by Headlee, Kim
As she gazed into the mirror, her vision blurred with the remnants of her sorrow. For a moment, she saw not a lovely young woman in the bloom of adulthood but a child scampering gleefully through spring meadows, stopping now and again to climb a tree or toss stones into a chuckling brook. Her brother was never far behind; Cynda always gasped and grumbled about the pace.
Those were the special days, just after spring planting each year. Duties were light, spirits soared high, and the sun and breeze and wildflowers conspired to lure the unwary into realms of carefree delight.
Those days resided in the forsaken chambers of her mind while other matters competed for her attention: matters that promised to alter the path of her life forever.
There was no mystery to the timing of the Bhreatanaich visit. To show support for the new alliance, Ogryvan wanted Gyan to select a Breatanach lord for a consort. Dumarec’s lands adjoined her people’s to the west, and that border had been violently disputed for generations, so his son was a logical choice.
Yet she was under no obligation to accept the suggested match. Such was the privilege of the clan’s àrd-banoigin, the woman through whom the line of succession was determined. Caledonach law also dictated that whoever shared the bed of an àrd-banoigin was entitled to the woman’s lands. Gyan controlled more land than any of her peers. Thus, she’d been trained from the first day of womanhood to be selective in her choice of consort.
This son of Dumarec would have to prove himself her equal with sword and horse, no easy task for any man.
But she was also learning there was more to life than battles and bloodshed. The serving lasses were always happy to fill her ears with stories of their bedchamber exploits. Usually, the answers to her questions came in blunt, vivid detail. Something stirred within Gyan during those stories, no louder than a breeze whiffling through a pile of leaves.
She closed her eyes and ran tentative fingers over her breasts, wondering how a man’s touch would feel.
Would she ever know the caress of love, if her consort were chosen for political reasons?
The sound of someone bustling into the anteroom shattered her reverie. She wrapped herself in a sleeping fur and opened the door.
Mardha, the prettiest of the serving lasses, was bearing the water and washing linens. She greeted Gyan with a saucy smile and a wink. Cynda followed with towels and a gown.
Gyan would much rather have seen Cynda carrying a fresh tunic and breeches and said so.
“You know your father’s orders, young lady.” Cynda organized the bathing implements with a practiced hand.
Gyan sighed.
The wolfskin slid to the floor at her feet as Cynda and Mardha each grabbed a wet washcloth and set to work.
Chapter 2
OGRYVAN DUCKED TO cross the threshold into the living quarters.
A smear on the gray granite flagstones caught his eye, and he squinted at the floor. The smear resolved into a double set of boot marks. One track stopped at the nearest closed door, Per’s chambers. The other continued down the deserted corridor and disappeared into the shadows.
He presumed that Gyan and Per had gone to get themselves cleaned up. In his present mud-caked condition, this seemed like a fine idea. His daughter’s lecture would have to wait.
Hefting both his shield and Gyan’s, he shouldered open the door to his private chambers. The slave tending the fire scrambled to his feet as Ogryvan entered the room.
“Ah, Dafydd. Well met. I need towels and water.” Dafydd bowed and started to leave. “Fresh clothing too,” added Ogryvan on his way into the inner sleeping chamber.
He left the shields against a wall, shed the muddy leather gear and sweaty undertunic, and stretched on his bare stomach across the bed, eyes closed. Memories flooded his brain of the children, not as he saw them today but years ago: Gyan, always driving herself to keep pace with her brother, and Per, the son of his heart though not of his flesh, forever striving to stay one step ahead. The two of them, running, climbing, riding, fighting, shouting, always together, always laughing.
Well, almost always.
Arbroch without Gyan and Per was not going to be the same.
Creaking hinges announced Dafydd’s return. The hot, moist towels soothed Ogryvan’s complaining muscles. Gyan had certainly given them good reason to complain.
A pity the heat couldn’t salve his spirits.
One by one, the towels came off, leaving a tingling echo of their presence. With a twinge of regret, he sat up. Across Dafydd’s palms rested a thigh-length blue tunic and matching trews. Ogryvan accepted the proffered garments with a nod.
Painfully easing the trews over the purpling thigh bruise forced to mind the disaster at Abar-Gleann, and he grimaced. Those memories refused to budge.
Arthur the Pendragon had orchestrated a brilliant win over Alayna and the Caledonach host on the banks of the roiling River Fiorth. How Arthur, an untried leader of men, had managed this feat was beyond Ogryvan’s ken. Good men under him, Ogryvan supposed, and a small but effective cavalry squad—led by the very man on his way to visit Arbroch even now—which had outflanked Ogryvan’s troop to capture the dike and seal the victory for the Breatanaich.
It had been during this maneuver that he had taken the spear wound in his thigh that, thanks to his daughter, was throbbing again. And if the wound weren’t enough, the battle itself still gave him nightmares.
After knotting the leather thong to secure his trews, he snatched the pitcher off the table, tipped it to his lips, and swallowed the dregs of the strong spiced wine. The taste wasn’t nearly as bitter as the loss he and Alayna and the rest of Caledon had been forced to swallow. Although, by the gods, it was no small wonder that any of the Caledonaich had been spared. With Alayna’s men pinned to the cliffs above the Fiorth, cut off by Urien’s cavalry unit, Arthur stood in the perfect position to slaughter the Caledonach host. In that man’s place, Ogryvan would not have hesitated.
He dragged the back of a hand across his bearded lips and surrendered the pitcher to Dafydd, who tucked it under one arm, gathered the discarded towels and clothing under the other, bowed, and left the room.
As he prepared to don the tunic Dafydd had given him, his gaze fell upon his shield arm and the Argyll clan-mark he had proudly worn there for nearly a score of years.
Picti, “Painted People,” was the name still used by the Breatanaich and other peoples of these verdant isles to refer to the Highland-dwelling Caledonaich. In days long past, the name had begun among ignorant Ròmanach men who’d been too busy trying to conquer the clans to be bothered with learning anything from them. The Ròmanaiche epithet for the Caledonaich, who called themselves the “Hard People,” had been appropriate when custom dictated that all clan warriors fight naked, protected by nothing but their great gleaming torcs and fiery courage and face-to-foot woad warding-marks, blessed by the gods.
Now, only clan rulers bore the sacred tattoos. And Ogryvan’s flying Argyll Doves, once a rich blue, were showing their age, just like the rest of him.
Perhaps the outcome of Abar-Gleann might have been much different had the high old ways not been abandoned.
With a rueful toss of his head, he chided himself for indulging in such foolish and fruitless speculation.
The battle’s aftermath saw the drafting of a treaty between the Caledonaich and the Breatanaich. As Chieftain of Clan Argyll, Ogryvan had been one of its endorsers, and the terms imposed by the victors were not as unreasonable as they might have been.
For her part as organizer of the attack, Chieftainess Alayna was hit hardest by the treaty terms. Senaudon and all lands south of the fort were placed under the control of a Breatanach occupation unit. Most of the surviving Alban warriors were forced into the Breatanach army, and Alayna’s son was taken hostage.
Argyll, the strongest clan of the Caledonach Confederacy, found itself in a similar position. Two hundred warriors were slated to swell the Breatanach ranks. At least Gyan was spared from having to share the s
ame ordeal as Alayna’s son.
Small comfort.
He pulled the tunic over his head and down into place. With a grunt, he rose from the bed and crossed to a chair near the fire, where the flames sparked even more memories of Abar-Gleann.
Under the treaty, the other clans were required to provide Arthur with horsemen, each warrior and mount fully equipped with battle-gear. In exchange, the Pendragon promised equal treatment and opportunities for advancement, an equal share in all spoils, and military assistance against Scáthinach, Angalaranach, and Sasunach incursions upon Caledonach lands.
Most of the other Caledonach clan leaders had voiced a preference for death rather than establishing an alliance with Arthur. The loudest dissent came from Alayna, which was quite understandable since she had the most to lose and the least to gain. But sometimes there were benefits to be had by wielding the instruments of peace rather than those of war.
Recognizing the advantages presented by this unique opportunity, despite the impact on his daughter, Ogryvan had bullied his peers into submission. He recalled that moment with a brief smile. Faced with the Ogre’s forbidding glare, not even Chieftainess Alayna had dared to disagree.
The only truly bright spot in that dismal day was its unexpected conclusion. To celebrate the alliance, Arthur had feasted Caledonaich and Breatanaich alike at Senaudon. Former enemies were treated like longtime comrades. A mountain of pork and venison had disappeared that night, drowned by a river of ale. Defeat had never tasted better.
Even Chieftainess Alayna had not acted as bitterly as she might have, under the circumstances.
Dafydd returned to the chamber with a clean goblet and the wine pitcher, its contents sloshing to the brim. The tray he carried also held a welcome surprise: a loaf of fragrant brown bread and a slab of cheese. The slave set the tray on a small table near Ogryvan’s chair. Ogryvan reached for the bread, commending him for his thoughtfulness. Murmuring thanks, Dafydd started for the door.
“One more thing.” Dafydd stopped and turned to regard Ogryvan expectantly. “Please tell Gyan I want to see her in my workroom at her earliest convenience.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dafydd nodded and left the chamber.
Holding the wine cup in the other hand, Ogryvan began to demolish the warm loaf. If Gyan truly was like her mother, he would have enough time while she was bathing and dressing to finish a feast.
He took another gulp of wine as his thoughts returned to Alayna of Alban: clan ruler, warrior, mother; a marvel of womanhood. Upon the death of her consort, Gwalchafed, eight years ago, Alayna had approached Ogryvan with a proposal to unite Argyll and Alban, which had been a sorely tempting offer. The flamboyant Alayna doubtless would have made an entertaining partner.
Staring into the flames, he tried to imagine just what sort of entertainment he and Alayna might have shared. It wasn’t difficult.
But in asking him to become her consort, Alayna had played to an even baser emotion: greed. What sane man would turn his back upon the prospect of doubling his wealth?
A man who loved his daughter more than all the riches this world could possibly offer. Because the mantle of chieftainship rested upon his shoulders, marriage to Chieftainess Alayna would have made Argyll cease to exist as an independent member of the Confederacy. Ogryvan could not bring himself to deny Gyan her rightful rank…not then, not ever.
CLEAN AND gowned—and yearning for her riding gear and favorite horse—Gyan awaited her father in his antechamber. His distinctive voice thundered outside the door as he gave instructions to the servants in charge of preparing the evening meal. Before long, the door swung open, and he strode in. He closed it behind him and headed for his large ashwood work table.
The summons had come as she was dressing, forcing Cynda to hurry with the comb through the last tangles. Sitting in Ogryvan’s workroom, Gyan discovered her hair was dry at last. She fingered the soft, copper-bright tresses, fragrant from the dried rose petals crumbled into the washwater. He had taught her to keep her hair braided and pinned fast to her head while fighting to deny the enemy a handhold. Now, it spilled freely over her pine-hued woolen gown.
“Good practice this morning, Gyan.” The chair behind the table groaned as he sat. “Where did you learn that twisting trick?”
“Per showed me. We’ve been practicing it for a sennight.”
“Ah. Just remember to keep your concentration. And don’t let overconfidence rule your actions.”
“I know, Father.” The morning’s mud-drenched humiliation still stung her pride.
“And another thing, young lady.”
His sable head disappeared as he reached for something lying on the floor beside him. He brought up a large, filthy object.
Although the caked mud covered most of the identifying marks, she would have recognized her shield anywhere. First the mud bath and now this! Only foolish warriors forgot their gear. And foolish warriors soon became dead ones. Her brow furrowed as she mentally scolded herself for being so careless. Again.
“I know you know better. Clean it yourself, to make sure you don’t forget this lesson.” As she rose to accept the shield, he shook his head and firmly motioned her back into her seat. He leaned the shield against the wall. “Later. No sense in ruining a perfectly good gown.”
A short smile played across her lips. If muddying the gown could hasten her into more comfortable clothes…
He placed both palms on the tabletop, much like a priest preparing to deliver judgment. Hesitation seemed to creep across his face. It pricked her curiosity. All thought of the gown and plans for its demise fled.
“Was there something else, Father?”
“Aye.” He drew a deep breath. “You and Per will be leaving Arbroch after the snows melt in the spring—”
“To join the Pendragon. Yes, I know.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Per will, of course, but you are going to a Breatanach school.”
“School?” Gyan felt she must sound like an idiot; surprise gave her tongue a mind of its own. “Where?”
“On the Isle of Maun.”
“Maun! One of Dumarec’s. Very clever, Father.” She furrowed her brow. “I suppose you think that if I reject his son as consort, I might decide to accept him later, at this school.” She spat the word like a piece of tainted meat. “Well, it won’t work.” Crossing her arms, she tossed her head with an air of finality.
“Gyan, that’s not why I—”
“I am a warrior! Not a fledgling priest to sit and listen to some mumbling old mage all day. You cannot make me go to this place if I do not wish it.” The defeat in his eyes affirmed the truth of her statement. “And I do not wish it.”
He sighed. “I’d hoped you would see the wisdom in this. The advantages it could bring you. And through you, our clan.”
“Ha. What can those Breatanaich teach me that I can’t learn here?”
“Ròmanaiche, first.” His open, upraised hand forestalled her reply. “So you can study Ròmanach battle tactics.”
She felt her eyebrows quirk upward. A chance to learn from the army that had tried to destroy her people more than once across the span of generations, most recently at Abar-Gleann…to prevent such a thing from ever happening again. If she could somehow bring this to pass, her name would be hailed in the songs of the clan seannachaidhean forever! Her lips drew back in a slow, proud smile.
Ogryvan seemed pleased to win her approval. He returned her smile.
“How long must I stay?”
“Two years.”
“I’ll be finished in one.” Her father laughed in obvious disbelief. “You’ll see, Father. I can’t let Per win all the glory!”
“What’s all this about me and glory?” asked a third voice.
Startled, Gyan turned. She had not heard the door open. Fists on hips, her brother stood on the threshold, auburn head and broad shoulders limned in dancing torchlight.
She did not appreciate being set upon in this ma
nner, even by kin, and her voice reflected her irritation. “Eavesdropping is not polite, dear brother.”
“Keeping secrets from me, are you?” The grin never left his face. He advanced into the room and bent to whisper in her ear. “The wise warrior never puts her back to the door.”
“As if I have anything to fear in Father’s chambers, ha!” Nimbly, he dodged her blow. “What are you doing here, Peredur mac Hymar? Testing me?”
Ogryvan, following their banter with a smile of amused affection, called a halt. “Save that energy for the practice fields.” He directed a sterner gaze at Per. “I presume you have some other purpose here than to torment your sister and disrupt our conversation?”
“My apologies, Father.” Per’s contrition seemed to last but a moment. “Our hunters have returned. They report seeing the Dailriatanaich in the hills west of Senaudon yesterday morning.”
“And about time,” Ogryvan replied. “How many?”
“Twenty-four, all mounted, with pack horses. They should arrive late tomorrow.” Per tossed another grin at Gyan. “Will you be ready for them, dear sister?”
“More than you will be,” she retorted.
“Peace, children!” Ogryvan raised both hands for silence. “That’s much better. Per, how fared our huntsmen?”
“Three fine bucks, Father. And many partridges and hares.”
“Excellent!” His palm smacked the tabletop. “With that many guests, we’ll need every morsel.”
“Since they won’t be here until tomorrow, there’s no need for me to stay dressed in this.” Gyan plucked at the neckline of her gown. “I think I shall go down to javelin practice.”
“Nay, lass. You’ve too much to do as it is.” Ogryvan’s tone sounded kind but firm. “What with seeing that the sleeping quarters for the Dailriatanaich are in order, feast preparations, and the like—wait, Per,” he commanded as his stepson started to leave. “You and I need to review the plans for the honor guard. Gyan, you’d best get started right away.”
