Morning's Journey (5 page)

Gyanhumara stared at Urien, her face stripped of emotion. She might as well have been wearing a games helm.

“First Ala team reporting as ordered,” Urien said. “Sir.”

Executing a salute with enough enthusiasm to keep it from being construed as an insult required more precision than a cavalry drill, but Urien’s latest stint at headquarters had afforded many opportunities for practice.

“Your team rode well today, Prefect,” Arthur began, cordially enough, though he chose not to employ the title “tribune,” Urien’s preferred manner of address. “However, I noticed the difficulty your second rider experienced in the final race.” His face transformed into a mask as rigid as the one tucked under Urien’s arm. “Who was he?”

“Lucius, my lord.”

“Is this true, Decurion?” asked Arthur sternly.

“A-aye, sir. ’Twere an accident, Lord Pendragon. I swear!” Lucius twitched in his saddle under the Pendragon’s fierce scrutiny.

“Your negligence could have cost your opponent his life. Decurion Lucius, you are banned from cavalry games for one year,” Arthur said.

“Banned from—from games?” Lucius didn’t disguise his astonishment. I can still fight with First Ala, my lord?”

“Of course. With no reduction of rank or pay.” Arthur’s countenance relaxed slightly. “You are far too valuable an asset to your unit. And to me.”

Lucius responded with a salute and a look that, for all his attempted self-discipline, appeared decidedly grateful.

“What says Chieftainess Gyanhumara?” Urien ignored Lucius’s gasp and stared at her. “Surely you would want something more done to the man who hurt your friend.”

She exchanged a swift glance with Arthur, but whatever silent message passed between them, Urien couldn’t decipher it.

“I support my consort’s decision.” Eclipsing her sword’s pommel with her fist, she spat the words through clenched teeth. “Angusel has taken no permanent harm. Luckily for you, Urien map Dumarec. Being the leader makes you responsible for the actions of everyone under you,” she snapped. “Good and bad alike.”

Urien scarcely heard Arthur’s agreement or curt dismissal. He glared at the woman who’d caused all his problems.

Somehow, he would break that iron pride of hers. Urien ran his tongue across his lips. Revenge would taste sweet, and like a prime vintage, he would savor each drop.

BY THE time Arthur escaped from the dining hall, the moon had sailed high overhead. Gyan had made a sensible retreat much earlier. Part of him didn’t regret having spent time with his men, but the rest of him wished he’d chosen to accompany her.

The statue of the Roman goddess Diana in the praetorium’s courtyard loomed before him. Moonlight transformed the water cascading from her jug into a silvery stream, and it glittered in the ripples around her feet. This chunk of marble had witnessed countless hours of Arthur’s time as a student, sometimes with Merlin at his side to lecture and rebuke and praise, but more often not. Arthur map Uther preferred the luxury of solitude.

He wondered whether marriage would change that. Yet having Gyan for his partner made it a welcome prospect.

As a boy, he had viewed the stone goddess as the perfect embodiment of womanhood. Every detail shone flawlessly beautiful, down to the neatly sculpted fingernails. When the first stirrings of manhood had come upon him, he’d found fleshly women to be somewhat less than perfect. Some, a lot less. More than once, the doubt had nagged him that he’d ever find his own goddess on earth.

In Gyan, that doubt never would trouble him again.

“She is beautiful,” murmured a female voice. Arthur turned to see Ygraine gliding toward him. He noted with a flash of irritation that the guards had withdrawn from their posts, except the pair flanking the door, and they stood too far away to overhear a conversation conducted in normal tones. The teeth bared by Ygraine’s smile gleamed like moonlit pearls. “I haven’t forgotten how much a little privacy costs.”

He snorted as an image of her and his father came to mind. Shoving it aside, he squelched the urge to reprimand her for bribing his guards. The men would hear from him soon enough.

“Don’t be too hard on them, Arthur,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts. “They believe they’re doing us a favor.” As he glared at her under lowered eyebrows, her grin widened. “Your father used to get that same look whenever I did something like this.”

He conceded with a sigh. Some battles weren’t worth the effort.

Of the reasons Ygraine might seek private speech with him, he had a reasonable guess. Very little befell Clan Cwrnwyll without the consent of its chieftainess. After having grown to manhood in the fosterage of Cai’s late parents, Ectorius and Calpurnia, he felt less like Ygraine’s son than her liegeman.

“If you are displeased because I didn’t consult you about my marriage—”

She waved dismissively and gathered her skirts to settle onto the pool’s raised lip. “I gave you both my blessing yesterday, and I’m not of a mind to retract it now. Last night, Cai told me everything the bards couldn’t: that certain events rather…outpaced everyone.” She patted the lip beside her in an invitation. When Arthur shook his head, she chuckled softly. “Arthur map Uther, you are most definitely your father’s son.”

Unsure whether she meant that as a compliment, he let it pass. “Did he also tell you that by the laws of Gyan’s people, we’ve been married for a fortnight already?”

“No.” Her finger furrowed the water, and the carp swam over to investigate. Ygraine’s features creased into a thoughtful expression. She flicked the drops away. “Quite convenient, I must say.”

“Yes,” Arthur said. If canonical law, to which the Brytoni clans adhered, had contained such a provision, there would have been no question about the legitimacy of Arthur’s birth or his assumption of Clan Cwrnwyll’s chieftainship upon Ygraine’s death. He didn’t crave either status, but he despised his options being constrained by events beyond his control. “Quite.”

Up jerked her head, and she shot to her feet. Arthur could feel her wrath ignite. Facing an enemy army alone and unarmed seemed much more appealing.

“I chose my destiny years ago, Arthur, and I’d do it all over again. Lord knows I paid for that choice by having you…and losing you…” She drew a breath, puffed it out, and drew another. “I’ve always regretted that things didn’t work out differently for you. And for us. Your father included. If you think I don’t care about what happens to you, then I strongly suggest you think again.” When he didn’t reply, she sighed, turning toward the pool. “You have a lovely, spirited bride. I see a lot of Uther and me in the two of you.” Her short laugh sounded rueful. “Much more than I’d expected. I had hoped to use the occasion of these festivities to get better acquainted with her—and with you.” Ygraine’s shoulders shifted in another sigh, and she faced him. “Forgive an old woman for indulging in vain hopes.”

He may have considered Ygraine to be many things, but never old. Yet as he studied her face, he noticed abundant evidence in the creased brow and the frown lines dragging at her mouth, lines etched by responsibility and, amazingly, regret. He began to understand how much he truly meant to her—to say nothing of her sacrifice to improve his chances of surviving the political chaos spawned by the death of her first husband, Gorlas, which had cleared the way for her union with Uther. Years’ worth of animosity fueled by ignorance melted with the warmth of filial devotion.

“I—” His voice felt husky from the ambush of emotions. “I forgive you.” He surprised himself by how deeply he meant it. Clearing his throat, he held out a hand. “Mother.”

With a beatific smile, she clasped his hand. “We’ll talk later, son.” Letting go, she aimed a nod at the building’s torchlit entrance. “You oughtn’t keep your bride waiting.”

Impish irreverence prompted his grin. “That’s the best advice you’ve ever given me.”

As he took his leave and strode off to heed that advice, Ygraine’s answering chuckle floated after him. “So far.”

HER BACK to the door, Gyan balanced atop a backless Ròmanach chair in the anteroom of the quarters she shared with her consort, feeling Cynda’s comb’s tug as she pondered the circumstances of Angusel’s injury. The physician expected him to be fully recovered in a few days, but the news didn’t prevent her from dwelling upon Urien’s probable involvement in the “accident.”

“You’re terribly quiet, my dove.” Gyan could hear Cynda’s mirth as she eased the tangles from Gyan’s hair. “Thinking about the pleasures your consort will be giving you, I don’t doubt. So…how skillful is he? Is he ardent? Tender? Forceful?”

Gyan had to laugh. “As if I’d tell you!”

“Aye, well, when you get to be my age, lass, you’ll ken that tales are the only things left to stir the blood.”

Cynda sounded so wistful. Gyan shifted to look at her and wondered when Cynda’s worry lines had gotten so deep. “You, old? Nonsense.” She faced forward for Cynda to continue her work. “Now that I’m married, why don’t you marry again, too?”

The pulling stilled. A virulent fever had taken Cynda’s husband and wee bairn a few days before Gyan’s birth, heartbreaking for Cynda but fortuitous for the motherless infant Gyan. No one else had claimed Cynda’s affections.

“Cynda?” Gyan prompted.

“Nay, lass, I think not.” Cynda chuckled as the pulling resumed, a fair bit rougher. “I couldn’t hope to find a man half as handsome—or roguish—as yours.”

A pair of lips brushed Gyan’s cheek. Startled, she whipped around to find Arthur bent over beside her, comb in hand and looking as smug as a cat beside an overturned jug of cream.

“Beathach!” She swatted his shoulder and switched to Breatanaiche. “Beast! Must I guard my back in our own chambers?”

“Not an unwise idea, my love.” As he surrendered the comb to Cynda, his expression turned pensive. “Best not to take chances.”

“You’re right.” If Arthur could slip in without Gyan noticing, so could anyone else. She sighed. Would Urien forever wedge himself between her and Arthur, even during their most private moments?

In Caledonaiche, Gyan bade Cynda retire for the evening. While the older woman unfurled her pallet on the antechamber’s tiles, Arthur bolted the door and escorted Gyan into their bedchamber. After securing the inner door, he pulled her into his arms, but the insistent probing of his tongue between her lips failed to lure her thoughts away from her enemy.

“Gyan?”

Dodging the question wasn’t an option; she suspected Arthur would sense dissembling. “Urien was lying.”

“I know.” He gripped her hand and started for the bed. Although sex and sleep bottomed her present list of priorities, she didn’t resist him. “But without proof, I couldn’t take him to task for it.” Frustration and regret sculpted his words.

She disengaged her hand to sit on the bed, contemplating the predicament into which Urien had thrust Arthur. A war-chieftain devoid of conscience would have chosen a permanent solution.

Such a man Gyan never would have married.

Chin on fist, she regarded Arthur as he peeled off the layers of his uniform. Soon, he stood before her wearing nothing save a narrow cloth band to guard his loins. The sight should have goaded her desire, but her mind’s eye conjured the image of Angusel’s bloody body surmounted by Urien’s smirking face.

“What could he possibly hope to gain by hurting Angus?” she whispered, eyes downcast. “Unless…unless he thinks that by hurting those I care about he is hurting me?” A gasping sob burst from her throat. “It does hurt!” She leveled her gaze at her consort. “Artyr, he must be stopped.”