Morning's Journey (48 page)

“What news, my love?” he whispered, stroking her disheveled braid.

Beneath his hand, she shook her head. “Nothing.” Although he’d spoken in Brytonic, she responded in Caledonian. When she looked up, grief flooded her gaze. With all his heart, he wished he could bear it for her. “Artyr, I—” She slumped against his chest. “I am so sorry!”

As he hugged her tightly, one thought consumed his mind. Those who had abducted Loholt were going to be sorry. If he allowed them to live long enough to feel anything other than the most excruciating pain this side of hell.

For her benefit, he switched to Caledonian. “Gyan, I will summon the legion, and—”

“Your pardon, Chieftainess, Lord Artyr, but I do not believe that will be necessary.”

He released his wife and turned toward the unknown voice. A soldier in Caledonian armor stood a few paces away. He wore an Argyll-patterned cloak fastened with a badge bearing the Argyll Doves rather than the legion’s dragon.

Arthur waited for Gyan to order her man to deliver his report. Activity in the yard dwindled as more people stopped to watch.

“Gyan?” Arthur nudged her. She seemed to be staring at a length of silver-edged Argyll wool clutched in the warrior’s hand. “Shouldn’t we hear his report? Perhaps somewhere more private?”

“No need.” Her tone sounded bleak, and her eyes adopted a haunted look. “The clan will find out soon enough. Torr?” She nodded at the warrior.

Torr approached, went to one knee in front of her, bowed his head, and offered her the fabric. As she unfurled it, her eyes widened. The material was slashed in several places and stained with blood.

“Wh-what—” Her chin began trembling violently. She clamped her mouth shut and covered her eyes with one hand. With the other, she held the fabric to her chest.

“What does this mean?” Arthur finished for her, gesturing at the cloth.

Torr rose, shaking his head. “My lord, it belongs—belonged—to your son.”

“His…his favorite b-blanket,” she whispered. The trembling of her lips and chin returned.

Arthur wrapped his arm around her and asked Torr, “Where did you find it?”

“The search party found Angusel mac Alayna on the west road. He was wounded, unconscious, and”—Torr nodded toward the blanket—“holding that.”

“Angusel?” Arthur felt his eyebrows knot. “Is he all right?”

“He awakened in our presence, my lord, and is on his way here. He limps but should arrive within the watch.”

“What? Alone and wounded? Why did you not help him?” This sounded too strange, even for Caledonians. “What was Angusel doing out on that road? Was he questioned?”

Torr spread his hands. “He finishes his trial of blood.”

A singularly unhelpful answer. “His—what?”

“A ritual required of every Caledonian warrior. The youth must not accept help or speak to anyone.” Gyan’s words sounded soft and hollow, and her gaze seemed leagues away.

She shrugged out from under Arthur’s arm, spun, and headed toward the feast hall. He strode to catch up and grabbed her hand. The fury in her glare made him recoil in surprise.

“Gyan?” Even pregnant, her mood swings couldn’t compare. “Do you think Angusel is involved in Loholt’s abduction?”

“I know not what to think.” She resumed her course. “Torr,” she called without bothering to look back, “escort Angusel to the feast hall the moment he arrives.”

Arthur didn’t know what to think, either. Or feel. Their son could be dead, if he took the meaning of that accursed cloth aright, but he couldn’t permit himself the luxury of succumbing to his grief. Not while he stood on the verge of losing his wife to hers.

Trailing after her, he vowed not to let that happen.

GYAN SAT with her back not touching the elaborately carved judgment chair on the dais, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her consort, her father, her brother, and the High Priest surrounded her, clucking meaningless syllables like a flock of witless biddy hens.

The hall teemed with clansfolk come to witness the proceedings. Chieftainess Alayna entered with her entourage and stormed up to the dais. Perfunctorily, Gyan performed the rite of welcome. How Angusel’s mother had found out—and how she had managed to arrive so quickly—Gyan didn’t know and didn’t care. She wished everyone would leave her alone. Arthur and Ogryvan included.

Loholt was dead.

Even without the proof of his body, her heart screamed the truth. She would never see her beloved bairn again.

Her tears had been seared by anger: at Tira, for obvious reasons, and at Urien. With sickening certainty, she knew he’d devised the plan. She also nursed anger toward Cynda for initially insisting nothing was amiss.

Behind it all smoldered fury toward herself for heeding Cynda rather than her own instincts.

Regardless of who had planned or committed the crime, she, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, had failed her son. She had been elsewhere when he needed her most, indulging in foolish, self-centered frivolities. The admission’s pain hurt as acutely as a sword thrust.

The doors opened. A hush descended. The crowd parted.

A lone youth approached the dais, limping, with head and shoulders sagging like a prisoner being led to the executioner’s block. His arms, legs, and torso bore several fresh scratches, and he leaned heavily on a crudely fashioned spear. A clean bandage bound his head. His sack hung half-open at a crazy angle across his chest, and his soles left bloody traces on the flagstones.

Feeling as if someone had wrapped up her compassion and hidden it away, Gyan could only observe Angusel’s progress with detached interest, caring for naught save what he knew about her son.

Although if he had seen the deed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his report. Having her awful mental pictures augmented by the truth could only make them worse.

First, however, the prescribed ending to Angusel’s deuchainn na fala had to be enacted.

Angusel played his part, going to one knee below the dais. He slid the sack from his shoulder, reached in and pulled out a supple rabbit skin. The High Priest took it from Angusel’s uplifted hand. Upon examination, he pronounced it suitable for Angusel’s bian-sporan. Normally, the candidate greeted this announcement with elation. Angusel merely accepted the hide and thrust it into his sack.

“Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban,” said the High Priest, “your trial of blood is complete once you answer these questions.” His ancient knuckles whitened as he gripped his carved staff, and he leaned forward. “By law, I must remind you that you are honor-bound to answer truthfully. Lies are punishable by banishment. Do you understand?”

Angusel nodded limply, like a rag doll. The association brought to mind Loholt’s favorite toy. Gyan jammed her fist against her mouth.

“Very well,” the High Priest said. “Did you speak with anyone during your journey?”

“Nay.”

She felt her eyes widen. If he had witnessed her son’s murder, he would have spoken out to try to save him. Wouldn’t he? Or did his deuchainn na fala matter more than Loholt’s life?

“Did you receive help from anyone?”

“Aye.”

“The bandages?”

“Aye.”

“Yet you did not speak to the person or request aid in any way?”

“Nay. I was unconscious.”

While the High Priest stroked his snowy beard, speculative whispers skittered about the hall.

Gyan’s ideas fit the facts all too well.

Even armed, a servant girl couldn’t have wounded Angusel that badly. If Tira had been alone, he probably would have brought her and Loholt back to Arbroch with scarcely a struggle, his Oath of Fealty prompting him to act to preserve Loholt’s life. There had to have been at least one other person with Tira, probably a man. Possibly Urien, although Gyan doubted it. Urien might have ordered the deed, but she didn’t believe he would have sullied himself with its implementation. Angusel must have discovered Loholt’s murderers, possibly while her son still lived, and tried to fight them.

Tried…and failed so utterly that the murderers left him alive as punishment to forever bear witness to his failure.

Her fury still smoldered against Urien, Tira, and Cynda. Cynda she’d deal with soon enough. The other two lay beyond her reach. Her anger acquired a new focus.

“Since the aid was rendered without Angusel’s knowledge or consent, I rule that it does not invalidate his trial of blood.” The High Priest raised both arms over his head. “If there are no other objections—”

Gyan rose. “I object.”

Using the staff, Angusel stood, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Explain your reasons, Chieftainess.” The priest lowered his arms and his eyebrows.

“Yes, Gyanhumara,” added Alayna, eyes glittering. “Please do.”

Unconcerned with the menace in Alayna’s voice, Gyan announced her theory. “Therefore, Angusel mac Alayna, you must have seen the—” She gulped, struggling to marshal courage. “The murderers. Am I correct?”

“Almost. I saw two women and one man.” He shook his head. “Two men. One attacked the other, but he was killed right away.”

“Four!” One, maybe two people Gyan could believe, but four? And why would one attack the others? An outlaw, maybe? Or a difference of opinion regarding Loholt’s fate? “Did you recognize them?”

“Nay,” he whispered. “The women were hooded. We were in a forest near sunset, and I couldn’t see their faces. No one spoke. The men—” His expression grew distant. He shook his head and looked at her levelly. “I don’t know.”

“You recognized my son, did you not? Was he alive?”

“Aye.” Sighing, Angusel bowed his head. “He was.”

“You failed to save him.”

He drew a breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Aye.”

Loholt might be nestled in her arms if not for Angusel’s failure! Grief and anger began yanking her heart in opposite directions.

Anger won.

Fighting to retain control of her voice, she turned to address the High Priest. “For his inability to rescue Loholt mac Artyr, Exalted Heir of Clan Argyll, I propose that Angusel mac Alayna’s trial be declared invalid.”

“Gyanhumara, you can’t!” cried Alayna. The High Priest waved for silence. With an impatient “Hrumph!” she folded her arms.

“My lady, your loss is the clan’s loss, and I, too, grieve for our exalted heir.” The High Priest looked sympathetic as he shook his head. “But except for receiving aid that he did not seek, Angusel completed his trial of blood as prescribed by law. My ruling stands.” His staff made a hollow thump as he struck the platform, echoing within Gyan’s heart.

Tears glistened in Angusel’s eyes. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Gyan, I am so sorry!”

She didn’t need his apology or his pity. His skill and strength, yes, but evidently that hadn’t been enough.

If the High Priest wouldn’t cooperate, then so be it.

“Kneel, Angusel mac Alayna,” she commanded. In his eyes flared surprise—and perhaps fear, if he’d guessed Gyan’s intent. To his credit, he obeyed. “Reaffirm your Oath of Fealty to me. Since you are unarmed”—Braonshaffir whined as it emerged from its sheath—“I will use my sword.” She ignored the murmurs, the loudest coming from Alayna.

Gyan gripped the hilt with both hands. She lowered the blade to Angusel’s neck, recalling her battle with Niall the Scáth to gauge how much force to use. But Niall had menaced those she had sworn to defend and would have taken her life.

Angusel had saved her life.

Though passing the deuchainn na fala made him a man by Caledonach law, he was only fourteen years older than her son. She had created this entire pathetic situation by succumbing to the vanity birthed by his hero-worship of her. What the ifrinn fuileachdach had she been thinking? She never should have sworn a boy into her service.

Her sword had never felt so heavy. Neither had her heart.

At the sound of her sword returning to its scabbard, Angusel opened his eyes and looked up. “Gyan?”

She raised a splayed hand. “Chieftainess.”

“What?” He scrambled to his feet as quickly as his injuries would permit.

“Henceforth, you may address me by title only.” She pitched her voice to carry to the farthest corners of the hall. “In the presence of this assembly, I hereby declare the original Oath of Fealty made by Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban, to Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll, to be nullified.”

Gasps swept across the hall.

Alayna stalked up to the dais, cheeks flaming as though she were in the throes of battle frenzy. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, this is outrageous! Recant at once!”

“Mother, please. I deserve this.” At her sharp glance, Angusel fell silent and dropped his gaze.

“If you do not recant, Chieftainess Gyanhumara,” Alayna stated coldly, “then Clan Argyll will never receive aid from Clan Alban while I—or my son—live.”

Just the sort of manipulative trick Gyan expected from the woman. “As you wish, Chieftainess Alayna.”

Alayna fixed Gyan with a furious glare before regarding her son. “Come, Angusel. Let us be gone from this inhospitable place.” Any stronger insult would have been a declaration of war.

Angusel didn’t move.

Alayna tapped him on the shoulder. “I said come, son.”

“I heard you.” Pushing against the staff, he drew himself to his full height and faced Alayna. “But I’m not going with you.”