by Headlee, Kim
A warrior’s worst enemy.
There was only one remedy.
She kicked Brin’s flanks. Startled yet more than willing, he leaped to obey. In minutes, she was close enough to read Urien’s face. Joy bubbled in the depths of his laughing brown eyes. No deceit or death lurked there, only simple love.
Surely the High Priest had been wrong!
They pulled their mounts to a halt. Urien jumped to the ground, strode to her, snatched her hand, and tugged. She wobbled in the saddle, caught herself, and dismounted in a more orderly fashion. Laughing, they embraced.
She was smitten by the urge to show off her newfound knowledge of his native language. But before she could utter a word, his mouth descended upon hers, though not like the last time, when she had felt like a caged creature, struggling for freedom. No trace of that sensation lingered now. Briefly, she wondered why but became too busy enjoying herself to pay heed to her more skeptical self. His kiss ignited a fire she never knew she had. If this was the passion the servant lasses were forever babbling about, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Talking could wait until later.
Their lips had not parted when the first members of both bands arrived.
RIDING AT Urien’s side, Gyan observed that the South Wall was nothing like its northern counterpart. A determined war-host could overrun the North Wall, since enough of the ditch could be filled overnight to get horses and wagons across.
Not so with the South Wall.
The ditch on the northern side of this wall was deeper than that flanking the North Wall and twice as wide across the top. Near Dùn Lùth Lhugh, the South Wall was an earthen mound as tall as three men. Unlike the North Wall, the South Wall supported a parapet of dressed granite blocks. Here Ròmanach-garbed Breatanach soldiers patrolled on foot between the gate towers that controlled access at various points. Gyan saw so many of those despised uniforms that she was beginning to get accustomed to the sight.
The afternoon was flying toward evening as Urien and his men led the warriors of Clan Argyll to the massive, iron-bound timber gates closest to one of the few remaining operational Ròmanach forts—and one of the few known by the same name in all tongues—Camboglanna. From the slotted window in the gate tower, the guardsman called out the sign. Urien responded with the countersign. Gyan did not recognize the words, although they sounded a wee bit like Dafydd’s chants. Another question to ask Urien when the chance arose.
The gates swung open to admit both companies. On the road paralleling the south side of the wall, the combined force turned west toward nearby Dùn Lùth Lhugh.
Built on the southern bank of the River Atan at the junction of seven Ròmanach roads, the port of Dùn Lùth Lhugh presented an impressive sight that left no doubt why Gyan’s people long ago had dubbed it the “Fort of Lugh’s Power.” Its gleaming stone walls soared even higher than the South Wall itself. Watchtowers flanked each gate and appeared at regular intervals between. A dense forest guarded the approach to the western and southern walls of Dùn Lùth Lhugh, but not close enough to conceal an attack. Assault from the east would be extremely difficult because of the rugged terrain. Grudgingly, Gyan conceded that the man who had chosen this site for his headquarters had made a wise decision indeed.
At the northern gate, Urien again exchanged sign for countersign with the sentry. Led by the Breatanaich, the Argyll warriors nudged their mounts inside the fortress. Urien halted his troop in front of an equestrian training pen. After a word with his second, he sent the others ahead and beckoned the Argyll warriors to follow. But he motioned Gyan to stay.
With a nod—for she had yet to find the proper moment to boast her prowess with Breatanaiche—Gyan shouted the equivalent Caledonaiche command. As the column started forward, she called Per over. Side-by-side they followed the line of Urien’s gaze.
In the center of the ring, a scarlet-mantled rider spurred his mount through a series of complicated combat moves. As the white stallion curveted, sidestepped, reared, and plunged, the man slashed at imaginary foes. The sword, no blunted practice weapon, glinted bright and deadly in the sun’s last rays. From the pommel flashed a ruby the size of a child’s fist. Surprisingly, the scabbard strapped to the saddlebow was plain leather. The way the warrior and stallion seemed to flow together into a single being was remarkable, as though they spoke not leg to flank but mind to mind.
Gyan watched in silence, oblivious to the clamor behind her. Brin pawed the ground and tugged at the bit in his eagerness to show off. She steadied him with a firm hand. And she tried to keep a tight rein on the admiration and awe threatening to dominate her expression.
She felt her mouth curve into a faint smile as she realized she had better command of her horse.
The man reined his charger to a halt, sheathed the sword, and dismounted. He surveyed the line of Caledonach warriors parading past the enclosure before acknowledging Urien’s salute. His gaze rested briefly, but intently, upon Gyan.
It was a look she knew she would never forget.
He called to the waiting stable boy to take the foam-flecked mount and watched for a moment as the unlikely pair—one whistling and the other snorting—trod the perimeter of the ring. Tucking leather riding gloves into his belt, the man strode toward Urien, Gyan, and Per.
She sent her brother to retrieve Dafydd from his wagon. Following Urien’s example, she dismounted to meet the approaching warrior. Instinct warned her this could be only one man: the victor of Abar-Gleann and author of the treaty that had changed her life.
Arthur the Pendragon.
Chapter 11
BY HIS WIRY slimness and lack of beard, Gyan marked the Pendragon as a young man; older than herself, perhaps, but certainly younger than Urien. Yet his youth was not the last of his surprises. In height, he topped her by a head. Blond locks, darkened with strands of red, escaped from under the bronze helmet. Vivid blue eyes regarded her beneath thick golden eyebrows. And if the power radiating from him had been touchable, it surely would have burned her hand.
Urien said, “Lord Pendragon, I present Lord Peredur and his sister, my betrothed, Chieftainess Gyanhumara of Clan Argyll.” His tone throbbed with exultation. “Gyanhumara, this is Pendragon Arthur map Uther, also called Arturus Aurelius Vetarus, Dux Britanniarum.”
Dafydd repeated the introduction and rendered the Pendragon’s second title into Caledonaiche as “Duke of Breatein.”
Doing her best to dispel the chill created by hearing what had to be the Ròmanaiche version of Arthur’s name, she clasped his forearm in warrior fashion. There was no hesitation as his hand curled around the Argyll Doves.
She relaxed her hand and drew back, fighting the compelling desire to rub her arm. But there was no escaping the eyes that appeared to plumb the depths of her soul. This man, she realized, would never tolerate information to be withheld from him.
In perfect Breatanaiche, with an accent hinting of the mist-bound lochs and spear-sharp mountains of her birthplace, she asked, “Well, Lord Pendragon, would you care to examine my feet? Or would you rather see my teeth?”
Gyan flashed a dazzling smile. She thought Urien might faint.
The Pendragon threw back his head and roared with laughter. Heartily, he clapped his subordinate on the back. Urien shook his head in an apparent fight to dispel his shock and embarrassment. “That’s a fine, spirited mare you’ve got here, Tribune Urien. Are you sure you can handle her?”
“Oh, yes, my lord.” The glance Urien shot her was as savage as a wild boar’s. “She just needs to learn who the master is.”
Her eyebrows climbed her forehead. “I already know that, Urien.”
She turned from the heir of Clan Móran to watch the stable boy leading the stallion. “You have a magnificent warhorse, Lord Pendragon.” The prospect of just touching such a fine animal sent shivers of delight down her spine. “May I ride him?”
As the Pendragon started to speak, Urien said, “Surely not, my lord. Geldings and mares are fit
mounts for a lady. A stallion is a man’s horse.”
“We shall see.” The Pendragon killed the argument with a sharp glance. To Gyan, he said, “Certainly, you may ride him, Chieftainess. His name is Macsen.”
Gyan nodded her thanks. Murmuring the stallion’s name, she reached for the creamy nose. Ears back and nostrils flared, he tried to jerk away, only to be checked by the stable boy. Persistence with her greeting paid off, and he yielded to her touch. Slowly, she worked her way around to his side, tracing gentle fingertips over the sleek muscles.
She withdrew her hand and vaulted into the saddle. With the reins in one hand, she drew her sword and nudged Macsen’s flanks. He needed little encouragement.
If sitting astride Brin made her feel taller, on Macsen she was on top of the world! As she and the stallion flew around the ring, she felt as if she could rip open the sky itself. She loosed a peal of laughter for sheer joy.
But such pleasures, unfortunately, must end. Smiling, she sheathed her sword and reined Macsen to a halt in front of the men. She patted the proud neck and was rewarded with a head toss and a pleased-sounding snort.
The wagon carrying her personal effects, guarded by Cynda and a pair of menservants, had reached the ring. Cynda seemed to be bursting with pride. If Per’s grin had been any wider, his face would have split in two. Though his mouth didn’t show it, the Pendragon’s admiration shone from his eyes.
Urien displayed nothing but disapproval.
She cocked a glance at her betrothed, wondering how he could fail to be moved by her performance. He did not see her silent question. At that moment, his attention belonged to his second, who had ridden back to the ring.
“Tribune Urien, I’m having trouble making the Argyll men understand where to stow their gear.”
“It can’t be that difficult, Accolon,” Urien growled at the soldier.
“Perhaps I can help.” Gyan dismounted and handed Macsen’s reins to the stable boy.
“No.” Breaking into an indulgent smile, Urien reached for her hand. “Get some rest, my dear. I’m sure you must be tired after so long in the saddle.” He gave the hand a pat and released it. “I’ll take Dafydd with me, and we’ll have this little problem set to rights in no time.”
Rest? She was a warrior! Not a child’s doll to crumble in a careless fist!
Before she could voice the thought, the Pendragon spoke. “See that you do, Tribune. I will not tolerate chaos in my fort.”
Urien saluted—a bit sullenly, Gyan thought—and remounted. After barking a command to Accolon to bring Dafydd, he kicked his horse into a trot without waiting for the other two.
Gyan tried to decipher Urien’s reactions, while Accolon helped Dafydd mount up behind him, and the men rode off. Urien appeared reluctant to accept the Pendragon’s authority. But why?
“May I escort you to the mansio, Chieftainess?”
She wrenched her gaze from the road and Urien’s shrinking form to find the Pendragon’s attention directed squarely upon her. Though the sternness he had shown Urien seemed to be gone, his eyes had not lost their intensity. Her heart gave an odd flutter as she fought to maintain composure.
“The—dignitaries’ inn?” Grateful for the chance to retreat from those piercing eyes, she glanced up the thoroughfare. The last of the Argyll wagons were pulling away. From what she could see, Dùn Lùth Lhugh was laid out much like Dùn Ghlas. She pointed at a building across the road and a fair distance from her position. The building was large by any standard but dwarfed by its neighbor. “Isn’t that it over there?”
“Next to the praetorium.” In response to her puzzled look, he amended, “The garrison commander’s quarters. Yes.”
She switched to Caledonaiche to address her brother. “Go with Urien and get settled into your quarters. And look after our men.” With a brief smile, she laid a hand on his forearm. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you before I sail.”
“And if you don’t, Gyan, I’ll have your head!”
“My head, indeed, Peredur mac Hymar!” She playfully slapped Rukh’s rump. “Go on, before you get into trouble with your”—she slid a glance at the Pendragon—“new commander.”
Urien, having caught the lead riders of the Argyll contingent, had stopped the procession near the mansio and was apparently using Dafydd’s services to carry out the Pendragon’s orders. Per kicked Rukh into a canter. Vaulting onto Brin, Gyan realized she had forgotten to make arrangements to dine with Urien. With a word to the wagoneer to drive on to the mansio, she spurred her mount past the rest of the wagons in pursuit of the other men.
The Pendragon, astride his stallion, joined her.
“Really, Lord Pendragon, you don’t have to trouble yourself.” Straight and tall in the saddle, he looked more the Ròmanach conqueror than ever. Her inborn aversion to all Ròmanaich resurfaced. Civility swung on a fraying thread. “I can find my way.”
“No trouble, Chieftainess. My business takes me in your direction.” Again, she was smitten by that soul-searching gaze. “You handle horses very well.”
She wondered what hidden power this man wielded to make her feel so uneasy. No one had ever done this to her before. To hide her discomfiture, she raised a shield of words. “Ha. For a woman, you mean.”
“For anyone. Not many can boast of being able to stay astride this brute.” He stroked the stallion’s neck. The mane shimmered like liquid silver as Macsen tossed his head. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, your demonstration was quite impressive.” The Pendragon’s smile enhanced the sincerity of his statement.
Gyan meant to return his compliment; his exhibition was far more impressive. But her verbal shield was beginning to buckle. All she could manage was a modest word of thanks and a slim smile, which vanished as she riveted her gaze to the road. What in the name of the One God was coming over her? This Ròmanach was a son of her people’s deadliest enemies.
Yet here was a Ròmanach she might learn to like.
But it was scarcely appropriate to reveal that emotion, either. Perhaps silence would serve where words had failed. She retreated behind the invisible barrier. Mercifully, the Pendragon made no further attempt to draw her out.
They were close behind the others when Urien leaned over to whisper something to Accolon. Both men burst into laughter.
“Babies,” Urien chortled. “She won’t have time for swords and horses once the babies start coming along.”
Jabbing Brin’s flanks, she raced for Urien’s side. Her searing glare withered his smile. “If you think you can tie me down with children, Urien of Dalriada,” she snapped, “you are sadly mistaken!”
ARTHUR WATCHED the chieftainess wheel her black gelding around with expert grace and fly toward the mansio. Her fleeting glance announced that she needed to be alone. When Urien turned to follow her, Arthur drove Macsen into his path.
“See to the quartering of the Caledonians first, Tribune.” He didn’t bother to suppress the disgust in his tone.
Urien’s eyes narrowed. But to his credit, he did not have to be told twice. Urien gave his horse a savage kick to send it leaping toward the barracks. Centurion Accolon accompanied him.
Her brother also tried to follow her. He could hardly blame the man. Had it been his younger sister, he would have felt the same way. But a breach of discipline was not to be tolerated for any reason. He directed Macsen to bar the way.
The Caledonian regarded him with upraised eyebrows. Arthur signaled Peredur to follow Urien. Rebellion clouded across Peredur’s face, but he did not disobey.
Sparing a glance for the archway where she had disappeared into the courtyard of the mansio, he felt his chest tighten, as though his heart were trying to break bonds that had somehow grown too small. It was a strange sensation, quite unlike that which any other woman had evoked within him.
And not at all unpleasant.
He tried to destroy the feeling with a shake of the head. To covet the woman promised to one of his strongest allies was sheer lunacy. Yet the desire refused
to die.
To fight this unseen foe, he needed advice. If any man could help him, his cousin could. He urged Macsen toward the praetorium.
MERLINUS AURELIUS Ambrosius Dubricius, Bishop and Garrison Commander of Caer Lugubalion, stood in the council hall of the praetorium. The tall window offered an excellent view of the street two stories below. Arthur, Urien, the Caledonian chieftainess, and her party appeared no bigger than puppets. But this was no children’s show. The tense faces and harsh movements belied that notion.
With his fist, he thumped the thick-paned glass. An outrageously expensive luxury, invaluable for sealing out winter’s chill, it also blocked most sounds. An accursed nuisance at a time like this. Yet he did not need to hear the words to marry a theory to his observations.
Chieftainess Gyanhumara, speaking in anger to her betrothed. Arthur guarding her escape, even against her clansman. Urien and the Argyll warrior both treading the dangerous line of insubordination.
An awful foreboding gripped Merlin’s gut.
The scene ended, and the players went their separate ways without further incident. But the foreboding did not go away.
One sound that rendered the glass powerless was the bell of nearby St. John’s. He withdrew from the window to obey the bell’s summons to vespers worship. Upon leaving the council hall, he descended the wide, black-veined marble steps and headed toward the side door nearest the church.
He never made it.
Arthur was standing in the atrium with Centurion Marcus, his scarlet-crested helmet nestled under one arm. Slapping gloves to palm, the Pendragon ordered his chief aide to check on the progress of the Argyll contingent. With a smart salute, Marcus left the building. Arthur met Merlin’s gaze. Beneath that cool control lay smoldering ire. Unless Merlin missed his guess—which did not happen often—Arthur would be wanting to talk.
“In my workroom, Merlin, if you have a moment.”
Vespers prayers would have to wait.
