Dawnflight (39 page)

Risking another jab, Gyan growled, “Where are you taking us?”

“Leave off with the spears!” Niall ordered. “Let the lady warrior keep her curiosity, for all the good it’ll be doing her.” He sauntered to Gyan. “I see nae reason for secrecy. Once Tanroc be secure, we march to Port Dhoo-Glass. Ye, my dear”—he caressed Gyan’s cheek with callused fingertips—“shall be my bait to draw out the forces of Urien, your betrothed.”

URIEN STUDIED Angusel as Bohort delivered his report of the Scotti invasion and the lad’s involvement. Angusel stood, shackled and unmoving, between Bohort and a guard. His right knee was swathed in a bandage. Save the rare flicker of pain, his face reflected the calm courage of the innocent. It was a most impressive act. And Urien was determined to strip off his mask.

“Why did you kill him, boy?” he demanded.

“I told you, sir. Because he was a spy.”

“That’s not good enough. You could have—should have—stayed hidden and let him live so that our own agents could monitor him. Angusel, I want to know what made you attack him.”

“Sir, I—” Angusel sucked in a deep breath. “Sir, I was furious at the herdsman’s betrayal. With the entire invasion force moving against Tanroc, I knew it couldn’t stand long. Believe me, sir, I was going to warn Tanroc and fight with them. With her.” He bit his lip.

“Gyanhumara?”

“Aye, sir. I wanted to, but then the herdsman came by, and I couldn’t move without being seen. So I waited to see what he would do. That’s when I saw him speak with the Scots.”

Angusel pounded his left fist against its companion leg. The chains jangled and bounced against the injured knee. A spasm creased his face. Bohort and the guard tightened their grip on his arms.

Quietly, Angusel continued, “I waited too long. And now she—she’s either captured or…”

“Dead,” Urien finished for him. “Which probably would have happened whether you had been there or not.”

Defiance flared in Angusel’s eyes, but the truth couldn’t be denied. “Aye, sir,” he whispered.

“What do we do with him, Tribune Urien?” asked Bohort.

“What, indeed?” Urien scrutinized his prisoner. “A pity there are no more druids on Mona to train him as a bard. This is the best performance I have ever seen. All it lacks is a harp.”

Up snapped Angusel’s head. “What do you mean, sir?”

“What I mean, boy, is that I think you’ve invented this spy nonsense to cover your real motive.” Urien’s eyes narrowed. “Revenge.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes. I remember that fight. That herdsman clouted you but good.” Urien saw a different face: a dusty one, scorched by shame. “You killed him to avenge the insult. And you confessed so readily because you thought I would swallow your ridiculous story.”

“But sir, it’s the truth!” His tone was shrill with desperation.

Anger mounting, Urien advanced to within an arm’s length of the lad. “Call me an idiot, do you?” He backhanded Angusel across the mouth.

He winced. “No, sir! But I—”

Urien silenced the protest with another blow. “Then where is this supposed payment? Or perhaps this bauble was something you merely found on the body after the fact?” He cocked his hand. Angusel didn’t flinch, but that didn’t convince Urien of his innocence. If anything, it was having the opposite effect. “So. Where did you hide it?”

Angusel refused to answer. Urien struck him again. Fury kindled in the gold-brown eyes, but no sound escaped the bloody lips.

“Very well. We’ll see if the rats can do a better job of loosening your tongue.” To the centurion, Urien said, “I have no more time for this murderer. I’ve got to organize the defenses before the Scots come screaming down our throats. Lock him up, and post a guard. Let me know when he’s ready to talk.”

A THOUSAND pairs of enemy feet pounded across the Manx countryside. Common folk fled in howling terror before the invaders and were ignored. The Scáthinach soldiers wasted no time at either of the two villages along the route. Their objective was to reach Port Dhoo-Glass as quickly as possible and lay siege by nightfall. On that mid-June day, it was not an unrealistic goal.

Morghe and Gyan marched with the rest of the soldiers, separated but unbound, each at the center of a heavily armed unit. No other prisoners traveled with the army.

Gyan was amazed at the courteous treatment she had been accorded. She had expected to be stripped of armor as well as sword upon her surrender at the monastery. Her distinctive belt had drawn several greedy stares, yet no one had touched it. Nor had anyone tried to remove the gold torcs from her neck and arms. From what little Gyan could see through the thicket of spears, it appeared Morghe was being treated equally well.

Gyan’s guardsmen made no attempt at conversation with each other or with their captive. She was grateful for their impassive silence, for it allowed her to sink undisturbed into her thoughts.

Her brave Brin had died a warrior’s death. Did this mean he would join the Old Ones in the Otherworld? Or was there a place for horses in the domain of the One God? She would have to ask Dafydd sometime, if their paths ever crossed in this life again.

The likelihood of her path crossing anyone’s seemed slim. Would she learn what had happened to Cynda? Or Angusel, who in a few months had become as dear as a brother?

And what of her father and brother and clansmen? Memories marched with her, mile upon dreary mile. Some of the strangest moments of her life chose to demand attention. Ogryvan bursting with pride as his six-year-old daughter hefted her first wooden practice sword. Cynda bandaging a scraped knee while delivering a scathing lecture to the nine-year-old Gyan on the dangers of scaling Arbroch’s walls. Per as a leggy lad of thirteen, howling with laughter as he sprinted away after smearing mud on his sister’s braids.

Through all this, her mind kept returning to the face of the only man who could help her. She clung to it as the drowning person clings to the log that drifts into reach. The reddish-gold-haired, sapphire-eyed image buoyed her spirits during the trek. But he was lounging in Ròmanach luxury, across a hundred miles of indifferent sea, ignorant of her plight. The hope of deliverance by Arthur’s hand was a vain one.

Not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, she did neither. Past fought beside present to hold the future at bay. It was the only battlefield she could find.

Chapter 22

T
HAT EVENING, ARTHUR read the dispatch and swore, for two reasons. First, for being caught off guard by the Scots’ invasion of Maun. He honestly hadn’t believed Cuchullain would have attacked for at least another year, or he would have brought Morghe home. She and anyone else who wished to evacuate the island, although the person he was thinking of probably would never consent to turn her back on a fight. But no, Arthur reminded himself, the Scots hadn’t caught him completely unaware. He had sent reinforcements, just not enough.

The second reason for his frustration was that he had more than three thousand soldiers at his immediate disposal and nowhere near enough warships to transport them.

Arthur opened the door to the antechamber and thrust his head through. “Marcus,” he called to his aide. “Get me Merlin, and send someone to Camboglanna for Cai!” After a moment, he added, “Have Centurion Peredur report here too.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus thumped fist to breast and left.

Curse that murdering hound Cuchullain! Who did he think he was, sending half his fleet to attack Maun? And at night, no less. The dispatch didn’t say this outright, but it was the only plausible explanation that fit the timing of the report’s arrival.

The Laird of the Scots would have to be dealt a hard blow, and swiftly. But how?
How?

Merlin arrived to find Arthur pacing like a caged beast. Arthur slapped the dispatch tablet into Merlin’s outstretched hand.

“Your opinion?” he asked as Merlin read the tablet.

Merlin’s lips thinned to a grim line. “They were fortunate to get the signal off.”

“Quite fortunate.” He didn’t bother to voice his concern that the beacon sites might be in enemy hands; capturing the high ground at earliest opportunity was a tactic he would have employed, one of the first tactics Merlin had taught him. “But I’ve got only nineteen ships here, and two of those are dry-docked. The rest, if they’re not on patrol, are on the Rigan and the Clyd.”

After dropping into the chair behind the work table, he reached for parchment, ink pot, and quill. And stopped before a single word hit the page.

“Well? Aren’t you going to recall the fleet?” Merlin laid the dispatch on the table and took his customary seat against the wall. “That seems like your best course of action to me.”

“Time is Cuchullain’s ally. I must find a way to change that.” Staring into the oil lamp’s flame, Arthur tried to formulate a solution using distance and time factors. He slowly shook his head. “It’s impossible. Even if my courier rides all night, Bedwyr can’t get his ships down here before late tomorrow afternoon, at best.”

“Which means that even if the troop boarding went all night without a hitch, you couldn’t engage the Scots until the following day.” Merlin’s gaze remained steady. “Barring inclement weather or any other problems.”

“Exactly.” Scowling, Arthur stood. The pacing resumed. “God alone knows what will have happened by then.”

And God alone knew what was happening to Morghe and Gyanhumara. Visualizing the worst was disturbingly easy. The current task was difficult enough without the distraction of a galloping imagination. He squelched private speculation about the fate of his sister. Banishing Gyanhumara from his mind was much harder, but he managed. Their lives, and the lives of everyone on Maun, might well depend upon the fruit of this night’s labor.

The bloody irony of it all was that he had prayed, more often than he could count, for one more chance to see Gyanhumara. If this relief operation was to be the answer to his prayer, God must have a bizarre sense of humor. But if anything were to happen to Gyanhumara or Morghe at the hands of the Scots, he would never forgive himself…or God.

“You could sail with as many troops as you can squeeze onto the seventeen ships,” suggested Merlin, “and have Bedwyr follow when he can with the rest.”

Arthur stopped at the window to brace both hands against the ledge and gaze at heaven’s vast ebony fabric. No clues glimmered there. Not that he was expecting to find any, but at present he would have accepted aid from any quarter.

“I don’t like the odds,” Arthur admitted. “Too many things could go wrong. If I have to use that plan, I will. But there must be a better solution.”

Merlin closed his eyes to the young warlord’s circling. The enticing aroma of baking fish from the praetorium’s kitchen floated in through the open window to become ensnared in Arthur’s whirlwind. So there was to be salmon for dinner this evening, Merlin mused. Salmon or…

“Herring!”

Arthur stopped in mid-stride. “What?”

“The herring fleet is at port. Why not commandeer the fishing boats to transport the rest of your troops?”

As Arthur considered the possible scenarios, he felt his lips stretch into a smile. “Cuchullain’s beachhead is probably on the western coast of Maun. With most of the army ashore, even if he’s left his entire fleet at the beachhead—which I doubt—the Scotti vessels should be minimally manned. Seventeen fully manned warships will be more than a match. Once the Scotti fleet is ours, the fishing boats can bring in the rest of our men. Bedwyr’s fleet should sail straight to Dhoo-Glass, in case Cuchullain has decided to blockade the port.” He clapped his cousin’s shoulders. “Merlin, you’re a genius!”