Morning's Journey (53 page)

If not for glimpsing a cloak’s hem, he would have missed the hooded figure standing on the far side of a column near the altar. The person neither moved nor spoke.

Treading softly, he approached, praying with each step for wisdom, guidance, and comforting words.

With a head shake, the hood fell to reveal hair of Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s hue but cropped unmercifully short. Had she taken holy vows? Her back was to him, and her plain-woven, dark blue cloak’s hem dragged the floor, making it impossible to tell. Arthur had written of her devastation at their son’s loss but said nothing of her entry into a religious order.

Perhaps the Pendragon didn’t know.

A sick feeling churned in Dafydd’s stomach.

She stood stone-still. What she gazed at or pondered, God alone knew. Experience had taught Dafydd that most people craved physical contact during periods of intense grief, even if only a handclasp. With the chieftainess, he opted for a more judicious course.

Clearing his throat, he began, “Chieftainess Gyanhumara?”

“Where is he, Dafydd?” She spoke in Caledonian and didn’t look at him. Her tone sounded subdued yet plaintive.

He?
Her son…or her God? A trickle of sweat made his slave-collar scar itch. He rubbed the spot beneath his robe’s cowl, stepping closer to her.

His new position put him on a direct line toward the oaken statue of the crucified Christ. “Iesseu, my lady?” She gave a terse nod, and he prayed for guidance. “He dwells within those who believe.”

She should remember this simple truth, but grief could be an insidious stealer of faith.

She grunted derisively. “That would explain why my prayers are not being heard.”

Too late
, taunted his inner demon.

“No!” Quieter, “No, my lady, you mustn’t believe that. By your faith, God adopted you into His family. No one can nullify that, not even you. Chieftainess, God hears you no less than He hears me or Bishop Dubricius or any other believer.”

She spun toward him.

He noted with relief that she wore her husband’s badge, though a bronze dragon, not gold, with a jet eye rather than sapphire. He swallowed thickly.
Dear Lord in heaven, Urien’s legion brooch!

She is lost.
Heart hammering, Dafydd tried to reject the lie.

Her face contorted into anguish, the gleam in her eyes bordering on madness.

Lost!

Earnestly, Dafydd prayed otherwise.

“Then why doesn’t He answer me?” Her voice’s quavering wrenched his heart. “Why didn’t He give Angusel the strength to rescue Loholt? Or send an angel to do it? Or change the murderers’ hearts?” Tears squeezed from her tightly shut eyes. He felt his own eyes moisten. “Dafydd, why didn’t God save my son?”

Her words smote him like a challenge.

What makes me think I can help her?

He sent up an urgent petition for wisdom.

“He did save your son, my lady.”

Liar. The child was unbaptized. Heathen. Lost.

Her raised eyebrows conveyed more skepticism than surprise. Dafydd forged on, “He saved Loholt from eternal destruction. The Lord God does not condemn innocent infants.”

Liar!
He did his best to ignore his demon-plagued doubts.

Folding her arms, the chieftainess looked down. “What a comforting thought.” Her sarcasm made him wince. “I admire you, Dafydd. You lost a bairn and a grown daughter in less than a year. Yet here you are, serving the same God who took your children as though none of it happened.” Shaking her head, she turned her back on the altar and the wooden Christ statue suspended above it. “I do not have that kind of faith.”

Her tone didn’t betray the depth of her sorrow, but the slope of her shoulders did. As she brushed past him, he caught her wrist. “My lady, please listen to me.”

Yes, let’s do feed her more lies.

She wrestled her arm free but stared at the church’s doors like a caged beast yearning for release.

A pity I don’t even possess the key to my own prison.

Behind his back, Dafydd clenched his fists.
In the Name of Christ, enough!

Spreading his hands in a semblance of composure, he said, “Your feelings are not unusual. Please trust me; I have experienced similar struggles myself.” He regarded her expectantly, but she made no comment. “God may seem distant to you, Chieftainess, perhaps even capricious and uncaring. Perhaps you feel you do not want to follow such a God. But that is not who He is. He is here, and He does care deeply for you, no matter what you have done—or will do. You are His precious child. He can do no less than love you with the fathomless breadth of His being.” Dafydd sensed no demonic dissent and let out a soft sigh.

“I cannot feel His love.” She shrugged. “I feel nothing.”

Her simple declaration smote him with the pain he and Katra had endured for their children’s deaths. They had challenged the existence of God’s love, too—until they recalled its nature.

“God’s love is not a feeling, my lady,” he whispered. “It simply
is
. How we respond to it, and to God, is our choice.”

Her continued silence made him unsure of how much she understood. “Faith works the same way. We may think we have lost faith, when all we have really lost is the volition to act in faith.” Her upraised eyebrow invited him to continue. “Expressions of faith and love, my lady, whether to God or to other human beings, are never passive. They are conscious, deliberate acts of the will.”

Hands on hips, she pursed her lips. “I did not will myself to fall in love with Arthur. It just…happened.”

Why she’d turned the subject to her husband, Dafydd could only guess, but he sensed the need to tread carefully. “Strong passions can cloud judgment—”

“Ha. You’re a monk now. Who are you to lecture me about passion?” She averted her gaze. “Forgive me, Dafydd. That was unworthy of me.”

“That was your pain speaking.” He clasped his hands. “It is my most earnest prayer, Chieftainess, that you will choose to act in faith. And in love.”

She drew a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and drew another. “I will ponder what you have said.” A determined light sprang to life within the windows of her soul. “I promise.”

He watched her walk toward the doors. Had he said enough? Done enough? He glanced at the Chalice. The ancient alabaster vessel seemed to glow divinely.

“Chieftainess, please wait.”

She obliged but didn’t turn. A year ago, the Chalice had helped her through another grieving process. The urge to offer her the sacraments in this holiest of relics had been so strong that day, despite the prohibitions, that he had not dared to disobey.

Today, he felt no such urging. The Chalice was an object of veneration made sacred by He who had used it, he firmly reminded himself, not some mystical fount of healing and plenty, as in the pilgrims’ fanciful tales.

His silence must have confused her, for she faced him, a question painted in the furrows of her brow.

“God be with you, my lady.” Solemnly, he made the sign of the cross—yet another Christ-sanctified relic people seemed determined to worship for itself—in the air. She accepted his benediction with a brief nod and strode from the church.

He closed his eyes and tilted face and palms upward, praying fervently that Gyanhumara would allow God’s love to restore her grief-ravaged soul.

A whir of wings in the rafters reminded him of another service he could perform for her, secular but no less vital. He concluded his prayer, left the sanctuary, and headed for the pigeon coop, working out the details of his message as he walked.

Chapter 27

T
HE BREEZES OF advancing autumn chilled the clear, moonless night. Prince Ælferd drew the edges of his cloak tighter about him as he stood at the prow of his flagship. A quick glance at his men revealed they were doing much the same. They exchanged brief nods and smiles. With a thumb thrust through his belt, Ælferd absently fingered the garnet-and-gold buckle his uncle had given him, inhaling deeply of the salty air.

On the heels of the thralls’ doomed rebellion, the staging at Anderceaster of a third of the West Saxons’ total muscle in ships and men had been fraught with more problems: illness, poor crops, fire, bad weather, ore shortages…the litany made Ælferd’s head reel. He felt supremely thankful for his uncle’s patience throughout this misbegotten affair.

Ælferd clamped off that dangerous thought. His men didn’t deserve divine punishment for their prince’s breach of faith.

With a grin, he stroked his golden mustaches as he envisioned his reward for the capture of Maun: marriage to Camilla. Her smile’s memory warmed him better than a dozen cloaks; her kiss, like a hundred. Gods willing, he’d be basking in her embrace before the next full moon.

Maun’s cliffs jutted into view. Ælferd signaled the dousing of his ship’s running lights. The darkness deepened as the command transferred in turn to the remaining ships. Ælferd licked his lips. With surprise and fear as his allies, the Brædeas would be stinking in their graves before they knew what had killed them.

NO SAXON saw the tiny fishing boat hugging the Manx coastline, hurrying home to port after a long day at sea. Its Brytoni captain watched the lights wink out aboard the approaching fleet. While Denu had no inkling of who they were or even how many, he knew trouble when he smelled it, and this stank as bad as a week-old catch. His bones ached for his bed, but sleep could bloody well wait until after he’d had a word with the siren-lovely but fathomlessly sad commander of Port Dhoo-Glass.

GYAN DOWNED the dregs of her wine, grimaced, stood, and stretched. Little had changed since last she’d commanded the Manx Cohort. Reviewing and acting upon supply lists, requisitions, injury and discipline reports, and unit duty rosters still ranked a step lower than watching a tree grow.

Wiping her lips, she sighed. At least this duty improved upon living at Arbroch, watching Mardha’s belly grow, or watching other women’s children grow. Or being at Arthur’s side, watching the gulf between them grow. She closed her eyes, again asking the One God when her heartache would abate.

Again, she received no answer.

As she bent to stow the tablets and parchment for the night, the door opened wide enough for Rhys to thrust his head into the workroom.

“Commander Gyan, I’ve a Breatanach fisherman named Denu in the antechamber. Wants to speak with you.”

Glancing at the spluttering, stubby candles that shed more smoke than light, she creased her brow. “At this hour? Why?”

Rhys shrugged. “Wouldn’t tell me, my lady. Insists on talking only to you. Claims it’s urgent.”

“Very well, Rhys.” She dropped back into the chair, stifling a cough and fanning the smoke away. “I’ll see him.”

The fisherman shuffled in, holding a battered, salt-stained woolen cap in gnarled hands. He bobbed his balding head toward her.

“Your pardon, me lady, I don’t mean to be a bother to ye. Got a bit of news, I do.”

The odor of his trade conquered the candles’ smoke. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded. No escape.

“Yes?”

“’Tis like this, me lady. I was heading to port, not an hour past, and I see these boats coming up from the southeast. Night trawlers, thinks I. Then all their lights go out.”