Morning's Journey (37 page)

URIEN HAD never set foot inside his parents’ chambers. As a child, there’d been no need. In the care of first his nursemaid and later, his tutors, he saw his parents often enough as his activities intersected theirs in the feast hall, practice fields, chapel, hunting runs, or elsewhere around the settlement. After joining the army, he’d not been home long enough to see much of his own chambers, never mind anyone else’s.

It felt odd to view these rooms for the first time upon the cusp of them becoming his.

There wasn’t much to see except people. Physicians, guards, couriers, advisers, clerics, servants, and errand boys packed every span of floor space. What little talk they shared sounded subdued and impossible to overhear.

Regretting his decision to await the ferry and not to swim Talarf across the last loch, he wondered whether Dumarec had already died.

Slowly, folk noticed him standing in the doorway. In moments, everyone’s gaze turned upon him. As though directed by an unseen hand, they bowed. He quelled his surprise. This treatment he could become accustomed to very quickly.

An avenue formed leading to the bedchamber’s door.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode to that door. A guard opened it, and Urien caught a blast of fetid air. Eyes watering, he stepped inside. The door thumped shut behind him.

Heavy draperies shrouded the tall windows. The few oil lamps scattered about the room did little to alleviate the gloom. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The air reeked of herbs and incense.

Urien’s mother, a physician, and a priest stood near the canopied bed. A few servants hovered beside a table laden with food, drink, and medicines.

Dumarec lay on the bed, propped by pillows. The clan mantle covered his thin body, its black folds lending stark contrast to his ghostly pale flesh.

As Urien drew near, one of Dumarec’s hands feebly waved.

“Urien, my son.” The crackling whisper barely bore a resemblance to his father’s voice.

He dropped to one knee beside the bed. “Father. I have come, as you asked.”

In Dumarec’s eyes, mirth struggled past the pain. “I can see that, lad. My body may be failing me, but my eyesight hasn’t. Yet.” The cold, leathery hand clutched Urien’s. “You will be chieftain soon. Swear to me you shall always do what is best for the clan.” Though the bony fingers shook, they wielded surprising strength. “Swear it!”

Leaning closer, Urien locked his gaze with Dumarec’s. “I swear, Father.” The heir of Clan Moray had never felt more sincere. Since the chieftain embodied the clan, what was best for the chieftain was best for all. “Before God and these witnesses, I do so swear.”

Dumarec’s head twitched in a parody of a nod. The hand holding Urien’s relaxed its grip. He sucked in a rattling breath and blew it out slowly. His eyes, fixed upon Urien, glazed. His chest stilled.

As he studied Dumarec’s face, the frozen stare seemed to adopt an accusatory cast. Urien blinked hard, but the disquieting sensation didn’t ebb. Surely he’d imagined it. He forced himself to slowly rise and back away, letting the physician take his place. It didn’t take long for the man to confirm the truth.

While Urien’s mother gently lifted the lifeless arms, the priest took the clan mantle from the bed. One by one, she removed the pillows so Dumarec could lie flat, and she folded his arms across his chest. She didn’t weep as she performed this final service for her husband.

She bent to kiss Dumarec’s brow and joined the priest, who still held the clan mantle. They draped it around Urien’s shoulders.

Urien gazed at his father’s body as the cloak’s weight enfolded him within the moment he’d desired with all his being. Yet he couldn’t suppress a twinge of remorse for the man who had shaped his life by teaching him about warfare and leadership.

Nothing he couldn’t live with, however.

Head high, the new Chieftain of Clan Moray threw open the doors, stepped into the light, and greeted his clan.

ARBROCH’S ATMOSPHERE crackled with hopeful expectation.

After receiving a hearty greeting from the gate sentries, who’d been pleased to report that Gyan had gone into confinement that morning, Arthur, Per, Angusel, and the rest of the escort were summarily ignored—which suited Arthur perfectly. No sense wasting time fawning upon them.

The men stabled their horses, and Arthur sent Angusel racing ahead for the latest report about Gyan. The lad met him and Per outside the ruling family’s living quarters.

“They say she’s doing fine,” Angusel blurted as breathlessly as if he’d run from Marathon.

“Did you see her?” Per asked. “When will the bairn arrive?”

“I don’t know.” Angusel shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Cynda won’t let me into the birthing chamber. She won’t let any man enter. Chieftain Ogryvan tried, too.” He leveled his golden-brown gaze at Arthur. “I’ll wager she won’t even let you in, my lord.”

Arthur chuckled. “I may just take that wager, Angusel.”

If excitement among the folk outside ran high, inside they bordered on ecstatic. Women paraded through the doors to Gyan’s chambers carrying linens, bathing implements, buckets of water, firewood, and other necessities. Each chatted gaily with her neighbor.

Without breaking stride, Arthur made for the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t, my lord.” Cynda seemed to appear from nowhere to block his path, arms crossed and eyes flashing.

He donned his most charming smile. “Cynda, my wife is in there. And my child. I would like to be with them, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It most certainly is not the same to me, Lord Artyr. Men have no business here.”

“My family is my business.” Still smiling, he charged his tone with warning. Then a better idea occurred. “If you prefer, I’ll pick you up and carry you in with me. Do you think Gyan would be jealous?”

She shook her head with a short laugh. “Very well. You may go in. Only the exalted heir-begetter,” she announced to the other men. They answered with a chorus of disappointed groans. She said to Arthur, “But if you get in the way, my lord, I guarantee you will regret it.”

“Careful, Artyr,” advised Per, grinning. “Our little tyrant does not make empty threats.”

Arthur believed him all the more when he saw Cynda in her element, barking orders as crisply as a veteran centurion. Like well-trained troops, the women swiftly obeyed, but he had little care for their work. He didn’t even wish to speak with Morghe, already stationed at the bed’s foot to witness the birth.

Only the figure on the bed held his full attention.

Gyan was half lying, half sitting against a mountain of pillows. Naked from her swollen waist down, her knees were drawn up and apart. As the flesh of her abdomen rippled, her sweat-streaked face contorted in the most excruciating agony he’d ever witnessed.

To his immense relief, her face relaxed and her hands unclenched, but the spasm left her gasping. Cynda bent over with a damp cloth to swab Gyan’s brow. When Cynda moved back, Gyan turned to look his way, but another spasm caught her as she tried to speak.

He dashed across the room to her side.

“If you plan to stay there, my lord”—amusement and affection warmed Cynda’s tone—“then I suggest you make yourself useful.” She pressed the cloth into his hand.

Arthur dabbed Gyan’s flaming cheeks. She managed a weak smile.

“Artyr. You—you’re here. Why?”

He took her hand, surprised by how hot it felt. “Stampeding cattle couldn’t keep me from you, my love.” Smiling, he inclined his head toward Cynda. “Neither could she.”

Gyan tried to laugh, but her body succumbed to another convulsion. Her hand gripped his with Amazonian strength. He groaned through gritted teeth as the pain shot all the way up his arm.

“Ah,” cooed Cynda at his shoulder. “Forgive me for not warning you, my lord. That’s one of the hazards of this type of combat.”

“Oh, Artyr, I hope I didn’t—”

He silenced her with a quick kiss. After flexing his fingers to get the blood circulating, he took her hand again. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready this time.”

A good thing, too, for her next spasm lasted a lot longer.

Morghe let out a delighted squeal. “The crown! I see the crown!”

A host of pleased murmurs sprang up around the chamber as the other women jostled for a better view.

Cynda shouldered them aside to look for herself, nodded, and quickly moved to Gyan’s other side. “Your bairn is almost here, my dove.” Gyan sighed softly as Cynda said, “Remember what I told you?”

“Yes, Cynda. I remember.” She sounded much stronger, which heartened him. “Push for all I’m worth. And breathe.”

“Good lass.” Cynda glanced at Arthur, reaching for Gyan’s shoulders. “Quickly, my lord, before this next pain comes upon her. We must hold her up. It’ll make things go a wee bit easier.”

He’d have cut off his right arm and beaten himself with it if he thought it might help. They supported her shoulders and back through waves of pain as Gyan gasped and moaned, and the child wrestled into the world.

At last, their efforts earned the sweetest sound under heaven: an infant’s first cry. His child…their child. Their son!

Thankfulness flooded Arthur’s soul.

Cynda produced a knife and cut the cord. She sheathed the knife and handed the sticky, squalling infant to another woman. As the servants cleaned the baby, Cynda instructed Gyan to push out the afterbirth. Once the bloody mass was removed, Cynda cleaned Gyan’s legs, bound her loins with sphagnum moss and bandages, and ordered Arthur to lift her so the linens could be changed. Eyes closed, Gyan submitted meekly to their ministrations. After Cynda finished, Arthur settled her against the pillows and blotted her sweat with a dry cloth. Her eyes flickered open to reveal exhaustion beyond measure.

“We have a boy, my love,” he whispered. The first stage of the prophecy had come to pass, but he had no intention of broaching that subject. Ever. He couldn’t begin to fathom Gyan’s agony, but he felt as if he’d just defeated an entire enemy army with only a cudgel. “What shall we name him?”

“Loholt,” she replied. “It means ‘for terror.’ One day, he shall strike terror in the hearts of his foes.”

Scrubbed and swaddled, this tiny terror nestled sleepily in a blanket of Argyll-patterned lamb’s wool. Gingerly, Arthur took his son from a beaming Cynda, who showed him how to cradle the baby’s head. Eyes misting, he gazed in sheer awe at the red, wrinkled mite. “Loholt,” he whispered. “Loholt mac Gyanhumara.” His son yawned.

“No.” Gyan reached up to take him from Arthur’s arms, pushed aside a fold of her tunic to expose the feeding-slit, and with her free hand gently brushed her nipple against the baby’s mouth. It took only moments for Loholt to figure out what to do. As the perfect little lips flexed and tugged, Gyan’s smile lit the entire room. She said, “Loholt mac Artyr.”

Chapter 20

L
OHOLT MAC ARTYR.

The bairn had haunted Angusel’s thoughts for three maddeningly interminable days.

He paused over his half-devoured mound of ham, cheese, and bread, grinning to recall the Pendragon’s face when he’d finally emerged from the birthing chamber, looking as if he’d just spent a night in Lugh’s feast hall, dazed yet smitten by the joyous wonder of it all. To questions about Gyan and the bairn, he divulged only that Gyan had borne a son and named him Loholt, and that both mother and child had survived the ordeal commendably well.

Probably, Angusel thought with a broader grin, much better than the father had.

Chieftain Ogryvan, favoring the Pendragon with a hearty laugh and backslap, had vowed to melt his son-by-law’s tongue with liquid fire. Nobody saw either of them until late the following morning.

Clan Argyll didn’t seem disappointed that their àrd-banoigin had borne a boy-child. Gyan was young, healthy, and strong, ran the general opinion, with time aplenty to bear a daughter for the clan. Angusel knew Breatanaich prized their boys and held their girls in little regard.

Barbarians.
He took a swig of ale.

Did Gyan hope to forestall ill sentiments from Arthur’s kin by naming Loholt for his father? Did she believe she needed to?

Naturally, her choice had raised eyebrows among her clansmen, but any real trouble would come from the jealous guardians of the law. If the Argyll priests were even half as stubborn as Alban’s, Gyan’s fight against the ancient tradition of naming the child for his mother would be fierce indeed.