by Headlee, Kim
Urien’s mind reeled. Acknowledge this woman—this barbarian woman—as an equal? Lunacy! “But—”
“Do it.” Though only a rasping whisper, the command carried the full measure of Dumarec’s authority.
Reluctantly, Urien obeyed. As he reached for Gyanhumara’s forearm, he expected the flesh to be rough. It was not. Her skin was as smooth and supple as that of any lady he had known.
Gowns could be fashioned to hide that bizarre design. Besides, to display bare arms beyond the bedchamber door was a scandalous breach of the rules of modesty, though not among her people, it would seem. But if everything went according to plan, she wouldn’t be living with these other Picts much longer.
Her grip was surprisingly strong. With a smile, he imagined the private wrestling matches they would share. And he tried to picture what the rest of her looked like under the bright yellow gown.
AT HER father’s side, cocooned in the hush of the deliciously fragrant feast hall, Gyan strode to the dais where two Dailriatanaich stood waiting. The younger man displayed a smile that was obviously meant only for her.
“Chieftainess Gyanhumara, I am honored to present Chieftain Dumarec of Clan Móran of Dailriata.” With a glance at Dumarec, Dafydd said a few words in Breatanaiche. Gyan favored the aging Breatanach chieftain with a stately nod.
Dafydd continued, “And his son, Urien.”
So this was the man her father wanted her to marry.
He was handsome, beyond doubt. His rich brown hair was boyishly unruly. The twinkling eyes seemed to laugh all by themselves. He was a wee bit taller than she was, no more than a forefinger’s length. The close-fitting, black-and-gold-patterned tunic and trews hinted at rippling muscles.
Yet appearance and fighting skills were not everything. Her training had been clear on that point. Aside from the political advantages of making Urien her consort, she had to be sure of his heart. An unhappy marriage union often birthed more harm than good.
No one would ever accuse the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll of not trying to give this relationship the best possible start. She offered her hand in welcome.
Urien did not accept the greeting at first. Instead, he stared at her arm. The laughter in his eyes fled, chased away by…revulsion?
Surely she was mistaken. Wasn’t she?
Chieftain Dumarec prodded Urien to complete the gesture. There was no mistaking the power in Urien’s grip over the Argyll Doves. A chill crept up her spine.
Then his face melted into a smile even more charming than his first, as though the reason for his hesitation had never existed. Maybe that was true. Maybe it lived only in her imagination.
She returned his smile, though silently she wondered how she could judge his intentions without the benefit of private conversation. Ironic that speech, a simple thing she’d always taken for granted, had become a luxury that all the gold in Caledon could not purchase.
Chapter 5
THREE DAYS WHIRLED past in a blur of activity. Urien participated in most of Gyan’s regular training sessions, seemingly glad of the exercise after so many days in the saddle.
The journey must have been hard on him indeed, Gyan mused. He lay sprawled at her feet. The point of the sword she had knocked from his grip rested against the base of his neck. She removed it, and he sat up.
Firmly, he took her hand to regain his footing. She handed him his sword. He said something that sounded like “Good bout.” Whatever it was, he followed it with a wink and a grin.
This was not the first time she had disarmed him during sword practice.
“I have a strange feeling about this,” she murmured to her brother as Urien strode, whistling, toward the javelin field. “I think he’s letting me win.” She inspected her blade for dirt and blood—though she knew there was none, it was a habit Ogryvan had drummed into her—and slid it into its sheath. “You saw our match. What do you think?”
“That you’re imagining things, dear sister.” Per gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Urien fought well. But you fought better.”
Her thanks were shortened by a shout sailing from the far end of the field.
“Ghee-an-huh-mah-rah!”
It had taken the better part of a day and a cartload of Dafydd’s patience for Urien to grasp the proper pronunciation of her name. Now, at least, it was recognizable. Barely.
Javelin in hand, he was waving to attract her attention.
She waved back. He shouted something else that she couldn’t understand. She glanced at Per, who shrugged. Urien beckoned.
“I think he wants us to join him, Per. Ready for some javelin practice?” As with many Caledonach horse-warriors, casting a javelin from the back of a charging horse was Per’s preferred method of fighting, and well did she know it.
“Always, Gyan. Always!”
They reached the field to find Urien mounted and armed. His javelin, like the rest, was wickedly sharp.
She’d seen Urien’s chestnut mount on the first day of his visit, but this didn’t stop her from admiring the animal anew. Clean of limb, deep of chest, sleek of coat, taller than the Highland horses by a forearm’s length, the stallion had a build that sang of speed and strength and stamina. Its eyes mirrored courage and intelligence: truly a mount worthy of a god. With a troop of these horses, no wonder the Breatanaich had outflanked the Caledonaich at Abar-Gleann.
While she stroked the proudly arched neck, Urien controlled his horse with a casual ease that bespoke countless hours in the saddle.
Per sent a stable hand after their horses, and Urien joined the wave of Argyll warriors thundering toward the hapless strawmen. At the prearranged signal, the warriors let fly their missiles. Urien’s disappeared into the center of the target halfway up the shaft.
“Certainly has an arm, doesn’t he?” remarked Per.
“An arm”—Gyan’s admiration was undisguised—“and an eye to match.” She doubted whether she would ever match Urien’s skill with the javelin.
As he retrieved his weapon and cantered toward Gyan and Per, the tone of his Breatanaiche words carried his excitement. With a smile, she nodded her approval. Urien’s face gleamed with obvious joy.
“Come on, Gyan, let’s go!” Per vaulted into Rukh’s saddle, seized a javelin from the nearby rack, and nudged his mount toward the line that was reforming for another charge.
Urien dismounted. He laced his fingers as though he wished to help Gyan into the saddle. She firmly shook her head. He seemed hurt by her refusal, but her smile made him brighten. Soon she was settled on Brin’s back, javelin in one hand and reins in the other. He vaulted onto his chestnut, and together they cantered over to the other riders.
Gyan preferred the sword to any other weapon. Yet there was a certain thrill to the feel of Brin’s powerful muscles bunching and stretching between her thighs and the wind whistling its song in her ears. The satisfaction of hitting a target from several dozen paces away was a feeling no swordsman could ever know.
She drew back her arm to make the cast. Her eyes narrowed on the target as she judged the distance. Urien and his stallion pounded the turf close beside her. Too close! To her horror, she realized Urien had selected her target. The effigies were spaced to let only one horse through on either side. If neither rider pulled up, they would collide!
Urien didn’t seem to notice the danger. His mount kept straight on course. Gyan was not about to take chances. She dropped the javelin to yank the reins with both hands. Brin slid to a stop, screaming and pawing the air. Urien cast his javelin and flashed safely through the row with the other warriors.
He came around to fetch his weapon and saw Gyan dismount to pick up her javelin. Concern colored his face. He set spurs to his stallion’s flanks and raced toward her, babbling incoherently. She tried to assure him that she and Brin were all right, but of course words were no good. Finally, she remounted and cantered off the field. Still chattering, Urien followed.
Though the tone of those words seemed sincere, there was something
troubling in his manner that she couldn’t quite decipher.
“I DON’T know, Cynda,” said Gyan later that evening as she prepared for bed. She pulled off the sleeveless leather battle-tunic and dropped it onto the floor beside the leggings. The undertunic followed it. Cynda offered her the white nightgown. Gyan held it to her chest, absently fingering the soft wool. “I think he’s a better swordsman. Better, even, than Per, perhaps. Yet I beat him. Per doesn’t agree with me, but I think Urien lets me win.”
“He can’t forget that you’re a woman,” Cynda pointed out, “even though you yourself like to. Maybe he thinks he’ll hurt you.”
“Ha! After what happened on the javelin field this afternoon?” Gyan wriggled into the gown. “Either hurting me is the least of his worries, or he’s not very conscious of danger.” She wasn’t sure which she preferred to believe. Neither seemed very flattering.
“Probably the latter. Most young men aren’t.” Cynda slapped her palm with the poker before using it to revive the embers. “Maybe by letting you defeat him in sword practice, he thinks he’s being polite.”
“I wish he wouldn’t try so hard.” Gyan sat on the bed, chin to fist, while Cynda heaved more logs onto the fire.
“Never mind his fighting skills, then.” She straightened to face Gyan and winked. “What do you think of him as a man?”
“As a man…”
Away from the field of competition, especially after their near-accident, he seemed very possessive of her attention, as though he saw her as an object, like a favorite horse or slave or hound, to respond instantly to his call. Surely she had to be mistaken. Didn’t he realize she held the higher rank?
Gyan gazed into the snapping red-gold flames, willing them to surrender answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask. “Well, he is handsome,” she admitted at last. “And I think he wants me.”
“That much is obvious.” Cynda suppressed a grin. “Do you want him?”
The Chieftainess of Clan Argyll knew what her relationship with Urien would mean to her people and his: an end to the hostilities that had raged for years beyond counting, peaceful trade between the settlements, and a free exchange of goods and knowledge and ideas. No more slave raids, no more destruction. No more slaughter.
Marriage to Urien did seem to be the most logical move for the clan, but Gyan could choose anyone she wished. Was Urien the best choice for her? Did she, as Cynda had asked, want him?
Slowly tracing the lines of the doves on her sword-bearing forearm, she conjured the day of the tattoo’s birth. She’d received the clan-mark two summers before, to symbolize her status as àrd-banoigin. This role differed from that of the chieftainess, who shared the responsibilities of leadership with the chieftain. Through her heirs, the àrd-banoigin forged the destiny of the clan.
A woman often served as one and not the other. If not for Hymar’s death, such would have been the case for Gyan today.
Yet the gods had decreed otherwise. For the first time in her life, she felt the full weight of her dual burden. She could not in good conscience put personal desires ahead of the welfare of the clan.
Like a dew-spattered web, Cynda’s question hung in the air between them. So fragile, the slightest puff might drench the leaves below. And like a careless hand, the wrong answer could wreak irreparable damage.
Did Gyan want this son of a Breatanach chieftain?
Passion seemed so important to the serving lasses as they prattled about their lovers. Even Hymar had chosen Ogryvan for love, not duty. Ogryvan had returned her love a hundredfold and was still demonstrating that love by refusing to unite with the àrd-banoigin of any other clan. A twinge of envy pinched Gyan’s heart.
Inwardly, she searched for this fabled passion and found none. Perhaps she didn’t want Urien in that sense, but it scarcely mattered.
She was chieftainess of the most powerful clan of the Caledonach Confederacy, not some silly maidservant whose only hope was to find a man who could bring enjoyment to the marriage bed. And she was not her mother, who had been able to afford the luxury of a love match.
What Gyan wanted most was a mate whose gift to her would be peace and prosperity for Argyll. If Urien could grant that wish, she would be satisfied. She hoped.
Did she want Urien? Ruthlessly, she shoved aside the doubts. She stood, shoulders back and head high, and proclaimed, “Yes.”
“I MUST—what?” Urien’s stallion jerked his head. Urien stroked the silvery blaze between Talarf’s eyes and lowered his voice. “Are you sure, man?”
Dafydd nodded. “Yes, my lord. Chieftain Ogryvan said—”
“This is absurd! He can’t be serious.” With the iron currycomb, Urien gestured at Dumarec. “Explain it to him, Father.”
Dumarec’s lips cracked a wry smile. “What’s to explain? It’s their custom.”
“Their law, my lord,” said Dafydd.
“It’s barbarism.” Urien resumed his work on the mane.
“Who’s to say they don’t think the same of us, son?”
“We are not in the habit of painting weird marks on our bodies.”
“No,” Dumarec said. “But I’m sure we do a few things that would raise Picti eyebrows a fair measure.”
Did he hear aright? Was his father taking the Picts’ side in this matter?
Leaning across Talarf’s withers, Urien studied the two men standing beside the stall’s door. The younger was, for the most part, a stranger. The other was swiftly becoming one.
“So. I am to have blue birds drawn on my arm this evening.” And doves, no less, although he kept that to himself. The Clan Moray priests probably would object, since the dove was a sacred symbol to them. Then again, with that lot it was always easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.
“Lord Urien,” Dafydd began, fingering the small wooden cross at his neck, “you won’t be receiving the Argyll clan-mark tonight.”
“What? But you just said—”
“The clan-mark comes later, son, during the wedding ceremony, after Gyanhumara returns from Maun. Then she will be tattooed with the Boar of Moray to make your union official.” Thumbs hooked in his gold-studded belt, Dumarec chuckled. “You wouldn’t be so confused if you would take your ears out of your trousers once in a while.”
Urien scowled at his father before turning his attention upon Dafydd. “You told me I was to be getting a tattoo at tonight’s feast. Is this a lie?”
“No, my lord. You will receive a tattoo.” Though his tone was soft, the man did not flinch under Urien’s glare. “A thin band around your wrist to represent your betrothal.”
The heir of Clan Moray gave a grunt as he traded currycomb for brush to scrub the dried mud from Talarf’s coat.
Tattoos, he grumbled to himself, though he took care not to let his mood interfere with his horse’s comfort and went lightly over Talarf’s tender spots. Of all the Picts’ idiotic customs, this had to take the prize. It was one thing to marry a Pict. Now it seemed the savages wanted to make him look like one of them.
Dumarec said to Dafydd, “Please tell Chieftain Ogryvan that Lord Urien will be honored to comply.” He dismissed Dafydd with a word of thanks. The man bowed to both of them and left.
“I have no other choice, then?”
Dumarec answered, “Not if you wish to fully demonstrate your—our—good faith in this alliance.” His countenance darkened.
“Arthur’s alliance.” Both words left a bad taste in Urien’s mouth.
“Brydein’s alliance.” Dumarec waved a finger. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, son, Moray lands will double with the addition of Argyll’s. Good farmlands too.”
“Yes, Father, I know.” Another thought occurred, and the irony made Urien grin. “The Moray power base will double, and I’ll be able to challenge Arthur for the Pendragonship.”
“You will do no such thing.” Even though Dumarec kept his voice low, the intensity of his words caused Talarf to snort and stamp. Urien couldn’t remember the last tim
e he’d seen his father so angry, and it took him aback. “Your destiny, Urien map Dumarec, is to take my place. Not Arthur’s. And your destiny begins tonight, when you present yourself to your future wife to receive the betrothal tattoo and demonstrate your acceptance of her people’s ways, strange as they may seem.” Gripping the stall door’s ledge, he leaned closer to Urien. “Understood?”
After holding his father’s gaze for a long moment, Urien nodded, not so much out of obedience to Dumarec as in acknowledgment to himself that he wanted Gyanhumara more than any woman he had ever known. With any other woman, he would have walked away. But his passion for Gyanhumara flew far beyond the desire to control her land. Her proud beauty drove away all thought of her barbaric origins. His loins ached.
So he would play her little game and wear the tattoos. Eventually, she would pay a price for the indignity. Squatting to reach the underside of Talarf’s chest, he allowed himself a smile his father couldn’t see. Collecting the toll from his wife promised to be quite a pleasure indeed.
And he vowed never to let slip his ambitions to another soul again.
BLESSED BY the High Priest of Clan Argyll, Gyan and Urien performed the traditional Caledonach betrothal ritual. Under the watchful eyes of both fathers, the Dailriatanaich, and as many of Clan Argyll as could pack into the feast hall, another priest inscribed the woad tattoo of the braided band around the couple’s left wrists.
They shared wine from a wide-mouthed, ornate pewter cup crafted for the occasion. To the jubilant shouts and foot stompings of the witnesses, lips met lips for the first time.
Gyan felt his mouth devouring hers, as if he wanted his teeth to leave their tattoo on her tongue. Blood thundered in her ears. Her heart hammered like the wings of a trapped dove. The wine on his breath mixed with the tang of his leather tunic and the smokiness of the feast hall to make her stomach churn. Fighting for breath, she struggled to break away. His arms crushed her tighter before they relaxed.
