Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Most men did not own courage enough to look beyond the azure fire of Arthur’s glare. The years of their close association, first as priest and tutor and later as military adviser and friend, had gifted Merlin with this ability. Even so, it was never easy to read his young cousin’s moods.

  Merlin ordered a passing servant to fetch a pitcher of uisge as he fell into step beside Arthur. A nagging voice told him he was going to need all the help he could get, however improbable the source.

  They entered the antechamber. Arthur dropped gloves and helmet on the table, strode through the inner doorway, and started stalking the floor of his private workroom like a hound on the scent. Merlin dragged a chair over to a wall, well out of the way. The servant arrived with the uisge, filled both cups, set down the pitcher, and left with a bow.

  Without prompting, Arthur’s tale of the afternoon’s events unfolded.

  “Sit down, Arthur, before you wear out the tiles. Have you any idea how expensive replacements are these days?” He spoke in Latin, a habit that had lingered even after his time as Arthur’s tutor had passed.

  Merlin was the only man Arthur would tolerate that tone from, in any language, and both knew it. But he ignored Merlin’s injunction. Merlin closed his eyes to the distraction of Arthur’s pacing.

  “And then she said, not missing a beat, ‘But I already know that, Urien.’ There was no doubt what she meant.” The sound of footsteps stopped. Merlin opened his eyes to find Arthur’s gaze upon him. “I honestly thought he was going to throttle her. But before he could do anything, she asked to ride Macsen. She had him behaving like a kitten in no time. Her clansmen loved it. God, what a woman!”

  Cradling the small pewter cup, Merlin pondered the amber depths of his distilled barley uisge. “Urien will have his hands full.” He took a sip. The potent liquor sketched a fiery trail all the way down.

  Arthur shoved aside an unrolled scroll and some loose parchment to make room for his drink on the large table. He abandoned it beside the quills and inkwell, untouched, and the pacing resumed. “Urien doesn’t have a clue what his hands will be full of, other than flesh. I’ll lay odds all he can think about is what fine sons she will bear him. How beautifully she will ornament his hall.” He stopped at the table, reached for the cup, and stared at it before finally taking a swallow. “And, no doubt, how much land he will control through her.”

  Merlin scrutinized his prodigy, trying to divine the young man’s thoughts. That Arthur was attracted to the chieftainess was obvious. Exactly how much damage had been done was anyone’s guess.

  “Well?”

  “I think she deserves better, Merlin.”

  “And I think it’s none of your business.”

  In two strides, Arthur crossed the gap to Merlin’s chair. Eyes glittering, he bent to grip the carved oaken armrests. “It is, if I make it so.”

  The damage was worse than Merlin had feared. He hoped a dose of cold logic would seal this breach.

  “Use your head, lad. You can’t afford to lose Moray’s support. Not with Cuchullain and his pirating Scots swarming the Hibernian Sea like flies on cow dung.” Arthur did not disagree, and Merlin forged ahead while he believed the balance tipped in his favor. “And if the West Saxons’ buildup leads to their capture of Anderida, what do you think their next step will be?”

  Arthur released his hold on Merlin’s chair and straightened. His gaze flicked over the map of Britannia and Hibernia draped across one end of the table. A finger stabbed the inkblot in the center of the Hibernian Sea.

  “Maun.”

  “Precisely. You need a strong commander on Maun, at Dhoo-Glass.” Merlin gestured with his cup. “Urien is your man.”

  “I need her too.” The words were quiet but no less certain. “And not on Maun.”

  The most surprising aspect of Arthur’s admission was that he had volunteered it. And they weren’t even in confessional. Yet he could have forsaken talk for action, like his father before him. Perhaps the son of Uther could be diverted from this path to self-destruction. Time for a switch in tactics.

  “What about Chieftainess Alayna of Clan Alban?”

  Arthur shook his head. “I have all I want from Alban.”

  “Senaudon? The cavalry troops?”

  “And Alayna’s son. We’ll see what kind of warrior he makes. If he’s anything like his mother—” He gave Merlin a hard stare. “Nice try, Merlin. And don’t give me that innocent-as-a-babe look. You know what I mean.”

  Merlin shrugged. “Well, it almost worked.”

  “I want Chieftainess Gyanhumara at my side. Not Urien’s.” Arthur retrieved his cup but did not drink. Instead, he turned to the window and the graying twilight beyond. “The more I think about a Moray-Argyll union, the less I like it.”

  “You think Urien’s house might grow too strong?”

  “Allied with Argyll and backed by the rest of Dalriada? I know it will.” He drained the cup and set it down with a heavy thunk. “I was a fool to have allowed this to come to pass!”

  “It came to pass,” Merlin patiently reminded him, “because your mother and Dumarec and the other Brytoni leaders were anxious for solid assurances that another Abar-Gleann would not occur anytime soon. Don’t be too hard on yourself, lad. You can’t be expected to foresee everything.”

  “No. But I can correct the situation.” The azure fire returned to his eyes, even brighter than before. “I must.”

  “For God’s sake, Arthur, don’t do anything rash! For my sake too. I cannot repeat for you what I had to do for your father.” Ugly memories assaulted him, and he fought them off. In fact, the event had been instrumental in Merlin’s decision to take vows—not in the hope that the decision would excuse him from his responsibility but to ensure his being forgiven for it. But with forgiveness came the cost of service. Service, he thought with irony, in ways he had never imagined. He gave a wry smile. “You have no idea the trouble that caused.”

  “Oh, yes. I do.” Arthur strode to the wall of shelves. Amid the stacked scrolls stood Uther’s games helm. Arthur lifted it down to trace the intricate gold embossing. “His lust cost me the chieftainship of my clan.” He returned the helm to its shelf.

  “If it hadn’t been for his lust, you wouldn’t be here now. And Britannia would be torn apart by her enemies like a doe in a pack of winter-starved wolves.” Not for the first time, Merlin was amazed at how God could bring forth good from an evil event. Arthur made no reply but continued to stare at his father’s helm. “Listen to me!” Arthur whirled. In that instant, Merlin knew no words would sway the son of Uther. So he surrendered. “At least, let her come to you of her own accord.”

  “She won’t. Not if she honors the treaty.” Poignant disappointment paraded across his handsome face. “I do not qualify under the terms.” A harsh laugh escaped. “My terms.”

  Cup in one hand, Merlin stood and laid the other on Arthur’s shoulder. “Take heart, lad.” The war might be lost, but this battle was his. And he wanted to celebrate. “If it is God’s will, it will happen eventually.”

  Arthur shrugged the hand away. “I want it to happen now!”

  Of all the foolish, mule-headed…how very like Uther, Merlin realized. But he reminded himself that Arthur had made the initial effort to seek advice, something his father had not done until it had been far too late.

  “Haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve said, Arthur? Don’t force the matter! That’s the surest way to stir up trouble.” Merlin brushed his knuckles across the part of the map that represented Dalriada. “Trouble you can ill afford.”

  “You worry too much, Merlin.” A world of confidence lived in his grin. “You taught me well enough to handle anything.”

  “I hope so.” Merlin sighed.

  And he hoped his fledgling dragon would not try testing newfound wings against this emotional storm. Such a test could prove fatal—for Merlin’s nerves, if nothing else. He tossed back the rest of the uisge. Its fiery taste failed to sear away the doubts.


  “For the sake of Britannia, Arthur, I do hope so.”

  Chapter 12

  GYAN LED BRIN into the stables behind the mansio. She ordered a brush from the waiting stable hand, but refused his help and began attacking the day’s accumulation of road dirt marring her horse’s hide. Weighted by exasperation, her hand was much heavier than usual. Brin stamped and snorted in protest. She called the stable hand back to Brin’s stall and left him in the older man’s care.

  Storming away from the stables on her way to the main tile-roofed stone building, she passed two small structures. The aromas of beef and bread wafting through the open door of one marked it as the kitchen. As she passed, two men emerged from the other, laughing and shaking droplets from their hair like a pair of waterlogged hounds. This building’s function posed a mystery she was in no mood to solve.

  She found Cynda and the menservants waiting beside the wagon in the outer courtyard. By Cynda’s black glare, it appeared she had endured a bout of frustration from trying to make the Breatanach innkeeper understand her wishes. Though it took only a few minutes to set matters straight, the delay did not improve Gyan’s humor.

  The innkeeper assigned her quarters on the top floor of the two-story mansio, overlooking the rectangular inner courtyard. The chambers consisted of a reception room, where Cynda was to sleep, a dining room, and a bedchamber. While not lacking for basic comfort, the rooms did not display an overabundance of luxury. The linens and pillows and window coverings and wall hangings and other furnishings were adequate but plain. Cynda lost no time in pointing this out.

  “Fret not, Gyan. When the men get here with your things from the wagon, I’ll have this place looking like home in a thrice.”

  Gyan made no comment. In her present state of mind, the chambers suited her perfectly.

  As soon as everything was toted to the chambers, she dismissed the men for the evening. She could contain her anger no longer.

  “Cù-puc!” She hefted a pewter goblet and flung it into a corner of the bedchamber. It hit the timbers with a satisfying clang. “I have consented to marry a cù-puc!” She didn’t care that likening Urien to the offspring of a hound and a pig was an insult to both creatures.

  Unperturbed, Cynda put down the pillow she was fluffing. She filled another goblet with wine from the pitcher and pressed it into Gyan’s hand. “Have some of this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.” Gyan downed the wine in four swallows and thrust the goblet back at Cynda. “Tell me what happened.”

  Gyan paced to the window to grip the ledge with whitening knuckles as she repeated Urien’s remarks.

  “Perhaps he didn’t mean those things the way they sounded.”

  “He meant them.” She came away from the window to drop onto the bed.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Gyan’s laugh was mirthless. “You think I have a choice?”

  “Aye. Break your betrothal, and marry someone else.”

  With all her heart, Gyan wished her course could be that simple. “And have Urien lead his clansmen to war against us? Or have you forgotten that Móran is our neighbor?” She shook her head. “I won’t expose the clan to that threat. Not because of someone who cannot consult his head before opening his mouth.”

  “Those kinds of men are the easiest to handle, anyway, once you learn to ignore what they say.” That coaxed a faint smile to Gyan’s lips. Cynda patted the dove-tattooed arm. “Shall I try to find us something to eat?”

  “Good idea. But I’d better come with you to prevent any more misunderstandings.”

  Together, they went from the bedchamber, through the dining area into the antechamber. Cynda tugged open the outer door. In the corridor, fist poised to knock, stood the scion of Clan Móran.

  The sight of Urien rekindled Gyan’s rage. She fought to contain the blaze.

  “Cynda, let him enter. And leave us, please.” Though she was speaking in Caledonaiche to Cynda, she glared at Urien. “It’s time for some answers.”

  Cynda looked at Gyan, at Urien, and at Gyan again. “Are you sure you want me to go?”

  The days of clinging to her nursemaid’s skirts were long past. This man would soon be her husband. If she could not confront him unaided, her marriage truly would be doomed.

  “Yes.”

  Muttering and wagging her head, Cynda pulled the door shut behind her.

  Gyan retreated to the window, whirled, and crossed her arms. “Well. Would you care to explain yourself, Urien?” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Or have you come to deliver more insults?”

  “I did not intend to insult you, my dear.” As Urien strode across the room, the smiling arrogance dimmed. “I’m sorry if my words were so upsetting.” He reached for her hand.

  She could almost hear Cynda crowing, “See, what did I tell you?” Indeed, it was tempting to hope in the sincerity of his apology. To shrug the matter off and take refuge in stoic acceptance, to convince herself that he wasn’t such a thoughtless boor after all…how easy it sounded. She was fated to spend her life with this man. What good would it do to remain angry with him?

  Yet there was something she had to know.

  “Then why did you make those remarks?”

  The smile vanished. He yanked on her hand, pulled her to his chest, wrapped his other arm around her, and crushed her against the wall. She struggled to break his hold. And failed.

  “You will learn, Gyanhumara”—she did not like his emphasis on the word “will”—“that the wife of a Bryton never questions her husband’s actions.”

  “It is you who have much to learn, Urien map Dumarec,” she growled. “I question things as I see fit.”

  “Good. Then question this.”

  He fastened his lips to hers. When she clenched her teeth to deny passage, his mouth attacked her bare throat. Her heart thrashed against her chest.

  Enough was enough! Gyan planted a foot against the wall and shoved with all her strength. Startled, Urien loosened his grip. She broke free, dashed past him, flung open the door, and reached toward her boots. As she turned to face him, a dagger gleamed in each fist.

  “Get out.” Deliberately, she kept her voice low. “Now.”

  “As you wish, my dear. We will have time aplenty to engage in these games.” Thumbs hooked in his belt, he sauntered to the door. She wanted to carve that leer from his face. “A word of advice, Gyanhumara: no one ever denies me what is rightfully mine.” The leer twisted into a snarl. “Least of all a woman.”

  Gyan slammed the door on his churlish laughter. The thick wood muffled it; distance diminished it even more as Urien strode down the corridor. Eventually, the laughter disappeared altogether. But silence could not erase the memory of that dreadful sound. It echoed through the chambers of her brain like a demonic chorus.

  What in heaven’s name had she done? More to the point, what was she going to do now?

  She returned the daggers to her boots. No telling when they might be needed again. Head in hands, she sank to the couch, her mind racing to formulate options.

  She could refuse Urien and marry a Caledonach of a strong clan, one that could provide many warriors to help fight Clan Móran. Alban, perhaps. No. That plan would never work. The Pendragon’s treaty had sapped the clans’ strength, especially Alban’s. Besides, she was bound by that treaty to marry a Breatanach lord.

  And Arthur the Pendragon was not a man to be crossed. Their meeting, brief as it was, had taught Gyan that much.

  The door creaked. She glanced up. Cynda stood in the open doorway with a boy in tow.

  “Gyan? What happened?”

  Donning a smile that she knew would never fool Cynda, Gyan rose. “Who is this boy?”

  “I don’t know.” Cynda nudged the Breatanach youth forward. “I caught him dawdling outside your chambers.”

  Gyan studied the lad, who couldn’t have been much older than eight summers. The neatness of his straight blond hair and white tunic suggested that his presence at her door was no accident.
Lowering his eyes, he dug a sandaled toe in a crack between the tiles.

  “Yes, boy?” Gyan prompted softly in Breatanaiche. “Have you a message for me?”

  “Aye, my lady.” His bow was well practiced. “His Grace, Bishop Dubricius, requests the honor of your company for dinner. In the praetorium.”

  “Bishop…Dubricius, did you say?”

  “Aye. He commands the garrison here at Caer Lugubalion, my lady.” Pride seemed to swell the small chest. “His Grace is the Pendragon’s right-hand man.”

  “I see. Thank you, lad.” This was exactly the kind of diversion she needed to take her mind off Urien for a while. “Please tell his Grace that I shall be delighted to accept.”

  As the boy scampered away to fulfill her directive, Cynda marched into the room. “Well?”

  “I’ve been invited to dine with the garrison commander this evening.” Gyan suspected Cynda was not referring to the message, but she was in no mood to wrestle with explanations. “I’ll need your help with my hair.”

  “That’s not what I meant, young lady.” Cynda waved an accusing finger. “And you know it. Did you get your answers?”

  “From Urien? Oh, yes.” Gyan paused at the threshold of the dining chamber. All her years of combat training combined couldn’t leave her feeling so utterly weary. To steady herself, she laid a hand on the heavy, wine-colored wool of the doorway’s curtain. “More than I ever bargained for.”

  Cynda sighed with exasperation when Gyan refused to elaborate. Grumbling, she collected brush, mirror, and combs and followed Gyan into the bedchamber.

  For her meeting with the Bishop of Dùn Lùth Lhugh, Gyan selected an azure gown of the same hue as the clan-mark and betrothal tattoos on her forearms. A torc of twisted gold encircled her throat; matching armbands adorned both upper arms. All three torcs bore the dove motif of Clan Argyll. Her unbraided hair cascaded in flaming waves over the silver-trimmed, saffron-and-scarlet-banded midnight blue of her woolen clan mantle. Ankle-high calfskin boots protected her feet from the evening chill.

  The only drawback: no place to conceal a weapon. She fervently hoped the need would not arise in the house of a holy man.