Morning's Journey (24 page)

Loth chuckled. “The man whose wife rules him begs for trouble.”

“No danger there. I’m only concerned for her happiness.”

He gave Arthur a measuring stare. “You really do love her. I thought it was an arranged match.”

“Of course. I arranged it.” Arthur smiled briefly. “We both did. I never would have challenged Urien if I hadn’t been certain of Gyan’s heart.”

Loth sacrificed the remaining rushes to the fire. “Is she really as good as they say?” Arthur felt his eyebrows lift. With a rueful grin, Loth added, “In battle, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t entrust my life to many people.” The truth smote him with abrupt clarity. “But Gyanhumara of Caledonia is one of them.”

AIDED BY a half-dozing servant, Arthur found the guest quarters. After making a quick survey of the layout, he bade the girl to take the oil lamp with her. He had no wish to disturb his sleeping wife.

While he groped toward the bed, the sound of her peaceful, even breathing greeted him. He stripped off cloak, boots, tunic, and trews and eased under the furs. Gyan lay on her side, facing away. Nestling against her warm back, he slipped his arm across her waist. His hand came to rest against her belly. He wondered when it would begin to show evidence of the child within. Their child.

Her fingertips drifted over his. “Mmm…Artyr?”

“Forgive me, Gyan. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Never mind…” She shifted onto her back and reached up to caress his cheek. “Did you and Loth finish?”

“Yes. First Turma will winter here as reinforcements. Fourth and Fifth I’m keeping as escort. The rest of our men have been assigned to border villages, along with some of Loth’s. On the morrow, we gather peasant clothing and—”

“Ha! So Loth liked my idea. He could have admitted it to me. I ought to change Dunpeldyr’s Caledonaiche name from Dùn Pildìrach, Fort of the Turning Ascent”—an apt description of the easily defended approach to the summit, Arthur privately agreed—“to Dùn Pildìoras.”

“And that means the Fort of—?”

“The Fort of He Who Has Turned Stubborn.”

Arthur barked a laugh. But despite all of Loth’s blustering, he could think of no man he’d rather see as an ally in this dangerous corner of Brydein. “Loth isn’t a bad sort, Gyan. And he’s smart enough to recognize good counsel, even if he’s not accustomed to the source.”

He heard the faint, low growl of her dissent and cut off any further disagreement with a long kiss. Her lips were warmly inviting. He brushed his fingertips across the swell of her breasts.

She caught his hand. “What about me, Artyr? Do I stay here? Or go back to Caer Lugubalion? And what will you do?”

“Those are two options, of course. You could also winter at one of the Gododdin villages. And…” He kissed the side of her neck lightly, lingeringly. “Arbroch is only a few days away.”

Her sharp intake of breath told him her decision. No surprise. His lips worked around to her throat, and she let out a slow sigh.

“Can you send someone to fetch Cynda?”

“Consider it done.” After another kiss, he added, “Morghe, too.”

“Morghe?” She pushed herself onto her elbows. “Why?”

“She’s a healer, for one thing.”

“Arbroch has healers and midwives aplenty.”

He couldn’t fathom her reluctance but had no patience for ferreting out the answer. It was late, the morrow promised to be quite busy, and he needed to put this matter to rest. He countered with logic to which Gyan surely could relate: “The birth of a Brytoni nobleman’s child must be witnessed by a female member of his family. In the strictest sense, I’m not a nobleman, since the Clan Cwrnwyll elders refuse to waive the illegitimacy of my birth—”

“But you are Chieftainess Ygraine’s son, and the protocol must be observed,” Gyan finished for him. She eased back down. “And Morghe’s knowledge of Caledonaiche makes her the logical choice.”

“Exactly.” As the silence stretched between them, he wished he hadn’t sent the servant away with the light. Into the blackness, he offered, “I’m glad you understand, Gyan.”

She sighed. “I suppose you will be leaving for headquarters.”

Under normal circumstances, yes. A thousand details awaited him regarding the selection, equipping, provisioning, movement, and quartering of the troops to be assigned to the Angli campaign. Details that could be handled quite competently by Cai, Merlin, Marcus, and other officers. He suspected his wife needed him more than they did. Come morning, he’d send a message telling them so.

He covered her mouth with his and found it pliant yet…reserved. “My love,” he whispered, “I will stay with you for as long as I can. If that’s what you want.”

She reached up with both hands and pulled his head to hers. Their lips met in an explosion of ravenous passion. Working her hands toward his hips, she arched her body against his and delivered a silent invitation he was altogether delighted to accept.

Chapter 13

T
RENCHER BALANCED ACROSS his good forearm, Dwras map Gwyn returned to the eating area of Dunpeldyr’s Great Hall to find another man seated on his bench. Empty seats abounded, but Dwras was sick unto death of having things stolen from him, especially by arrogant warriors who wielded their status as an excuse to abuse decent, honest, hardworking folk.

He jabbed the offending warrior on the shoulder. With a grunt, the man swung his head around to fix narrow eyes upon him.

“What d’ye want?”

“My seat. I want it back.” Dwras lowered his eyebrows. “Now!”

“You—what?” The Lothian warrior’s laughter nearly made him choke. A grinning companion slapped his back.

“Oho, Farmer Dwras thinks he’s one of us, lads,” chortled another warrior, making a shooing motion. “Be off with you! Back to your pigs, farmer boy.”

They burst into cackles, hoots, and hog calls. Dwras felt his cheeks flush.

The warrior in Dwras’s seat found himself buried under sops and ale.

“My mistake, sir.” He grinned devilishly. “I thought this was the sty.”

Bellowing, the warrior shot to his feet. Soggy bread flew everywhere. Dwras ducked the blow. Upon connecting with a bony chin, he sent the man sprawling across the cluttered table. The warrior’s humiliation more than balanced the pain lancing Dwras’s healing shoulder. The audience’s jeers redoubled with vicious glee.

The warrior stood, ale-streaked face darkened with rage and fist cocked. “You filthy whore’s son, I’ll—”

“Halt! Everyone!”

Trailed by a detachment of guards, Chieftain Loth strode across the hall, toppling benches and shoving servants from his path. Fists lowering, the adversaries stepped apart.

Dwras bowed his head to accept the chieftain’s harsh judgment. From the corner of his eye, he saw the warrior reacting in much the same manner, and it gave him a perverse surge of satisfaction.

“You.” Loth thrust a finger close to Dwras’s face. “Your doing?”

The truth died in his throat. Surely Chieftain Loth would believe his own warrior over a mere farmer.

He sighed. “Aye, my lord.” Perchance the end would come quick and painless. On the other hand, he’d never been that lucky.

“Hmph.” The chieftain turned to address someone behind him. “This is the farmer who brought me word of the raid. I told you he’s too much trouble to keep here.”

Here it comes, Dwras mused, banishment. Mayhap the chance to join his wife and son sooner, a fate for which he dared not hope. He certainly had nothing left on this side of eternity.

The man Chieftain Loth had addressed stepped to the forefront of the gathering. Dwras felt his jaw go slack.

If any woman’s son had ever claimed divine descent, this one ought. To call him fair of face would be a gross injustice when his countenance radiated strength, confidence, and intelligence in equally great measures. His face seemed both young and old at once, accustomed to receiving instant respect and obedience: the face of a god.

“I think he has more to tell.” Even the man’s voice resounded godlike in its commanding yet compassionate authority. Profound sympathy shone from his intense blue eyes. “Don’t you, lad?”

“What’s to tell, Arthur? Dwras was causing trouble.” Loth nailed Dwras with his stare. “Again.”

“I want his story.”

As he loosened his tongue to describe the brawl, his head reeled like a drunkard’s. What name had Chieftain Loth given this man? Arthur? Loth’s brother-by-marriage, the Pendragon himself, here in remote Dunpeldyr? In the dead of winter?

Impossible!

This warrior came dressed for the part, aye, sporting more finely spun linen, well-tooled leather, and freshly polished bronze than Dwras had seen in his entire score of years. Scars adorned those hard-muscled arms and legs, too, thin white ribbons left by only the sharpest blades.

The Pendragon, indeed.

He couldn’t believe his fortune. Rather, his misfortune, for he felt utterly foolish for boring Arthur with such a trivial matter. He dropped his gaze to the floor rushes.

“Dwras, I commend your courage for alerting Chieftain Loth, as badly wounded as you were.” Arthur’s hand rested lightly upon Dwras’s uninjured shoulder. “This may be cold comfort, but you helped spare many more villages. And I like your spirit. Even if it’s a bit—misdirected.” Dwras dared to meet those unwavering eyes. Their fire branded his soul. “I would like to put that spirit to better use.”

For the second time in as many minutes, he thanked God that his jaw was hinged to his head, else it surely would have hit the floor. Had he heard aright? Was the Pendragon asking him to trade his pitchfork for a spear? Giving him a chance to avenge his loved ones? A chance his own chieftain had denied him?

More to the point, was he, Dwras map Gwyn, a simple son of the earth, truly capable of doing such a thing?

If grief for his family and friends had begun to ebb, hatred for their Angli murderers would smolder as long as blood flooded his veins. Now, icy conviction tempered the molten hatred.

Thrusting out his chin, he raked the astounded Clan Lothian warriors with a defiant glare.

“When do we leave, Lord Pendragon?”

“Can you ride?” Arthur asked.

Placid farm beasts, aye, not the fearsome dervishes warriors favored, but no power in heaven or on earth could force him to confess that to Arthur. “Aye, my lord.”

Arthur nodded slowly, as if pondering the truth of the claim. For one terrifying moment, he believed the Pendragon could read his thoughts and discover the lie.

“Pack your gear. We depart at dawn.”

Dwras felt smitten by an intense wave of unworthiness. Who was he that the mighty Pendragon would take a personal interest in him?

One glance into those intense yet compassionate eyes told him all he needed to know. Mimicking the Pendragon’s warriors, he squared his shoulders and raised his fist to his chest in an unspoken pledge to devote himself to Arthur’s service to the very best of his ability.

ANGUSEL WOKE to a familiar pressure in his vitals and sat up. His wolfskin wrap slid off, and cold smote his shoulders. He pushed aside the tent flap to discover what else had invaded the camp.

Trees, ground, tents, supply packs, nothing had escaped winter’s snowy touch. Even the stars had vanished behind a vast shroud.

An icy wind prickled his bare arms and echoed down his spine. Taking care not to disturb his tentmate, he tugged on his long-sleeved undertunic and boots and shrugged into his battle-tunic. He retrieved his cloak and gloves, parted the tent flap as little as possible, and crawled outside.