Morning's Journey (31 page)

Tables and benches had been shoved aside to make room for the Dance of the Sun. Revelers leaped and kicked and shouted and clapped and whirled in a double-ringed blur. The frenzied rhythm couldn’t be hampered by the injured or ill, those too far gone in their cups, or any woman with child. The sun had to return to full strength to assure another year of bounty, and this dance, madly spinning in every feast hall across Caledon, was believed to ensure success.

Gyan knew better. The One God had revealed the Old Ones as mere hunks of granite. By infinite contrast, He was mighty enough to weave the fabric of heaven and earth, yet compassionate enough to fold to His eternal bosom the soul of a bairn.

This knowledge turned bittersweet in the face of her clansmen’s beliefs. Upon the word of the clan priests swung the pendulum of life and death. Not even rulers could claim immunity.

A reasonable man like Argyll’s High Priest might be swayed to the One God, but he’d need a miracle to see another Àmbholc. Several priests, Vergul included, were already vying for succession, straining to prove their worthiness by adhering to the least jot of the law, regardless of whether it served the greater good.

Gyan shuddered to think what would happen to the clan under the spiritual control of an intolerant man like Vergul. Earnestly, she prayed that, should it come to pass, she would be politically, emotionally, and spiritually strong enough to beard that lion in its den without being mauled. Dafydd’s occasional letters provided her only training in the faith, and she had far more to learn before undertaking such a crucial task.

Fortunately, the priests were occupied at the temple, preparing for the evening ritual. Common wisdom dictated that they could divine a person’s most secret thoughts. It wouldn’t have surprised her.

Within the last few days, she’d begun to notice the stirrings of the life that dwelt within her. She felt another nudge and studied the swell of her belly beneath her gray-feathered robe, recalling how precipitously Arthur had relieved her of command following her accident with Macmuir, citing love as the reason. Perhaps it had been merely a convenient excuse.

Their child constantly reminded her of that love. Arthur hadn’t seemed overly pleased that she wouldn’t be wielding Braonshaffir for a long time, but, knowing how much this meant to her, he might have been exercising diplomacy. On the other hand, she couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep her safe. She’d do the same for him without hesitation.

Denying her nature to satisfy Arthur’s concerns, however, was rapidly becoming too expensive a cost to bear.

She kicked aside the stool and rose. The room started spinning. She braced her hand against the wall, closed her eyes, and bowed her head, praying for strength, guidance, wisdom, answers, anything that could ease her turmoil.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes, wishing for better company than her thoughts, but Per and Angusel were dancing. Cynda had disappeared to find Gyan more heather beer. Ogryvan sat in his usual corner, challenging all comers to arm wrestling. Arthur, looking regal in Caledonach ebony leather beneath his gold-trimmed scarlet legion cloak, was—

She blinked hard, but the scene didn’t change.

Arthur was sitting down to Ogryvan’s challenge. The Ogre never lost. This Arthur knew as well as anyone, having witnessed countless bouts over the past several weeks, though never as a contestant. Why he’d decided to try his luck tonight, she could only guess. Her misgivings yielded to pride and love.

“Artyr, wait!” Although she tried to pitch her voice over the din as if on a battlefield, the bairn had dampened this ability, too.

Miraculously, Arthur glanced at her. She waved and began to pick her way toward her father and her consort.

“I had to see this,” she confessed to both of them as she drew near.

Ogryvan chuckled. “Who will you be cheering for, lass?”

“I think this hall needs a new champion.” The kiss she bestowed upon her consort underscored her hope. “Good luck,” she whispered, grinning, “my little champion.”

Arthur beamed at her.

“Ha!” roared the Ogre. “Then let us see what this demon-whelp husband of yours can do!”

Gyan helped Arthur remove his cloak, marveling at the crowd the event had already attracted. She could hear the measured handclaps and pounding of feet as the dance whirled behind them, but anyone not dancing was either standing near Ogryvan’s small, square table or hastening there with all possible speed.

The combatants greeted each other with a stately nod as though meeting on the field of blood.

Elbow to table and arm cocked and fingers flexed, hand met opposing hand with a resounding slap. Sinews writhed, lips curled, jaws clenched, knuckles whitened. The advantage teetered like a pine battling the wind. Perspiration beaded upon furrowed brows.

A chant intruded, quiet but intense.

“Ar-tyr…Ar-tyr…Ar-tyr…” Her consort’s Caledonaiche name danced upon the lips of many Argyll warriors. Hugging his cloak to her bosom, she raised her voice with them as the battle raged.

An arm weakened. The opponent pressed the advantage. His adversary fended off the attack. Stalemate again.

“Ar-tyr! Ar-tyr! Ar-tyr!” More onlookers hurled the name toward the rafters.

A surge of strength proved too much for the other. Both arms crashed to the tabletop. Fist thrust upward, the victor stood and surveyed his realm. His fiery smile rivaled the sun.

The Dance of the Sun froze.

“Artyr!”

Every man and woman in the hall joined the chorus.

“Ar
tyr
!”

Even the Ogre.

“Artyr!”

MORGHE HUNCHED over the scroll drooping across the too-small table in the too-cold anteroom of her too-Spartan chambers, squinting under the too-dim candlelight while the barbaric Picti form of her brother’s name blew the roof off the feast hall.

Jamming hands to ears, she jumped down and paced to the hole in the wall that had the audacity to call itself a hearth. Just like everything else in this God-forsaken barbarian stronghold, the fire’s warmth failed to lend comfort.

Mercifully, the noise ceased. She heaved a log onto the glowing heap. Summoning Arthur’s face, she jabbed the embers. Flames roared to life. Gasping, she stepped back.

With a toss of her auburn braids, she chuckled softly. She could take a hint.

If she didn’t exercise care, Arthur would devour her as he devoured anyone he deemed of use. Just as he’d devoured these Picts: horsemen, lands, wealth, women, and their very hearts. And the poor fools had no idea what he’d done to them.

A tentative knock disrupted her thoughts.

“Enter,” she snapped.

The door opened to reveal a slave bearing an oil ewer. She recognized him by his maimed right hand. Winter’s bite had chapped the stumps where two of his fingers should have been.

“Ah, Lughann, well come!” She didn’t have to force a smile. “The days don’t lengthen quickly enough for me.”

“Aye, me lady.” He bobbed a bow and set to work.

This man and several of his Scotti brethren, captured during the failed invasion of Maun, had accompanied Morghe to Arbroch to replace freed Brytons who’d returned to their villages.

Lughann’s half-hand didn’t prevent him from working efficiently, first filling the lamps, and then using the candle to light each wick. He turned the logs in the fireplace and added several more.

Experience had taught Morghe to cultivate allies everywhere. Even if she had no intention of being true, she deemed it wiser to appear so, as with Gyanhumara and her kin, until necessity dictated otherwise. A slave, whose presence commanded no more attention than would a chair, could prove useful.

“Thank you, Lughann. Wait.” As he paused to regard her expectantly, she glided to the shelves bearing her herbs and medicines. “I have another task for you.” Scanning the rows of neatly labeled clay jars, she asked, “Would you happen to know why my brother’s name was being shouted in the feast hall?”

“Oh, aye, me lady, that I do!” His face split into a crooked grin. “The Pendragon arm wrestled the Ogre and won.”

Arm wrestling Gyanhumara’s father—that was all? These Picts were even more gullible than she’d given them credit for. Suppressing a laugh, she selected a small jar and passed it to the slave.

“Apply a dollop twice each day, upon rising and before retiring. Mind that it gets rubbed in well.”

“Who’s to be receiving this, me lady?”

“Why, Lughann, it’s for you. For your hand.”

Ewer tucked under one arm, he cradled the jar as though it were the most precious gift on earth.

“Many thanks, Lady Morghe! A true angel, ’tis what ye be.”

Bowing repeatedly, he shuffled backward from the room. She closed the door, latched it, and faced the fire. By the time she’d collapsed into her chair, tears of laughter coursed down her cheeks.

An angel? Not bloody likely. The word wasn’t in her vocabulary.

“WELL DONE, lad!” Ogryvan’s dove-feathered ceremonial robe added to the cacophony as he thumped Arthur’s back. “Even the Dance of the Sun stops for you.”

Gyan glanced behind her and gasped. “Father, shouldn’t we order it to begin again?”

Arthur shot her a questioning glance. As a Christian, even a covert one, the pagan rituals should hold no import for her. Then the truth smote him with awful clarity. Caledonian priests held as much power over their devotees as the Church of Brydein did over theirs and for the same reason: control of the masses.

He reached for her hand. Relief dominated her expression.

Ogryvan gazed at the feast hall’s double doors, propped open to allow winter’s chill to combat the heat. The westering sun’s rays filtered through the trees, bestowing a golden glow.

“Nay, lass. The priests are due at any moment.” He returned his attention to Arthur. “Although another bout like that, Artyr, and Clan Argyll will be clamoring for you to replace me as chieftain.”

This prompted more cheers.

Arthur’s heart lurched. A Caledonian prophecy had decreed that a Brytoni chieftain would bring Gyan great joy and great sorrow…and death. He banished the thought. Even if it were possible for him one day to wear a chieftain’s mantle, no power in heaven or on earth could ever force him to bring sorrow to his beloved Gyan.

That he would cause her death was obscenely ludicrous.

“Surely, sir, you cannot mean—”

“Nay. But you are my son-by-law. It’s time you started acting like it,” Ogryvan declared. Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “Call me Father, as does Per, the son of my heart. Or Ogryvan.” His grin radiated pure mischief. “Or Ogre, if my name proves too much for your feeble Ròmanach-Breatanach tongue.”

If only half the rulers of the Caledonians, Scots, Saxons, Angles, and Brytons—especially the Brytons—would wield humor rather than swords, Brydein wouldn’t suffer half its problems.

“If my tongue is so feeble, Ogryvan”—Arthur matched the Ogre’s grin—“then perhaps your daughter can help me strengthen it.”

He bent to kiss Gyan. The hoots, shouts, and claps intensified as she yielded to his touch. His conscience scolded him for indulging in such an emotional public display. Cheerfully, he ignored it.

“Children, please!” Although Arthur couldn’t see Ogryvan’s face, the warm affection rang clear. “Save it for after the Nemeton.”

“He’s right, Artyr,” Gyan murmured. “We must join the procession.”

He obeyed without surrendering her hand. Priests had begun to herd folk outside, where more priests awaited to direct them this way or that. As Arthur moved with the crowd, he tried to decipher the priests’ actions, but even after he crossed the threshold and everything should have started making sense, it didn’t.

In Brytonic, he voiced his question to Gyan.

“As each man and woman has a rightful place in life,” she replied, also reverting to Brytonic, “so it is reflected in the Àmbholc procession. Farmers are ranked by the bounty of the year’s harvest, herdsmen by the increase of their stock. Warriors by their success in battle. Craftsmen by their skills, and so on. The clan rulers—Father, Per, me, and you, my consort—share the third highest place.”

She frowned, her gaze fleeing into the distance, and Arthur wondered what sorrow had invaded her mind.