Morning's Journey (6 page)

HER PAIN-WRACKED declaration, as her right hand groped reflexively for her absent sword hilt, wrenched Arthur’s heart. The lapse didn’t diminish the fierce determination painted across her brow. Yet something else dwelt there, too. A hint of—what? Regret?

Grasping her hands, he went to one knee at her feet. “I swear to you, Gyan, I will not let him harm you.” He kissed her fingers.

“It’s not me I’m worried about. If anything happened to me, you’d carve him into pieces too small for worms. And he knows it.”

“Damned right.” The praetorium’s hypocaustum didn’t run during high summer, but tonight the room felt unseasonably chilly. He couldn’t suppress the shiver.

Expression softening, she tugged on his hands. “Come on up here, you great idiot, before you catch your death.”

Gratefully, Arthur joined her on the bed and crawled beneath the coverlet. With a hand on her arm, he tried to convince her to lie beside him, but she refused to budge. He sat up to begin massaging her shoulders. She sighed softly.

He leaned over to whisper, “Speak to me, my love.” Her hair smelled faintly of rose petals, and he wanted nothing more than to forget their problems and pursue much more pleasurable activities. If she was concerned about a feud with Urien, however, the pleasures would have to wait.

For a long moment, she sat silently, head bowed.

“If only we could settle this matter between ourselves—just him and me, sword to sword. But he seems determined to involve my friends, probably my kin, too. I had so hoped to prevent a war with Dalriada.” She slumped back against his chest. “Now, it’s inevitable.”

“Is it?”

“Of course!” She pushed away and twisted toward him, her eyes flashing scorn. “Where is that fabulous strategic sense of yours? Can you not see the pattern?” Though not especially loud, the words shot from her lips like arrows. “If I choose not to react to his attempt on Angus’s life, he will only keep trying until I do. Maybe not Angus, next time, but someone else.”

Mentally, he conceded the validity of her point. Still, perhaps other alternatives existed. He asked, “What if the collision truly was an accident?”

“Ha! To believe that you would have to presume Urien was telling the truth.” She regarded him solemnly. “You’d best find someone else to lead the Manx Cohort, Artyr. I suspect I am going to be rather busy.” With a sigh, she averted her gaze.

“This is exactly how he wants you to react.” He slipped his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up. “I need you on Maun. Not at Urien’s throat. Let me deal with him.”

“You think my being on Maun is going to solve anything?” She shook free of his touch and folded her arms.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m hoping distance and time will help you see your course more clearly. I’ll wager Urien believes he can defeat Argyll in a pitched battle.”

“You don’t think I could win?” Her plucky defiance coaxed a brief smile to his lips.

“I didn’t say that.”

Far from it. She had killed a Scotti general after suffering hours of exposure to wind and rain, deprived of food and drink. If Arthur hadn’t witnessed the fight, he never would have believed the tale. Her right arm still bore the bandage from the deep cut Niall had inflicted during their duel.

“But if Urien believes he has the advantage,” Arthur continued, “he will be difficult to defeat.”

Especially if she committed Argyll to a war without thinking this through, but Arthur couldn’t say that in so many words. Being her consort gave him access to her wealth but no voice in Clan Argyll’s government. That duty she shared with her father, and by Caledonian law, Ogryvan would be chieftain for as long as he remained fit for the task. Arthur could advise Gyan—Ogryvan also, if the chieftain cared to listen. If the rulers of Argyll chose to ignore his advice, however, Arthur couldn’t do a bloody thing about it.

“You wouldn’t help me if I had to fight him?”

“Of course I would, Gyan.” He inhaled another whiff of her rose-scented hair as he summoned the courage to tell her what she probably least wanted to hear. “But I do counsel restraint.”

“Restraint? Ha! Then who will be his next victim? My father? My brother? One of my clansmen? You, Artyr?” She thumped the blanket with a fist. “I cannot let him hurt anyone else because of me!”

He gripped her shoulders. The eyes that met his gaze gleamed with feral intensity.

“That’s exactly what would happen if you go to war.” She started to protest, but he cut her off. “I can guard myself against treachery. I imagine your kin and clansmen can, too. If you attack Dunadd, it will appear to all Brydein as an unprovoked act of Caledonian aggression. Think what that would do to our treaty.”

He didn’t mention that the outrage of the Brytoni Council of Chieftains at Argyll’s “unprovoked act of aggression” probably would prevent Arthur from sending his foot troops—provided by those same Brytoni chieftains—to help her. Never mind the inevitable political muddle if Arthur ordered his mostly Caledonian cavalry cohort to stay clear of an Argyll-Moray war.

Or, God forbid, the pressure the council might exert upon him to annul his marriage.

A legion of emotions paraded across Gyan’s face: surprise, denial, anger, horror, and, finally, acceptance. Perhaps she’d discovered these other possibilities, too. Arthur hoped so. “Oh, God, no…” Her tortured whisper grieved him. “What am I to do?”

He hugged her. Her cheek felt like a firebrand against his chest.

“We will take the only sensible course: watch and wait.” He brushed his fingertips across her cheekbones.

“I will go to Maun, then. For you.” Her steady gaze heralded her resolve. “What of—him? Is it wise to let him command Caledonians?”

Arthur had wrestled with that issue often since recalling Urien to headquarters, liking the answer no more now than before.

“He is one of my best commanders. And he’s no fool. Chieftain’s son or not, he wouldn’t dare provoke me openly.” For Gyan’s sake, he refrained from adding, “yet.”

“If there’s a way to defy you, Artyr, he will find it.”

“I know.” Urien had begun perfecting his almost-insubordinate attitude when he lost the Pendragonship appointment, long before either of them had met Gyan. Only the respect and alliance given Arthur by Urien’s father, Chieftain Dumarec, restrained him from meting out the punishment Urien so richly deserved. “I can handle him, Gyan. Don’t worry about me.” He flashed his most convincing grin.

Her mouth twitched. “As you command, Lord Pendragon.” The smile vanished, and she squeezed his hand. “I pray Urien won’t destroy the Caledonian-Brytoni unity we’re working so hard to achieve.”

That prayer Arthur fervently shared.

Chapter 4

A
S THE WINTACEASTER palace guards departed to resume their posts, closing the ornately carved oaken doors behind them, Prince Ælferd Wlencingsson dropped to one knee. The room’s lone occupant lounged in a purple-cushioned gilt chair near the hearth with a full view of the chamber’s entryway, flanked by a brace of wolfhounds lying sprawled across the flagstones. They perked their ears to the soft ringing of Ælferd’s bronze-linked hauberk but otherwise declined to move.

“Rise, nephew,” intoned King Cissa. “Come and refresh yourself.” Ælferd obeyed as the king’s sharp claps pierced the air.

A trio of gold-collared Brædan thralls appeared through a curtained inner doorway. The male slave carried a tall-backed chair, which he placed near the king’s. One woman brought silver goblets and a matching pitcher of wine; the other bore a platter of strawberries, cheese, and bread. The hounds scrambled to sit on lean haunches, eyeing the women.

The young woman with the wine was pretty, for a Bræde. Rich brown tresses spilled across milk-white breasts bulging above the gold-edged blue bodice. As she bent to set down her burden, the king’s fingertips strayed to that flawless bosom. Cissa smiled slyly. The Brædan princess accepted her master’s caress with the stoic remoteness of one resigned to fate.

Silver streaked the other woman’s black hair, but her face was surprisingly handsome in spite of its frown lines. She carried herself with dignity and elegance, arranging the food on the table with practiced efficiency. Both women retreated behind the curtain.

Ælferd placed his griffin-crested helmet next to the platter, hitched the folds of his green-and-gold cloak around him, and sat while the Brædan prince poured the wine and sipped from both goblets. The king selected a hunk of cheese and passed it to his taster, bidding his nephew to do the same.

“One cannot be too careful these days,” said the king. “Good health, nephew.” Cissa lifted the goblet to his lips, swallowed, and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Good health, my lord.” Ælferd let the first mouthful sit on his tongue to savor the wine’s mellow sweetness, calculating how much he’d have to bribe the steward for a cask. His men had earned it tenfold for their efforts in wrenching the Roman fort, Anderida—now known by its proper Saxon name, Anderceaster—from the fat hands of the southern Brædeas.

“Now, Ælferd. Tell us about Anderceaster.” Settling back, feet propped and goblet in one hand, the king began to chew on his cheese, now and then tossing tidbits to his hounds, who gobbled them greedily.

“There’s not much to tell, my lord. Those Brædeas possessed no champion like Arthur the Dragon-King. My men fought like the true heroes they are, and the Brædeas”—Ælferd cast a grin at the thrall standing behind the king’s chair—“fought like craven pig-dogs.”

The Brædan prince didn’t react to the insult, or to any other aspect of the report, including the fact that Ælferd’s men had slaughtered the Brædan soldiers to the last man. The Bræde stood impassively, moving only to refill the goblets and taste the food at his master’s command. Ælferd began to wonder whether the man was deaf or just stupid.

“Well done, nephew. Your father would have been proud.”

Ælferd felt his chest swell. Years ago, disease had robbed him of the chance of ever proving his worth to Wlencing in this life. But since his father could well be watching him from Woden’s Hall, it had never stopped Ælferd from trying.

Continued the king, “Let this represent a token of our pleasure.”

Cissa gestured to the thrall, who bowed and disappeared into the side chamber. The Bræde returned with a small gilt box. Kneeling, he presented it to Ælferd.

Inside, nestled within the purple folds of a swath of fabric, gleamed a massive, garnet-studded gold buckle.

“Many thanks, Uncle Cissa,” whispered Ælferd.

The king nodded. “Clearly, you are ready for a more difficult undertaking. Oversee the rebuilding and provisioning of Anderceaster, and begin staging the troops and ships I send you.”

“My lord?” A sweaty itch tickled under the wide bronze band binding his hair, and he wished he’d shed his cloak, too. He couldn’t imagine what sort of operation would require ships as well as soldiers. Crossing the Narrow Sea to invade Brædan-infested Armorica, perhaps?

King Cissa gently shook his goblet. The liquid swirled, casting the illusion that he held a whirlpool of blood. “A gem of an island gleams in the navel of the Ærish Sea.” He downed the wine, looked up, and caught Ælferd’s gaze. “I want it.”

Ælferd raised his eyebrows. “Maun, sir? That’s so far—”

His uncle glared at him. He swallowed his protest. The time and wealth required to provision such an expedition represented only part of the problem. Arthur’s men garrisoned the Isle of Maun: men reputed to fight like demons, with a she-devil named Guenevara to lead them, and the most fearsome of the lot, if her battlefield beheading of the Ærish invasion commander wasn’t some minstrel’s ale-inspired fantasy.

Ælferd’s throat went dry, and he clenched his fists to keep from touching his neck. He drained his goblet, but the wine had lost its allure.

“I am well aware of the distance, Ælferd, along with the cost in men, supplies, and time.” That damned itch attacked Ælferd’s forehead again, and he resisted the urge to claw the band from his head. Avarice flashed across Cissa’s face as he explained, “This operation will give me a strategic base for launching attacks against the Brædeas of West Brædæn, the Ærish of Æren, and”—avarice transformed to malice—“against this upstart whore’s bastard, Arthur, who has the gall to style himself Dragon-King of Brædæn.”

With the formidable Riothamus dead these past two decades, Armorica would make an easier and far more sensible objective, but Ælferd dared not voice his opinion.

What the King of the West Saxons craved, he always obtained. And the son of Wlencing vowed to do all within his power to satisfy that craving.