by Headlee, Kim
“Do yourself a favor, Cai. Keep your counsel—and your women—to yourself.”
After Arthur left, and Cai’s heartbeat returned to a more normal pace, he swung his legs onto the cot and reclined on his elbows to stare at the canvas ceiling. He felt a grin spread across his face.
Poor Urien. Against lust of that magnitude, he stood a beggar’s chance in a whorehouse.
ANGUSEL WAS chatting with the guards outside the main entrance of the officers’ quarters when the doors crashed open. The guards snapped to attention as Urien stormed past. He did not bother to answer their salutes but struck off in the direction of the waterfront.
“Commander’s in a fine fettle.” One guard smirked as he eyed Urien’s dusty progress. “Wonder what’s got ’im started. A bit early for a nip, wouldn’t ye say?”
Grinning broadly, the other guard shook his head. “Never. If ye can afford it, that is. Aye, laddie?” He looked toward where their companion should have been. The place was empty.
Angusel dashed down the long corridor toward Gyan’s chambers, the ache in his knee overwhelmed by the desire to make sure she was all right. He found the door and knocked. When that prompted no response, he turned the handle and gave a tentative push. The door yielded.
“Gyan?”
Arms wrapped across her chest, she was standing at the window, staring out to sea. But for the slight shifting of her shoulders as she breathed, she might have been carved in marble.
He crossed the tiled anteroom floor to join her. She made no move to acknowledge his presence. Her face was composed, emotionless, except her eyes. They glistened with unshed tears.
“Gyan, what did he do to you?”
She lowered her arms. The bandage on her sword arm showed a line of fresh blood. Below it spread a hand-shaped red blotch. One just like it marred her other arm.
“That maiden-plowing dog-pig! I’ll kill him!” His hand was at his hip before he remembered he was unarmed.
“No. You will not.” Her gaze fell upon him like autumn mist, mourning herald of winter. “I will not have your blood on my hands.”
“You don’t think I could win?” As he thought about his fight with the herdsman, a man who’d outweighed him by at least four stones, her apparent lack of confidence hit him like a blow.
She clutched his shoulders. “Another day, another year, perhaps. Not today. I’ve sparred with him. He could have easily beaten me, but he always let me win.” Her hands fell away, and she turned back to the window. When at last she spoke again, it was with words so soft that Angusel had to strain to catch them. “I should have refused the betrothal. Now…it’s too late.”
“Nay, Gyan! You can break it off! You must.”
Her unbound hair whispered across her shoulders as she shook her head. “Whether I marry Urien or not, it doesn’t matter. The treaty that made you hostage decreed that I marry a Breatanach chieftain or chieftain’s son. The man I love is the—” Her chin began to tremble, and she clenched her jaw. “Does not qualify.”
Blinking in astonishment, he waited for her to continue. When no revelation of the man’s identity came, he quested through memories for clues.
Centurion Elian? Unlikely. They were never together except on the practice field, where mutual admiration of each other’s fighting skills was the only emotion they shared. Besides, Elian was older than her father. Not that age seemed to matter to some women; Angusel’s mother, for one, and what an embarrassment she could be.
He thanked all the gods that he couldn’t imagine Gyan and Elian in a more intimate setting. But who, then? Her tutor, Brother Lucan? Or maybe someone she’d left behind at Arbroch?
“Angusel, I’d like to be alone. Please. Why don’t you talk to someone about joining the Tanroc relief column?”
“Will you go to Tanroc too?”
“Ha. With this?” Her fingers flicked across the bandage. “You saw how I can barely lift a sword, much less use one.”
“Then I won’t, either. My place is here. With you.”
She stared at him for so long, he was sure she was on the verge of sending him away. He held his ground.
At last, a soft smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Angus. You’re a great help.” She held up an open-palmed hand. “But I must deal with Urien myself. Do you understand?”
“Nay.” He glanced pointedly at the blotches. “I swore to protect you, and you’re asking me to break my oath already.”
“You swore to act in my best interests. There may come a day when that will mean protecting me. Not today.”
“If you won’t let me fight for you, at least let me stay with you.” He ventured a hopeful smile. “Please, Gyan?”
“You win.” Ruffling his hair, she returned the smile. “Let’s get away from here for a while. I could do with a change of scene.”
They never made it to the stables. On the way out of the building, they were intercepted by one of Arthur’s officers.
“Ah, Chieftainess, well met. The Pendragon would like a word with you.”
As Angusel watched a spark ignite in her eyes, an idea began to form.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“At camp headquarters, my lady.”
“Good. Angusel and I are on our way out for a ride. I will meet with Arthur upon our return.”
The centurion frowned. “My lady, he indicated that the matter was of some importance.”
“What could be so important that it can’t wait an hour or two?” The centurion spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “Oh, very well. Angus, do you mind if we ride later?”
“Nay, as long as I can go with you to the camp.”
She laughed. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“My lady,” interjected the officer, “he can stay outside the tent while you’re talking with the Pendragon.”
“Then can we stop by the kitchens first?” asked Angusel. “If this is going to take very long, I want to be prepared!”
The centurion chuckled. “Just like my nephew, always wanting to eat. You’re of an age too, you and Drustanus.” Nodding, he eyed Angusel closely. “Yes, lad, we have time for a stop at the kitchens. A quick one.”
In due course, the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll set off for the Pendragon’s camp headquarters, accompanied by his aide, who introduced himself as Centurion Marcus. Angusel, a loaf of bread in one fist and a hunk of goat’s cheese in the other, tagged happily behind them.
AS ARTHUR read Urien’s report of the battle, he curled his free hand around the table edge in a conscious effort to keep from smashing the tablet to rubble. The report was a bloody disgrace. Poor grammar aside, the events were not described in chronological—or any other type of logical—order. Worse, Urien failed to present an acceptable reason for his foray against the Scotti camp. Rescuing Gyanhumara was not justification enough against those odds, on the enemy’s terms. If not for the timely arrival of the reinforcements, Urien and his men would be glutting the ravens. And Gyanhumara…
No. Such thoughts were useless. She was safe. That was all that mattered.
He glanced past the open tent flap at the long shadows of the guards outside and muttered an oath under his breath. This won an amused look from Cai, who was lounging in a camp chair, feet outstretched, casually paring his fingernails with his dagger.
“Have patience, Arthur. They will be here soon.”
The “they” Cai most likely was referring to—the centurions assigned to the Tanroc relief cohort—was not the “they” Arthur most wanted to see. If only Gyanhumara would get here first. Marcus could be dismissed easily enough, and Cai was good at taking a hint. Then Arthur would really have something to talk to her about beyond the paltry excuses he had fashioned to see her.
The sound of shod feet crunching across the sand outside the tent broke his reverie. He looked up as eight men trooped in. A ninth centurion followed them: Marcus, with Gyanhumara. Angusel too, although Marcus made him wait outside.
The lad appeared to be sin
cere in his loyalties. Most interesting.
But so much for wishes. Trying to get rid of the men would be too awkward. And too bloody obvious!
Arthur rose to approach Gyanhumara, who had made her way to the forefront of the gathering. As much as he wanted to prolong her presence here, there was no need for her to sit through his meeting with the leaders of the relief force. Even to ask would send a silent message he was not yet prepared to support with words or deeds.
He was smitten anew by her exotic beauty, made all the more alluring by the strength radiating from her proud stance. Even her blue doves had become dear to him. The other tattoo, no. But if Arthur had his way, its meaning would soon be changing. He wanted nothing more than to fold her to his breast, and a pox on what everyone else thought.
Logic prevailed. First, Urien would have to be persuaded to give up Gyanhumara and take Morghe to wife instead. How that was going to happen, Arthur had no idea. Of the options he’d considered, none seemed promising. And no one else could help him.
With a supreme effort of will, Arthur banished all emotion from his tone. “Thank you for coming, Chieftainess.”
“How may I be of service, Lord Pendragon?”
So coldly formal, so utterly correct. If word of this meeting reached Urien’s ears, he would have no cause for suspicion. Just as well. Surprise could be a useful tactic in any situation.
“I would ask two favors of you.”
Her eyes widened slightly. What in God’s name was she expecting? An open declaration of his love? He would gladly proclaim it from the parapets if he thought it would help. Unfortunately, that action would spawn far more harm than good.
Arthur said, “The first favor is in support of the Tanroc relief operation, which General Caius will be leading.” He spared a glance for Cai, who inclined his head toward the chieftainess. Cai’s frosty look appeared to border on outright dislike. This seemed odd coming from a man who worshipped mortal women more ardently than he worshipped any deity. That too was just as well; Urien was competition enough. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, may I have the loan of General Niall’s head for Caius to take with him to Tanroc?”
“Certainly, Lord Pendragon. I’ll send someone over with it as soon as I can.” She paused as though debating whether to say something else. An offer to deliver the head herself, perhaps? But no, as badly as he wanted to see her alone, he knew it wouldn’t be proper. Doubtless, she knew it too.
How could she stand there acting so calm, so reserved? Couldn’t she hear his heart thrashing about, trying to get nearer to her?
She asked, “And the other favor?”
What was that light shimmering in the depths of her sea-green eyes? Hope? Desire? Before he could decide, it flickered out.
Again, he fought the impulse to pull her into an embrace. The margin of victory was shrinking with each bout.
“Could you please give me a written account of your involvement in the Scotti invasion, especially of what happened before my arrival? Centurion Marcus can be your scribe.”
“No need for that,” she replied, “if you don’t mind the report being written in Brytonic. At present, my skill with Latin is limited.”
“Brytonic?” Would this woman ever run out of surprises? Probably not, and it made him love her all the more. Reluctantly, he buried the emotion before it could touch his face. “Brytonic will be fine.”
She nodded tersely. “Is that all, Lord Pendragon?”
He wanted to shout, “No!” and fasten his lips to hers, to unleash the passion she had ignited within him. But the voice of reason echoed coldly through the corridors of his brain.
Instead, he answered quietly, “Yes.” He refrained from adding, “For now.”
At his signal, the centurions stepped aside to let her through. As she turned to leave, a patch of afternoon sunlight streaming through the tent opening fell upon her arm.
“Chieftainess, wait. Those bruises—you didn’t have them yesterday. Where did they come from?”
“I had an argument with…someone. It’s nothing that need concern you.”
It wasn’t hard to guess who that “someone” was, and by God’s holy wounds, it most certainly did concern him! Betrothed or not, the bastard had no right to treat her like that. Urien would pay even if it took Arthur’s final breath.
A plan gelled. It carried plenty of risks, but the best treasures were never won without them. His only lack was an opportunity.
It was all he could do to keep the triumph from his voice as he replied, “I see.”
She stepped out of the tent and was gone. As Arthur watched Angusel bound excitedly at her side like a colt frisking around its dam, he would have given his right arm to be in the lad’s place.
THE FOLLOWING dawn broke upon the ranks of the relief troops, formed up and ready to march, outside the gates of Port Dhoo-Glass. General Niall’s head glared balefully from a spear carried by General Caius. The two halves of the Scáthinach Silver Wolf banner were tied to the spearshaft, its torn edges fraying in the early-morning breeze. Beside Caius stood the cohort’s standard-bearer, in whose hand the gold-framed Scarlet Dragon fretted and writhed. The soldiers’ faces were tilted toward the parapet beside the gate tower where the Pendragon stood. His heart-stirring voice arrowed out to meet them.
Gyan’s irritation grew as she felt herself coming under the sway of his exhilarating encouragement. The words did not apply to her; the injury to her sword arm had left her no choice.
She had donned her battle-gear, but only for show. Rubbing the bandage, she wished she were standing with the men to receive Arthur’s bellicose benediction instead of being on the wall with him, all but chained to Urien’s side.
Angusel’s presence on her shield side was some comfort. Although he would be missing combat experience, she was grateful that he had rejected the idea of joining the relief cohort.
Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword. The ribbed bronze sphere, cool against her palm, did little to fight the heat raging in her veins. Was it only battle lust? Or was the sight of Arthur in his gleaming ceremonial gear igniting a fire of a wholly different type?
She wasn’t sure she could live with her heart’s answer…or without it.
“And so you have been given another chance to avenge the valiant deaths of your comrades by punishing the Scotti marauders. Acquit yourselves this day with courage and honor”—Caleberyllus was a silver blaze in Arthur’s fist—“and the victory will be yours!”
General Caius permitted the men a few moments’ undisciplined appreciation before shouting the marching order. As one, the cohort spun to put the rising sun to their backs and surged forward with barely leashed enthusiasm.
WHILE THE Chieftainess of Clan Argyll, the Pendragon, and the heir of Clan Móran watched the departing troops, Angusel of Clan Alban eyed the three warriors.
He earnestly hoped Arthur was the man who had won Gyan’s heart. The Pendragon was much worthier of being her consort. If only she could see it too, and send the Dailriatanach pig back to Dùn At where he belonged.
After the column disappeared up the winding river valley, Arthur sheathed his sword and turned to leave the parapet. His eyes met Gyan’s with profound intensity. Hers seemed to draw his gaze in and reflect it back with their steady power. Angusel could almost see the sparks fly to embrace each other across the gap. It proved his suspicions and made him want to cheer.
Angusel glanced at Urien, whose eyes were generating their own sparks. Urien’s hand began to twitch toward his sword hilt.
As in the instant before a lightning strike, Angusel fancied that he could feel the hairs lifting from his head. He had to do something about the crackling tension before the bolt hit.
Donning what he hoped was his most endearing grin, he reached for Gyan’s hand. “Come on, Gyan.” He gave it a firm tug. “Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starved!”
GYAN OBSERVED the bustling wharfside activity from the window in her antechamber late that afternoon with un
shakable depression. The captured vessels were moored at the Dhoo-Glass docks, being readied for the return to Caer Lugubalion.
She cocked her head as an odd question struck her: when had she begun thinking of that fortress in the Breatanach way?
The Scarlet Dragon tied to the top of each mast of the crimson-rigged Scáthinach ships snapped the answer.
Sighing, she returned her attention to the scene below.
There was a hypnotic rhythm to it all. An unceasing parade of workers toted barrels and crates to each ship, stowed their burdens in wolf-headed prow or stern, and came away flexing empty arms. Breatanach crewmen swarmed over every oaken handspan, eyes sharp for evidence of enemy treachery: a cracked oar, a missing treenail, a half-severed rope, a slashed sail, a hidden hole in the hull. Though it was serious work, the men bore it with high spirits begotten of the knowledge that they were soon going home. Snatches of their jaunty tunes and vulgar jokes and coarse laughter sailed on the salty breeze.
It appeared to Gyan that the warships would be ready to depart on the morning tide, and one of them would be carrying Arthur.
With another sigh, she sank into the chair behind her desk. Fingering the stylus, she dragged the clay tablet toward her and resumed the task of composing her account of the Scáthinach invasion and the Battle of Dhoo-Glass.
The writing was not going well. Finding the proper words was not the problem; Arthur’s face kept intruding upon all other memories, rendering concentration impossible.
Under the circumstances, she might not have bothered with writing anything, but he had asked for her report. Not commanded, asked, just as he had asked for the loan of Niall.
That interview with Arthur the previous afternoon had been monstrously difficult. His headquarters tent had been crawling with legion officers. Her feelings toward the Pendragon were not the business of his men. She’d retreated behind a wall of aloofness, and she had been unable to discern anything from Arthur.
