Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  This morning on the battlement was entirely different. Gyan had seen the passion smoldering in the fiery blue depths of his eyes. In a moment of sheer folly, right in front of Urien, she had returned Arthur’s gaze, ember for burning ember. If Angusel hadn’t spoken up when he did…

  And she had paid for her indiscretion. Urien had thrown a hundred excuses at her to keep her within his sight all morning. Trivial matters, hardly worth her consideration. Finally, she’d taken enough penance and had escaped to her quarters with a plea of fatigue, which he had readily believed. She had recovered enough of her good sense to refrain from telling him that she needed to finish Arthur’s report.

  Now the half-done report lay before her. The completed portions had been copied to parchment. The tablet’s smooth ochre clay seemed to mock her, and the cold iron stylus felt like an alien thing between her fingers.

  Someone knocked. She glanced up, grateful for the distraction. Perhaps Arthur had heard her silent call. “Yes?”

  No.

  Centurion Marcus marched into the antechamber, halted in front of her work table, and gave her a respectful nod. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, the Pendragon wishes to speak with you as soon as possible at camp headquarters.”

  Not that again!

  “Please convey my regrets.” She gestured at the tablet and parchment. “As you can see, it will be quite impossible.”

  As the refusal passed her lips, she realized this might be her last opportunity to see Arthur before he left Maun. She was tempted to recant. But she needed to be alone with him, not ringed by his men.

  Disbelief cracked Marcus’s bearing. “My lady, no one refuses the Pendragon.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Centurion”—she slapped the ebony leather encasing her chest, her voice adopting an edge that was just as hard—“I do not wear a legion uniform. I am under no obligation to answer to anyone. Least of all your war-chieftain.” Palms flat on the tabletop, she pushed to her feet.

  “You can tell the Pendragon that if he has something to say to me, he can come here and say it.”

  Chapter 28

  CAI MADE NO attempt at stealth but marched the Herring Cohort boldly up the Dhoo valley toward Tanroc. The unit’s name had begun the day before as a joke when some soldiers selected for the relief operation realized that most of their companions had come to Maun smuggled in the fragrant bellies of the fishing boats. Yet it was fitting, and Cai encouraged it. He enjoyed a good laugh as well as the next man. Anything to foster a sense of unity among his troops was welcome, however unorthodox.

  To keep in step, Cai started the men to singing one of his favorite tavern tunes, “The Seven Saxon Sisters.” The rhyme wasn’t as good when swapping the nationality of the notorious wenches to match the foes the army was soon to engage, but the men didn’t seem to care. Voices were boisterously loud, if more than a little off-key, and spirits ran high, and the miles dropped quickly behind them.

  If the Scots could hear them coming from five miles off, so much the better. Their heightened fear as they awaited their deaths would be just payback for the terror they had inflicted upon the island.

  Cai didn’t have to look up to visualize what was riding on his spear point, or who had exacted that particular payment.

  Arthur certainly had strange tastes in women. The chieftainess was gorgeous but wild as the fabled bears of her homeland. If the Pendragon couldn’t tame her, no one could.

  He hoped Arthur had sense enough not to let himself get mauled.

  At the top of the rise overlooking the thorn-hedged fort, Cai halted the column. While the soldiers of the two “missing” centuries joined the formation, Cai surveyed the situation. Bedwyr’s warships were tacking into position around Tanroc and St. Padraic’s Island. Arrows swarmed like flies at a cattle fair. The ships in the strait took advantage of their position to rain death upon the Scots at the fortress as well as the monastery.

  As Cai and his men watched, the volleys from the monastery steadily dwindled and finally ceased as the Scots spent their ammunition. The ships pulled in to let the soldiers spill over the sides and wade ashore unhindered.

  Phase one was complete. Time for phase two: the fun part.

  Cai shoved the spear into the signifer’s free hand. Brandishing his double-headed battle-axe, he sounded the charge.

  The Herring Cohort lost a score of men to Scotti arrows as they burst through the thorny portals and streamed toward the charred palisade. They were met inside the fort compound by a band that could not have amounted to much more than a century. Though the would-be invaders faced overwhelming odds, they fought like mad dogs—until they began noticing their leader’s head. Then they threw down their weapons and surrendered.

  The encounter hadn’t taken long enough to work up a decent sweat. Yet casualties had been light. Arthur, no doubt, would be pleased.

  Now began phase three, the drudge work: organizing the incarceration and interrogation of the prisoners; dispatching men to search the buildings to make sure all the Scots had been captured, and to find Brytoni survivors; tending the wounded; collecting usable weapons and armor; detailing a burial crew to dispose of the bodies.

  In the midst of his planning, Cai looked up to see a plump, middle-aged woman exit a nearby building. She glanced around the compound, appearing to take in what had happened, and strode toward Cai with unswerving determination. Curiosity aroused, he ordered his men not to interfere with her approach.

  She stopped in front of Cai and the cohort’s signifer. She made a slashing motion across her throat, pointed up at the man’s grisly burden, and uttered one word: “Gyanhumara?”

  Cai nodded. The woman expelled a sigh that was heavy with relief.

  “SHE SAID what?” Arthur’s fist crashed to the tabletop. The cup rocked. Wine sloshed over the rim.

  Marcus winced. “Sir, she—I tried to explain—”

  Arthur relaxed his hand, snatched the cup, and drained it. “I’m sure you did.” When Marcus started toward the pitcher, Arthur waved him away. “I’m not angry with you.”

  The centurion looked relieved. “She’s a real fiery one, if I may say so, sir. General Cai thinks—”

  “I know what he thinks.” Arthur forced a smile.

  Cai thought she belonged under Urien’s thumb. Not that the Dalriadan could possibly hope to hold her there for very long.

  “Thank you, Marcus. Go on to the feast.” He picked up the stylus and reached for the tablet. “I will be along later.”

  Marcus nodded, saluted, and left. The tent flap fell closed behind him.

  Arthur laid the stylus aside and filled his cup, wishing it were something much stronger, like Abbot Kentigern’s uisge. After downing the wine in three swallows, he poured another cupful.

  A pox on that woman’s stubbornness! What did she think she was trying to prove? Perhaps he ought to let her marry Urien. She deserved whatever treatment he saw fit to give her.

  No. She did not.

  Her refusal to talk to him introduced a new element of risk. What of it? Merlin and Uther had trained him to deal with contingencies. Only a fool believed plans never went astray.

  All this meant was a prolonging of the charade. Perhaps he could exact a toll for her willfulness too. Nothing exorbitant, just enough to communicate his displeasure. He smiled as he finished the wine.

  Arthur pushed away from the table and crossed to where Caleberyllus lay sheathed at the foot of the cot. As he regarded the ruby, he considered bringing the weapon to the feast in case Urien decided to cause trouble.

  An absurd notion. Urien might be many undesirable things, but he was not an idiot.

  The Pendragon doused the lamp and headed for the tent flap.

  Hit by a shaft of waning sunlight, the great ruby flashed a warning. It went unheeded. Gloom swallowed the sword.

  GYAN PUT down the goose quill to flex cramping fingers. It was much easier to hold a sword. Easier to use one, for that matter, than to write about it.

 
At least the chore was finished.

  The stack of parchment sat before her, the words scrambling across each sheet like black ants. She considered rereading her work and quickly discarded the idea. There’d be time enough for that after the feast, she supposed. Given a choice, she wouldn’t be staying long.

  The aromas of roasting beef and pork had been haunting her nostrils throughout the better part of the afternoon. For the past hour, laughter and footsteps had filtered into the antechamber through the closed door as the other residents of the officers’ wing made their way to the feast hall. By now, the feast would be well under way.

  And Urien expected her to make an appearance.

  After removing her sword belt, she exchanged her leather leggings for the linen trews. The battle-tunic caught on the bandage, and fresh pain bolted through her arm. Wincing, she worked it the rest of the way off. The soft linen tunic settled around her body like a lover’s embrace.

  Because of her injury, Gyan had missed the first two nights of the victory celebration. Actually, she could have gone last night if she had wished. The injury provided a convenient excuse when the events of the day had left her feeling somewhat less than sociable. But after using the same ploy to escape Urien this morning, its usefulness was rapidly diminishing.

  Regret gnawed at her like a rat on a rope. Not about Urien—about having refused to see Arthur one last time. A public meeting under any circumstance was better than not being near him at all. Soon there would be no more opportunities. She banished that thought with a sigh.

  Surveying her gold-tinted image in a small bronze hand mirror unearthed from the bottom of the clothes chest, she decided to send for Cynda to help braid her unruly hair.

  She almost dropped the mirror.

  Cynda was still at Tanroc. If she was alive.

  To that specter of doubt Gyan refused to grant admittance. Losing the only mother she had ever known would mean losing a piece of her soul. The depth of that anguish she could scarcely begin to fathom.

  Gyan glanced at the sun, cursing her slow wits. Caius must have retaken the fort soon after the cohort’s arrival. Had the idea occurred sooner, she could have ridden to Tanroc and returned to Dhoo-Glass—with or without Cynda—in plenty of time for the feast. Now it was too late.

  Her sigh was born of exasperation as she recalled the previous morning’s conversation with Angusel, after Urien had left evidence of his true nature upon her arms.

  Too late. It seemed to be her personal watchword these days.

  News of Cynda would have to wait until the morrow. So be it. Worry had never hurried a single step of the sun’s dance, and it was not going to start having any effect now.

  Gyan returned her attention to the chest, where further exploration produced a bone comb. She smoothed the coppery waves as best she could.

  The bronze dragon crouched on the table, waiting. As her fingertips played across its cool body, she considered Urien’s possible reactions if she were to wear the belt at the feast. None would be favorable. She smiled.

  Her fingers found the belt’s fastenings with little trouble. Tugging the wrinkles from her tunic, she stepped from the room. As she descended the stone steps and started across the large central yard toward the feast hall, a figure burst from the doors and raced toward her.

  “Well met, Gyan.” Panting, Angusel took his usual place at her side. “I was sent to escort you to the feast.”

  This wrenched a short, dry laugh from her throat. “By Urien, I suppose?”

  He nodded. “Arthur’s there too.” This was accompanied by a crooked grin. “Both of them were asking for you.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Of course, Arthur would be at the feast. It was his victory. How stupid of her not to have realized this sooner! Quickening her pace to give herself less chance to change her mind, she revised her thoughts about being with Arthur in public. With the two men present—and both of them roaring mad at her—this was one feast she was not looking forward to attending.

  Hoping Angusel would think nothing of it, she switched topics. “What were you doing there? Aren’t you supposed to be eating with the other boys?”

  “Since General Cai’s cohort is gone, they let us join the feast. Me, I’m done eating.” He shrugged. “For now, at least.”

  “Good.” This was one time she would not have traded his company for all the gold in Caledon. Nor, she suspected, would it be the last. “You shall be my cupbearer.”

  Caledonach men and women feasted together, served by the adolescent warriors. To be cupbearer for the clan’s leaders was a highly coveted honor that sparked vigorous competition. Thus, Angusel’s exuberant gratitude was not unexpected.

  At the feast hall’s double doors, she paused, lowering her voice. “Make sure my wine is well watered, Angus. I don’t need my wits to be any slower than they already are.”

  He began to ask what she meant, but she dragged open one of the doors and stepped inside. The door thundered shut behind them, prompting a few revelers to look up. As more faces turned their way, Angusel abandoned the question.

  Unconcerned by the attention, Gyan surveyed the thatched, timber-raftered hall. To her far left, the side entrance leading to the kitchens was recognizable by the steady flow of women through the open doorway, bearing platters and vessels of various sizes. More women circulated among the tables, replenishing food and drink as the need arose. Mostly drink.

  Tables and benches formed long ranks before the dais, which stood at the end of the hall farthest from the kitchens. One central and two side aisles permitted movement between the rows.

  Gyan’s appearance in the center aisle prompted a commotion at the dais. Flagons and trenchers were shoved aside. Bodies shifted along the bench to open a gap between Arthur and Urien. Marvelous, she thought dismally.

  Both men glared at her as if they wanted to settle their hands around her throat. The idea of fleeing crossed her mind. No. That was the coward’s way. Besides, what could either of them do to her in front of all these people?

  Unfortunately, just about anything.

  She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and strode toward the dais. Like a shadow, Angusel quietly followed.

  Her passage between the tables drew stares conveying an array of emotions, from lustful leering to sincere friendliness, through casual indifference to outright dislike: all because she was a woman.

  At feasts, Breatanach women did not eat with the men, they served them. Even now, more than one suffered the indignity of a playful slap to the backside. The officers at the high table did not engage in the same bawdy behavior exhibited by their men, but most of them watched in tolerant—and often vociferous—amusement.

  This was one Breatanach custom Gyan could not stomach, and no small effort had inured the Tanroc men to her presence at the feasting table. If their conduct and conversation became a wee bit more refined, then the change she had wrought was assuredly for the better.

  The soldiers assigned to Port Dhoo-Glass were familiar with her habit and didn’t appear overly concerned. To the Caer Lugubalion contingent, it was an unwelcome novelty. The only Breatan not assigned to the Manx Cohort who didn’t seem put off by her presence was the fleet commander. In fact, Bedwyr was the only officer seated on the dais who looked genuinely pleased to see her. She returned his smile as she neared the high table.

  Urien pushed to his feet. The noise in the hall began to die.

  “Well, Gyanhumara, have you finally come to do your duty?” Urien smirked. “I’m sure everything must taste sweeter when served by your lovely hand.”

  A sharp intake of breath told her that Angusel was reacting to the insult. “Let me handle this, Angus,” she murmured, in Caledonaiche. She displayed a mischievous grin. In Breatanaiche, she retorted loudly, “Not as sweet as from yours, Urien.”

  The hall erupted into a cacophony of howls, hoots, and screeches, mingled with the thumping of fists on tabletops. A storm gathered on Urien’s face as he readied
his next barb, but Arthur intervened. As the Pendragon rose, silence descended.

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Urien.” He leveled his piercing gaze at Gyan. Anyone else would have instantly knelt, babbling for forgiveness, even if there was nothing to forgive. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara attends no man.”

  Before she could stop him, Angusel stepped forward. “True, my lord! Among Caledonians, women of high rank do not serve anyone. I have the honor of being Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s cupbearer this night. And to serve everyone at the high table if she commands it.” He glanced at Gyan, who returned his look with a nod and a smile.

  “Well spoken, Angusel.” Arthur extended a hand. “Come, Chieftainess. Your place awaits.”

  “Yes. On my left, my love.” There was no love in Urien’s tone. “Where a wife-to-be belongs.”

  And that was only the beginning. Between Arthur’s subtle verbal thrusts and Urien’s beneath-the-table assaults on her near thigh, it was a worse nightmare than any ever to attack from behind shuttered lids.

  Angusel performed his task admirably well; she scarcely tasted the wine. Her eyes and nose told her there was roast pork and partridge on her trencher, surrounded by carrots, leeks, and bread. But for all the difference it made to her tongue, the food may as well have been dust.

  Enough was bloody well enough! She rose. As she twisted to climb over the bench, a hand locked around her wrist.

  “Surely you’re not leaving us so soon, my dear?” asked Urien. “The entertainment is due to begin.”

  Overcoming the urge to put her meat knife where it would do the most good, she replied, “I’m not hungry.” She refrained from pointing out that he had been having his entertainment the entire time, at her expense.

  “What a pity, Chieftainess. Perhaps your wound troubles you.” Arthur beckoned to his sister, who had been attending the dais with Angusel. Morghe glided forward, all smiles. “Morghe, accompany Chieftainess Gyanhumara to her quarters, and—”