved, not what had happened after Uther’s death. “The men insisted on following me. Heaven only knows why, when Merlin and other officers had survived.”

“Because you transformed the rout into an orderly retreat to save countless lives. No mean feat, that. Panic is a vicious plague.”

“You heard about that, sir?”

“And the main details of the battle, aye. Word does get around, even up here.” Ogryvan smiled. “But I wanted to hear it from you. A man reveals his true measure by how he handles defeat.” The smile vanished. “Having guilt is natural, but if you let it consume you, Artyr, you will be of no use to anyone. Gyan included. I’d rather not see that happen to her. Or”—affection crinkled the corners of his mouth and eyes—“to the man she loves.”

The procession stopped. The priest ordered silence while he intoned a prayer. A blessing, Arthur surmised, even though he didn’t recognize all the words.

“You’re right,” he told Ogryvan after the priest had concluded.

Two stark choices reared up like the monoliths of the nearby circle where the workers resumed their shoveling. He could forever wonder how he might have saved his father’s life. Or he could bid Uther farewell and put the matter behind him, laying it, and his father, to rest.

He drew a breath and chose.

Fist to chest, Arthur said, as much to himself as to his father-by-marriage, “I swear I will not let guilt best me.”

PROPPED ON a bench in Arbroch’s feast hall, shoulders to the wall and feet buried in a cushion atop a stool, a cup of heather beer in hand and sweltering under her ceremonial robe, Gyan felt like an outsider in more ways than one.