Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  “Why not just attack him now that you have the Caledonian cavalry on your side?” Gyan asked.

  “I will demonstrate.” Arthur selected four apple slices. As he transferred the fruit to his bowl, sauce dripped between the spoon’s slots. “Transporting forty horses over water is difficult enough.” He thrust the spoon deep into the remaining apples to lift up a heaping mound. Most of the slices slipped off, splattering the sauce. “A thousand is quite another matter. I believe you met my fleet commander?” When she nodded, he continued, “Bedwyr designed the vessel you will be taking to Maun specifically for shipping horses in safety and comfort. It’s the only one of its kind in the fleet.” He dumped the rest of the apples, with the spoon, back into the bowl.

  Gyan couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You won’t avenge the death of your messenger because it’s too much trouble?”

  “Believe me, Chieftainess. If the situation were any different, I’d be at Cuchullain’s throat faster than he could draw his next breath. But after the Scots, I’d have the Attacots to contend with. Or both at once, if they decided to bury their differences to unite against me. The island of Hibernia is not worth that kind of effort or loss of life. But let them come to us, and I will defend Brydein with my final heartbeat.” Arthur saluted her with his goblet before taking a swallow. “And everyone who lives here.”

  As she studied the Pendragon, she tried to tell herself that the heat rising in her cheeks was purely from excitement at the prospect of battle. “So an invasion is likely. When? Sometime this summer, perhaps?”

  “I don’t think Cuchullain can afford to mount an invasion this year.” Arthur’s expression turned grim. “But he could be sailing to Maun tonight, for all I know.” He gave Gyan an appraising look. “The idea of being involved in a Scotti war doesn’t disturb you?”

  “Ha, no! It’s what I was born for.” Though not necessarily what she would die for, depending on how that accursed prophecy came to pass.

  Arthur nodded. “Then I’ll need your help to resolve difficulties that might arise among the Caledonians.”

  “Urien will need your help too.” Merlin exchanged an unreadable glance with Arthur.

  “Of course. I’ll do what I—what?” She stared at Merlin, at Arthur, and back at Merlin. “Urien?”

  “Has been assigned to command the Manx Cohort.” Arthur’s tone seemed oddly subdued. “On my orders.”

  “The Manx troops? Well.” To mask her plummeting spirits, she devised what she hoped was an appropriate response. “This should give us a chance to become better acquainted. But I thought—” What she thought, but couldn’t voice, was that she would rather become better acquainted with Arthur. “Wasn’t he just promoted to head the cavalry?”

  “Yes, Chieftainess,” Merlin said. “But since we’re almost certain the next threat to Brydein—and ultimately Caledonia, though Lord forbid that should happen—will come by way of Maun—”

  “Then you need your ablest men on Maun.” What else could she say? Certainly not that she wanted as little to do with her betrothed as possible. And most certainly not the idea that flitted through her head, as hard as she tried to dismiss it as utter nonsense: that Arthur might come to Maun in Urien’s place.

  “All our ablest warriors,” Merlin amended with a smile.

  He stood and offered Gyan his hand. As she rose, so did Arthur—and so did her pulse, making her thankful that the visit seemed to be over. But she had one last shot in her arsenal. She wrenched her gaze from the Pendragon to grin at Merlin. “My lord bishop, could shameless flattery possibly be another of your vices?”

  “You see, Arthur, I told you she’d find me out.” Merlin’s chuckle trailed away, but the twinkle in his eyes did not disappear. “But my dear lady, I believe I was telling the truth. I also believe that all Brydein will one day be blessed by the gifts you have to offer.”

  That, Gyan mused as she murmured her thanks and farewells, was a prophecy she could certainly live with.

  Chapter 13

  THE MORE ARTHUR learned about Chieftainess Gyanhumara, the more fascinating she seemed. His mind raced to devise ways—sensible ways that couldn’t be misconstrued by anyone, especially Urien—that he might see her again. If she would consent. He was still mentally kicking himself for the twist in the conversation that had led her to discern his original plan for conquering her people. When the messenger’s remains had returned from Hibernia, and Merlin had tried to calm Arthur’s rage with the platitude that “God works all things together for good,” he had seriously questioned Merlin’s sanity. Now, Arthur had his answer, at least in part. Without doubt, Gyanhumara was the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life, the woman who could help him forge a united Brydein. The fact remained that she was betrothed to Urien, a fact she didn’t seem anxious to change. But if he could see her again, perhaps he could convince her otherwise. The problem was, no appropriate activities came to mind.

  As he watched Gyanhumara retreat to the dining chamber’s doorway and the servant who waited there with her cloak, an idea hit. “Chieftainess, wait.” Facing him, she displayed a smile that could have ignited every oil lamp in the room. Again, he felt that strange tightness in his chest, a feeling he was learning to welcome. “Your ship doesn’t sail for two days yet. Would you care to join me for sword practice, perhaps tomorrow afternoon?” Merlin glared at Arthur, but he ignored him.

  “Lord Pendragon, I would be honored.” Mischief invaded her smile. “But mornings are when I’m at my best. Shall we meet at the training enclosure you were using earlier?”

  He nodded, pursing his lips to keep his smile under control. “After breaking fast, then.”

  She returned his salute with a graceful dip of her head, turned to allow the servant to drape her cloak about her shoulders, pinned it in place, and strode from the room. Once he was sure she was out of earshot, he sighed. God, what a woman!

  “Oh, to be thirty years younger.” Arthur turned to find Merlin regarding him, fists on hips. “But you, lad, owe me ten Our Fathers.”

  “For what?” He was reasonably sure Merlin was referring to his less-than-stellar self-discipline but chose to claim innocence. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Ha. Not too overtly, at least, or I’d have you doing a lot more penance than reciting prayers.” Up came the accusatory finger with which Arthur was all too familiar. “I see you stepping onto a dangerous path with this woman, Arturus Aurelius Vetarus.” Not since Arthur had dodged his lessons to join a week-long hunt when he was ten had Merlin used Arthur’s full Latin name in that tone of voice. “I don’t like it. Not one iota.”

  Merlin did have a point. But he wasn’t ready to concede to his spiritual adviser just yet. “Would you believe me if I said I only want to evaluate her swordsmanship?” Crossing his arms, Merlin emphatically shook his head. Arthur switched tactics. “What if this is all part of God’s will? Wouldn’t it be worse for me”—for her?—“for all of us if I tried to resist?”

  “The Almighty is not a God of chaos.” Arthur couldn’t remember when he had ever seen his mentor scowl so fiercely. “But if you insist on pursuing this woman—who, permit me to remind you, is a vow away from being married to your primary rival—then chaos is exactly what will result.” The scowl lightened, and Merlin advanced to grip Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to make your life miserable, lad. I hope you can understand that.” His fingers tightened briefly and withdrew. “God help me, Arthur, I just don’t want you to go through what your father did.”

  “‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’ Yes, I do recall that lesson.” Arthur also recalled—though he bloody well would never admit it to Merlin—wondering if such a thing would ever apply to him. “I will keep it uppermost in my thoughts. I promise you that, Merlin.” He bared his teeth in what he hoped was a convincing grin. “And if you catch me acting like a besotted fool again, I will gladly perform any penance you assign.”

  “WELL?” DEMANDE
D Cynda. “Then what happened?”

  Gyan fingered the plush wool of her clan mantle. How could she describe the most wonderful evening of her life? An evening that witnessed—yes, she had to admit it, if only to herself—the birth of emotions of a depth she never thought possible. Mere words could not suffice. No point in even trying. She draped the mantle across a chair.

  “Then we ate.”

  “Honestly!” Cynda threw up her hands in mock disgust. “You have got to be the worst storyteller of all time.”

  Gyan shrugged, stepped out of the azure gown, and accepted the nightgown. “Find me one, and I’ll bring him along next time.” She slipped the nightgown over her head.

  “Next time, I will,” threatened Cynda, and Gyan had to laugh. “So what did you do?”

  “Do?” Settling the nightgown across her shoulders, Gyan grinned. “I tell you, Cynda, Ròmanaich have the strangest customs. They lie down to eat.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. They looked so funny, it was all I could do to keep my composure.”

  “Did you try eating like that too?”

  “Are you serious? The table was too low to reach without being hunched over, so I sat on the floor. They seemed a wee bit surprised, but it suited me just fine. We had salmon and—”

  “Never mind the food. What did you talk about?”

  Well did Gyan know what sorts of things Cynda wanted to hear, but she couldn’t resist baiting her. “Their heating system.”

  “Their what?”

  “How they keep their rooms warm without fire. It’s really quite fascinating.”

  “Ach, to be sure. And with the most gorgeous man in this entire place beside you, all you could think to talk about was how he warms his feet?”

  “Well, not exactly. We also discussed what I’ll be doing on Maun.” Fist clenched, Gyan jabbed the air with an imaginary sword. “They think I might get my first taste of battle there!”

  “Wonderful.” Cynda rolled her eyes. “Just when I thought I was done with patching you up for a while.” Hands on hips, she asked, “And what about Urien?”

  A lump formed in Gyan’s throat. The words barely squeezed out: “He—he is to command the force…on Maun.”

  Gyan sighed and sat on the bed, drawing knees to chin. What about Urien, indeed. She had an answer. Whether it was the best one, she had no earthly idea. Nor had she any idea how to usher it into reality.

  And if Cynda couldn’t help her, no one could.

  “Six months ago, I told my father that if I ever saw the right man, I would know.” As she recalled her conversations with Ogryvan, hindsight told her that he had admired Arthur from the start. Missing her father more than ever, she wondered how he might advise her tonight. But craving the impossible never helped anyone. She sucked in a breath. “Today, I met the right man.”

  “Arthur? The Ròmanach?” Cynda’s incredulity was plain.

  Gyan nodded. “Breatanach too, by his mother…” She took a few moments to decide how best to translate Ygraine’s name and clan into Caledonaiche. Clan Cwrnwyll became “Rock-Elbows Clan,” a reference to their three-sided fortress’s shape, and the territory of Rheged was known simply as “Royal Land.” For the woman’s given name Gyan decided on, “Ygrayna. She is chieftainess of his clan, Càrnhuileanaich Rhioghachd Bhreatein. There was some complication regarding Arthur’s birth that prevents him from ever becoming chieftain.”

  She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the jumble of conflicting emotions clawing at her heart, a brambly thicket the sharpest sword couldn’t part. Arthur was so Ròmanach, it was hard to imagine him as part of any clan, as though he belonged to none—and all. The afternoon memory sprang up of the ruby-headed sword, the milk-white stallion, the scarlet-cloaked warlord. And at dinner, arrayed in that spectacular uniform…her throat went dry.

  Gyan swallowed thickly and tried to adopt a candid tone. “He’s stronger, militarily, beyond question. Argyll would gain a lot from our union.”

  “And you’re falling in love with him. Nay, don’t deny it, Gyan. It’s etched as plain on your face as those tattoos on your arms.”

  “The tattoos.” She chafed the betrothal-mark on her left wrist. It galled like a slave collar. “Cynda, I don’t know what to do. I want Arthur as my consort. But I am afraid.”

  “Of breaking the treaty?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “It’s Arthur’s treaty. He could grant an exception if he wanted to. If—if he wants me.”

  “Ach, what kind of talk is this? You have wealth, beauty, intelligence, strength. How could he not be honored to be your consort?”

  “I couldn’t read him,” she confessed. “His smile was…” His smile was so indefinable, she had trouble finding words for it. So she opted for a different angle. “It was nothing like Urien’s. It wasn’t proud or arrogant or triumphant.” Or, she realized with a sigh, affectionate. “Arthur could have simply been acting polite toward me.”

  Cynda grinned. “Dear Gyan, I suspect there’s a lot more happening with this Arthur than you might think.”

  “Oh, Cynda, I hope you’re right.”

  Cynda’s eyes narrowed. “But there’s something else troubling you, I can tell. What is it? Come on, Gyan, my dove. Tell your old Cynda.”

  A host of nightmarish visions sprang to life. Central to each was the scion of Clan Móran.

  “Urien,” she said at last. “If I break our betrothal, it’s not just what he might do to me or Argyll that worries me. There seems to be some friction between him and Arthur already. If I choose Arthur, and Urien turns against him, then Arthur would lose the Isle of Maun. As we discussed at dinner this evening, control of Maun is vital. A civil war with Urien and Dailriata would be disastrous.” Her voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Cuchullain and his Scáthinaich would move in and make beds from our bones.”

  Gyan stared blindly at the floor tiles. All too vividly, she could imagine the death screams, the rivers of blood, the acrid stink of destruction. And afterward, the inconsolable tears of the innocents: for food, for shelter, for their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons…

  No! She could not bring such evil upon her people. Or upon the man who had sparked the embers of her love. The most logical course would be for Arthur to defeat Urien in the dubh-lann, but, to be legal and fair, the challenge had to be issued without overt counsel by the àrd-banoigin herself. In his treaty, Arthur had demonstrated some knowledge of Caledonach law, but his education surely could not have covered this obscure clause. And there was the very real danger that Arthur could be killed, a thought she couldn’t bear. There had to be another way. But it refused to reveal itself.

  She shivered, but not from cold. Cynda sat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Gyan did not lift her gaze from the floor.

  GYAN KNEW every detail of her battle-gear was perfect, from her helmet down to her knee-high boots. Cynda had done a fine job of braiding and pinning her hair, and her sword and shield were in top condition. Her blunted practice sword also swung from her belt. She had even taken care to eat only a light meal of bread and tea.

  Then why, she asked herself as she strode toward the training ring in the brisk, clean-scented morning, did her stomach feel as though it were trying to turn somersaults?

  Arthur the Pendragon.

  She banished the nervousness with a toss of her head. The object of this morning’s match, as far as she was concerned, was to show off her fighting skills to their best advantage, which would never happen if she couldn’t detach herself from her budding feelings toward this man. And if she didn’t beat him to the practice area to give herself a few minutes alone to prepare, her task would be that much more difficult. She quickened her pace.

  In contrast to the previous evening, the thoroughfare was bustling with traffic: wagons and carts of every description, marching units and mounted squads, herders driving their livestock, couriers, merchants, and soldiers walking alone or in small groups. There wasn’t one Caledonach in the lot,
which, though a bit disappointing, didn’t come as a surprise. She supposed they were too busy learning their new duties. No one paid her any heed; everyone seemed bent on his own mission. She’d wondered whether her duel with the army’s war-chieftain would attract attention, but now it didn’t seem likely.

  The enclosure came into view. To her relief, it was empty. She presumed it was used primarily for equestrian training, since it contained no freestanding practice posts. For what she had in mind, a section of the fence would have to suffice.

  Gyan left her battle sword sheathed and gripped the hilt of the practice sword. Closing her eyes, she focused on the balance of the sword and the weight of the shield. When she flicked her eyes open, the sights and sounds of the drilling troops and rumbling wagons, the prickle of the breeze on her bare forearms, and the scent of dew-dampened dirt retreated into a corner of her consciousness. And the dance began: slashes and spins and kicks and thrusts, to the rhythm of her sword and shield and boots thumping the wood.

  Finally, she stopped, panting, and leaned her shield and practice sword against the fence. She dashed the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. The clamminess of her linen undertunic she would have to live with. While in the grip of this drill, the passage of time lost meaning, and she hoped she hadn’t overtired herself for the challenge to come.

  The sound of a pair of hands clapping caught her attention. She turned to behold the Pendragon striding toward her, helmet tucked under one arm, looking every inch as handsome in his bronze and boiled-leather battle-gear as in the ceremonial uniform he’d worn the night before. The ruby of his sword’s pommel sparkled above the sheath as he moved. It was the only weapon he had brought. To her surprise, he carried no shield.

  Her stomach began its gymnastic routine anew. She ignored it.

  “A marvelous display, Chieftainess.” He offered his sword hand. As she gripped his forearm, a tingle rushed from her arm beneath his fingertips, straight to her heart. He let go to point at the section of fence bearing the scars of her practice session. Some of them, she realized with a flush of embarrassment, were quite deep. He arched an eyebrow. “But if you insist on chopping down one of my fences, I think you’ll have better luck if you use an ax next time.” As their laughter faded, his gaze intensified. “Joking aside, Chieftainess, I would like to know: was that drill something you developed yourself? Is it the same each time you practice it, or do you change it? Do all warriors of your clan use some variant—”