by Headlee, Kim
Inside the building, Gyan took a moment for her eyes to adjust before moving to catch Morghe. “It’s a cut. From a sword.” Instinct warned her not to mention that Morghe’s brother was responsible.
“Does it trouble you?” Morghe asked.
“The salt spray hasn’t helped it any.”
“Ah.” Morghe’s smile looked so much like Arthur’s that Gyan bit off a gasp. “I have just the thing for it, then.”
She selected a door—her own chambers, Gyan surmised—and pushed it open. Out wafted a heady aroma of herbs too numerous to identify, tickling Gyan’s nose. She and Cynda followed Morghe inside. Every shelf, tabletop, and most of the floor was scattered with parchment, quills, ink pots, piles of bark and berries and roots, several smooth stone mortars and pestles, and an army of tiny earthen jars and their stoppers. Some were empty, and some weren’t. Bunches of herbs were drying suspended from the rafters. A cauldron containing a thick white mixture was bubbling over the fire.
Morghe went to a group of sealed jars, opened one, smeared a trace on her finger, took a sniff, and nodded with apparent satisfaction. “This is the one.” She rubbed the salve between her fingers until it disappeared and brought the open jar to Gyan. The salve had a faint bluish tint.
“What’s she doing?” Cynda whispered to Gyan.
“Being hospitable, I think,” Gyan murmured as she began to unwrap the bandage.
Cynda stayed Gyan’s hand. “I want to know what’s in that salve first.” Gyan cocked an eyebrow. “Go ahead, Gyan. Ask her.”
Morghe grinned. “Elder and valerian, mostly. In a lard base, of course.” Her Caledonaiche was quite good, and Gyan felt her other eyebrow shoot up. Cynda’s surprised expression was downright comical. “And one or two”—Morghe’s grin widened—“secret ingredients.” With the jar cradled in the palm of her hand, she thrust it toward Gyan, who got the distinct impression Morghe was challenging Gyan’s trust.
Gyan wasn’t at all sure she should trust this woman, but she was Arthur’s sister. No good could come from deliberately offending her. She reached for the salve.
Cynda snatched the jar from Morghe’s palm.
“Cynda! I was just going to—”
“I know what you were going to do.” Cynda’s frosty stare was directed solely at Morghe. She said to Gyan, “I won’t have anything foreign touch you until I’ve had a look first.”
Apparently, the double meaning wasn’t lost on Morghe. She adopted a look that was somewhere between annoyance and disgust. Still speaking in Caledonaiche, she said, “Your guard dog needn’t be so vigilant around me, Gyanhumara.”
Cynda, busy with her examination of the salve—which included tasting it—either didn’t hear or chose not to react to the insult.
“Cynda is the only mother I have ever known.” Her fingertips brushed the pommel of her sword. “If you wish to remain on good terms with me, Lady Morghe”—Gyan stressed the title to communicate her displeasure—“then I suggest you treat her with the same respect you would show your own mother.”
Morghe loosed a peal of laughter and dropped Cynda a deep curtsey. “As you command, Chieftainess.” Gyan couldn’t tell whether Morghe was mocking only Cynda or both of them.
It didn’t matter. Gyan had to get out of there before she yielded to the temptation to run this insolent upstart through, Arthur’s sister or not. “If you would kindly tell us where our quarters are, Lady Morghe, we won’t take up another moment of your precious time.” She turned toward the door, and Cynda, holding the salve pot, followed her.
Grinning, Morghe sidled past them. “Oh, no, Chieftainess. I promised Elian that I would take you there, and so I shall.”
Before either Gyan or Cynda could react, she slipped out of the room. As Gyan stepped into the corridor, she saw Morghe standing beside the next door in line, resting a hand on her hip.
Morghe said, in Breatanaiche, “Here are your quarters, Chieftainess Captive.”
“Excuse me. My Brytonic must not be as good as I thought it was. Did you say—”
“That your quarters are in here? Yes.” Humming, she bustled inside. For Cynda’s benefit, she switched to Caledonaiche. “Keep the salve. Use it or not, as you see fit. It should be quite safe.” She splayed the fingers she’d used to sample the salve. “See? These haven’t fallen off—yet.” This was followed by a burst of laughter.
Gyan laid hold of Morghe’s arm and said in Breatanaiche, “That’s not what I meant, Morghe.” Scowling, she folded her arms. “And I think you know it. Did you call me a captive?”
“Ah, that. Didn’t you know? Arthur has quite a distinguished collection of us here. Angusel, me…now you. Welcome to Tanroc Prison, my lady.” Chuckling, she tugged the door shut as she left the chamber.
Morghe must have been joking. And yet it made a certain amount of sense. If not a political prisoner, like Angusel, Gyan was a captive of her own destiny, forced into a marriage that was fated to be her doom, while the one man she did want to marry remained agonizingly out of reach. In stunned silence, she sank into the nearest chair.
“Gyan? You look like someone just stepped on your grave.” Gyan snorted but didn’t reply. “Your arm, my dove?”
She glanced down to see that she was absently stroking the bandage. In fact, her arm had begun to ache, resonating with the ache in her heart. Maybe her ill-conceived love for Arthur was nothing short of folly. Maybe his sister, so like him in a few ways yet so different in most others, had been thrown into Gyan’s path to remind her how futile were her hopes. And maybe, she thought glumly, residing at Port Dhoo-Glass with Urien wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
Chapter 17
THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned bright and fair. Despite the newness of the surroundings, Gyan had slept like the dead and woke feeling better than she had in many a sennight. A talk with Cynda helped her put her thoughts back into perspective. Gyan’s love for Arthur was neither futile nor ill-conceived, Cynda pointed out. Given the proper opportunity, that could all change. Armed with Cynda’s optimism, she resolved to be ready for such an opportunity, however long it might take to present itself to her. Meanwhile, on Cynda’s suggestion, she set about establishing the pattern of her daily routine, hoping to make it intricate enough to ease the pain of separation—from home, from kin, from clan, and especially from the man she loved.
After breaking fast, she took her sword and spear down to the training ground to practice her drills. Amidst the other warriors, she noticed Angusel, honing his martial skills under Elian’s supervision. She soon found herself watching with interest.
Angusel seemed remarkably strong for his age; he swung his sword as easily as though it were a stick. Yet inexperience was equally evident. With each stroke, his head betrayed his next attack. This common mistake often went unnoticed by the common opponent. Against an uncommon foe, it would be fatal.
Elian did not miss a parry and answered with staggering blows. It didn’t take long for the veteran to dump his pupil into the dust.
Gyan’s smile sprang to life in remembrance of the countless sessions with her father and brother that had ended with the same result. Although it had been a victory, the memory of her most recent match caused the smile to fade. Determined not to let these feelings overwhelm her, she set a brisk pace toward an unused practice post.
“Chieftainess!”
She halted and turned. Looking as if he were carrying half the dirt of the training ground with him, Angusel was hurtling toward her, sheathed practice sword jouncing against his leg. Elian was following at a more dignified pace, some distance behind him. As Angusel arrived, panting and beaming, she greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. “And good day to you, Angusel.”
Gyan didn’t think it was possible, but his grin widened. “Chieftainess, what did you think?”
“Of your match with Centurion Elian?” By this time, his mentor had joined them. She gave him a nod and returned her attention to Angusel. “You have strength and agility. I think
you show a lot of promise. But no lann-seolta—” For Elian’s benefit, she amended, “No blade-cunning, yet. You need to concentrate on your opponent’s elbow, not where you plan to strike next with your sword.” As disappointment began to cloud his features, she said, “I will demonstrate.” She drew her sword. “If you don’t mind, Centurion?”
“My pleasure, Chieftainess.” Elian glanced at Angusel, then at Gyan. “It’s something I’ve been trying to teach him for weeks. If you can pound it into his skull, my lady”—he gave Angusel’s head a good-natured scrubbing, to the lad’s laughing protest—“then more power to you.”
She explained to them the drill Ogryvan had used with her, which started with a short, simple series of prearranged thrusts and parries, to accustom the student to the idea of watching the opponent’s elbow and relying on peripheral vision for the rest. As the student’s aptitude increased, so did the length and complexity of the routine. Gyan and Elian performed the novice series, then she invited Angusel to try it against her. Though the drill looked awkward for him at first, she was pleased to note that he was a quick study. Before long, his head was scarcely moving at all, save to the rhythm of her sword arm’s movements.
“Very good, Angusel,” she declared. “Keep this up, and you’ll be besting the centurion here before you know it.” And one day, she predicted to herself with a smile, nigh unto everyone else to dare crossing swords with this young warrior.
“You really think so, my lady?” Angusel gazed at Gyan with undisguised admiration. “I can hardly wait. Let’s go another round!”
Elian laughed. “My demise can wait for another day, lad. It’s time to get ready for your lessons.”
“Aye, sir.” Angusel turned to Gyan. “My lady, may I escort you to the monastery? Show you around and introduce you to the brothers?”
“Excellent idea, Angusel,” Elian said. “After putting away your weapons, you can meet down at the boats.”
“And I can paddle us both over,” Angusel offered. “The tide can be tricky at this time of day.”
Gyan began to voice disagreement. After all, how would she ever learn the tides if someone else always managed the boat? Yet Angusel’s concern was charmingly sincere. She smiled her acceptance.
As she moved to follow Angusel to the living area, Elian drew her aside. “I’m glad you’re here, Chieftainess. It’s not easy for him, being alone among strangers.”
“I’m not exactly what you would call an old friend, either.”
“No? Well, I’ve never seen him happier. It was beginning to affect his studies, here”—his gesture encompassed the training ground—“and at St. Padraic’s.”
“I’ll be pleased to help any way I can, Elian.” Morghe’s comment came to mind, and she gave a rueful laugh. “If not for the betrothal clause in the treaty, I’d probably be in the same position.” That was the only fraction of the truth she dared to admit to Urien’s kinsman.
After returning to her quarters to leave her weapons and shield, she found her way down to the small inlet where the currachs were kept. Angusel, paddle in hand, was standing next to the two-person craft he’d selected for the short trip.
He floated the boat into the shallows and motioned her aboard. “You need to sit with a foot in each corner, my lady, for balance.”
When she was settled, he climbed in, facing her with his back against the opposite side. Runnels of seawater that had stowed away on their boots collected around their legs. While the water could not penetrate the tough leather leggings, the coldness did. She could not suppress a shiver.
“You did this all winter? Wasn’t it too cold?”
“Maybe a little, at first. I don’t feel it so much anymore.” He pushed the boat through the choppy waves with short, powerful strokes. “You’ll get used to it soon, my lady.”
Upon reaching the islet, they disembarked, and Angusel carried the craft across the finger-size beach to a popular stowing area, well above the tidemark. Several similar boats lay there, wicker-framed cowhide bottoms turned skyward like a conclave of sea turtles.
Angusel led Gyan up the path through the rocks toward the monastery.
Inside the perimeter of the earthen enclosure sat dozens of beehive-shaped, mud-daubed wattle huts that served as the monks’ sleeping quarters. Though far smaller, the huts bore a striking similarity to the Commons at Arbroch. She paused at the closest hut to run reverent fingertips over the rough red-brown wall. Everything seemed destined to remind her of what she’d left behind. A sigh escaped.
“Something wrong, my lady?” Angusel’s brow furrowed.
“I was just thinking.” As her hand fell away from the building, the smile she showed her companion hinted at her sadness. “About home.”
“I know how you feel,” he said quietly. “I think about it a lot too.” Turning his head, his gaze grew distant, and she realized he was looking northeast, toward Caledon.
She murmured, “Do you ever think about…him?” And could have bitten off her tongue for making such a stupid remark. Many more slips like that, she chided herself, and all Breatein would know how she felt.
“My lady?”
Trying to make her voice sound as brisk as possible, she said, “The man responsible for you being held captive here: the Pendragon.”
“Oh, him. Aye.” The fingers of his sword hand curled into a fist. “Do you think Caledon could have won at Abar-Gleann if we’d done anything differently?”
What a question! And only the One God knew the answer. She didn’t believe the Caledonach host had had much of a chance, based on what her father and brother had told her afterward. But for Angusel’s benefit, she said, “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
His fist clenched tighter. “Neither was I. Do you think if we—you and I—had fought—”
“Ha. Battles don’t hinge on the performance of individual warriors, despite what the storytellers would have us believe.”
Angusel stated quietly but firmly, “Someday, mine will.” To her surprise, she found herself believing him. His intensity died as he relaxed his fist and sighed. “But I suppose if I’d been in the Pendragon’s position, I’d have done the same thing. Taken hostages, I mean.” His expression grew thoughtful. “My lady, I know you had a practice match with him, but you did speak to him too, didn’t you? Did you ask him how much longer I have to stay here?”
“We spoke.” Ruthlessly, she suppressed the memories of those conversations and the feelings those memories elicited. “But the subject of your captivity never came up. I’m sorry.” In truth, it might have, if she hadn’t been so tightly focused upon her dilemma about Arthur and Urien, but she couldn’t admit that to Angusel. Instead, she said, “Arthur the Pendragon seems like a reasonable man.” Angusel snorted, but she refused to let that put her off. “I’m sure that if we—you, me, and all Caledon—prove that we can work with him rather than against him, he’ll set you free soon.” She harbored no illusions that her own “captivity” could end so easily, but for the lad’s sake, she hoped she was right. “Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban, are you willing to try?”
His grin flashed as bright as the morning sun. “If you are, Chieftainess, then so am I!”
She nodded her satisfaction with his answer. It was all she—or Arthur, for that matter—could ask of him.
Resuming their pace, they twisted through the unruly semicircle of huts toward the compound’s center. Once clear of the closely spaced sleeping quarters, they stopped beside a tall, intricately carved stone cross, one of many scattered throughout the compound. Angusel wrapped an arm around its tapered shaft, his ebony hair brushing the bottom of the cross’s nimbus as he began to point out the other buildings.
Beyond the last hut on their far left stood the flower-framed, whitewashed, thatched cottage where the abbot lived. The cottage’s nearest neighbors were the guesthouse and the square refectory where the brethren met for every meal. The livestock pens were hidden behind the refectory’s kitchen. Lowings and blea
tings and squeals and squawks announced the presence of at least a pair of cows and more than a few sheep, pigs, and chickens. Around the far side of the enclosure ranged storage sheds of various sizes.
Set against the earthen embankment, well apart from the other buildings, rose a wide, round, reddish stone tower showing a timber roof and three levels of slotted windows. This was the library and main study hall. To the right of the library stood a small apple orchard. The boughs were smothered with blossoms, delicately tinted like clouds at dawn. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the popularity of the place when the temptation of being outside on a fine summer afternoon became too great to resist.
At the center of the monastery, dwarfing every other structure except the tower, stood the church. Shaped like a cross, its timber-topped, ivy-clothed stone arms seemed to reach out to embrace Gyan and Angusel as they drew near.
Wisps of smoke curling from the kitchen’s chimneys and the faint sound of chants drifting through the church’s walls were the only signs of human habitation in the compound.
“The monks are all inside?”
“In their temple, aye, my lady. It’s midmorning prayer time for them.” They paused near the church’s rounded oaken doors. “I’d hoped they would be done by the time we got here.”
The chanting stopped, and the doors swung open. The black-robed monks poured quietly forth into the sunlight. Most of the monks greeted Angusel with friendly warmth, but the reaction to Gyan did not seem nearly as favorable.
“It’s because you’re a woman,” Angusel explained in a whisper after one particularly chilly reception. “Some of them still aren’t used to having women students. My friend Morghe studies here too. She’s probably in the library. Shall we go look?”
Gyan found it hard to believe Morghe could befriend anyone. Then again, it was equally hard to believe Angusel’s disposition could fail to sway even the toughest cynic. But rather than raise those issues with Angusel, she said, “I ought to meet the abbot first.” After the outcome of yesterday’s meeting, Morghe ferch Uther was the last person Gyan wanted to see, Urien included.
