Morning's Journey (39 page)

Amid the claps and shouts of approval, the chief priest scurried to Urien’s side and motioned for a private word. He sheathed his sword and leaned over.

“Forgive me, my lord, but it is customary to wait a full week. The clan needs time to mourn.”

“And they shall have all the time they require.” Urien lowered his eyebrows. “After the ceremony.”

“But the chapel isn’t ready, and the choir hasn’t—”

Smiling, Urien clapped the priest on the shoulder, straightened, and raised his voice. “Holy Father, there shall be time aplenty to conduct the funeral mass, and I heartily encourage you and your brethren to continue your preparations.” This drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd. “Today, let us ask our people to bring naught but their devoted hearts as we conduct the rite in the ancient way.”

Cheers flew heavenward.

“With holy water,” interjected his mother into the lull.

Urien gave her a measuring glance. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard her express an opinion to Dumarec in public. Yet his father had always given her words due consideration—apparently with good reason. He inclined his head. “As you will, my beloved Lady Mother. Your wisdom honors the clan.”

FOR THE first time in too many months, Gyan perched atop Macmuir. Since her body hadn’t yet recovered from the birthing, forcing her to wear loin bindings stuffed with sphagnum moss to stanch the flow, she sat sideways on Macmuir’s back, both legs dangling over one side. This was especially awkward while trying to hold the squirming bundle otherwise known as her son. Why some women habitually rode in this manner by choice, she had no earthly idea.

Arthur and Angusel strode at Macmuir’s head, each gripping the bridle. Her father and brother flanked her to keep her balanced. Not even Angusel had been pleased with her insistence to ride, but she cared naught for anyone else’s opinion. She hadn’t strength enough to make the journey afoot, and for a warrior and mother of a warrior, her war-horse presented the only acceptable choice.

Ahead, torches ablaze with the Sacred Flame, marched the priests of Argyll. The rest of the clan streamed down the path behind Gyan. The predawn chill couldn’t dampen soaring spirits. Snippets of excited banter wafted her way.

She wished she could share their enthusiasm.

Urien map Dumarec, Chieftain of Clan Moray, had become wealthier and stronger…and far more dangerous than ever.

He had sent Arthur a formal letter stating his intention to continue supporting the legion, no huge surprise. A declaration of withdrawal would have announced his plans louder than a chorus of war-pipes. Silence would have spoken volumes, too. Urien wasn’t ready to make his move.

Thanks be to the One God.

Gyan gazed at her son, lulled asleep by Macmuir’s gait. Worry clawed at her heart. A military campaign took a great deal of time and wealth to prepare. An attack against one person did not.

Yet Angusel hadn’t discovered evidence of a plot against Loholt. Apparently, she thought with a thin smile as she recalled his report of the sundry places he’d visited, not for want of trying. The only thing even remotely unusual was Morghe’s decision to send one of her men to Ygraine with the news of Loholt’s birth, rather than letting Arthur dispatch one of his soldiers.

To assume Urien didn’t already know about Loholt would be a grave mistake. Surely, if he sought revenge on Gyan through her son, he’d have arranged for something to occur before the naming ceremony.

The increased guard might have thwarted Urien’s plan, but it wouldn’t prevent him from trying again. The Arbroch guard couldn’t remain doubled forever.

She tossed her braids with an impatient shake. Whether she ever wielded a sword again, she would remain a warrior at heart. A warrior dealt with the realities of the present and left the ghosts of the past and shades of the future to fend for themselves. She smiled at Loholt. Present reality took the form of this precious little incarnation of the love she and Arthur shared.

The procession stopped, and a priest approached Angusel.

“Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban,” intoned the hooded figure with a bow, “you must wait here until Clan Argyll returns.”

Angusel nodded his reluctant acceptance, though his eyes bespoke his desire to continue with the rest of the procession. Gyan wished she had the power to grant it, but this tradition couldn’t be broken. Arthur, as àrd-ceoigin, was a rare exception. No other person outside the clan could learn the hidden way to the sacred Nemeton of Argyll.

“I’m sorry, Angus,” she murmured. “This shouldn’t take long.”

She read the disappointment in his eyes as he released Macmuir’s bridle and withdrew to the edge of the path. Disappointment yielded to fierce pride as he honored her and her son with the warrior’s salute. It pleased her to return the salute on Loholt’s behalf: an appropriate gesture, for her next battle loomed.

DISARMED AND stripped to the waist, Urien stood atop the long, flat, white Chieftain’s Rock outside Dunadd’s innermost gate while Clan Moray packed into the courtyard around him. Symbols had been carved into the rock ages ago: a basin, a footprint, and notches whose meaning not even the bards could recall. Another, more recent symbol adorned the rock’s face: the Boar of Clan Moray. At the chief priest’s signal, Urien knelt beside the basin. The priest dipped his fingers into the sanctified water to anoint Urien’s brow, chest, and both shoulders in the name of the Triune God. Tingling erupted at each point of contact.

Urien resisted the urge to wipe the water away.

He rose for the arming, which symbolized divine allotment of the chieftain’s power, whether performed by a Christian priest or one of another faith. No stranger to the trappings of war, the chief priest completed the donning of Urien’s padded undertunic, breastplate, backplate, belt, sword, helmet, and clan mantle efficiently.

The priest bowed to Urien and jumped down from the knee-high rock, his part in the proceedings finished save for the closing prayer. The final step was Urien’s to take alone.

Swallowing convulsively, he stared first at the hollowed-out footprint, then at his own foot, trying to gauge the sizes and wishing he had tested the fit beforehand. The depression accommodated an average-size foot against which Urien’s foot and, symbolically, his ability to rule would be judged. A smaller foot was viewed as a positive sign that the chieftain would grow into his responsibilities. A larger one portended an ill fit between the chieftain and the clan. No one would swear fealty to such a man.

Urien drew a deep breath, strode forward, and crammed his foot into the hollow. A surge of relief dispelled the discomfort wrought by pinching rock.

Planting fists on hips, he stared across the sea of smiling, cheering faces as the men lined up for the fealty-swearing, searching for anyone who might dispute his claim upon the hearts of Clan Moray.

He had no takers.

THE PROCESSION halted before the stone sentinels ringing the Nemeton’s Sacred Ground. While a beaming Ogryvan held his grandson, Arthur helped Gyan dismount. As the rest of the clan entered the clearing, she lingered in his arms, drawing upon his strength. She’d told him what would transpire, but this battle he couldn’t help her fight.

She collected Loholt from her father, tucked a soft fold of the Argyll-patterned blanket around his wee face, and strode onto the Sacred Ground.

“By what name is the Exalted Heir of Clan Argyll to be known?” The High Priest’s crackling tone carried across the hush descending upon the clearing.

“Loholt.” Gyan readied her arguments like an archer collecting arrows. “Loholt mac Artyr.”

The High Priest cocked an eyebrow, opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it and merely nodded. When Vergul began to voice disagreement, the High Priest silenced him with a glare. This seemed decidedly odd, but she wasn’t about to question her good fortune. She swallowed her relief as she entrusted her son into the High Priest’s care.

After entering the inner stone circle guarding the Most Sacred Ground, he gently laid Loholt on a cushion atop the altar, unwrapped the blanket, and freed his right foot. The graying priest who had applied Per and Gyan’s tattoos stepped forward to perform the same service for her son. Loholt whimpered at the first prick of the knife on the back of his heel. She stood poised to rush to his side.

The priest worked quickly yet carefully. Loholt didn’t make another sound. Gyan grinned. Her son had borne his ordeal like the true warrior he was fated to become.

Recalling the rest of his prophesied fate, she suppressed a shiver. She would sooner take her own life than cause him to lose his.

The High Priest picked up Loholt and wrapped the silver-trimmed blanket around him. “I present the Exalted Heir of Clan Argyll, lawful firstborn son of Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar and her consort, Artyr mac Ygrayna. This child is part Breatanach by blood. His name represents this fact—and rightly so.” Loholt cooed as the High Priest freed the newly marked foot and angled it for the crowd. Bright blue dye glistened in the outline of two tiny doves. “By the Mark of Argyll, let it be forever known to all that he is Caledonach in heart, mind, and spirit.”

He kissed the bairn’s forehead and placed him into Gyan’s arms. “Clan Argyll,” he continued, the pride in his aged voice undisguised, “I present to you Loholt mac Artyr.”

Chapter 21

U
RIEN TRIED TO block out the noises and movements of the soldiers around him on Dunadd’s practice range to focus down the arrow’s shaft, his emotions as tight as the bowstring between his fingers. Chieftainship bore no resemblance to what he’d imagined.

Certainly, he’d expected decisions to be made upon his father’s death: dismissing old advisers and appointing new ones; renewing trade agreements; assessing clan holdings, livestock, tax levies, and other assets; inspecting the war-band; forging alliances. He hadn’t expected these tasks to leave no time for plans of a more personal nature.

His arrow sped toward the target and nicked the center’s edge.
Damn.

Having to send that thrice-cursed letter of support galled him like badly tanned breeches, but silence would have aroused Arthur’s suspicions.