by Headlee, Kim
“Argyll is the strongest clan of the Confederacy. Arthur needed a way to ensure that we would not attack the Breatanaich again.”
“By marrying me off to one of his allies.” The ire resurfaced. “I am Chieftainess! By what right did he—”
Ogryvan cupped her face in his hands and forced her to meet his stern gaze. “By right of the strongest sword, of course.” When she made no comment, he added, “Arthur recognized your right under Caledonach law to choose your consort. He didn’t have to.”
As if there’d been any choice from the start. “Remind me to thank him sometime.”
“Would you rather have been surrendered as hostage, like Alayna’s son?”
Up sprang images of what the unfortunate lad must be going through: separated from home and family, thrust among uncaring strangers, the slender thread of his existence controlled by the whims of a single man, a Ròmanach.
Gyan shuddered. “I suppose it’s better for me this way. And for the clan.” She pulled away from her father to lean against the lip of the firepit. “But what happens if I decide to marry someone else?”
“Having second thoughts, are you?”
How could he possibly know? But a swift survey of his face revealed the tease. She drowned her surprise with a splash of feigned indifference.
“I want to know what my options are. I must marry a Breatanach chieftain or chieftain’s son, then?”
It was her turn to bear scrutiny. As she battled to maintain a neutral expression, she prayed her hammering heart wouldn’t betray her.
After what seemed like half an eon, Ogryvan nodded. “If he isn’t, he would have to be strong enough to defeat the Pendragon. Breaking the treaty would be a declaration of war.” His face crinkled with mischief. “Or you could marry the Pendragon himself.”
“The Ròmanach? Ha! Be serious, Father!” Her bonds of tension dissolved with a burst of laughter that seemed shrill with relief.
If her laughter sounded odd to him, he didn’t appear to notice. Chuckling, he returned to his seat. He drew his blade, reached for the whetstone, and motioned Gyan into the other chair. She was glad to comply.
“The last of the warriors from the outlying villages are due later today. What about you, Gyan? Are you ready for this journey?”
“Of course.” The prospect filled her with more excitement than ever, making it easier to ward off the lingering doubts about Urien. “Don’t worry. Per and I have everything arranged.”
“Worrying is a parent’s privilege,” Ogryvan retorted. “Let’s go over the plans again.”
She ticked off the points on her fingers. “The wagons are loaded. We don’t have to take a lot of foodstuffs. The Pendragon’s writ will get us whatever provisions we need along the way.”
“You have the document somewhere safe, I hope?”
“It’s in my chambers, along with my copy of the treaty, which is almost finished. I will carry both documents with me when we ride.”
“And the route?”
“Couldn’t be easier. South past Senaudon to the North Wall, then southwest to Dùn Ghlas. We should make Dùn Ghlas by nightfall on the second day. And from there—”
“I know all that, aye. But have you sent word to the Breatanach forts you’ll be passing along the way?”
“Just Senaudon and Dùn Ghlas. I sent information on the company’s size in warriors, number of wagons and extra horses, and when we expect to depart. The Pendragon’s scouts can track our progress from Dùn Ghlas, if they haven’t sighted us before then.” She laughed. “We’ll be as easy to miss as a blizzard on Belteine!”
Ogryvan’s answering smile was brief. “You wrote the messages yourself? I thought you wanted to keep your knowledge of their tongue secret for a while.”
“Tell me, Father. Who would believe that I mastered the written form of Breatanaiche in less than half a year? Speech, perhaps. But reading and writing? I think my surprise is quite safe. Whoever reads the messages will surely think I had help. Now, have I forgotten anything?”
The hand upon the whetstone stilled. He squinted at the sword gleaming in his lap as though searching for the tiniest imperfections in its deadly edge. Stroking his sable beard, he asked, “Who are you taking with you?”
“Personally? Well, Cynda, for one—”
“Out of the question.”
“What? But Father—”
“Nay.” He shoved the chair back, sword in one hand and whetstone in the other, to rise to his full height. “I will not let you rob me of the woman who knows best the running of my household.”
Gyan also stood. It did not bother her to tilt her head to meet Ogryvan’s glare. The very thing Cynda had predicted all those months ago was coming to pass. She stilled the chuckle that gathered in her throat.
“Not even if a suitable replacement can be found?”
His short bark of laughter seemed laced with disbelief. “You can’t train someone overnight what it took Cynda years to perfect.”
“It’s already done. Cynda has been working with her replacement all winter.” More disbelief gamboled across his face, chased by a mote of curiosity. She took that as a signal to continue. “Mardha. You’ve seen her, I’m sure. The pretty raven-haired one?”
A sly smile vanquished the disbelief. The sparkle in her father’s eyes told her all she needed to know.
BY MEANS not divulged to the uninitiated, the High Priest of Clan Argyll had long ago set the date for the departure of the two hundred Argyll warriors and their retainers. And he had chosen well. No mist shrouded the mountains. The air was redolent with the promise of renewed life. Helmets and spearheads and shield bosses winked in the warm spring sun.
Gyan mounted Brin, grateful to be in the saddle at last. The rest of the company followed her lead. Ogryvan stepped toward her. She looped the reins over her shield arm, threw her other arm around his neck, and pressed her cheek to his. As she straightened, she saw that although his face wore a proud smile, his eyes glistened in the early-morning light. The reason hit her like a hard slap.
Per and the other warriors would be home before the harvest, but Gyan was slated to stay on Maun. She fought back the tears to return her father’s smile.
Ogryvan took his place among the onlookers as Per guided Rukh to her side. In Per’s right hand was the spear bearing the Argyll standard: a pair of silver doves winging across a midnight-blue field. Fluttering whitely from the shaft below the clan’s banner was the universally recognized symbol of peaceful intent.
The journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh began to the encouraging shouts of the rest of the clan. Like the first dove of dawn, surging on pearly wings to embrace the sun, Gyan was eager to be away. And when she flew, she spared not a single backward glance.
THE ARGYLL company thundered to the gaping ditch on the northern side of the North Wall. Beyond the ditch stood the wall, a turf embankment twice man-height. Piles of bramble-choked rubble were all that remained of an abandoned Ròmanach fort. Gyan noticed ribbons of smoke rising above the wall, presumably curling from the chimneys of a nearby Breatanach village.
Dozens of field-workers appeared on top of the wall. At the sight of the Argyll host, they screamed as they dropped their tools and sprinted away, chorused by the frantic bleating of their sheep. In moments, the clanging of a bell flowed over the wall. The Caledonaich paid little heed except to share hoots of laughter as they streamed past. Staying north of the wall, as planned, the line of Argyll horsemen bent southwest toward Dùn Ghlas.
It was the farthest Gyan had ever ridden from Arbroch, and she was enjoying herself immensely. She wished her father could share it with her. The hills bearing the North Wall on their backs seemed austere and open compared with the intimacy of the mist-shod, pine-cloaked, snow-crowned mountains cradling the Seat of Argyll. She tried to memorize every detail of this new place, but there was little to relieve the eye of the endless stretch of undulating, heather-dotted, treeless terrain.
As the westering sun blazed to its evening rest on their sec
ond day from Arbroch, Gyan gave the command to halt. From the ridge, she could make out the walls of Dùn Ghlas, bathed in the sun’s fiery glow. And in Clota’s River beyond the garrison, like a birch stand in a winter storm, swayed the masts of the Pendragon’s war-fleet.
The ships clustered along the docks were swarming with men. The bustling activity led Gyan to believe that Dùn Ghlas was indeed as crowded as the Breatanach fleet commander had claimed. She imagined how Cynda would have reacted to the sight and suppressed a grin. Riding near the end of the procession on a supply wagon deprived the woman of an opportunity to tease Gyan about how she had dealt with Bedwyr map Bann’s message. Just as well.
Although the parchment remains had long since been swept away, she easily visualized the message. She selected twoscore warriors to accompany her, as the son of Bann had requested, and ordered the rest to make camp. Her band was soon met by a mounted Dùn Ghlas patrol.
The two groups approached warily. As the Argyll commander, Gyan rode alone ahead of her clansmen. Per followed closely as her second. Behind him on Rukh rode Dafydd, borrowed from his wagon to participate in Gyan’s little conspiracy by serving as translator. The remaining warriors followed their commanders, riding four abreast.
Gyan reined Brin to a halt. The charcoal gelding tried to rear, but she held him firmly in check. Dafydd dismounted and positioned himself between the two parties.
“They’re led by a woman,” came the muttered comment from the rear of the Breatanach troop.
“Sure can handle a horse,” was the hushed reply.
The patrol commander irritably barked the order for silence.
Gyan suppressed a smile.
She took a moment to study the Breatanach patrol, searching for weaknesses and not finding many. These were not green boys who had trouble finding the bridle end of a horse, but seasoned warriors. The myriad scars had etched proof on legs, hands, arms, and faces. Though little more than half the number of Gyan’s contingent, those grim faces promised a courageous effort.
As much as she craved combat, this was not the time to put that courage to the test.
The commander’s cloak was scarlet, like the one worn by Urien on the day of his departure from Arbroch. Unlike Urien, whose cloak-pin was bronze, this man’s cloak was fastened with an iron dragon. His men wore short brown cloaks. Every horseman wore spur-heeled boots, leather leggings, an iron-scaled tunic, and a helmet with oversized cheek guards. A large blue oval shield, decorated with a white rearing bear, was strapped to each rod-straight back. A double-edged Ròmanach cavalry short-sword gleamed from every belt.
The old revulsion toward the Ròmanaich rose like bile in her throat. Remembering her mission, she straightened in the saddle and spoke in Caledonaiche to the opposing commander. “I am Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll of Caledon. We come at the request of the Pendragon to join his army at Dùn Lùth Lhugh.”
After Dafydd translated her words, the patrol commander extended a hand. “Let me see your orders.”
She curbed the impulse to honor the request until Dafydd had repeated the words in her birth tongue. To support the illusion, she removed both documents from the pouch at her saddlebow and permitted Dafydd to select the correct one.
The commander scanned the document and its red dragon seal. With a curt nod, he returned it to Dafydd, who in turn gave it back to Gyan.
“Everything is in order, Chieftainess. In the name of Fleet Commander Bedwyr, welcome to Caerglas, home of the Bear Cohort and headquarters of the Fleet of Brydein.” He thumped fist to chest in what appeared to be a type of salute. “I am Decurion Catullus, Second Turma, Bear Cohort, and I am instructed to aid you in any possible way.” Dafydd translated decurion as “commander of tens,” turma as “squad,” and cohort as “company.” Dùn Ghlas, known to Gyan’s people as the “Locked Fort” because it had never fallen to Caledonach attack, in Breatanaiche became, for no discernable reason, “Green Fort.”
When Dafydd had finished, she instructed him to reply, “Many thanks, Catullus. The rest of my clansmen have made camp for the night.” She waved an arm in the general direction. “We plan to be on the road by dawn, but for now my men are spoiling for their promised supper. I would be grateful for your assistance in this matter.”
“Of course, my lady.” Catullus passed the word to his second, and the horseman spurred his mount toward the garrison’s gates. “If you will please follow me, Chieftainess, Fleet Commander Bedwyr is looking forward to meeting you.”
Dafydd relayed this comment. Gyan, struggling to remain neutral toward the prospect of meeting yet another Ròmanach soldier, nodded her assent. Dafydd scrambled back onto Rukh behind Per. Escorted by the twenty-five riders of the Second Turma of the Bear Cohort, the Argyll detachment cantered to the docks on Clota’s River.
A pair of long, tall wooden buildings loomed over Clota’s River, arousing Gyan’s curiosity. As she watched, crewmen rowed a listing warship toward the first building, and it disappeared inside. After a few seconds, muffled shouts and splashes and the groan of timber drifted to her ears. A score of vessels were moored at docks near the buildings. Half again as many ships rested on supports along the riverbank in various stages of readiness. Stacks of smooth oak planks and stout pine posts squatted among the ships, beside mountains of treenails, rope coils, and piles of thinly worked sheets of deep blue leather. Activity dwindled as the shipwrights collected their tools and migrated toward Dùn Ghlas and, presumably, their evening meal.
Catullus dismounted and beckoned to Gyan. With Dafydd at her side, she followed the patrol commander to a beached vessel, where a man of medium height and build was inspecting the hull while a trio of shipwrights looked on in silence. His straight brown hair was pulled back and bound with a sky-blue leather thong at the nape of his neck. Unlike the cavalry patrol, to Gyan’s surprise there was nothing obviously Ròmanach about this man. He might have been another of the workmen, to judge by his simple gray linen tunic and trews. He ran slow, sure hands over the patch, where new oak paled beside salt-soaked planking. Frequently, his fingers tested the fit of treenails along the seam of the repair.
Catullus waited until the inspection was finished before stepping forward to make the introduction.
The fleet commander turned from the warship and beheld Gyan. The smile that lit the tanned face was deep, genuine, and contagious. After wiping wood dust on a trouser leg, Bedwyr map Bann offered his hand to her in greeting. Gyan was delighted to accept.
She instantly liked this Breatanach shipbuilder and sailor, with his open, honest face and easy manner. Inwardly, she warred with the temptation to reveal her knowledge of his tongue, to learn more about him and his fleet without the pretense of having to direct her questions through Dafydd.
Her desire to surprise Urien won, barely.
Yet, despite the linguistically awkward conversation that followed, she was glad for this respite in her horseback journey and the rare opportunity it afforded to meet one of the Pendragon’s highest-ranking officers. Judging by the enthusiasm of Bedwyr’s replies, even to her most mundane questions about the size and duties of the fleet, it seemed he was enjoying the exchange as much as she.
Dafydd bid farewell on her behalf. As she and her party followed Catullus to the Dùn Ghlas guest quarters, she found herself hoping for the chance one day soon to renew her acquaintance with Fleet Commander Bedwyr, the first Breatan she truly felt pleased to consider an ally.
THE RÒMANACH road slicing through the Lowlands to connect Dùn Ghlas and Dùn Lùth Lhugh with points farther south was well trodden but in good repair, and Gyan’s troop made excellent progress. Early in the afternoon on the fourth day from Dùn Ghlas, while the main column was walking their mounts, the Argyll scouting party returned at a hard gallop. Gyan halted the column to hear the scouts’ report.
“Chieftainess, a mounted Breatanach unit approaches, just over the next ridge.” This from the scout leader, Rhys, one of the clan’s most revered warriors. He t
wisted in the saddle to point the way. “Fivescore, my lady. Their leader is a man of your”—though his lips stayed set in a solemn line, Rhys winked—“acquaintance.”
Urien map Dumarec. Her stomach knotted.
At Gyan’s command, the warriors mounted and started forward. No sense in postponing the inevitable, she told herself. Silently, she called upon the One God to grant her the strength and wisdom to face the man who would one day become her husband…and her death.
The gray cloud smeared against the tree-darkened horizon marked the presence of the Breatanaich. Soon the thunder of four hundred iron-shod hooves hammering the paving stones rumbled across the plain. As the distance narrowed, the front ranks of the Argyll company watched a lone rider separate from the Breatanach unit and spur his mount into a gallop. The knot in Gyan’s stomach tightened.
Like raindrops driven by a gale, questions battered her brain. Questions not only of Urien but also of herself. Still chief among them was whether this betrothal was the right thing to do.
It had to be. By the Pendragon’s treaty, she was honor-bound to marry a Breatanach lord. Argyll and Móran were neighbors. No other Breatanach lands touched hers. Prophecy or no, Urien was the only logical choice.
Wasn’t he?
With the questions whirled stinging doubts. Preventing the emotional storm from exploding across her face took every ounce of will.
Per was speaking to her, she realized with a start. She tore her gaze from Urien and turned in the saddle to regard her brother. “Forgive me, Per. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That much, dear sister”—an entire war-host could have ridden through his grin—“is obvious. I said, aren’t you going to greet Urien?”
“Greet him? But—” Then it occurred to her what Per meant. As her lips rounded into an O, he chuckled.
“I can manage the column. You go on ahead.” For just the two of them, he added, “I think you need to.”
He was absolutely right. A few moments alone with Urien might make a world of difference. Go on ahead? Per made it sound so easy. What was holding her back?
