Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)
Page 14
Cynda pinned the sapphire-eyed, silver Argyll Doves brooch to a fold of Gyan’s mantle.
“Epona herself would be jealous, Gyan.”
Epona, indeed. As though a stone carving could be jealous of anything. Yet Gyan appreciated the spirit in which the compliment was offered. She gave Cynda a quick hug and strode off to keep her appointment with Bishop Dubricius.
The Pendragon had pointed out the praetorium, with its unusual square, tiled pond in front, so Gyan knew where to go.
Outside, she took a moment to survey her surroundings. The main thoroughfare was all but deserted. Only a small unit of foot and a handful of mounted soldiers traveled the road. Most inhabitants, she surmised, were enjoying their evening meal. Across the street, she recognized the long, low building of officers’ quarters. Many chambers were lighted against the advancing dark. One had to be Urien’s, although she did not know which. Nor did she have any desire to find out.
During those fateful days of his visit to Arbroch half a year ago, how could she have failed to discern his true character? The language barrier was no excuse. Other signs, she realized miserably, had been present. His actions on the practice fields and in the feast hall had shouted volumes. How could she have been so deaf, so blind?
That wasn’t true, she reminded herself. Her instincts had given ample warning. She had chosen not to heed them. Now her choice trapped her in an emotional bog. Why?
Duty, the same concept that prevented her from seeking escape. Duty to the Pendragon and his treaty. Duty to her people and Urien’s, who stood the most to gain from their marriage and the most to lose from a broken betrothal. Duty to her father, who had been the first to recommend the match and whose counsel she had always held in the highest regard. She’d have traded her sword arm for some of that counsel now. Because her burden left no room for duty to self.
So be it; she vowed to survive as best she could with the tools at her disposal. Wits, skill, and courage would have to suffice. They were all she had.
A cool breeze toyed with the ends of her hair, and her thoughts winged back to the task at hand. If Bishop Dubricius was as closely associated with the Pendragon as the messenger boy had implied, she couldn’t give Dubricius cause to suspect that anything was amiss between Urien and herself. No sense in alerting the Pendragon to the possibility of trouble. Doubtless, he would ally his forces with a fellow Breatan.
Time to see how well she could pretend. Drawing a deep breath, she walked briskly toward the praetorium.
Gyan paused at the edge of its manmade pond. A statue of a woman stood in the center. Light from the rising moon danced across the contours of her smooth face and bare arms and flowing gown, and shadowy shapes glided through the water around the statue’s feet. In her arms rested a large jar, poised to pour. Its mouth spewed a steady stream of water that fell with a musical tinkle into the pond.
Cupping her hand under the trickle, she found the water refreshingly cool. She lifted it to her lips and was surprised by the faintly metallic taste. Flicking the rest away, she wished for more time to study this strange pond.
Two soldiers approached and saluted. They introduced themselves as officers of the bishop’s personal guard ordered to be her escorts. Nodding once, she followed them across the court, up the steps, past the smartly saluting guards at the entrance, and on into the building.
The private quarters of the commander of Dùn Lùth Lhugh were the most lavish of anything she had yet seen since entering Breatanach territory. On the way to the dining area, she took note of the lovely mosaic floor tiles and shiny white stone sculptures. Most of the sculptures were busts, perched atop fluted pillars. A few depicted the full body, like the woman in the pond. All were carved with such amazingly lifelike detail that she found it difficult to dispel the impression of being watched.
Arched doorways and columns bore intricately carved flowers and animals and curls. Furnishings were sparse yet gracefully elegant, in what she suspected was typical Ròmanach style.
The building was quite warm. This aroused her curiosity, for she had seen neither open fire nor brazier. The oil-burning lamps bracketed to the walls were too few in number to be the source of this much heat. Since she had accepted the invitation to forget her troubles for an evening, she resolved to ask Bishop Dubricius about the mystery.
Her escorts halted at the dining room’s threshold. One stepped into the chamber to announce her arrival, withdrew with a salute, and took up a position outside. The other stood guard on the opposite side of the doorway. A servant appeared from an adjoining corridor to take her mantle, which she gladly surrendered. Feeling much more comfortable, she strode into the room.
The dining chamber was furnished much like the one in her set of rooms in the mansio. A large, low table crouched over the mosaic dolphins frolicking across the center of the floor. The table was corralled by three long, high-backed, cushioned couches. Here the similarity ended, for more of these odd couches lined the walls. The bishop certainly seemed accustomed to entertaining many guests.
To her surprise, two men stood as she entered the room.
The older man stepped forward to greet her. He wore a long white robe edged in scarlet, bound at the waist by a matching cord. An elaborate gold cross hung from a chain around his neck.
“Good evening, Chieftainess Gyanhumara. I am Bishop Dubricius, called Merlin.”
Gyan studied the face with its deep creases, hawklike nose, and sharp dark eyes. They regarded her with kindly warmth, although she was sure they could instantly seem as hard as steel beneath the black eyebrows. The hair on his head, what was left of it, was iron gray.
She inclined her head. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, your Grace.”
“Please, just Merlin. Only the help calls me ‘your Grace.’ To tell the truth, I’m not quite used to even that yet,” he whispered. Louder, he said, “It’s been barely four months since I took the cope and miter.”
That won her smile. “I understand, my lord—Merlin.”
“Good. Now, I believe you’ve met my cousin.” With a graceful sweep of the arm, he gestured toward the room’s only other occupant.
When the Pendragon had been wearing a plain leather tunic stained with sweat and grime from his ride, she had not been able to appreciate completely how handsome he was. As he stood before her, bathed and dressed in the Ròmanach military regalia of his rank, she was struck by the full impact of his appearance.
Sandaled feet gave rise to bronzed, well-muscled calves. The rippling thighs disappeared into the gold-and-white-fringed linen kilt. Hands and forearms were obscured by the proud back. Over the feather-shaped gold scales of his torso armor dipped a fold of the gold-trimmed knee-length scarlet cloak. A ruby-eyed gold dragon, ringed by a braided band of red, blue, and green, rode the right shoulder. The firm, square jaw; the full, sensuous mouth; the fine, straight nose; the prominent cheekbones, intense blue eyes, high forehead, red-gold hair—his every aspect made her pulse race.
Her hatred of the Ròmanaich evaporated. Urien map Dumarec might never have existed at all.
Gazing only at Arthur, she answered, “Yes. I have.”
He raised his right fist to his chest. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara.” As his hand lowered, the smile that dawned upon his face made her knees feel like liquid wax.
Control! She had to exercise control. She was no tavern wench to drool over the first handsome face to notice her, but chieftainess of the most powerful clan of the Caledonach Confederacy. And here stood the man responsible for defeating the clans and thrusting her into a betrothal that had been all but prearranged from the start and promised to make her life miserable.
That reminder, coupled with the memory of her most recent encounter with Urien, helped her rein in her runaway emotions. But she couldn’t prevent herself from returning Arthur’s smile. She inclined her head. “Lord Pendragon.” Using his title seemed the safest course.
Did she hear the bishop sigh? She glanced at him, but he had begun
to move toward the center couch. “Chieftainess, if you please?” Merlin pointed to the bench on his left. Arthur had claimed the other, lying on his side, facing the table, propped on one elbow. The bishop adopted a similar pose. Gyan must have looked as flabbergasted as she felt, for Merlin gave a low chuckle. “This is our custom for dining. Welcome to Little Rome.”
Ròm, indeed. The men looked so bizarre, she decided this was one custom of which she wanted no part. “Thank you, Merlin, but if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather sit.”
“As you wish, Chieftainess.” If Merlin was perturbed by her choice, he didn’t show it.
She settled to the floor, legs tucked beneath her as best she could within the confines of her gown, and was surprised to discover that the tiles were warm. “This floor is heated! How?”
“Hot air,” said Merlin, “forced through a series of pipes connected to a furnace below the building. Each pipe serves an area of dead air beneath the floor of a given room. The system is called a ‘hypocaustum.’ In Brytonic, it means ‘under-burning.’”
“Well, Merlin, it’s obvious to me that you have”—Gyan allowed herself a small smile—“warmed to this topic.” She was rewarded by the sound of both men’s laughter.
Still chuckling, Arthur said, “Don’t mind him, Chieftainess. He misses being a teacher.”
“That does explain much. And the warm floor heats the entire room?” Heat without an open fire and its annoying smoke was one Ròmanach innovation she could become accustomed to very quickly.
“Exactly.” Arthur grinned unabashedly at Merlin. “It’s one of my cousin’s favorite luxuries.”
“Ah, you may spare the chieftainess a list of my vices, Arthur. I’m sure she will discern them on her own soon enough.” He looked at Gyan, his smile dimming. “It is also our custom—and this has nothing to do with Rome, though many folk practice it there as well—to invoke God’s blessing upon the meal. With your permission?”
“A blessing? Of course.” It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about, and that he’d asked her leave to proceed rather than simply plowing ahead as a certain member of her clan’s priesthood would have done under similar circumstances. Dafydd had mentioned this type of prayer to her, but because her meals at Arbroch had been spent with her clansmen, she’d never had the opportunity to put it into practice. She held out a hand toward the bishop. “Please, sir, go right ahead.”
Both men bowed their heads, and Merlin began speaking in the language of Dafydd’s chants. Gyan tried to follow their example. But this fortress, this building, this chamber, these people, their mannerisms, their language—and especially the man who wasn’t speaking, who was starting to coax from her feelings she had never dreamed she could possess—everything seemed so alien, she couldn’t concentrate on her own silent prayer.
While the bishop droned on, she opened her eyes and found her gaze drawn to Arthur. Even with neck bent and eyes closed, he seemed to radiate power, as though a portion of him refused to submit to anyone.
His eyes opened. Their gazes met. A hint of that captivating smile formed on his lips. Horrified that he had caught her staring at him, and even more horrified to show her embarrassment, she choked down a gasp and studied her hands, which lay folded demurely in her lap. To slow her careening heart, she closed her eyes and focused on each breath…and on what his smile might mean. Just about anything or, she realized glumly, nothing at all. Mentally cursing her foolishness, she decided on the latter.
The prayer ended, and the thump of a fist on wood dragged her from her thoughts. As she looked up, servants began parading in with an array of pitchers and platters, even a tureen of lentil soup. Everything, down to the smallest slotted serving spoon, was made of polished silver embossed with gold designs. Gyan had never seen such a hoard in her life. In moments, there wasn’t enough room on the table to set a pair of dice. The meats and cheeses had been cut into finger-size pieces, and there wasn’t a knife anywhere. It was indeed an eyeful: roasted venison and onions, poached salmon with carrots, ham smothered in a creamy herb sauce, light and dark breads, several different cheeses, stewed spiced winter apples, nutmeats, even a platter of small steaming towels. And, of course, plenty of wine. The mingling aromas were enough to tempt the fussiest eater.
Gyan regarded her host. “And whose army were you planning to feed this evening, my lord bishop?” She felt her lips stretch into a grin.
Merlin chuckled, waving an arm over the spread. “My apologies if the cena seems a bit overwhelming. We normally have it served by courses.” He ladled soup into two of the empty bowls and passed them to Arthur, who in turn gave one to Gyan. “But I must confess, I didn’t invite you here purely for a social visit. We have some serious business to discuss, and I didn’t want us to be interrupted by a constant stream of servants. I do recommend the salmon, Chieftainess.” When Merlin selected a piece from the platter, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed, his face transformed into an expression of bliss. “It’s always superb, but tonight I’d call it heavenly.”
Merlin was right. Everything she tasted was delicious, and not only because she’d survived most of the past sennight on dry travel rations.
Despite his announcement, the conversation remained light throughout most of the meal: Gyan’s journey and what subjects she’d be studying with the monks on Maun, what scrolls she could expect to find in their collection, what life was like for a Caledonach woman who ruled a clan. Not to be outdone, Gyan asked about Arthur’s life and training. She got enough answers to last to the stewed apples. Arthur offered her the bowl.
“Really, Lord Pendragon, I couldn’t possibly…”
Again, she was smitten by his insistent gaze. She reached for the bowl, wondering what manner of man could command without speaking. And what manner of fool she was, for allowing herself to be swayed by this power.
Their fingers touched. Quite by accident, but Gyan felt a tingling in her hand and heat in her cheeks. She all but wrenched the bowl from him in her haste to escape. What in the name of heaven was coming over her? She gave him an apologetic smile and busied herself with ladling a portion into her bowl. The irony made her want to laugh: according to one of the stories Dafydd had told her, this fruit had gotten the first woman on earth into trouble too.
She cleared her throat and regarded the bishop, grateful for the respite from Arthur’s scrutiny. “I can’t believe the plans for my time on Maun were what you meant by ‘important business.’”
“In a sense, yes.” Merlin dabbed at his lips with a cloth. “But there’s more. Arthur?”
A change overcame the Pendragon’s features, as though he had raised a mask. Gyan realized she had seen that mask when he had been dealing with Urien and his other subordinates. Was that how he regarded her too? But she had no time to explore that thought as Arthur began to speak. “Our scouts report an escalation in hostilities on Hibernia. The Attacots are slowly but surely pushing the Scots off the island. Laird Cuchullain has nowhere to take his people but—”
“Maun,” Gyan finished for him. “And Brydein after that, I presume. Unless there’s a chance of negotiating with this Cuchullain, maybe offer to help him fight his war?”
“My envoy to Cuchullain returned”—Arthur’s jaw clenched, and Gyan could practically feel his fury kindle—“in pieces.”
She curled her lip as a gruesome image leaped to mind. “You didn’t attack the Scots for that outrage?”
There was no mirth in Arthur’s laugh. “Though some would dub me the savior of Brydein, at present I can fight only one war at a time. Your people, Chieftainess Gyanhumara, were keeping me too busy.”
“Ha.” Folding her arms, she glared at Arthur. “If you had secured Cuchullain’s aid against us, it would be his daughter sitting here.” She began gathering her skirts to stand. If she’d had her daggers with her, she’d have been greatly tempted to use them. “My lord bishop, I do thank you for the fine meal, but I have heard all I can stomach for one evening.”
“Please, Chieftainess, hear us out.” This from Merlin, who had risen to a sitting position. Arthur too was sitting upright, gripping the edge of the wood so hard his knuckles were whitening. With spread hands, Merlin said, “I won’t deny the truth of your words. In fact—” He glanced at Arthur, who returned his look with a curt nod. “That was our original plan. But for whatever reason, the Lord God in His infinite wisdom decreed otherwise. We never expected Cuchullain to be so blatantly unwilling to negotiate. But we were pleased to discover that your people saw the wisdom of making peace with us.”
“Ha. Wisdom at swordpoint—”
“Is still wisdom,” Merlin insisted. “So here we are, Chieftainess, not as adversaries but as allies.” He rose and made his way to where Gyan was standing, his hand outstretched. “And, I hope, as friends.”
Merlin’s smile was so uncannily similar to her father’s that it disarmed her ire. What did it matter what their intentions had been? As he had said, the One God had decreed otherwise. She uncrossed her arms to grasp his hand. “Friends, Merlin.”
He patted her hand before releasing it, sat on the bench across from a much more relaxed Arthur, and motioned for Gyan to join him, which she did. “I’m glad you feel that way, because we”—he tossed a nod in Arthur’s direction—“consider our alliance with Caledonia to be of great importance. And you, Chieftainess, are the key.”
“I am?” Gyan’s laughter faded before Merlin’s somber gaze. “You’re serious. But why me? Because of my…association”—she couldn’t bring herself to say “engagement”—“with Urien?”
“In part, yes,” said Merlin.
“Because of the increased threat of a Scotti invasion,” Arthur said, “I’m assigning two squads of Caledonian horsemen to the Manx Cohort.”