by Headlee, Kim
“Can you see them yet, Angus?” Morghe continued to stare at the scroll, hoping to retain an iota of concentration.
“Aye! The reinforcements are here—Chieftainess Gyanhumara too!”
Reinforcements, she thought with mild interest, ought to provide a refreshing change of scene. Languidly, she pushed away from the table to join Angusel at the window.
His finger bobbed to count the ranks. “Looks to be a cavalry turma and a century of foot. Maybe more!”
She regarded him with tolerant amusement. “A hundred and thirty, according to Arthur.” As she returned her gaze to the scene outside, she felt a tug on her hand.
“Come on, let’s go.” He started for the door.
“Go?”
“To meet them, of course.”
“You go ahead.” Disappointment seemed to cloud his eyes. She smiled an apology. “I’m not up to matching your pace today, and I don’t want to slow you down.” The harmless lie served to get him out of the room.
His pounding footsteps faded on the timbers of the outer corridor as he raced for the stairway. She pictured how he must look as he took the stairs three at a time. Moments later, he popped into view beneath her window, pelting down the road leading to the wooden palisade’s gates. Many of the fort’s resident children had also seen the troops. Angusel’s following grew into a dusty, laughing parade.
The truth of the matter was that as the youngest daughter of Chieftainess Ygraine, Morghe felt no obligation to run to meet anyone, including a Picti chieftainess.
She brought to mind Arthur’s message that had come by way of a merchant ship the day before. Her brother had mentioned Gyanhumara of Caledonia only in regard her betrothal to the Manx Cohort’s commander, and that she would be living at Tanroc while studying at the monastery. Morghe wondered why Arthur had not foisted his opinions about this Gyanhumara upon her. He never spared her about anything else.
So much thinking about Arthur poisoned her mood. She had yet to forgive him for her unjust exile to this bee-infested island in the center of a sea boiling with enemy ships.
Upon the death of their father, Arthur had wrenched her from her place as one of Merlin’s pupils. He needed their cousin’s military expertise, so he said.
Morghe knew better. Snippets of overheard conversation confirmed that Merlin had recommended the move because of her flowering interest in non-Christian lore. Living at Rushen Priory under the watchful eye of Prioress Niniane—isolated from the rest of the world, with the sea to enforce the sentence—was supposed to have killed Morghe’s lust for things unholy.
The thought sparked a snort of derision. If anything, she craved the arcane knowledge all the more. But it was one of many cravings she had yet to find a way to satisfy.
Now beginning her third year on Maun, she liked it less with each passing season. Yet this year promised to be different, since she had won free of the priory and its oppressive mistress.
Life at Rushen Priory had been agonizingly dull. She missed Caer Lugubalion and the constant excitement of the comings and goings of dignitaries and merchants and craftsmen and soldiers and ships and horsemen. Visitors at the priory were more rare than snow in July. The worst of it was having to beg permission to ride to Dhoo-Glass on market days, such as they were in that backwater port. Yet riding to Port Dhoo-Glass, if only for the day, had offered welcome relief from the constant presence of Niniane, who so admired Arthur that she’d given him that priceless sword to secure his election to the Pendragonship. Why the prioress had done this, Morghe couldn’t begin to fathom. Morghe ferch Uther would have sooner given it to her bitterest enemy.
She shattered that line of reasoning with a rueful toss of her auburn braids. The Fates certainly had peculiar ideas about the course of mortal lives.
The highlight—if it could be called that—of most days during her incarceration at the priory had been the lessons in the healing arts and herbal lore. She had to admit that the Lady Niniane was a talented physician and teacher. She’d managed to squelch her dislike of the prioress long enough to soak up all the knowledge she could and set herself along the path to becoming a highly skilled healer. With a smile, she recalled the medical scroll she’d been studying all afternoon. How the body reacted to treatment, and what plants and other tools of nature made up the various remedies provided a constant source of fascination.
During one of her woefully infrequent furloughs outside the priory walls, Morghe had heard about the library kept by the monks of St. Padraic’s. This library was reputed to house scrolls covering the gamut of subjects: from history to mathematics, poetry to philosophy. And, of course, the Christian Scriptures, which didn’t rank high on her reading list.
That day, she decided Niniane no longer possessed the right to be her jailer and moved to the western side of the island to live at Tanroc while she studied at the monastery across the strait. No small amount of cajoling and wheedling and threatening had broken Niniane’s grip. Being accepted as the only female pupil of the monastic school had presented another challenge. But her determination had won out on both accounts in the end.
Actually, it didn’t take long to charm the monks into accepting a woman in their midst. A glance usually sufficed to keep her tutors from becoming too charmed. Like sheep, they were easy to handle and useful. And for company, they were about as stimulating.
The friendship of Angusel helped more than Morghe would have predicted. His unquenchable cheerfulness and exuberance provided a pleasant contrast to the solemnity of the monks. And she identified with the Picti lad. Although she now lived in a place more to her liking—which could be said of any place that was not Rushen Priory—Arthur’s refusal to let her come home meant only one thing. She too was a noble hostage.
As the troops marched through the palisade gates, she noticed that Angusel had befriended Gyanhumara. Although she was too far away to hear the words, she could tell they were speaking in their native Picti tongue, which she was learning from Angusel. But the lad’s animated face and the chieftainess’s laughter told the story. Vines of jealousy twined around her heart. Angusel was the one person on this entire rock fit to call friend, and a stranger was usurping his attention.
Her nails drummed the ledge as she regarded the woman. She was beautiful, regal, and…armed? Wounded too? A warrior, then, like Angusel’s mother. And probably just as likely to stir up trouble against Brydein: another hostage for Arthur’s growing collection. And, she observed with a derisive laugh, the Picti woman was acting as though she didn’t recognize her plight.
Then it occurred to her that Arthur had made no mention in his letter of Gyanhumara being a warrior. Maybe he wasn’t aware—no. If Arthur had caught even a glimpse of this exotic-looking woman, he would have made it a top priority to find out as much about her as he could. And since the chieftainess had come to Maun by way of Caer Lugubalion, there was no way on this side of the River Styx that Arthur could have missed seeing her.
She slowly moistened her lips. Not everything about this Gyanhumara of Caledonia was as it seemed, and she resolved to find out why.
“WELL, NOW, and here comes our welcome, if I’m not mistaken.” Cynda pointed at the giggling flood of children gushing over the crest of the hill.
Gyan raised her freshly salved and bandaged arm to shield her eyes from the afternoon glare. “I wonder who the lead boy is. He’s dressed like the others, but I don’t think he’s a Breatan.” A vague recollection nagged. “I feel I should know him.”
“Aye, you should.” Leaving Gyan to puzzle out the mystery, Cynda busied herself with the task of driving the supply wagon.
Gyan fixed her with a commanding stare and was placidly ignored. That woman could be so infuriating! No closer to an answer, she admitted defeat.
Smug satisfaction lit Cynda’s face. “Chieftainess Alayna’s son.”
“Angusel of Clan Alban?” Gyan didn’t hide her surprise. “Are you certain?”
Cynda had no time for more than a single nod a
s the children eddied around the company in gleeful confusion. Well did they know not to get in the way of marching men and prancing horses and lumbering wagons. Their leader fell into step beside Gyan and Brin.
“Chieftainess Gyanhumara, well met!” His use of Caledonaiche erased all doubt of his identity. “You don’t know how glad I am to see other Caledonaich!” The sentiment shone plainly in the golden-brown eyes.
She couldn’t begin to imagine what life had been like for him these past several turnings of the moon, but she was not immune to the stirrings of sympathy. “Well met, Angusel.” Her smile was gentle.
“My lady, you—you remembered!”
Angusel was four when Alayna had come to Arbroch to visit Ogryvan shortly after the death of Angusel’s father, when Gyan was almost eight. Gyan had not seen much of him then, for she had been busy with sword and equestrian training, and he’d spent most of the time with the younger children. The strong resemblance to his mother was her only key to recognizing him today.
If it made him happy to think she’d remembered him from an encounter several years ago, she wasn’t about to dispel the notion. A warning glance at the supply wagon’s pesky driver forestalled trouble from that quarter.
“You’re wounded, my lady! How did—”
She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “A sword practice that got a little too intense.” Before another round of memories could assail her, she changed the subject. “How goes it with you, Angusel? Have they treated you well?”
“Well enough, my lady. Everyone is kind to me. And I’m learning all sorts of things.” As he studied the rocky path at his feet, his voice dropped to a whisper. “But it’s just not the same as being home.”
“I know.” Up rose an image of Arbroch, cloaked in the emerald majesty of spring. She saw the meadows resplendent with wildflowers, the barley fields neatly furrowed with rich brown earth, the pastures dotted with mares and cows and she-goats and ewes and their nursing young. Amidst this blessed bounty rode her father to oversee their domain. And she wasn’t there to help him. She wondered if Angusel’s sorrow was even half as heavy as hers.
She got an idea that she hoped would cheer them both. “In the next day or two, as our duties permit, why don’t you set aside some time to take me around the island?”
“May I?” He gave her a lopsided and thoroughly endearing grin. “I’d be honored, my lady!”
His enthusiasm made her laugh, the first real laughter she’d enjoyed in weeks. No, that wasn’t true. Someone else had made her laugh like that yesterday morning—which seemed like weeks ago. Someone she vowed to think about as little as possible.
On the hilltop stood their destination, and it was quite unlike anything Gyan had ever seen.
“You may begin by telling me about that.” She pointed at the massive living thorn wall guarding Fort Tanroc.
“The hawthorn hedge? Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Magnificent” was the word she would have chosen. It was taller than two men, and its snowy buds hid the deadly brambles behind a delicate shield. While passing through the main double-gated pine portal, she observed that the hedge was even thicker than it was tall.
“And see those dead brambles over there, my lady?” Angusel gestured toward the thorny bundles stacked neatly inside the hedge beside the gates. “Some are used to hide the gates. The rest can be packed into the portals as a little surprise for an invading army.”
Within easy bowshot of the hedge stood the fort’s thrice-man-height wooden palisade. The gate guards admitted the company with cheerful waves. As most of the children scampered to their homes and evening meals, the troops halted inside the palisade. Those on horseback dismounted. Ready to greet the newcomers, flanked by a small detachment, stood the garrison commander.
And it seemed every pair of eyes was turned solely upon Gyan.
She was smitten by the resemblance between Elian and Urien in face and build and coloring. The major difference was age, for Elian was of Dumarec’s generation, and he had the gray hair, creased brow, and wealth of battle scars to show for it. To Gyan, it was like peering a score of years into a future she had no desire to attain but no hope to avoid.
“Centurion Elian, I am honored to present Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll.” Through Angusel’s excellent Breatanaiche, his excitement bubbled like a pot on the boil.
After saluting, Elian started to extend his hand in greeting, appeared to notice Gyan’s bandaged arm, and swept her a deep bow instead. “My lady, permit me to say that the Pendragon’s description does not do you justice. Urien is a lucky man, indeed.” Murmuring her thanks, she wondered how she was ever going to be able to live in close association with the kinsman of the man she didn’t want to marry. “Please permit me, also, to offer my congratulations. Both for your betrothal and your victory.” She gave Elian a questioning glance, and he smiled. “The Pendragon is a difficult adversary to defeat.”
She felt her eyes widen. “How did you—”
Angusel was quicker. “Chieftainess! You defeated the Pendragon?” Something akin to goddess veneration sprang to life in his eyes. “Does this mean I can go home?”
Sighing, she patted his shoulder, hating what she would have to say next but knowing she had no other choice. “I wish it did, Angusel. I truly do.” In more ways than one, she mused ruefully. She withdrew her hand. “But, no. I’m sorry. It was only a practice bout.” As he dropped his gaze to the ground, she banished her reticence. “If you like, I’ll tell you about the fight sometime.”
He looked at her, disappointment chased away by that same worshipful expression, only stronger. “Oh, yes, my lady, I’d like that very much!” His grin returned in full measure.
Elian gave Gyan a grateful glance and favored Angusel with a teasing smile. “Dodging your lessons again, lad? Or are your tutors not giving you enough work to do?”
“Oh, no, sir! Nothing like that. I’d heard the reinforcements were due today, so I asked to be excused.”
Nodding, the garrison commander glanced around the courtyard. “Where is Lady Morghe?”
“East guardroom, sir.” Angusel jerked his chin over his shoulder in the general direction. “Sounded like she wasn’t feeling well.”
“It’s not like her to miss meeting someone,” Elian murmured, apparently to no one in particular. He returned his attention to Gyan. “No matter. I’m sure you will be meeting the Pendragon’s sister soon enough, Chieftainess.”
Gyan swallowed her surprise and dismay. Arthur had a sister? Here? Just what she needed, she thought with a mental sigh: a living reminder of him.
Before she could voice her questions about this Morghe, Elian began barking orders to the guard. There were horses to stable and soldiers to house, and food and drink to supply for everyone. Gyan gave Brin’s reins to a Caledonach warrior. Elian’s men split into two groups, one to lead the cavalrymen and their mounts to the stables and the other to show the footsoldiers the barracks. As the troops marched away, the remaining group dwindled to Elian, Angusel, Gyan, Cynda, Dafydd, and his family.
Addressing Dafydd, Elian said, “Your quarters are ready, sir. Angusel will show you. The wagon can be kept with the others, near the stables.”
Angusel jumped up beside Dafydd, pointing the way. As the wagon lurched forward, the lad twisted around to honor Gyan with the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Heartily, she returned it, to his obvious delight.
“I will escort you to your chambers, my lady.” Elian gave her an apologetic smile. “Normally, I would offer my arm to such a lovely lady as yourself. But since you’re a warrior too, I suppose it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“It’s all right, Elian,” she assured him. “I do appreciate the thought.”
As she and Elian strode toward the officers’ wing, with Cynda scurrying behind them, a young woman emerged from the guard tower across the courtyard. She was short of stature, and her dark auburn braids cascaded over her figure-flattering violet gown. Although she
wasn’t hurrying, she had set herself on a course to intercept them.
“Lady Morghe, well met.” Elian inclined his head as she stopped before them. “Well met, indeed. This is Chieftainess—”
“Gyanhumara. Of Caledonia.” To Elian, she said, “Gwenhwyfar, in our tongue.” She directed her attention at Gyan. “Or Guenevara, if you prefer the guttural noise the Saxons and Angli call a language.” Despite their physical differences, Morghe’s slim smile was so like Arthur’s, Gyan found herself wrestling with her composure. Morghe turned her alluring violet gaze on the centurion. “Elian, be a dear, and let me show the chieftainess her chambers, will you? Please?”
He chuckled. “An excellent idea, Lady Morghe.” Saluting Gyan, he said, “If you need anything, Chieftainess, I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Centurion Elian. You are very kind.” And Gyan meant it.
Elian spun and headed for the barracks, while Gyan and Cynda followed Morghe toward a cluster of low buildings in the opposite direction.
“Well, Gyanhumara—may I call you Gyanhumara? We’ll be studying together, and using titles all the time can be so”—Morghe casually flicked her hand—“tiresome.”
Gyan pondered the sister of the man who owned her heart. Kin and close friends she permitted to use the shortened form of her name. Morghe, so far, was neither, and Gyan wasn’t at all sure she wanted that to change. Something about her made Gyan uneasy. It was as if Morghe was Arthur’s antithesis, and not simply in physical appearance. “You may forgo using my title, Morghe,” she said cautiously.
At the entrance to one of the buildings, Morghe stopped to give Gyan a long appraisal. Finally, she mounted the steps, beckoning Gyan and Cynda to follow. “Our quarters are in here, Gyanhumara.” She turned to point at Gyan’s bandaged arm. “I have several salves that may help, depending on what sort of injury that is.”
