Morning's Journey (8 page)

Silently wishing circumstances could be otherwise, he said, “Colgrim has been quiet. No large troop movements, just a few border skirmishes and raids. Nothing Loth can’t handle by himself.” Not that he believed his proud brother-by-marriage would ever request his assistance, even if the Angli laid siege to Dunpeldyr itself, though for the sake of Annamar and their children, Arthur earnestly hoped Loth would exercise good judgment, should the worst come to pass.

“A Saxon invasion of Maun would require a tremendous undertaking.” She traced a line from the port of Anderida into the Narrow Sea, around the tip of Dumnonia, past the Brytoni territories of Dyfed, Powys and Gwynedd, and across the Hibernian Sea to Maun. “All that distance by ship. The cost in provisions alone would be—”

“Well within Cissa’s means,” Arthur supplied. She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. “The Saxons are fast outgrowing the lands Vortigern deeded to them. Plagues, crop failures, and Scotti raids have decimated the Brytoni population west of Deira. It’s foolish to hope Cissa doesn’t know this. If he has set his sights on this territory, then capturing Maun for a base would be a vital first step.” Thankfully, she made no further attempt to argue. One lesson he’d learned in the week since the wedding was that having his wife as one of his military subordinates was going to be a bigger leadership challenge than any he’d yet faced. “I’ve ordered copies to be made of the most recent reports. Troop strengths of the Saxon kings, ship descriptions and numbers, and so on. Study those reports as your duties permit.”

“An order, Lord Pendragon?”

He read the tease in the cant of her eyebrow, but apprehension prevented him from responding in kind. “A request.”

“I will, then.” Glancing at the map, she slowly shook her head. “I still think you’re worrying for no good reason.”

He hoped with all his heart that she was right. Abandoning the pretense of acting like her commander, he gripped her hands and all but lost himself in the fathomless depths of her sea-green eyes. “My love, I just want you to be prepared for the possibility.”

“I know, Artyr, and I do appreciate it.” Her throaty whisper ignited his passion.

He wrapped his arms around her and bent to kiss her, struggling to keep that passion in check. If he were to give it free rein, he would never be able to let her go. Judging by her response—warm, yet reserved—he presumed she felt much the same way.

The devil take it!
God alone knew when he would see her again. He crushed her to him, redoubling the pressure on her lips, which tasted faintly of the honey she’d slathered on her bread. Seized by a hunger that outstripped physical need, he sought her tongue with his. His hands found the voluptuous curves of her leather-covered buttocks. With a husky sigh, she reached up to run her fingers through his hair, shifting beneath his kneading hands to nestle closer to him. The touch of her lips, her tongue, her hands, her body awakened his need for her like never before, yet it would have to go unslaked. With her ship’s captain undoubtedly chafing to set sail, they’d already stolen too much time.

Reluctantly, he released her, though they did not step apart. She continued to hold his gaze, asking, “What of the replacement commander and cavalry troops for Tanroc? I expected them to sail with me.”

“There have been some”—he curbed his grin lest it betray his surprise—“delays. I’ll send them as soon as I can. The reports should be ready by then, too.” This reminded him of a report Merlin had given him, though Arthur wasn’t sure how she’d react to it. “There is something else you need to know, my love.” He drew a breath and softened his tone. “The Abbot of St. Padraic’s has died.”

THE NEWS hit Gyan like a fist in the gut. “Father Lir? When?”

“Three days ago.”

She buried her forehead against his neck. His arms tightened about her, but that only intensified her sorrow. The Scáthinach invasion had broken Father Lir’s spirit and, ultimately, his heart. If anyone deserved to transcend the tears of this world, this gentle servant of the One God did. With a long blink and an even longer sigh, she gripped Arthur’s tunic and battled to keep grief from crippling her.

“I suppose Brother Stefan has taken over?” she whispered, unwilling to dare a louder tone.

Arthur released her and strode to his worktable. After thumbing through a stack of parchment, he pulled out a sheet, returned to Gyan, and handed it to her.

As she read the message, written in precise Ròmanaiche with a neat, compact script, she guessed the author before reaching the signature.

Confirmation prompted her smile. “Abbot Dafydd, now, is it?” she murmured, half to herself. “Good for him!”

While this success never could erase the decade he and his family had spent in slavery to Clan Argyll, she hoped he was as happy with the appointment as she was for him.

Arthur placed his hands on her waist. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“Very much. So Merlin and the other bishops have been invited to attend his investiture, but what about you? Will you join them?”

“This is an ecclesiastical matter.”

“Ha. You think I won’t attend the ceremony? They’d have to set an army around the church to keep me out! And it would do no good.” She felt her smile fade. “You won’t come even as an excuse to visit me?”

He uttered a bark of laughter. “As if I need one.” His mouth descended upon hers, leaving no doubt as to the depth of his love. “Gyan, you know I cannot make promises that are too easy to break. But if I get the slightest opportunity to come to Maun, I will.” Again he kissed her, hotter and more lingeringly than before. “Go, my love, before I change my mind and give someone else the Manx command.”

“I wish you would.” She laid a finger on his lips before he could speak. “I appreciate that you think highly of my leadership abilities, but…” Sighing, she dropped her gaze. His finger gently but firmly lifted her chin, and his earnest expression compelled her to continue. “Artyr, I am afraid.”

“Of the Saxons?”

She gave a contemptuous snort. “Of disappointing you.” Contempt gave way to concern. “And,” she whispered, “of my own men.”

He already had made it clear to the cohort what the cost of disobedience would be, but Maun’s Clan Móran contingent couldn’t possibly be pleased with having a new commander who was Caledonach, a woman, and their future chieftain’s greatest enemy.

“Clan politics have no place in my legion,” he growled. “All who fight under the Scarlet Dragon must answer to me.” His gaze softened. “I don’t like it, either, but I must watch Urien, and I want him as far away from you as possible.”

“I wish we had another option.”

“I could always send you back to Arbroch.” The sapphire twinkle in his eyes betrayed the tease.

“Ha. And I could always take another swing at you.”

Their laughter died, and she touched his cheek, imprinting its warm, smooth feel upon her palm. He pulled her hand away and kissed it. “I will support whatever course of action you take with the men. Be tough but fair, Gyan, and you’ll do just fine.”

“I HOPE you are right,” Gyan murmured.

Arthur hoped so too.

After giving him one last kiss, she disengaged and left the chamber. Her departure ignited an acute burning in his chest, as if his heart had deserted him to accompany her.

THE MANX Cohort’s obedience came reluctantly, and as Gyan had feared, respect was all but nonexistent. The former she didn’t hesitate to demand. The latter she’d have to earn, but with combat drills and the managing of the mundane activities around the fortress as her only tools, it promised to be an arduous journey.

At the worktable in the anteroom of her private quarters, with the never-dwindling stacks of supply requisitions and unit reports piled about her, she was pondering the cohort’s morale problems when Cynda entered from the bedchamber. She approached Gyan, clutching a web-snarled broom in one fist and a small metal object in the other.

“What do you make of this? I found it in a corner.”

Like petals of a rose, Cynda’s fingers opened to reveal a bronze legion brooch encircled by a green-and-red enamel ring. Dried blood darkened the pin’s tip. The damage to the dragon’s jet eye gave it a half-lidded, dangerous expression.

Its features pointed to only one owner.

Into her mind’s eye sprang the terrible dream images that had plagued most of her nights since the last turning of the moon.

“Gyan? You look as if a goose has trodden upon your grave.”

She grimaced at Cynda’s unwittingly accurate word choice. Given half a chance, Urien would tread—nay, dance upon her grave.

Setting her jaw, she pushed to her feet, glaring at the brooch. A warrior unable to face fear wasn’t fit for the rank.

“Please pack it away.” No telling when such a trinket might prove useful, but if she never saw the accursed thing again, she’d count herself that much happier. She flung her clan mantle about her shoulders with feigned indifference, glad to secure a gold dragon to its folds, not a bronze one.

“Where are you going?” Cynda trailed in Gyan’s wake as she stepped briskly toward the door.

Gyan needed the larger working area and its unsurpassed harbor view, so moving to different chambers wasn’t an option. At present, however, even the eternally fiery caverns of ifrinn seemed preferable to Urien’s haunt.

For Cynda’s sake, she stated, “Tanroc. To inspect the progress of the palisade’s repairs. I should be back before the evening meal.”

An hour later, confronted with the sight of the thorn-hedged fort and its inner palisade’s charred remains, the Scáthinach invasion assaulted her in all its bloody detail. Standing clear of soldiers hauling wood and rubble, she closed her eyes. The clang of hammers and mallets evoked the clash of arms. Her memories intensified: the deaths of the monks, her capture, being forced to watch the slaughter of soldiers and common folk alike, the nauseating stench of burning flesh…and the seething frustration born of the powerlessness to prevent any of it.

She clenched her fists, the nails digging into her palms.

“Aunt Gyanhumara? Everything all right?” The male voice spoke in Breatanaiche.

Aunt?
She opened her eyes with a start and relaxed her hands. One of the workmen stood before her, soot smeared across his face so badly that she scarcely recognized him. The bone dragon pinned to his undyed tunic marked him as one of the legion’s foot soldiers.

“I am fine, Gawain.” Odd to think of him as her sister-son-by-law, since they were of an age. The relation he shared with Arthur showed in his handsomely angled features. There the resemblance ended, for Gawain was shorter and stockier, his hair raven dark. “And it’s Commander Gyan, soldier.” She underscored her tease with a smile. “Back to work.”

“Aye, Commander Gyan.” His grin assured her that one Breatan on this isle didn’t resent her authority, thanks be to the One God.

Gawain saluted smartly. He bent over a massive unburned timber lying nearby and, grunting and straining, lifted one end to commence dragging it toward the pile of reusable timbers. She marveled at his strength, regretting the limitations of her female form.

A Dhoo-Glass courier ran up, panting. Without preamble or salute, he thrust a rolled scrap of parchment toward her. She wordlessly accepted the message, hoping her glare conveyed the full measure of her displeasure. Discomfiture flashed across his face.