Morning's Journey (38 page)

But the woman to whom he’d pledged his sword and soul could defeat any man on his own turf.

The aromas wafting from his plate reminded him of his unfinished business, which he attended to until the food had disappeared to the last crumb. He pushed himself up from the bench, handed the trencher to the nearest servant, and strode toward the feast-hall doors.

As with the last three days, Angusel resolved to present himself at Gyan’s antechamber. If Cynda again refused entry, he planned to remain with Lord Peredur and Chieftain Ogryvan in case Cynda experienced a change of heart. A slim chance, granted, but better than doing nothing.

He understood the reasons for Gyan’s seclusion. She needed time to heal and marshal her strength, and Loholt needed to grow accustomed to his new world of light and noise.

To say naught of the possibility of treachery.

He slapped his dagger’s hilt. No treachery would come within a hundred leagues if he, Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban, had any say.

Upon entering the antechamber, he greeted Gyan’s father and brother.

Today, miracle of miracles, Cynda let him enter!

Gyan looked more beautiful than ever. Her hair, freshly brushed and braided, shone like burnished copper. Gone were all traces of the haggard lines that had creased her face, and the dark circles beneath her eyes had lightened.

At her bosom she cradled a bundle of blankets.

The bairn was feeding, Angusel slowly realized, for her tunic’s design made it hard to tell at first glance. One tiny hand won free of the blankets to curl around her finger. With a smile, she began to hum a warrior’s victory song, softened for small ears.

He had no wish to disturb this peaceful, private moment. Curiosity sated, he turned to depart and almost collided with Arthur.

As he stammered an apology, the Pendragon waved him silent, his smile suffused with pride. The plain tunic and trews made it easy to mistake the man for any other pleased new father, rather than the stern warlord Angusel had come to know.

“Come, Angusel, and meet our son,” he said.

Gyan glanced up at Angusel’s approach, and her smile deepened. She’d adjusted her tunic and was holding Loholt to her shoulder, rubbing his back. After he uttered a milky burp, she cradled him in her arms.

“Well come, Angus,” she murmured. “Hold your new sword-brother.”

She placed Loholt into Angusel’s outstretched arms, and he did his best to imitate how she’d held him. Angusel’s sword was heavier.

My new sword-brother!

Peering past the layers of blanket at the sleepy infant’s face, Angusel tried to imagine that future. Whose looks would Loholt favor? He appeared to have his father’s square jaw and sapphire eyes and high cheekbones, and his mother’s delicate nose and mouth, but any of that could change with time—and injury. The hair, hidden by the blankets, was anyone’s guess. Would Loholt stand as tall as his father to one day wield the mighty Caleberyllus? Or his mother’s Braonshaffir?

Angusel had no idea. But he would do all within his power to escort Loholt mac Artyr to his destiny.

Steadied by her consort’s hand, Gyan swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She lifted the sleeping bairn from Angusel’s arms and crossed to the hearth, where Loholt’s cradle had been set well back from the danger of stray sparks but close enough to the warmth. While Gyan settled Loholt into his cozy bed, tucking a silver-trimmed Argyll-patterned blanket about him and placing a new rag doll at his side, her consort thrust his head into the antechamber to speak to Cynda. The woman bustled in, needlework in hand, and beelined for the chair beside the cradle.

For the first time, Angusel realized that no other servants worked in the room. Most strange.

“We’re taking no risks,” Gyan whispered in response to his question as she eased back onto the bed. “Until the naming ceremony, Loholt must be seen by as few people as possible.”

The naming ceremony, conducted a sennight after birth for children of the àrd-banoigin, was the rite for presenting the àrd-oighre to the clan. At this time, the child received a simple version of the clan-mark on the right heel to signify his status as exalted heir.

Angusel pondered his mark, the outline of a rampant Alban Lion. Until the naming ceremony could be performed, the àrd-oighre might be mistaken for any other child. Down the turbulent centuries, more trouble had befallen Caledonach children during this vulnerable sennight than at any other time during their youth.

He wasn’t sure which concerned him more: Gyan’s quietly ominous words or the fact that her brief walk about the chamber had taxed her strength. Yet rather than embarrass his sword-sister, he stayed with the topic she had broached.

“Risks? Arbroch is secure. Isn’t it?”

“As secure as possible, Angusel. But there has been a new development.” The Pendragon’s visage darkened. “Dumarec is dead.”

“Which means…” The ugliest of pictures flashed to mind. “Gods help us, Urien is a chieftain now.” Angusel’s hand went to the absent sword hilt. Realizing his mistake, he sighed and asked, “Why tell me?”

Gyan laid a hand on Angusel’s forearm. “Because, Angus, I—” She glanced at her consort with a smile and said, “
We
know your heart. We have no doubt of your devotion to us or to our son, and we believe you can serve us in a way no one else can.”

Her emerald eyes ignited with their old fiery glow. Though the reason might be unpleasant, Angusel rejoiced to see the Gyan he knew and loved best return.

“Anything, Gyan!”

Even if it meant confronting Urien in that cù-puc’s own stronghold. In fact, Angusel wished for it with his entire being.

MORGHE’S LIPS curved into a smile as she blew on the parchment. The endless months of pretending to be amiable toward Gyanhumara and her clan while enduring their weird ways finally had borne fruit.

She folded the sheaf, dripped wax onto the top flap in two places, and flattened both scarlet splotches with her seal. After a few moments, she tested the raven imprints with a fingernail.

“This will help you tell the messages apart, Sichuan.” She gave them to the waiting courier, one of Ygraine’s men assigned as part of Morghe’s escort at Arbroch. “The one with the single seal gets delivered first.” More importantly, the double seal would alert its recipient to the message’s significance. “Change horses at Caerglas and Caer Lugubalion.” She dropped three gold filigree brooches into his upturned palm with a delicate
clink
. “Use these to buy bed and board and whatever else you need along the way.”

Sichuan tucked the parchment and brooches into the pouch at his belt. He bowed and left the antechamber.

Her smile widened as the door swung shut behind the most loyal and capable man of her entourage.

With Sichuan’s return to Arbroch—within the month, if the Fates deigned to grant him swift passage—she could start arranging her long-awaited departure from this God-forsaken Picti outpost. She hoped to be ensconced at her mother’s fortress before the end of hay-making season, then the planning for her wedding to Urien could commence. Chieftain Urien, she amended with a surge of pride.

Morghe ferch Uther, Chieftainess of Clan Moray of Dalriada.

Such a poetic ring…and so close to becoming reality she could almost feel the cool gold circlet against her brow. The Feast of Christ’s Passion never had held significance for her. Next year’s celebration, ten months hence, with Urien at her side and his people fawning at her feet, promised to be an entirely different story.

As she moved the quills, inkpot, sealing wax, and parchment to the shelf overhead, she started to hum a popular wedding dance tune.

Someone knocked on the door. Ordinarily, the intrusion would have irritated her. Today, she’d happily dance with the devil himself.

She opened the door to find Angusel standing in the corridor, glancing over his shoulder and looking perplexed.

“Angus? Something wrong?”

He gave her a startled look. “Wrong?” He met her gaze, looked over his shoulder again, and stared at his foot as he scuffed it against the flagstones. “Nothing, Morghe. I passed Sichuan and was just curious…” When his eyes met hers, they burned with abrupt intensity. “Where is he going? He was dressed for travel but seemed to be in too much of a hurry to talk about it.”

While she displayed a smile as innocent as Gyanhumara’s son, she pondered Angusel’s motives. She’d never seen him act suspicious about anything. He didn’t exactly seem suspicious now, either. Curiosity, then, as he’d claimed. And who was she to deny his wish?

“Why, I’ve sent him to my mother with news of her grandson’s birth.” This was perfectly true. She grinned. “If you see Arthur before I do, can you please tell him I’ve done this?”

That won an answering grin. “I will! I’m sure he’ll appreciate having one less detail to arrange.” Angusel turned and strode down the corridor, his Clan Alban cloak flaring in a sky-blue billow.

AS URIEN moved at a mind-numbing plod astride Talarf, his senses sharpened to the creaking and jingling of harnesses, the snapping of the procession’s torches, and the smoke’s tarry tang; to every hoofbeat and footfall and murmured prayer, which escalated as folk joined the crowd from each farmstead and crofter’s hut along the way; to the squeaking wheels and groaning timbers and flapping fabric on his father’s bier; and to his mother’s sobs, muffled against the shoulder of one of her women as they sat beside the bier’s driver.

The heightened awareness reminded him of riding into battle.

The bier hit a rut and lurched to a stop. He started, sawing the reins, and Talarf reared. The column halted. Bringing his horse down with a soothing word, the Chieftain of Clan Moray berated himself for his foolish nervousness.

The coffin had shifted, but the bier remained undamaged. He ordered the procession forward, casting a glance over his right shoulder. Dawn tinted the sky with streaks of gray, although an hour would pass before the sun breasted the hills.

They crossed the remaining fields, tromped over the bridge crossing the River Add, and streamed into the forest. As Urien reached the clearing, he could still hear people on the bridge. He wheeled Talarf about and marveled at the procession’s length. With a stab of remorse, he hoped his death would prompt such an outpouring of respect.

Licking his dry lips, he returned his attention to the clearing. The two stone-paved, stone-studded circles had been built centuries earlier to honor gods as old as the hills. Although the Lord God Almighty could move those hills with a single stroke, He couldn’t move the people’s hearts to abandon their ties to this place. Rather, Urien amended lest he incur divine wrath upon himself, God’s priests had failed to sway the people to accept such radical changes and therefore had adapted some of them into the worship of the Almighty.

Perfumed by the priests’ censers, the clearing thrummed with Christian music and prayers to speed Dumarec’s soul to his eternal rest. Whether or not this was true, the son of Dumarec dared not guess, but the mourners’ rapt faces revealed the ritual’s comforting effect.

Urien’s mother, red-eyed and pale as she rested a hand against Dumarec’s coffin, had stopped crying. The sight gladdened her son. As often as he’d tried during the past few days, he’d been unable to offer her any words that didn’t sound trite or insincere…or weren’t a downright lie. Instead, he’d let gestures—a handclasp, a hug, a sympathetic glance—speak for him. Across the gap, he sent her another of those glances, and she answered with a wan smile.

More musical prayers accompanied the work as Dumarec’s honor guard slid the coffin from the bier, bore it to the freshly dug hole between the stone rings, and lowered it into place. Cries escalated to wails as workers filled the grave. Even Urien wasn’t immune to tears.

Blinking hard, he raised his arms and drew a breath. “My clansmen!” He ignored the priests’ stares. “Good people of Moray, I am certain my father would have been honored—as I am honored—by your demonstration of love and respect for him.” Silence settled over the clearing, punctuated by discreet movements as people wiped their faces on cloaks and tunic sleeves and anything else at hand. “I am also certain Chieftain Dumarec would have wanted us to celebrate his passing into a better world”—this he spoke for the benefit of his mother and others whose beliefs outpaced his—“and not mourn it overmuch.” A few heads nodded. “I can envision no better way to celebrate his life than to acknowledge the fact that his beloved memory remains with us through the embodiment of his seed to lead you.” Urien drew his sword and thrust it skyward, letting Talarf dance a little. Every eye tracked him now; more heads nodded, and some of the soldiers cheered. “Therefore, my clansmen, let us adjourn to Dunadd without further delay, thence to conduct the fealty-swearing ceremony.”