Dawnflight (8 page)

“I MUST—what?” Urien’s stallion jerked his head. Urien stroked the silvery blaze between Talarf’s eyes and lowered his voice. “Are you sure, man?”

Dafydd nodded. “Yes, my lord. Chieftain Ogryvan said—”

“This is absurd! He can’t be serious.” With the iron currycomb, Urien gestured at Dumarec. “Explain it to him, Father.”

Dumarec’s lips cracked a wry smile. “What’s to explain? It’s their custom.”

“Their law, my lord,” said Dafydd.

“It’s barbarism.” Urien resumed his work on the mane.

“Who’s to say they don’t think the same of us, son?”

“We are not in the habit of painting weird marks on our bodies.”

“No,” Dumarec said. “But I’m sure we do a few things that would raise Picti eyebrows a fair measure.”

Did he hear aright? Was his father taking the Picts’ side in this matter?

Leaning across Talarf’s withers, Urien studied the two men standing beside the stall’s door. The younger was, for the most part, a stranger. The other was swiftly becoming one.

“So. I am to have blue birds drawn on my arm this evening.” And doves, no less, although he kept that to himself. The Clan Moray priests probably would object, since the dove was a sacred symbol to them. Then again, with that lot it was always easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.

“Lord Urien,” Dafydd began, fingering the small wooden cross at his neck, “you won’t be receiving the Argyll clan-mark tonight.”

“What? But you just said—”

“The clan-mark comes later, son, during the wedding ceremony, after Gyanhumara returns from Maun. Then she will be tattooed with the Boar of Moray to make your union official.” Thumbs hooked in his gold-studded belt, Dumarec chuckled. “You wouldn’t be so confused if you would take your ears out of your trousers once in a while.”

Urien scowled at his father before turning his attention upon Dafydd. “You told me I was to be getting a tattoo at tonight’s feast. Is this a lie?”

“No, my lord. You will receive a tattoo.” Though his tone was soft, the man did not flinch under Urien’s glare. “A thin band around your wrist to represent your betrothal.”

The heir of Clan Moray gave a grunt as he traded currycomb for brush to scrub the dried mud from Talarf’s coat.

Tattoos, he grumbled to himself, though he took care not to let his mood interfere with his horse’s comfort and went lightly over Talarf’s tender spots. Of all the Picts’ idiotic customs, this had to take the prize. It was one thing to marry a Pict. Now it seemed the savages wanted to make him look like one of them.

Dumarec said to Dafydd, “Please tell Chieftain Ogryvan that Lord Urien will be honored to comply.” He dismissed Dafydd with a word of thanks. The man bowed to both of them and left.

“I have no other choice, then?”

Dumarec answered, “Not if you wish to fully demonstrate your—our—good faith in this alliance.” His countenance darkened.

“Arthur’s alliance.” Both words left a bad taste in Urien’s mouth.

“Brydein’s alliance.” Dumarec waved a finger. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, son, Moray lands will double with the addition of Argyll’s. Good farmlands too.”

“Yes, Father, I know.” Another thought occurred, and the irony made Urien grin. “The Moray power base will double, and I’ll be able to challenge Arthur for the Pendragonship.”

“You will do no such thing.” Even though Dumarec kept his voice low, the intensity of his words caused Talarf to snort and stamp. Urien couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father so angry, and it took him aback. “Your destiny, Urien map Dumarec, is to take my place. Not Arthur’s. And your destiny begins tonight, when you present yourself to your future wife to receive the betrothal tattoo and demonstrate your acceptance of her people’s ways, strange as they may seem.” Gripping the stall door’s ledge, he leaned closer to Urien. “Understood?”

After holding his father’s gaze for a long moment, Urien nodded, not so much out of obedience to Dumarec as in acknowledgment to himself that he wanted Gyanhumara more than any woman he had ever known. With any other woman, he would have walked away. But his passion for Gyanhumara flew far beyond the desire to control her land. Her proud beauty drove away all thought of her barbaric origins. His loins ached.

So he would play her little game and wear the tattoos. Eventually, she would pay a price for the indignity. Squatting to reach the underside of Talarf’s chest, he allowed himself a smile his father couldn’t see. Collecting the toll from his wife promised to be quite a pleasure indeed.

And he vowed never to let slip his ambitions to another soul again.

BLESSED BY the High Priest of Clan Argyll, Gyan and Urien performed the traditional Caledonach betrothal ritual. Under the watchful eyes of both fathers, the Dailriatanaich, and as many of Clan Argyll as could pack into the feast hall, another priest inscribed the woad tattoo of the braided band around the couple’s left wrists.

They shared wine from a wide-mouthed, ornate pewter cup crafted for the occasion. To the jubilant shouts and foot stompings of the witnesses, lips met lips for the first time.

Gyan felt his mouth devouring hers, as if he wanted his teeth to leave their tattoo on her tongue. Blood thundered in her ears. Her heart hammered like the wings of a trapped dove. The wine on his breath mixed with the tang of his leather tunic and the smokiness of the feast hall to make her stomach churn. Fighting for breath, she struggled to break away. His arms crushed her tighter before they relaxed.

She took a step backward. The look he wore seemed fiercely triumphant, as though he had just won the hardest-fought contest of his life. As the glitter of his eyes dimmed, embers glowed in the aftermath of the blaze. She was certain those embers could flare to life at any moment, without warning.

Her instincts screamed that Urien was not the right man, that it wasn’t too late to cancel the betrothal, send the Dailriatanaich away, and choose someone else. She didn’t have a definite reason, only that somehow it felt…wrong.

Yet how could she retreat from this? Based on what? A mere feeling? What if those instincts were misleading her? What if the mother of her doubts was fear? Could she deny her people their first chance for peace with their Breatanach neighbors and live with herself afterward?

No.

Urien’s mouth softened into a smile. Gone was all trace of arrogant triumph. Perhaps she had imagined it. She fervently hoped so.

Slowly, she returned his smile. His hand reached out. Blue dye on his wrist glistened in the torchlight, a vivid reminder of the bond. Wrong or not, there had to be a way to make this marriage union work. And the way would have to begin with her.

With her instincts blaring their warning, she surrendered her hand to him. He did not squeeze it hard, as she had half expected him to, and her inner alarms fell silent. Together, Gyan and Urien faced the crowd, and the feast began.

Chapter 6

T
HOUGH BOTH WARRIORS were clearly feeling the aftereffects of the betrothal feast, Urien and Per met the next morning on the practice field.

Gyan watched the friendly competition amid the dozen or so clansmen and future clansmen-by-law awake enough to brave the forenoon sun. She felt fine; only four cups of wine had found the path to her lips last night. As she observed the faces around her, the occasional grimaces and squinting, red-rimmed eyes told her the others had not been so judicious.

Per, she noted, was not moving well. His timing seemed off. He let too many chances slip by without taking full advantage. Urien’s footwork was better, but his attacks lacked the force she knew he could muster. If she were fighting, both men would have felt the point of her blade today. Since Gyan had retired from the feast early, she had no idea who had issued the challenge. She doubted whether Urien or Per could remember, either.

As the bout progressed, she remained the only silent observer. Anyone who noticed kept it to himself. Glancing around, she wondered whether others shared her belief that the contest would have been better fought later in the day. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying it, but she was ready to find something more interesting to do, like counting rocks on the ground.

A shadow loomed beside hers. It wasn’t hard to guess the owner. “Good morning, Father.” Her gaze did not leave the field. Urien was pressing an attack. “Been up long?”

“Too long.” Ogryvan snorted. “I’ve been discussing details with Dumarec. He plans to leave at first light tomorrow.”

That commanded her attention. She tilted her face to meet his eyes and was grieved by the fatigue she found. Retiring for the night at a reasonable hour was a suggestion she and Cynda had been making to him for years. This time, she let it rest.

“And?”

“Urien approached him for permission to winter here.” She arched both eyebrows but made no comment. Silence seemed the safer course. Ogryvan continued, “Dumarec refused him.”

As she returned to studying the action on the field, she let out a breath. Her private misgivings had not taken flight with the dawn. Yet her destiny was decided, along with Urien’s and that of two clans. Perhaps even two nations. Nothing could stop the wheels of a wagon that size.

The best she could do to keep the doubts at bay was to maintain an air of normalcy. “They are tiring already.” She didn’t try to hide her disdain.

“After you left the feast, they tried to outdrink each other.” Ogryvan’s chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. “Don’t ask me who won. I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, Father.” She greeted this news with a thin smile. “For a change.”

But his report about her brother and her betrothed spawned a generous dose of reproach. Small wonder they were moving like slugs. Men could be such idiots.

On the field, Per was faltering against Urien’s advance.

“Did you and Dumarec discuss my journey to Maun?”

“Of course. He offered a ship to take you there from the Seat of Móran, Dùn At.” Gyan glanced at Ogryvan, eyes narrowed. “But I thought you would prefer to ride to Dùn Lùth Lhugh with Per and the other warriors, and take ship to Maun from there.”

A burst of claps and cheers from the Argyll contingent drew Gyan’s attention back to the field. Per’s counterattack surged with renewed vigor as he drove Urien back across the enclosure. She nodded approvingly.

“Urien will meet you at Dùn Lùth Lhugh,” Ogryvan added, “and ask Arthur’s leave to accompany you to Maun.”

“Arthur!” Too many decisions were being made behind her back. Gyan’s irritation colored her voice. “Ever since Abar-Gleann, I’ve heard entirely too much about this Ròmanach whelp. I will throttle the next person who speaks his name to me.” To say nothing of his title, “Pendragon,” which was far more trouble to imagine in Caledonaiche, let alone speak, than it was worth.

Ogryvan laughed. “What’s this? I thought you were so eager to run off and fight for the Pendragon.”

She expelled the last of her anger with a harsh sigh. “I am. Any action is better than none. But if I’m not to fight with him, I should at least be able to meet him while I’m there.”

“Indeed, lass? Why?” This was punctuated by a broad wink.

“For diplomacy, Father.” She read the tease but was in no mood to rise to the bait. “Why else?”

He shrugged. “I’ll have Dafydd mention it. I’m sure Urien will be pleased to make the arrangements.”

Before she could voice a retort, Dafydd emerged from the crowd to join them and bowed. “Please forgive me, my lord, my lady, but did I hear—”

“Your name? Yes.” With her smile, Gyan tried to convey the great admiration she held for his linguistic abilities. “We have one more task for you to perform as translator.” Her smile faded as she considered what reasons might have brought Dafydd to the side of the training ring nearest where she and Ogryvan were standing. “Unless you’re planning to leave us already?”

Dafydd shook his head and addressed Ogryvan, hands spread in a gesture of supplication. “Your pardon, my lord, but I was thinking about the conversation I helped you with this morning, with Chieftain Dumarec.” One hand crept up to his neck. Gyan thought he was going to rub the mark left by the slave collar, but his forefinger hooked around a leather thong that lay below the neckline of his tunic. Whatever charm it held appeared only as a slight bulge beneath the fabric. “If I might have my lord’s permission—and my lady’s—” Lowering the hand, he directed a nod and a shy smile toward Gyan. “I and my family would like to winter here and accompany my lady Gyanhumara to Maun in the spring.”