Morning's Journey (2 page)

That oath made his spirits sink. These three men were the best horsemen of Clan Argyll and stood among the best in all Caledon. How could he agree to ride with them when his skills seemed so pathetic in comparison?

Rather than admit that, however, he tried a more practical argument: “I am deeply honored to be asked, my lord, but I have not done the trial of blood. You don’t want an untried boy on your team.”

“We know the role you played in the Scáthinach invasion. Your choices and courage saved countless lives, Gyan’s included.” Peredur snaked his arm through the clutter of half-consumed food and drink to grip Angusel’s forearm. “I gave up leading my ala’s team for this chance to honor Argyll and my sister.” His smile made him look so much like Gyan that Angusel sucked in a swift breath. “If you join us, she’ll be doubly pleased.”

“Aye!” Chieftain Ogryvan thumped the tabletop. The pewter tankards and plates and utensils clattered. The snoring feaster woke with a startled grunt, glanced blearily about, and grimaced. Head in hands, he slid back into his dreams. The Argyll warriors chuckled, not loudly. Gyan’s father continued, “Young you may be, but calling yourself untried is too harsh, Angusel.”

“My lord, I—” Angusel looked at his trencher, but for once, eating couldn’t have been farther from his mind. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” asked Rhys, grinning at a passing serving lass and elbowing Angusel in the ribs. “Fancy another type of sport, then?”

Angusel shook his head. “I don’t want to make Argyll lose.” He met Rhys’s inquisitive gaze. “My oath forbids it.”

“Nonsense, lad.” The quietness of the chieftain’s tone commanded Angusel’s attention. “Gyan told me what you two were doing in your spare time before the invasion.”

She had been helping him hone his horsemanship skills, but he remained laughably far from claiming mastery. “Then you should know, my lord, that I am the last person to ask.”

“My daughter spoke of your progress with highest praise. She doesn’t utter empty words.”

True, he thought. But Argyll’s competition included not just other Caledonaich, but the best horsemen of the legion and the northern Breatanach clans. If he could have made water at that moment, it surely would have come out cold.

“If we cannot find a fourth,” said the chieftain, “we must forfeit.”

“Think how disappointed Gyan will be, knowing you could have—”

Chieftain Ogryvan’s upraised hand cut Peredur off. “Will you join Argyll, Angusel of Alban?”

Forfeit. Disappointment.

His gut twisted. A fortnight ago, he had sworn to serve Gyan for the rest of his days, a task he desired with his entire being, even if it meant sacrificing his life. Although he could refuse her father’s request, his heart told him it would shake her confidence in him, a thought too painful to bear.

“Aye, my lord. I will ride with Argyll.” Silently, Angusel prayed to all the gods that he wouldn’t fail her.

URIEN MAP Dumarec of Clan Moray of Dalriada watched the departure of the Argyll cavalry team through narrowed eyes. Overbearing Ogryvan and his pet, Peredur. Rhys the Rat. And youngest and smallest in stature but the biggest troublemaker of the lot, Angusel.

To think he might have become kin-by-marriage to those Picti vermin. Well, Arthur could have the whole bloody lot.

He rubbed the woad Picti betrothal tattoo encircling his left wrist, one bitter reminder of the woman who had broken that betrothal so she could marry Arthur. The other reminder he didn’t have to see. He felt its shameful sting whenever he wrinkled his brow.

Reliving the fight soured his mood. He’d lost more than Gyanhumara at the point of Arthur’s sword. Arthur had removed him from command of the Manx Cohort—a thousand foot and horse—and recalled him here, to Caer Lugubalion, to lead the only all-horse cohort. This amounted to about the same number of soldiers, but the Manx unit because of its diversity had been a more challenging command and a logical stepping-stone to greater power. Now, Urien commanded a unit composed almost entirely of accursed Picts; of the eight alae, only First Ala’s roster contained Brytons.

It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Gyanhumara was agitating for Arthur to put one of her clansmen in command of the Horse Cohort. The bastard probably was itching for such an excuse to discharge Urien altogether. He considered resigning his commission; if he left the army, it damned well would be on his terms, not anyone else’s.

Army politics aside, losing Gyanhumara meant losing her lands, which would have doubled Clan Moray’s wealth, and it had destroyed his opportunity to make a bid for the Pendragonship.

No one stole that much from him with impunity.

But the thrust of his revenge would have to wait until after his father’s death. The choice to remain under Arthur’s thumb at headquarters carried a hefty price: the curtailment of freedom. Being chieftain would eliminate the problem. Certain elements of the plan could be accomplished now, however.

He thumbed a rivet on the silvered bronze of his games helm, which his family had owned for five generations. More than a helmet, the exquisitely sculpted Roman cavalry centurion’s mask covered the entire face, with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth.

Too bloody hot to wear in combat, the helm’s purpose lay not in the deflection of enemy blows, but ornamentation.

When Urien had learned that Arthur would be staging cavalry games as part of the entertainment for the wedding guests, he’d quickly selected his team and commissioned identical helms for them. Not precisely the same, for the bronze of the new helms had tin overlay, unlike Urien’s silvered helm. Even a chieftain’s son had limits.

Silver or tin, the sun’s glare would render them identical.

He grinned at his distorted reflection.

Chapter 2

A
RTHUR AND GYAN mounted the stairs of the canopied viewing platform to the throng’s thunderous cheers. There to greet them, garbed in his garrison commander’s ceremonial uniform, stood the man who had performed their Christian joining ceremony the day before, called Bishop Dubricius in his temple and everywhere else Merlin.

“High time you two arrived.” The dark sparkle in Merlin’s eyes revealed the jest. “I was beginning to wonder how much longer I could keep them amused.”

The warrior-priest gestured at the people packed onto the tiered wooden seating behind the fence surrounding the parade ground. More had climbed onto the barracks, smothering the red tile roofs. Gyan noticed that several enterprising souls had perched on ladders or each other’s shoulders, scrambled onto crates and casks, piled into unhitched wagons, shinned trees—anything for an unobstructed view.

On the field, Arthur’s foster brother, Caius, commander of the garrison at nearby Camboglanna, was leading the infantry cohorts through a series of complex formations. Three thousand armored men marching and turning with split-second precision presented quite an impressive sight.

Yet the escalating chants revealed the crowd’s craving for the promised excitement of the cavalry games.

“You ought to get married yourself, Merlin,” Arthur shot back. “Then we shall see how prompt you can be the morning after your wedding night.” Impudence invaded his grin.

“Ah, youth.” Sighing, the warrior-priest surveyed the cloudless heavens. “They never appreciate their elders.” He winked at Gyan. “I am depending upon you to keep him in line, Chieftainess, since he no longer heeds me.”

Arthur chuckled. “No worries there. I have two counselors now.”

With the corners of her mouth quirking downward, she wondered when she’d begin fulfilling that role, since in a sennight she would assume command of the Manx Cohort. She eagerly anticipated the challenge of leading a thousand foot and horse but not the prospect of again being separated from Arthur by a hundred miles of sea.

“Only two counselors?” A man stepped from behind Merlin, grinning to rival the sun. “Arthur, you wound me.”

Returning the grin, Arthur planted hands on hips. “If I had wounded you, my friend, your blood would be telling the tale, not your tongue.”

Gyan said, “Commander Bedwyr, it is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance under—shall we say—less awkward circumstances.”

When she had met Bedwyr map Bann at the Dùn Ghlas shipyards, he’d been clad in a workman’s plain tunic and breeches. Now, rather than a Ròmanach-style legion uniform, Bedwyr wore a finely tooled, dark blue leather jerkin and leggings to match. Stag-embossed silver discs adorned the jerkin’s front. A silver torc gleamed at his neck. Its ends bore the same stag-head design that decorated the pommel of the silver-hilted dagger dangling from his belt. His cloak rippled the shade of new grass, woven with crossing strands of silver and black. The silver dragon badge, ringed with blue enamel, provided the only hint of his affiliation with Arthur’s forces. Its eye was a yellow-green gemstone the Ròmanaich called heliodor and the Caledonaich called sunstone.

As she moved closer, extending her hand, she noticed his salty tang, blended with the scents of rope and leather, evoking the sea. She clasped Bedwyr’s forearm in a warm gesture of greeting that he seemed glad to return.

Merlin regarded Bedwyr, knitting his eyebrows.

“At Caerglas last spring,” Bedwyr explained, “this sly lady conversed with me through an interpreter without once letting on that she knew our tongue. I never suspected a thing.” Hand to heart, he bowed deeply to Gyan. He straightened, but his smile didn’t. “You have a rare jewel, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled. “Well, Bedwyr. When did you become the gallant?”

“Your lady wife brings forth the best in me,” he admitted.

“That had best be all she brings forth in you.” Arthur clapped his friend on the shoulder to the rhythm of both men’s laughter.

Gyan cast a beaming glance at her consort. “Jealous already, my love?” She felt her grin turn wicked as she winked at his fleet commander. “Bedwyr, I insist you call me Gyan. All my friends do.”

Arthur and Bedwyr shared a glance and a laugh.

“Bedwyr is right. You are a rare jewel, Gyan.” In truth, her name meant “rarest song,” but she wasn’t about to correct her consort in front of his companion. He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned close enough for his lips to brush her ear. “I will tolerate no one stealing you from me,” he whispered.

“Ha. As if I’d let—” The warmth of his mouth upon hers abbreviated her remark.

Their kiss ended too soon for her taste. Arthur broke away and faced the steps. Two more people ascended to the viewing platform: Arthur’s younger sister, Morghe, and their mother, Chieftainess Ygraine, whose name reminded Gyan of the Caledonaiche word for sun. Though of the same height, mother and daughter exhibited countenances as dissimilar as the sun and the moon.

The nature of this moon Gyan knew all too well from her association with Morghe on Maun. Like the heavenly orb, Morghe by turns could appear dark or light or something in between as her moods and purposes suited her. At present, she displayed radiant smiles for everyone. No telling how long that demeanor would last. For unlike the moon, Morghe could be as unpredictable as a blizzard.

Morghe lingered at the far end of the platform, facing the parade ground, as Ygraine advanced toward Bedwyr, Merlin, Arthur, and Gyan.

To the sun, Gyan’s mother-by-law, Gyan directed her gaze.

Ygraine’s ivory gown, edged in a pattern of crenellated crimson squares, fell in graceful folds to her feet, its colors straight off the Clan Càrnhuilean banner. The gown’s sleeveless style, reminiscent of attire depicted on the praetorium’s Ròmanach statues, honored her late husband, Arthur’s father. Strings of seed pearls laced the curls piled atop her head in a manner Gyan suspected also was Ròmanach, since she hadn’t observed it on most of the other Breatanach noblewomen. Ygraine’s clan brooch, a silver unicorn rearing within a circle of reddish gold, adorned the mantle. A gold dragon dangled from a black cord at her neck, its design similar to the badges worn by Arthur’s officers. Hinged at the neck and tail, her dragon writhed and flashed with her every movement.

Although Ygraine had to have at least twoscore and ten summers—her oldest grandson, Gawain, was Gyan’s age—the years had spared her comeliness. Clearly, she’d bequeathed to Arthur her red-gold hair and arresting blue eyes. Decades of duty had engraved their mark on her brow but hadn’t vanquished the boldness of her stride or the pride of her stance.