Morning's Journey (62 page)

GYAN KNEW what she had to do, but not in the Caledonach way.

At Arbroch, the hillside above the clan’s burial site featured a vast granite slab gouged with dozens of cuplike depressions, many surrounded by rings or spiral patterns. Its carvers had lived and worked and died in mist-shrouded antiquity. Of their stone legacy’s original purpose, not even the seannachaidhean could recall.

Clan Argyll used the slab to memorialize the dead. On a windless evening, candles set into the cups could be seen from the gate tower for all to share in the mourner’s loss.

Regret and sorrow shredded Gyan’s soul. Because Loholt’s body hadn’t been found—and likely never would be—she could not conduct the traditional outdoor memorial service for him.

Standing inside the Sanctuary of the Chalice, she gazed plaintively at the bank of candles on a table before her. Two tapers, flanking a basket of twigs, shed thin beams upon the rows of stubby votive candles, only a few of which had been lit.

The rest stood as dark monuments to dead unremembered.

She reached for a twig but stopped, unable to wrest her mind off her consort to focus upon her son.

That Arthur blamed her for Loholt’s death was the only reasonable explanation for his actions in her quarters. He owed her the courtesy of telling her. By everything holy, Gyan had a right to know! However painful the revelation might prove to be.

Her eyes stung. She rubbed them, trying to fault the pervasive incense, and despised the lie.

The bell’s tolling and the choir’s soft hymn signaled vespers. The chapel’s doors opened, and threescore pairs of sandal-shod feet pattered past her. She had planned to conclude her memorial sooner, to prevent her presence from intruding upon the brethren’s worship.

No. That was a lie, too. She felt utterly unworthy to join them.

Overwhelming remorse and guilt forced her to her knees. Tears spilled from her closed eyes, and she bowed her head lower and lower as the music swelled, until only her hands separated her forehead from the stone floor.

Loholt, my son, please forgive me!

The light touch of a hand on her head startled her. Expecting Dafydd, she straightened to find Arthur kneeling beside her, concern and questions engraved upon his face.

Embarrassment caused her to rasp, “Why are you here?”

Pain flared in his eyes, making her wish she could call the words back. “To grieve for my son.” The pain transformed into frankness. “And for my marriage.”

She arched an eyebrow. As she stood, so did he, and she beckoned him to follow her. They slipped outside, and she set a brisk pace across the monastery’s grounds, ignoring the twilit serenity of their surroundings. Grief had expunged “serenity” from her vocabulary.

As they neared her intended destination, she groaned inwardly.

A year ago in this same apple grove, she and Arthur had reveled in the bliss of their private Eden. This night, they might find themselves banished from it forever.

She faced her consort, her feet planted and arms crossed. “You mourn our marriage? Because you have found someone else to warm your bed?” Sighing, she studied the broken, dead leaves underfoot, feeling just as broken and dead inside. “Not that I would blame you.”

“God’s wounds, Gyan!” She glanced up. “God’s holy, bleeding wounds—another woman, is that what you think?”

“I know not what to think.” She averted her gaze to hide her quivering chin. “Except that…you don’t need a wife who insists on pursuing her own selfish causes. You don’t need”—she twisted away, losing her emotional battle—“me.”

“Yes. I do.” His arms encircled her. “You, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, are the most precious person on earth to me.”

Desperately, she yearned to believe him, but his eyes seemed hooded in the fading light, unfathomable. “Even after Loholt?”

Sorrow invaded his gaze, and he released her. “I grieve for our son, but I don’t hold you responsible. I never did.”

Self-loathing goaded her to say, “Then perhaps you don’t know the whole story.” Heaping fresh reproach upon herself, she confessed point after bitter point.

He gripped her shoulders. “Gyan, you cannot blame yourself. Any other woman would have acted exactly as you did.”

I am not just “any other woman!”

Another lie. A leader she might be, but only by happenstance. She had proven no less selfish and petty than the most vulgar, mean-spirited varlet…and probably even more so.

Tears threatened, and she drew a shuddering breath.

He stroked her shorn hair. “I grieve even more for us.”

“After what I did…can there be an ‘us’ anymore?” Not only for what she’d done to Loholt but to everyone else through her grief-induced rage, everyone except the one man truly deserving of retribution, who lay safely beyond her reach. She chewed a knuckle and looked down.

His fingertips beneath her chin brought her gaze back to his, where she found compassion and love in far greater measure than she deserved. “Gyan, I wouldn’t—couldn’t have it any other way.”

Her throat tightened. She threw her arms about his neck, and he held her close, clasping her head to his chest while her tears washed away her remorse and guilt. The anguish remained, but at last she felt forgiven. And ready to forgive herself.

SHE DRIED her face on her undertunic’s sleeve and offered him a wan smile. He lowered his lips to hers, tentatively, as if exploring unmapped territory. She increased the pressure, and he gladly answered in kind. Their arms and bodies twined like mistletoe to oak. Their lips worked ravenously together until he was unsure who would devour the other first. Her lips tasted sweeter to him than the finest wine.

“God in heaven, Gyan,” he murmured. “I was so worried about you.”

“Because of the Saxons?”

“And our son.” He motioned for her to sit on a nearby bench. She obeyed him as he marshaled his words. He dropped to one knee at her feet. “I need no oaths to remind me how much I love you.” He tapped his neck. “But this scar does remind me that my obligation to serve you doesn’t always mean protection.” He clasped her hand. “You know I would die for you. What I vow to you this day, Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll of Caledonia, is to temper my instincts with judgment and to be more trusting of yours.”

“My—what? Instincts or judgment?”

“Both.” He branded the back of her hand with a lingering kiss.

“I must admit, your instincts about the Saxons were right all along. Arthur map Uther of Clan Cwrnwyll of Brydein, I vow to heed your warnings.” She grinned. “No matter how mad they sound.” As their chuckles faded, her expression turned pensive. “But what about when ‘serving me’ means permitting me the freedom to follow my conscience when my purposes differ from yours?”

“Even then.” He rose and sat beside her. “But I trust you’re not planning anything—risky.”

“Against Urien?” Sighing, she drew up her legs, clasped her arms about them, and wedged her knees under her chin. “What can I do? Cultivate spies? His clansmen are as loyal to him as mine are to me. All the wealth of Argyll couldn’t buy their treason.” Her gaze seemed distant, unfocused. “And even if it could, the satisfaction of revenge isn’t worth impoverishing my clan. I have but one choice to force his hand.”

Arthur hugged her to him. Her too-short hair smelled of rose petals, and it amazed him how much he’d missed that simple sensation. Stretching out her legs, she leaned against his chest.

“That choice would be?” He had a guess but wanted her to name it. Otherwise, the truth would be much easier to dodge.

“We both know it’s me Urien wants.” She uttered a mirthless laugh. “But I doubt you would agree to my challenging him to single combat.”

“Damned right.” Though he respected Gyan’s martial prowess, he knew she couldn’t survive Urien’s lust for revenge—and other things.

She expelled a heavy sigh. “Single combat would solve nothing, anyway. The loser’s clan would declare a blood feud on the winner, and Caledonia and Brydein would plunge back to where we’d started. Before Abar-Gleann.” Her hand felt as smooth and cool as a blade against his cheek, and she regarded him longingly. “Before you.”

He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “My love, I am so glad you’ve thought this through.” As he gazed into the sea-green depths of her eyes, he lowered his voice to a throaty whisper. “Now that I have you back, I will not give you up again.”

“Another vow, Lord Pendragon?”

“No, Chieftainess. Fact.”

Wrapping both arms around her, he fastened his mouth to hers. Their armor blunted the pleasure of bodily contact, but he was enjoying the intimacy far too much to care.

“I love you, Artyr, and I want you—
need
you more than ever.” A flash of fear eclipsed her desire. “But I can’t bear to think that any more children we might have are fated to become Urien’s targets.”

Arthur glared at the bronze cloak-pin, gleaming dully in the waning light. He understood her fear but was heartily tired of their adversary coming between them. Caressing her cheek, he wished he could do more yet knew they had to proceed at her pace. “We can bring pleasure to each other in many ways, Gyan.”

“I know.” Her lips brushed his, lightly at first, then harder, harder still, and finally with a passion as hot and wild as kissing elemental fire. After they parted, she said, “But it isn’t the same.”

“Surely, there are ways to prevent conception.”

“I wish the solution could be that simple.” She shook her head resolutely. “It is my sacred duty to ensure the future leadership of the clan.” The desire in her eyes raged hotter than before. “
We
must, Àrd-Ceoigin.”

He stood, wanting nothing more than to act upon their passions, but propriety restrained him to helping her rise. Hand in hand, they left the orchard. When he would have angled toward the monastery’s guesthouse, however, she continued toward the church. He stopped her on the threshold and voiced his query, submerging his disappointment.

“I cannot begin working toward the future,” she whispered, “until I make peace with the past.”

That he could well understand.

She tugged open the door and stepped inside. Although most monks had departed, some still clustered near the altar for private prayer and meditation. She strode to the tiered bank of votive candles and pulled a twig from the basket.

So did Arthur.

Her raised eyebrow invited him to explain. “When you and Loholt needed me most, I was too obsessed with my plans to retaliate against Colgrim.” The confession didn’t come easily, for those plans might yet effect a wider impact than anticipated, and not necessarily for the better. “Can you forgive me?”

She frowned. “I blamed many people for Loholt’s death—rightly or wrongly—but it never occurred to me to blame you. The Angli war was your responsibility.” She slowly rolled the unlit twig between her fingers and sighed. “As Loholt was mine.”

“It occurred to me. Often.” He swept an errant lock from her forehead and cupped her cheek. Her eyes shimmered with compassion. “I swear to you, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Àrd-Banoigin of Clan Argyll, that I will protect our sons until my final heartbeat.”

“Or daughters?”

Rejoicing to see the teasing twinkle return to her eyes, he nodded, praying that the Lord God Almighty would deliver the world from a daughter even half as feisty, strong-minded, and glorious as her mother.

Abbot Dafydd slowly approached them. Gyan motioned him closer. “For Caledonians, the act of honoring the dead is not complete until it is shared outside the immediate family.”

“Bear ye one another’s burdens.” Dafydd inclined his head. “I am indeed honored to participate, Chieftainess.”

She unpinned Urien’s badge. “I shall make arrangements for an endowment to the monastery.” Clutching her slipping cloak with one hand, she used the other to thrust the brooch toward an astonished Dafydd. “Please consider this my promise of payment.”

“Payment?” asked the abbot.

“For your help, your wisdom, your prayers—but mostly because you continued to believe in me and
for
me until I could regain the volition to act in faith.” She smiled faintly. “And in love.”

As she dropped the brooch onto Dafydd’s palm, she glanced slyly at Arthur. “Is that promotion is still available, Lord Pendragon?”

“Absolutely, Commander.” With immeasurable pride, he retrieved the sapphire-eyed gold dragon from his pouch and pinned it in its rightful place. “Abbot Dafydd, you stand as witness to the elevation of Commander Gyanhumara nic Hymar to the post of Comitissa Britanniam.” As Arthur regarded her, everything else seemed to melt away. “Though you have always ruled my heart, Gyan, and always shall.”

“And you mine,” she murmured, her eyes misting.

Together, they lit a candle for Loholt. By tacit consent, they lit another candle for every pledge they repeated to each other. The combined brilliance bathed Gyan’s face in a rosy glow. The radiance of her smile warmed Arthur’s soul.

“You won’t protect our children, Artyr.” Her smile deepened as his eyebrows shot up. “But
we
will.”

“Indeed, Gyan, we will.”

He anticipated their reborn partnership with more joy than any treasure or accolade the world could possibly offer.