by Headlee, Kim
She took a step backward. The look he wore seemed fiercely triumphant, as though he had just won the hardest-fought contest of his life. As the glitter of his eyes dimmed, embers glowed in the aftermath of the blaze. She was certain those embers could flare to life at any moment, without warning.
Her instincts screamed that Urien was not the right man, that it wasn’t too late to cancel the betrothal, send the Dailriatanaich away, and choose someone else. She didn’t have a definite reason, only that somehow it felt…wrong.
Yet how could she retreat from this? Based on what? A mere feeling? What if those instincts were misleading her? What if the mother of her doubts was fear? Could she deny her people their first chance for peace with their Breatanach neighbors and live with herself afterward?
No.
Urien’s mouth softened into a smile. Gone was all trace of arrogant triumph. Perhaps she had imagined it. She fervently hoped so.
Slowly, she returned his smile. His hand reached out. Blue dye on his wrist glistened in the torchlight, a vivid reminder of the bond. Wrong or not, there had to be a way to make this marriage union work. And the way would have to begin with her.
With her instincts blaring their warning, she surrendered her hand to him. He did not squeeze it hard, as she had half expected him to, and her inner alarms fell silent. Together, Gyan and Urien faced the crowd, and the feast began.
Chapter 6
THOUGH BOTH WARRIORS were clearly feeling the aftereffects of the betrothal feast, Urien and Per met the next morning on the practice field.
Gyan watched the friendly competition amid the dozen or so clansmen and future clansmen-by-law awake enough to brave the forenoon sun. She felt fine; only four cups of wine had found the path to her lips last night. As she observed the faces around her, the occasional grimaces and squinting, red-rimmed eyes told her the others had not been so judicious.
Per, she noted, was not moving well. His timing seemed off. He let too many chances slip by without taking full advantage. Urien’s footwork was better, but his attacks lacked the force she knew he could muster. If she were fighting, both men would have felt the point of her blade today. Since Gyan had retired from the feast early, she had no idea who had issued the challenge. She doubted whether Urien or Per could remember, either.
As the bout progressed, she remained the only silent observer. Anyone who noticed kept it to himself. Glancing around, she wondered whether others shared her belief that the contest would have been better fought later in the day. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying it, but she was ready to find something more interesting to do, like counting rocks on the ground.
A shadow loomed beside hers. It wasn’t hard to guess the owner. “Good morning, Father.” Her gaze did not leave the field. Urien was pressing an attack. “Been up long?”
“Too long.” Ogryvan snorted. “I’ve been discussing details with Dumarec. He plans to leave at first light tomorrow.”
That commanded her attention. She tilted her face to meet his eyes and was grieved by the fatigue she found. Retiring for the night at a reasonable hour was a suggestion she and Cynda had been making to him for years. This time, she let it rest.
“And?”
“Urien approached him for permission to winter here.” She arched both eyebrows but made no comment. Silence seemed the safer course. Ogryvan continued, “Dumarec refused him.”
As she returned to studying the action on the field, she let out a breath. Her private misgivings had not taken flight with the dawn. Yet her destiny was decided, along with Urien’s and that of two clans. Perhaps even two nations. Nothing could stop the wheels of a wagon that size.
The best she could do to keep the doubts at bay was to maintain an air of normalcy. “They are tiring already.” She didn’t try to hide her disdain.
“After you left the feast, they tried to outdrink each other.” Ogryvan’s chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. “Don’t ask me who won. I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”
“Well, that’s good to hear, Father.” She greeted this news with a thin smile. “For a change.”
But his report about her brother and her betrothed spawned a generous dose of reproach. Small wonder they were moving like slugs. Men could be such idiots.
On the field, Per was faltering against Urien’s advance.
“Did you and Dumarec discuss my journey to Maun?”
“Of course. He offered a ship to take you there from the Seat of Móran, Dùn At.” Gyan glanced at Ogryvan, eyes narrowed. “But I thought you would prefer to ride to Dùn Lùth Lhugh with Per and the other warriors, and take ship to Maun from there.”
A burst of claps and cheers from the Argyll contingent drew Gyan’s attention back to the field. Per’s counterattack surged with renewed vigor as he drove Urien back across the enclosure. She nodded approvingly.
“Urien will meet you at Dùn Lùth Lhugh,” Ogryvan added, “and ask Arthur’s leave to accompany you to Maun.”
“Arthur!” Too many decisions were being made behind her back. Gyan’s irritation colored her voice. “Ever since Abar-Gleann, I’ve heard entirely too much about this Ròmanach whelp. I will throttle the next person who speaks his name to me.” To say nothing of his title, “Pendragon,” which was far more trouble to imagine in Caledonaiche, let alone speak, than it was worth.
Ogryvan laughed. “What’s this? I thought you were so eager to run off and fight for the Pendragon.”
She expelled the last of her anger with a harsh sigh. “I am. Any action is better than none. But if I’m not to fight with him, I should at least be able to meet him while I’m there.”
“Indeed, lass? Why?” This was punctuated by a broad wink.
“For diplomacy, Father.” She read the tease but was in no mood to rise to the bait. “Why else?”
He shrugged. “I’ll have Dafydd mention it. I’m sure Urien will be pleased to make the arrangements.”
Before she could voice a retort, Dafydd emerged from the crowd to join them and bowed. “Please forgive me, my lord, my lady, but did I hear—”
“Your name? Yes.” With her smile, Gyan tried to convey the great admiration she held for his linguistic abilities. “We have one more task for you to perform as translator.” Her smile faded as she considered what reasons might have brought Dafydd to the side of the training ring nearest where she and Ogryvan were standing. “Unless you’re planning to leave us already?”
Dafydd shook his head and addressed Ogryvan, hands spread in a gesture of supplication. “Your pardon, my lord, but I was thinking about the conversation I helped you with this morning, with Chieftain Dumarec.” One hand crept up to his neck. Gyan thought he was going to rub the mark left by the slave collar, but his forefinger hooked around a leather thong that lay below the neckline of his tunic. Whatever charm it held appeared only as a slight bulge beneath the fabric. “If I might have my lord’s permission—and my lady’s—” Lowering the hand, he directed a nod and a shy smile toward Gyan. “I and my family would like to winter here and accompany my lady Gyanhumara to Maun in the spring.”
“I don’t know, Gyan, what do you think?” Ogryvan’s lips were set in a grave line, but Gyan saw the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. “Will we have enough room and supplies for a family of freemen for the whole winter?”
As she was about to reply, Dafydd said, “Katra and I have talked it over. We’ll be happy to do whatever tasks you require of us, to earn our keep.”
Gyan held up both hands, palms open. “We appreciate your offer, Dafydd, but my father was only teasing. There’s really no need to—”
His expression grew earnest. “Please, my lady. We don’t want to be a burden to you. We see this service as our God-given duty, regardless of the”—his fingers brushed the scar on his neck—“circumstances.”
Shrugging, she turned to her father. “I don’t see why not, if this is something they want. Katra must be near to birthing her bairn.” This was confirmed by a nod from Dafydd. “But I’m sure Cynda can think of so
mething suitable for her to do. Mending, perhaps.”
“Aye.” Ogryvan studied the former slave, slowly stroking his beard. “But fetching and carrying for me hardly seems appropriate for our master interpreter.”
A flush rose in Dafydd’s cheeks. “It’s all right, my lord. I don’t mind.”
“Wait, Dafydd. You may not have to.” Gyan put fists to hips, grinning. “That is, if you think you’re up to the challenge of teaching me that tongue of yours?”
“Breatanaiche, Gyan? That’s a splendid idea!” Ogryvan beamed first at his daughter, then at his interpreter. “What say you, Dafydd?”
The flash of Dafydd’s grin was eclipsed by his deep bow. “Chieftain Ogryvan, Chieftainess Gyanhumara, it would be my greatest honor. And my pleasure.”
“Good.” This was the best piece of news Gyan had received this morning. She could scarcely wait for the day she could speak with Urien privately. Perhaps then she would find the answers she craved. “When do we start?”
Dafydd gave a short laugh. “As soon as I can decide how best to go about doing this. If my lord and lady will excuse me?”
“Of course, Dafydd, of course.” Ogryvan thumped Dafydd’s back. “Take all the time you need, lad.”
“But before you do one more thing, Dafydd,” Gyan said as he began to leave, “I want you to gather up your family’s possessions in the slave quarters and speak to Cynda.” She nodded toward the Móranach contingent across the field. “I happen to know of some fine guest chambers that will be vacant on the morrow.”
“My lady, you are most gracious.” She couldn’t begin to measure the depth of his gratitude. Besides being in closer proximity for Dafydd to conduct her lessons, the guest quarters would be a much more comfortable place for Katra to have their bairn. She wondered if Dafydd was thinking of that as well. “How can I—we—ever repay your kindness?”
“Teach me well, and I’ll consider that payment enough.”
As she watched him stride off, humming, toward the slave quarters, groans of disappointment issued from the crowd around her. She faced the field to see Per and Urien, both standing, their weapons sheathed. The contest, she guessed, must have ended in a draw. Per approached her, staggering and panting heavily. Urien, slowly making his way toward his clansmen, didn’t appear to be in much better shape.
“Too much last night.” Per looked sheepish as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. “Finish later. Almost had him, though.”
This won shouts of encouragement from his clansmen.
Urien, it seemed, was making a similar speech to the Móranaich, who had split to surround their future chieftain as he crossed the field toward Gyan.
He emerged from the knot of Móranach warriors to join the Argyll group. Per and Urien clasped forearms, then faced Gyan. Urien’s look echoed the triumph she’d seen on his face the night before. Her instincts renewed their silent tirade. Yet she managed the expected smile. Urien took the cue and folded her into a crushing embrace, like a falcon stooping to the prey.
BREATANAICHE CAME easily to Gyan. She was amazed at the similarities to the ancient tongue of her people. And the words with no Caledonaiche equivalent were not difficult to memorize. In weeks, she and Dafydd were conversing freely in Breatanaiche. The other inhabitants of the Seat of Argyll grew accustomed to the sight of their chieftainess with the shorter, darker man as the pair spent hour upon hour in animated, incomprehensible conversation.
She was pleased with the speed of her progress but was not satisfied with learning only the speech. As the snows deepened and the sun grew ever more reluctant to stay aloft in the sky, she began to hunger for the written word as well.
One bitterly cold afternoon found her arranging hide scraps on her work table in the antechamber beside the pile of charcoal salvaged from the ashes of the previous night’s fire. Chafing her hands, she began to pace. Her wool-lined rabbit-fur cloak couldn’t repel all of the breath-stealing chill.
Not for the first time, she imagined the conversations she and Urien would share. There was so much to ask him: about his family, his battles, his education, his likes and dislikes, his desires and dreams. About his responsibilities as a Breatanach chieftain’s son and the customs of his people. His opinions about marriage and children and about having a wife who could wield weapons and ride horses as well as he could.
As she mulled the questions, each spawned a dozen more, enough to fill a lifetime!
A soft knock on the outer door nudged her thoughts. At her command, the door swung open. In the corridor stood Dafydd.
He was not late, she reminded herself, but boredom had driven her from her fireside seat. She strode to the table. “Here, Dafydd.” She dumped an aromatic load of hides and cold charred wood into his arms. “Let’s have our lesson in the Common. Today you will begin teaching me how to write your speech.”
Gyan scooped up the remaining scraps and headed out the door before he could acknowledge the change of plans. She smiled to hear him break into a trot to catch her.
The Common was a large, circular room at one end of the clan rulers’ private living quarters. The domed stone structure had been built soon after the clan’s occupation of the Ròmanach fortress. Its arm-thick walls had no windows and only one door. In this it was akin to the buildings constructed at settlements farther north, many generations earlier, to serve as easily defended refuges during raids.
There all similarity ended. At Arbroch, this building and its granite brethren were used year-round. The Common featured a central raised firepit, vented through a tin chimney tube disappearing into the hole in the dome. The door opened onto the narrow corridor that ran the length of the wing of living quarters. The room was a popular gathering place for Gyan and her family, especially during the hottest and coldest days of the year.
Today the room was packed. Near the firepit, Ogryvan and Per were discussing the journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh with Rhys, Airc, Conall, and Mathan, who represented the rest of the Argyll warriors chosen to join the Breatanach ranks. On the far side of the room clustered Cynda and Mardha and many of the other female servants. The clack of the loom and the whir of the spinning wheels sang through the occasional lulls in the various conversations. Gyan recognized the pine-colored fabric on the loom as the cloth for her new tunic. The male servants, she guessed, were seeing to the comfort of the livestock.
Nods and smiles greeted Gyan’s entrance. Her armload of hides and blackened wood won a few quizzical looks. To these folk, she murmured a promise to explain later. The lure of learning was tugging too strongly.
At the firepit, the warriors made room for Gyan and Dafydd. She dropped her burden and removed cloak and boots, for the room was comfortably warm. She folded her cloak to use as a cushion on the dirt floor.
As Dafydd sat, something slipped from the neck of his tunic. A pair of crossed oak sticks dangled from a leather thong. The wood around the brass pin fastening the sticks was dark and shiny with age. The longest stick was no bigger than a finger. It seemed an odd adornment for a man. For anyone, she silently amended.
Pointing to his chest, she gave voice, in Breatanaiche, to her curiosity. “What sort of charm is that, Dafydd?”
“This?” His fingers curled around the trinket. “It’s not a charm.” A gentle smile suffused his face. “It’s called a cross. A symbol of my Lord, Iesu the Christ. In Caledonian, His name is Iesseu.”
Although the word “Christ” held no special meaning for her, and she had never heard of this Iesseu, she guessed Dafydd was talking about a god. But two crossed sticks? When most gods chose powerful animals or the wild forces of nature?
“What does it mean?”
Head bowed, his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them, they seemed to burn with a calm intensity at odds with the Dafydd she knew, more like a lion on a leash.
“My lady, it’s a reminder of how He died.”
“Died? But the gods don’t die. They can’t!” She felt her eyebrows lower. �
�Else they’re not gods at all.”
“Mine did.” There was no shame in the admission, only quiet pride. “And conquered death to live again.”
To die and return to life? Impossible! How could anyone believe such obvious nonsense?
Her smile was not unkind, and not without a hint of pity. Poor, deluded Dafydd…perhaps she ought to share her beliefs of gods who ruled the lightning and summoned the seas, whose chariots were drawn by the winds. Of goddesses whose fingers lay upon the pulse of mortal events, deities truly worthy of worship.
But there would be plenty of time for these stories later.
“I think we ought to begin the lesson.” She gestured at the smelly, sooty heap between them.
“As you wish, my lady.” The fire in his eyes dimmed but did not die. He tucked the cross into the neck opening of his tunic. Selecting a hide scrap measuring perhaps two handbreadths by three and a slim piece of charcoal, Dafydd bid her to do the same. He said, “Parchment is more refined. But these hides and charred wood pieces will do nicely for practice, my lady. How did you know?”
She grinned at the approval in his tone. “Cold ash leaves a mark on your skin.” She passed over one blackened lump for one that fit more comfortably in her hand. “And what are hides, after all, but animal skins?”
Caledonaich left their marks in nothing less durable than stone, and only for such important monuments as grave and battle markers. The memorization skills of the seannachaidhean, preservers of law and lore, called “bards” in Breatanaiche, left no reason to do otherwise. But Dafydd had taught her that the Breatanaich and other folk who had fallen under Ròmanach rule used different methods.
“Excellent, my lady. Now, the letters.”
By the time for the evening meal, she could write her name in the manner of the Breatanaich. Her letters seemed wobbly and uncertain compared with Dafydd’s skilled strokes. He assured her this would improve with practice. Yet the accomplishment was heady: to see her name peering back at her, disguised in another tongue, a name that, paradoxically, meant “white shadow.”
