Morning's Journey (49 page)

“What?” Alayna’s surprise forced her back a pace.

“Today, I have disgraced not just one clan but two.”

“Angusel, no!”

“Mother, a dishonored warrior is of no use to his clan.” He looked away. “Or to anyone.”

“Angusel, my son, that’s not true. The Argyll High Priest—”

“Was very kind, aye.” He cast an appreciative glance at the man, but as he surveyed the Alban warriors, none would make eye contact with him. “There’s no place for me in Clan Alban now. They know it.” Gesturing at his clansmen, he looked squarely at his mother. “So do you. I am Angusel mac Alayna no longer. I am…Aonar.”

Alayna whirled to face Gyan, rage contorting her features. “You!” Alayna’s finger jabbed the air in front of Gyan’s chest. If she’d been wielding a sword, Gyan would have died where she stood. Not that it would have mattered; Gyan felt as if a part of her had already died with her bairn. “For the evil you have wrought upon Clan Alban, may you never have another day’s happiness.”

Gyan doubted she’d ever be happy again, curse or no.

As Alayna, in a violent flurry of motion, gathered her men to leave, Gyan sensed her father looming behind her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Gyanhumara—”

“Angusel mac Alayna’s oath was to me, Father, and I stand within my rights to nullify it. You cannot override me.”

He withdrew his hand, paced to the front of her chair, and lowered his face to hers. “Think of the consequences. Including the stain it will leave on Angusel,” he said quietly. “He’s a good lad at heart, Gyan. This wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t deserve to call himself ‘Alone’ any more than he deserves to be alone. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

She folded her arms. “Absolutely.” If her father was so concerned about a rift with Clan Alban, then he could bloody well try to make amends with Alayna himself. She didn’t want to see anyone from that corner of Caledon for the rest of her life.

Ogryvan’s expression hosted an odd blend of anger and sympathy. Straightening, he signaled Per, Seumas, Torr, and several other warriors to accompany him, and the group strode after Alayna.

As both parties disappeared through the far doors, Arthur stepped forward. “You haven’t heard Angusel’s account of the fight, Gyan. I can’t believe he didn’t try his best.” What he didn’t say, although she could read it plainly enough in his eyes, was that he thought she was being too hard on Angusel. On Aonar. “If you don’t want his report, I do.”

A few “ayes” chorused his request.

“The exalted heir-begetter will remember his place,” she said icily.

“But, Gyan—Chieftainess, I—I did fight hard, but I was—”

“I am not interested in your excuses,
Aonar
.” He winced. She stood. “You are alive, and my son is not. I command you to leave Arbroch. If you set foot within these walls again, it shall be upon peril of your life.” His face adopted a stricken look before he turned away. For the first time, she noticed the condition of his wounds. Shivering, he clung to his staff as though without it he would die. She relented a little. “You have until sundown tomorrow.”

“As you will.” Angusel bowed stiffly. “Chieftainess.”

He lurched through the silent crowd toward the feast hall doors.

Pressing a hand to her eyes, she dropped into her chair, wave after wave of fresh grief crashing and breaking upon her soul. To keep herself from being dashed to pieces, she tried to revive her anger against Angusel, Tira, and Cynda, as well as against the man ultimately responsible, Urien map Dumarec.

This time, grief won.

GYAN BURIED her face in her hands and wept, her chest heaving as though she battled for every breath.

Arthur knew exactly how she felt.

However, she didn’t seem to recognize the political disaster she’d created. Urien undoubtedly would dance from one end of Dalriada to the other when he found out.

Conflicting desires warred within Arthur’s heart. Angusel needed to hear that Arthur didn’t blame him for what had happened to Loholt. Noting how quickly the lad slipped through the crowd, Arthur doubted he would stay at Arbroch any longer than necessary, but Gyan’s distress vanquished all other concerns.

He gripped her convulsing shoulder. Without looking, she brushed his hand away. She might as well have beheaded him.

Arthur stooped to whisper, “Gyan…”

She sucked in a breath and blew it out. Her hands dropped to the armrests, her back stiffening. Face tilted upward, she clenched her jaw and shut her eyes. When she opened them, they burned with an intense inner fire. “I am going to kill him.” Battle frenzy never had given her such a furious countenance.

“Angusel?” Arthur knew damned well what she’d intended when the lad had bared his neck to her blade.

Violently, she shook her head. “Urien.” The name oozed from between her gritted teeth.

He clasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. Gazing at some point beyond his shoulder, she didn’t resist him. “You can’t mean it, Gyan. You have no proof.”

She wrenched her hands free and slapped her chest. “Here is all the proof I need.”

She drew her dagger and raised it level with her neck. Arthur caught her wrist. “Gyan, no!”

“The exalted heir-begetter shall stand aside,” she growled. “Or be removed from this place.”

Reluctantly, he complied. The crowd’s buzzing escalated. Gyan grabbed her braid and hacked it off, stuck it onto the dagger’s point, and thrust it overhead. Silence invaded the hall.

“I, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, vow to the exalted heir-begetter and Clan Argyll that everyone responsible for the death of Loholt mac Artyr shall feel the wrath of my blade. My head shall bear witness to the fulfillment of this oath.”

By God, Arthur believed her.

She dashed the braid to the floor and sheathed her dagger. After scowling at him with a look that forbade intrusion, she stomped off the platform and through the shocked crowd. Near the doors, she paused long enough to give someone a reprimand. The oaken doors thundered shut behind her.

No one dared to pursue Gyan, not even the stalwart Cynda, who stood staring at the closed doors, wringing her hands and shifting from foot to foot.

With a leaden heart, Arthur retrieved Gyan’s braid. He drew it slowly through his fingers, and it emitted a faint aroma of roses. Its softness mocked the many times he’d enjoyed its feel and scent. Saddened beyond measure, he coiled it about his fist.

He didn’t understand what she had meant by having “proof.” Intuition, perhaps. He’d seen grief strip reason from otherwise reasonable folk, himself included.

He couldn’t blame her for the virulence of her response. Nor could he allow himself to succumb to similar temptations.

He could only hope that she would let him share this burden. At present, it didn’t seem likely, and that grieved him more deeply than he’d have ever thought possible.

One person might benefit, though, if he acted quickly enough. Summoning his military bearing lest grief rob him of his sense, too, he signaled his decurion to form up the turma for departure, left the platform, and marched down the aisle.

NINIANE WATCHED the proceedings with growing horror. She didn’t need to understand the words; the tones, gestures, and reactions revealed all. Her stomach clenched. This was her fault.

Most people glanced elsewhere as Angusel trudged by. Some turned their backs. If the look in Gawain’s eyes had been a weapon, Angusel never would have left the hall alive. Angusel made no response except to appear even more devastated. Niniane yearned to fold him into a motherly embrace but feared that might violate another taboo. Instead, she reached out to catch his hand. The eyes that met hers—golden-brown eyes she’d Seen in more visions than she could count—brimmed with unshed tears. He pulled away and left the building.

The burden of prophecy and the necessity to keep it a secret from the world had never felt so heavy.

Gyanhumara’s agitated countenance spoke volumes about her craving for solitude. Niniane respected that; grief could be a harsh master. Cynda tried to say something to the chieftainess and was scathingly rebuked. Tears sprang to the older woman’s eyes.

Niniane closed her eyes, as much to erase the scene as to hold her tears at bay. All this misery because of her failure…

“I can guess why you’re here, Prioress.” Her eyes flew open to see Arthur standing before her, his face grim but resigned. “I’m afraid you’re too late.”

“I—I know. And I am so very sorry.” More sorry than he could possibly imagine. She rubbed her shoulders, but the warmth failed to ward off the chill seeping into her soul.

“What happened? What did you See? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you come sooner?” Pain seared the edges of his tone.

Niniane had no desire to worsen that pain, but she couldn’t withhold her confession from one of the few people she trusted with the knowledge of her gift. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and in whispered tones revealed everything but the vision of Loholt in the peasants’ hut, which must have occurred before his death, if at all. “Arthur,” she said, “can—can you ever forgive me?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“My journey here—”

“Was delayed by misfortune, not by choice.”

Small comfort. She averted her gaze, refusing to forgive herself.

“Niniane, I would ask a favor of you.”

She looked up. “Anything, Arthur.”

“It’s Gyan.” His fingers convulsed around the remains of Gyanhumara’s glorious red hair, his sigh barely audible. “She needs your help.”

“Me? She has family, servants, priests.” She regarded him closely. “And her husband.”

“I—” More pain flared in his eyes. “I can’t get through her grief.” Determination conquered the pain. “I was hoping you could.”

“Angusel grieves, too, but he has no one.”

“That’s not true. He just doesn’t realize it yet.”

She hated to ask, “He’s been banished, hasn’t he?”

“From Arbroch, yes. And he faces rejection, public disgrace—I’m not sure I understand it all. Or agree with it. If Gyan comes to her senses, she may regret what she’s done, but by then it may be too late. It may already be too late.” Arthur grasped her hand. “I’ll deal with Angusel. Help Gyan. For me.”

“How can I, Arthur? Her religion—”

“Greet her in the name of the ‘One God,’” he whispered, “and she should welcome you.”

The One God? How strange, Niniane thought. But with failure binding her soul with guilt, she couldn’t possibly refuse. “When you see Bishop Dubricius, please tell him I’ll be delayed in returning to the priory. For how long, I’m not sure.”

“Agreed.” He squeezed her hand and released it. “Thank you, Niniane.

Cynda approached while they spoke, and she halted a respectful distance away. When Arthur turned to leave, she asked him a question in hesitant-sounding Caledonian. He glanced at the braid, nodded sharply, and gave it to her. Cynda’s sobs erupted, and Arthur held her through the worst. With squared shoulders and set jaw, he strode from the hall. Cynda watched his departure, chin quivering, Gyanhumara’s braid clutched over her heart.

WITHIN THE sanctity of her private chambers, Gyan at last felt free of meddlers prying into her grief.

Except there was nothing sanctified about this room. The cradle gaped from the shadows near the cold hearth like an open wound. Like the way her heart felt, empty and forlorn.