Morning's Journey (41 page)

The child’s identity remained another mystery. The peasant’s hut had been too dark to make out faces. The blanket might have been dark blue or black. No features distinguished the baby from any other. The peasant man referred to the child as a boy, but that was all—

There had been something, Niniane realized: a mark on the heel of one foot, too regular in shape to be a natural one. A Caledonian child, although the people had spoken Brytonic? Niniane hadn’t heard of Caledonians tattooing infants, but Brytons never wore tattoos.

Rubbing her eyes, she again conjured the vision, concentrating on the baby’s heel. Not one mark but two. Two birds, wings spread.

Loholt of Argyll!

Queasiness gripped Niniane’s stomach. The baby hadn’t seemed very old. Her return to Rushen Priory would have to wait until after she had warned Arthur and Gyanhumara.

As Niniane rose and reached for her robe, her eyesight blurred and the room began to spin. She flailed her arms, trying to find something to grab for support. A bedpost, a chair, a wall, anything.

She couldn’t see. Her legs buckled. Gasping, she tried to cry out, but she couldn’t summon enough breath for sound. Pain hammered her head as she collapsed.

AS ANGUSEL neared the living quarters of the rulers of Clan Argyll, he shook his head in astounded disbelief.

“Gyan!” Grinning, he ran toward the doorway where she stood. “You look great!”

He clattered to a halt, and she pulled him into a brief embrace. “Thank you, Angus.” She released him and glanced around, inhaling deeply and flexing her arms. “I feel great.” A smile lit her face as she regarded him again. “Ready for a practice session?”

“You mean, with you? But aren’t you—I mean, your strength—”

She chuckled. “Of course, I won’t be in top form yet. I won’t break, either, if that’s what worries you. I don’t stand a chance of returning to top form without practice.” Her smile deepened. “Exercising my tongue is the last thing I need to do.”

As she headed toward the practice grounds, Angusel broke into a trot to catch her.

“But Loholt—”

“Will be well taken care of. Even if he gets hungry in my absence.”

Angusel nodded his approval as Gyan bypassed the racks of practice weapons and drew her sword to begin a solo routine of slashes and thrusts. Angusel selected a pair of swords and shields and joined her.

“Here, Gyan.” He held out a shield and a blunted, weighted sword when she paused to rest. “Let’s have a go with these.”

Her mouth bent in amusement. “Loholt may have stretched my body, but he hasn’t addled my wits. I was going to get a practice sword before sparring with you.” She sheathed Braonshaffir, unhooked the scabbard from her belt, and laid the sword aside. “Thank you for saving me the trouble.”

He barely had time to ready his sword before she shifted into attack posture and lunged at him.

As he studied her face, aglow with fierce joy, he couldn’t suppress his happiness. What she lacked in strength she made up in sheer determination. Several times, she drove him back a pace or two. Yet she was tiring quickly. He could see it in the runnels of sweat on her face, the graying look around her eyes, and the laboring of her breath. But she refused to quit.

Saluting her with his sword, he ended the match.

She stuck her sword point-down into the dirt and leaned against the hilt, panting and smiling.

“I can see,” she said between breaths, “that I have much work before me.” She straightened, lifted the sword, and pressed its rounded point against Angusel’s chest. “So do you.”

“What?” He dropped his sword and shield, and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Me?”

“Absolutely. You need more battle experience.”

That argument again. “But, Gyan, my place—”

“Your place is where you will do me and Clan Argyll the most good.” She lowered the sword, but her gaze didn’t dim. “Loholt and I are well guarded here. I want you to join Arthur.”

Although he hated to admit it, she had a valid point. He never would become a great warrior fighting on practice grounds all his life. For her sake, he wanted—nay,
needed
to become the best.

Going to Senaudon presented two problems, though he shoved from his mind the one matter over which he had no control. His deuchainn na fala, however, he could control.

“I will join the army at Senaudon.” Angusel challenged her with a gaze every bit as intense as hers. “As a true warrior.” Grinning, he added, “Wearing the finest pelt-purse you’ve ever seen!”

Chapter 22

M
ORGHE HAD TO admit the Picts knew how to stage a celebration.

The occasion in question, Lugnasadh, started on the calends of August and would run for a week to honor the bull-god Lugh with such activities as horse racing, cavalry drills, animal exhibitions, and sales—not only sales of livestock, but clothing, jewelry, weapons, tools, food, drink, medicines, and anything else that could be piled onto a wagon or stuffed into a crate, barrel, or sack. The meadows surrounding Arbroch had grown tents and booths and pens by the score, rendering it impossible to walk in a straight line from one end to the other. Music and haggling and laughter abounded, often masked by roars of approval as a race ended.

The odors of live animals clashed with roasting meat, making it hard to decide upon the more pervasive. Since a mare stood closest at the moment, Morghe opted for the former.

What a sleek animal, too: black as midnight, with a white blaze and three white-stockinged feet. While the owner held the halter, Morghe rubbed her hand over the velvety nose.

“Looks can tell you only so much, my lady.” The voice behind her sounded vaguely familiar. She turned. A stranger casually bestrode a chestnut horse. “If you’re serious about buying that mare, I suggest you try her paces first. I shall be honored to provide escort.”

“Indeed.” Morghe planted a hand on her hip. “Why, may I ask, should you be wanting to do that? And why should I be wanting to let you?”

His face split into an impudent grin. “You really don’t recognize me, do you, Lady Morghe?”

Recognize him? She wanted to slap that grin off his face, whether she knew him or not. Narrowing her eyes, she studied his bearded face.

“Accolon! Why are you here? And why the disguise?” Not only had he sprouted facial hair, but he wore a plain tunic and trews and an equally plain cloak. He carried no weapons that she could see, and no clan or army badge betrayed him. Her suspicion ignited.

He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Traveling clothes.” To the horse’s owner, he said, “A saddle and bridle, if you please, good man. We won’t be long, I assure you. This should allay your fears.” He dropped a silver buckle into the man’s outstretched palm. As the owner bowed and disappeared into a nearby tent, Accolon nudged his mount closer to Morghe. “I promise, my lady”—a chill crept up her spine at his quiet menace—“you shall have your answers soon.”

He said nothing of consequence while the owner saddled and bridled the mare, nor as they trotted their mounts into the forest west of Arbroch. Once the trees had screened them from view, he kicked his horse into a fast canter. She urged the mare to keep up. Normally, she would have enjoyed the mare’s smooth gait and the fact that the animal didn’t seem taxed by the pace.

After what felt like an eternity, he reined his horse to a halt, and she followed his example.

“Accolon of Dalriada, explain yourself.”

“Take a look around you.” His voice hardened in a manner she didn’t like. “A good look. You must remember this place.”

She laughed. No one told Morghe ferch Uther what she must and mustn’t do. No one save her brother, but she ignored that niggling thought. However, she would never discover the nature of Accolon’s game unless she played along. She maneuvered the mare in a tight circle, taking in a full view of her surroundings.

This strip looked much like any other ill-built Pictish road, little better than a parallel pair of cow tracks, grassy down the center and flanked to either side by oak and elm trees and undergrowth, lush in the fullness of summer. A few paces ahead, the road bent sharply to the left around an outcropping of rock. Nearby stood a shattered, lightning-charred oaken monument to the capricious ravages of nature.

“Why should this place be important to me?”

“Loholt mac Artyr.” Accolon’s eyes took on a sinister glint. “Bring him to me here in three days, and I will handle the rest.”

Hand to mouth, Morghe stifled a gasp. That was low even for Urien. Abruptly, Accolon’s disguise made terrible sense.

She drew a breath to steady her voice. “This is madness. Surely you can see that. I cannot spirit the baby past the gate guards at night. And I can’t believe you expect me to accomplish it in full daylight.”

He leaned toward her in the saddle, leering. “Oh, but I do, my lady. What better time than when the gates stand wide open for the festival, and everyone is buried in their own petty distractions?”

“Loholt is never left unguarded. If Gyanhumara isn’t with him, you can wager that her servant is. Or his wet nurse. Trying to slip past any of them would be impossible.”

His grin widened. “Not for someone of your talents.”

“Talents?” Her heart twisted. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Ha. Let’s just say that I am aware of the part you played in Urien becoming chieftain when he did.”

She struggled to keep her expression neutral. So that’s what had become of the aconitum. The enormity of her actions dragged at her heart. Perhaps marrying Urien wasn’t so wise…no. He would bestow upon her the only worthwhile thing in life: power. She just needed to stay on his good side, which wouldn’t happen if she didn’t cooperate with his war-hound.

“Someone with your knowledge of medicines,” Accolon whispered, “can doubtless concoct something to help you smuggle a baby from his mother.”

The mare snorted and shook her head. Morghe stroked the glossy neck, thinking less of the risks than of the innocent baby who had not asked to become Urien’s enemy, the baby who always gave her a smile.

Regardless of how much she wanted to please her future husband, in this act she would take no part.

She met Accolon’s gaze unflinchingly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I will find another accomplice.” He parted his cloak to reveal a cavalry sword. “The brat has a wet nurse, you said.”

She felt her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare kill me!”

“Oh, but an accident would be so tragic, don’t you agree?” He laughed harshly. “And so pathetically easy to arrange.”

“I’m betrothed to Urien!” She couldn’t help the shrillness of her voice or the thrashing of her heart.

“You were not his first choice.”

And may all the gods of all the people on earth damn Urien to hell and back for that!
After he made her Chieftainess of Clan Moray.

As she scanned the tangled tree branches, she glimpsed a woodcutter’s hut set well back from the road, and an idea formed.

“Very well, Accolon.” She looked down, sighing and slumping her shoulders to feign resignation. “Three days.”

ANGUSEL FELT something crawling on his leg and groggily batted it away, hoping to get back to sleep. His head throbbed, and his body felt stiff and chilled as if he’d spent all night on the—