Morning's Journey (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 2)

by Headlee, Kim

  Ælferd’s throat went dry, and he clenched his fists to keep from touching his neck. He drained his goblet, but the wine had lost its allure.

  “I am well aware of the distance, Ælferd, along with the cost in men, supplies, and time.” That damned itch attacked Ælferd’s forehead again, and he resisted the urge to claw the band from his head. Avarice flashed across Cissa’s face as he explained, “This operation will give me a strategic base for launching attacks against the Brædeas of West Brædæn, the Ærish of Æren, and”—avarice transformed to malice—“against this upstart whore’s bastard, Arthur, who has the gall to style himself Dragon-King of Brædæn.”

  With the formidable Riothamus dead these past two decades, Armorica would make an easier and far more sensible objective, but Ælferd dared not voice his opinion.

  What the King of the West Saxons craved, he always obtained. And the son of Wlencing vowed to do all within his power to satisfy that craving.

  A FAMILIAR pealing echoed in Dafydd’s ears, shattering his dreams and continuing long after he’d opened his eyes. Too long after. The matins bell rang only twelve times, and this had to be, what—eighteen, nineteen, twenty? He hadn’t heard such a clamor since…

  He jerked upright, perspiration beading his brow.

  Lord God in heaven, not another invasion!

  He threw on his outer robe, pulled up the hood, slipped into his sandals, and hurried outside as the other conical, mud-daubed wattle sleeping chambers disgorged their residents. The entire time, he strained to hear the ominous sounds he and the rest of the monks knew all too well, but he could discern nothing beyond that incessant ringing.

  At last, mercifully, it stopped. As he wandered about with the others in sleep-hazed confusion, a pair of brethren appeared and directed the crowd toward the abbot’s house.

  The bell’s summons made sudden, dreadful sense.

  And Abbot Lir had yet to announce a successor for his duties as overseer of the monastery, the library, the brethren and students, and one of the holiest relics in Christendom.

  Head bowed as he trudged in the silent file, he earnestly prayed for Father Lir and his successor.

  Near the abbot’s house, the line lost cohesion as brothers coalesced into quiet groups of three or four.

  Dafydd, as the newest member of this community of faith, though not the newest in this type of service to the Lord, chose to stand apart. Grief for Father Lir’s condition resurrected his grief for his children. Scotti invaders had killed his daughter, Mari, scant weeks ago. His infant son, Samsen, had succumbed to illness half a year before that. He pressed a hand to his moist eyes.

  A soft, familiar hand slipped into his. He opened his eyes to see Katra standing beside him, concern and questions graven upon her face. Their only surviving child, twelve-year-old Dafydd the Younger, stood solemnly beside her. The elder Dafydd surmised they’d heard the bell from their quarters in the monastery’s guesthouse. He circled his arms around his wife, and she laid her cheek against his chest.

  “Father Lir?” she whispered. “Is—is he—”

  Unable to trust his voice, he shrugged.

  “Brother Dafydd?” Katra stepped back to make room for Brother Stefan, master of the library and students. Stefan pointed toward the door of the abbot’s house with his cane. “He wants to see you.” Beneath Stefan’s customary gruffness ran a current of envy and disbelief.

  Queasiness troubled Dafydd’s stomach. Glancing at Katra and their son, then at Brother Stefan, he asked, “May they come, too?”

  Stefan nodded, turned, and hobbled toward the house.

  Dafydd followed, with Katra and young Dafydd a pace behind him.

  Light escaped through cracks and knotholes in the cottage’s shutters. Moonbeams gave its whitewashed stone walls a ghostly gleam. He shook his head to dispel the association. A quick squeeze of his wife’s hand helped to reaffirm his grip on reality, and together they followed Brother Stefan inside.

  The abbot’s table, chairs, and sideboard appeared in good condition but of a modest design. A braided rug of undyed wool covered half the floor. A bank of candles illuminated the crucifix nailed to one wall.

  Embroidered pillows piled on a bench beneath the window offered the only touch of luxury. Their sun-blanched colors made Dafydd wonder how long ago they’d been made, and by whom. The abbot’s mother, a sister, or…wife? The Church of Brydein preferred her servants to remain free of worldly concerns but encouraged them to marry if the yearnings of the flesh burned too hotly.

  He quelled his curiosity as he watched Stefan approach the bedchamber door to rap upon it with the tip of his cane.

  The infirmarer opened the door. Dark shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. The infirmarer shared a glance with Stefan, frowning, and gave a brief shake of his graying head. Stefan responded with a terse nod. Pulling the door open wider, the infirmarer beckoned everyone into the room.

  The only light emanated from a pair of candles, each sitting atop a small table to either side of the bed. The abbot’s sleeping chamber was furnished much like the other monks’ quarters, only square rather than round, which provided more room between the bed and the walls. Into this space crowded the infirmarer, Katra, Dafydd, and their son. Stefan, grunting and leaning heavily on his cane, eased to his knees at Father Lir’s side. Head bent, Stefan gently grasped the abbot’s withered hand and pressed it to his forehead, his shoulders trembling.

  Grateful that everyone else’s attention centered upon the supine figure, Dafydd wasn’t sure how much longer he could control his reaction to the sight of Father Lir’s sallow, emaciated face and shrunken frame barely elevating the coverlet. Memories assailed him of the abbot’s kindness since Dafydd’s arrival on Maun, months before he’d renewed his vows.

  His heart clenched.

  “Stefan. Is he here?” The whisper crackled like a handful of dead leaves.

  “Yes, Father, but I still think—”

  “I know.” The abbot’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “I have ever valued your counsel, my son, and your faithful service.” His voice sounded stronger. He disengaged his hand from Stefan’s to beckon to Dafydd. “But this time, you do not know all the facts.”

  Dafydd’s queasiness intensified. Facts? What facts? He, Dafydd, possessed no aptitude for administrative tasks. He could no sooner assume Father Lir’s position than sprout wings and fly. He didn’t even have command of his feet to obey the abbot’s unspoken request.

  Stefan said, “Forgive me, Father. I mean no disrespect. But I—that is, when Quintus died, I thought—”

  “You thought you’d take his place as my successor. In truth, you would have.” Father Lir’s eyes fluttered closed. When he opened them, he looked squarely at Dafydd. “If not for our newest brother.”

  Surprise propelled him forward. He knelt on the opposite side of the bed. “Father Lir, I—” He shook his head in wonder. “I am honored, of course.” Katra gave him an encouraging smile. To the abbot, he said, “But I’m too new to this community. I know too little about its workings. I—I can’t—”

  “Hush, my son.” Father Lir laid an alarmingly cold hand on Dafydd’s cheek. “God knows your weaknesses and delights in using them so that His power and glory may be manifest to all.” The hand fell away. “He also knows your strengths. Including your shepherd’s heart.”

  True, Dafydd thought with a brief smile. During his decade as a slave at Arbroch, it had been his pleasure to serve the Lord by tending to the spiritual needs of the other Brytoni slaves. It also had been a blessed joy to lead one of their Caledonian captors to a saving faith in Christ.

  The rest of Caledonia might be ignorant of the Way, but he hoped Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s conversion would prove to be a fruitful start.

  One thing, however, he couldn’t fathom. “I can see becoming abbot in perhaps ten years, but why now? The monastery, the school, the Chalice…Father, won’t everyone think I’m too inexperienced?”

  “Undoubtedl
y.” The abbot locked gazes with Stefan, who frowned and looked down. Father Lir turned luminous eyes upon Dafydd. “Those who would disagree with my decision, even yourself”—Dafydd winced at the truth of the abbot’s assessment—“have no choice but to accept it. Your appointment was foretold to me.”

  Stefan’s head lifted. “Foretold?”

  “Decades ago.” Father Lir’s gaze seemed miles away. “By Bishop Padraic of blessed memory.” He focused upon Stefan, another ghostly grin bending his lips. “You do remember him, don’t you, my son?”

  Stefan snorted. “What did he tell you? This man’s name? The date and manner of his arrival? The number of hairs on his head?”

  Disapproval invaded Father Lir’s expression. “Envy and pettiness have no place in the heart of any servant of our Lord, Stefan.” Chastened, Stefan nodded. Father Lir said, “Padraic prophesied that I would know my successor by his mark of service.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I confess to you all”—by the deliberate way his head turned, Dafydd realized Father Lir was including Dafydd’s wife and son, as well as the infirmarer—“that I had no idea what he meant. Not until I saw…” He lifted a trembling hand to point at Dafydd, who understood and adjusted the neckline of his robe to bare his neck. “That.” The hand dropped.

  Stefan’s eyes widened and narrowed as he studied the scar left by Dafydd’s iron slave collar. “Father, you never told anyone of this prophecy. Again, I mean no disrespect, but how do we know—”

  “That I’m not making it up? That I haven’t taken leave of my senses? That this isn’t some plot of the evil Adversary to bring ruin to the monastery and the Chalice?” The thin smile returned. “You don’t. You must take it on faith.” Pursing his lips, Father Lir bobbed his head slowly. “Just as I must take it on faith that my appointment of Brother Dafydd will cause no divisions after my passing.”

  The master of the library and students regarded Dafydd. Finally, Stefan shook his head and extended a hand across Father Lir’s chest. “If this is your will, Father, I am not the man to oppose it.”

  Dafydd couldn’t tell whether the remark had been directed at Father Lir or their heavenly Father. Either way, Stefan’s statement heartened him, and he clasped the hand that had waged war in the earthly as well as the spiritual realms for more than half a century. Stefan had a firm, honest grip that Dafydd hoped would signify an equally firm and honest pledge of support.

  The abbot laid both ancient, leathery hands on theirs. “Not my will, my sons, but the Lord’s.” His voice caught, and he gave a rattling cough. “May He guide your steps and guard your ways…Dafydd and Stefan and all who serve Him here…” Father Lir closed his eyes and sighed. Dafydd blinked away tears to look closely at the abbot. The aged eyes opened, but they seemed focused inward. “Listen…ah, listen to that glorious chorus…” A beatific smile spread across Father Lir’s face. His eyes glazed.

  Dafydd bowed his head to the coverlet. Katra laid a hand lightly upon his shoulder, but he didn’t have the will to look up.

  No prayers would come.

  In his mind, he saw an image of a vigorous young man: Father Lir in his youth, Dafydd had no doubt. Brilliant light flared around him as he stood arm in arm with a lovely young woman, both being greeted by two beaming children, a girl and a boy.

  A gasp of recognition lodged in Dafydd’s throat.

  The girl could be none other than his beloved Mari, which meant the boy—if this were a true vision and not some devilish trick—portrayed the glorified form of his baby son, Samsen.

  Desperately, he tried to keep sight of his precious children and the man who’d become as dear to him as his earthly father.

  The dimming vision wrung his heart.

  The new abbot of St. Padraic’s Monastery and Keeper of the Chalice heard no voices, no heavenly chorus…nothing but the sounds of his own grief. Yet for the brief, blessed vision he remained supremely thankful.

  Chapter 5

  SEATED BEHIND THE table in his private workroom, Arthur watched Gyan as she scanned the scouting report, her brow wrinkled and lips pursed. The report was written in Latin, and he wondered if she would request his help with the translation.

  Clutching the dispatch, she strode to the wall covered by the tapestry-size map of Brydein. Burned onto deer hide, the map showed the isles of Hibernia, Mona, Maun, Vectis, and the land belonging to Dalriada and Caledonia, in addition to the larger island of Brydein. Brytons held Mona, Maun, and the western half of Brydein as far north as the Antonine Wall; Caledonians lived even farther north; Scots and Attacots divided control of Hibernia; Angles, Frisians, and Jutes occupied central and eastern Brydein; and, entrenched in the south, thanks to the long-dead Brytoni warlord Vortigern, Saxons.

  Fists on hips, Gyan gazed at the map. Finally, she turned toward Arthur. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Saxons have taken Anderida, and—”

  “Translating the dispatch wasn’t hard.” The parchment rattled as she waved it impatiently. “You would not have held my ship unless you thought this news represented a threat.” She laid the dispatch on a side table and folded her arms, smiling smugly.

  “You’re right.” He found himself missing her keen insight already. With a sigh, he rose from behind the table to join her in front of the map. “The Saxons may launch an attack on Maun.”

  Her smile deepened. “You’ve gone mad.” She jabbed a finger at the inkblot representing Dun Eidyn, in northern Angli territory, the closest enemy-held fortress to Arthur’s eastern outposts. Less than three years before, it had belonged to the Brytons. At Dun Eidyn, Arthur had lost his father, gained command of the remnant of the legion, and inherited a powerful foe in a single spear-cast. “There lies your greatest threat.”

  He couldn’t deny her assessment. The Angli occupation of Dun Eidyn and their role in Uther’s death, coupled with the maddening fact that Arthur didn’t yet possess the military might to address this problem on his own terms, pricked like a bur under the saddle. Beneath the desire to protect his fellow Brytons, swift and cold as a snow-swollen river, coursed thirst for vengeance upon that Angli bastard, King Colgrim.

  Ruthlessly, he fought off that temptation. He’d be a fool to engage the Angli without assurance of victory.

  Silently wishing circumstances could be otherwise, he said, “Colgrim has been quiet. No large troop movements, just a few border skirmishes and raids. Nothing Loth can’t handle by himself.” Not that he believed his proud brother-by-marriage would ever request his assistance, even if the Angli laid siege to Dunpeldyr itself, though for the sake of Annamar and their children, Arthur earnestly hoped Loth would exercise good judgment, should the worst come to pass.

  “A Saxon invasion of Maun would require a tremendous undertaking.” She traced a line from the port of Anderida into the Narrow Sea, around the tip of Dumnonia, past the Brytoni territories of Dyfed, Powys and Gwynedd, and across the Hibernian Sea to Maun. “All that distance by ship. The cost in provisions alone would be—”

  “Well within Cissa’s means,” Arthur supplied. She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. “The Saxons are fast outgrowing the lands Vortigern deeded to them. Plagues, crop failures, and Scotti raids have decimated the Brytoni population west of Deira. It’s foolish to hope Cissa doesn’t know this. If he has set his sights on this territory, then capturing Maun for a base would be a vital first step.” Thankfully, she made no further attempt to argue. One lesson he’d learned in the week since the wedding was that having his wife as one of his military subordinates was going to be a bigger leadership challenge than any he’d yet faced. “I’ve ordered copies to be made of the most recent reports. Troop strengths of the Saxon kings, ship descriptions and numbers, and so on. Study those reports as your duties permit.”

  “An order, Lord Pendragon?”

  He read the tease in the cant of her eyebrow, but apprehension prevented him from responding in kind. “A request.”

  “I will, then.” Glancing at the map, she slowly shook her head
. “I still think you’re worrying for no good reason.”

  He hoped with all his heart that she was right. Abandoning the pretense of acting like her commander, he gripped her hands and all but lost himself in the fathomless depths of her sea-green eyes. “My love, I just want you to be prepared for the possibility.”

  “I know, Artyr, and I do appreciate it.” Her throaty whisper ignited his passion.

  He wrapped his arms around her and bent to kiss her, struggling to keep that passion in check. If he were to give it free rein, he would never be able to let her go. Judging by her response—warm, yet reserved—he presumed she felt much the same way.

  The devil take it! God alone knew when he would see her again. He crushed her to him, redoubling the pressure on her lips, which tasted faintly of the honey she’d slathered on her bread. Seized by a hunger that outstripped physical need, he sought her tongue with his. His hands found the voluptuous curves of her leather-covered buttocks. With a husky sigh, she reached up to run her fingers through his hair, shifting beneath his kneading hands to nestle closer to him. The touch of her lips, her tongue, her hands, her body awakened his need for her like never before, yet it would have to go unslaked. With her ship’s captain undoubtedly chafing to set sail, they’d already stolen too much time.

  Reluctantly, he released her, though they did not step apart. She continued to hold his gaze, asking, “What of the replacement commander and cavalry troops for Tanroc? I expected them to sail with me.”

  “There have been some”—he curbed his grin lest it betray his surprise—“delays. I’ll send them as soon as I can. The reports should be ready by then, too.” This reminded him of a report Merlin had given him, though Arthur wasn’t sure how she’d react to it. “There is something else you need to know, my love.” He drew a breath and softened his tone. “The Abbot of St. Padraic’s has died.”

  THE NEWS hit Gyan like a fist in the gut. “Father Lir? When?”