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

by Headlee, Kim

  “You have a message for me to take back to Chieftain Loth, Lord Pendragon?” Weariness weighted the messenger’s every syllable.

  “No need. You shall ride with me and my men.” Arthur clapped the drooping shoulder. “You have served Chieftain Loth well. Eat and rest. We leave at dawn.”

  After executing a surprisingly crisp salute, the messenger turned and followed Marcus from the workroom.

  Arthur faced Merlin. “No peace this year, either.”

  The more he thought about the chance to avenge his father’s death, the better he liked it. For Merlin’s sake, however, he resisted the temptation to quip that Colgrim had penned his own execution order.

  LIGHT SNOW spun out of the sky with no sign of quitting. Gyan raised the hood of her dark blue traveling cloak. Macmuir blew a riff as though in disgust, and she patted his neck. She could hardly blame the animal.

  She studied her sword as it bounced against Macmuir’s shoulder. The sapphire in Braonshaffir’s pommel winked in the snow-dulled light. She held little hope of being able to use it anytime soon. The Angalaranach raiders probably sat safe and snug in their feast halls, gorging themselves on stolen cattle.

  The child dwelling inside her would render participation in the coming summer’s campaign quite impossible.

  As àrd-banoigin, she held the honor of ensuring Clan Argyll’s future leadership. The portion of her heart that remained loyal to Caledonach tradition looked forward to fulfilling this obligation. But having just begun to discover her way as a warrior and leader of warriors, playing a different but no less important role in ensuring her clan’s future, she didn’t feel ready to have these activities curtailed by motherhood.

  The snowfall intensified, causing Macmuir to snort and shake his head vigorously, as if echoing her private disagreement with herself.

  Female by decree of the One God, she followed the warrior’s path by choice. She’d already won her first battle trophy. Death was no stranger to her. Neither was the prospect of being killed in battle. Embracing this destiny made the risks easier to accept.

  Hymar had died to give Gyan life. To be brutally honest, the possibility of falling victim to her mother’s fate terrified her as no legion of enemy soldiers ever could.

  The realization startled her, and she inadvertently sawed on the reins. Before the pause disrupted the rest of the column, she kicked Macmuir into a walk again and shot her consort an apologetic grin.

  Arthur didn’t know that he would be a father before high summer. Defying the cold, he sat tall in the saddle, his cloak a scarlet blaze across Macsen’s creamy flanks. This close to Angalaranach territory, he rode in alert silence. His azure gaze seemed to bore through the oak and pine trunks in search of the enemy.

  Any war-band attempting to ambush a mounted unit a hundred strong would have to be not only very brave, but very foolish.

  He broke his vigil to smile at her. She returned it, hoping the bairn wouldn’t change the way she felt about him. Yet even as the thought formed, she had to wonder whether it was a vain one.

  Perhaps she should have trusted him to believe that other than the wretched dawns, she felt as strong as ever, but she hadn’t wanted to risk missing what could be her last combat opportunity for years.

  The truth would have to be announced soon, though. The challenge of hiding her bairn-sickness had intensified, since she couldn’t remain abed. She’d developed the habit of rising earlier than her consort to allow her body to purge itself in secret. This morning, he’d discovered her, and she shrugged it off as a reaction to the traveling. Her belly’s size hadn’t betrayed her yet, but that wouldn’t last much longer. Nor would Arthur be fooled by loose robes and vague excuses. She was mildly surprised that he hadn’t guessed already.

  His smile took on that enigmatic tint. Perhaps he had guessed and was waiting for her to speak. She flirted with the idea and rejected it, vowing to select a more private moment.

  Another ridge loomed, skirted by the pine-shaded track. Arthur signaled the command to head for the ridge crest. At the top of the hill, he raised a gloved hand to halt the column. As the ala spurred their mounts to the summit, he and Gyan surveyed the valley.

  A Breatanach village sprawled silently below them. Although the snow still floated down, the village should have been vibrant with the sounds of axes on wood, women chatting, and the laughter of children at play. Cattle lowing, donkeys braying, chickens cackling, sheep bleating, dogs barking—all of it, missing. Even the wind had died.

  Uneasiness writhed in Gyan’s gut.

  At Arthur’s signal, the warriors of the Sixth Ala of the Horse Cohort of the Dragon Legion of Breatein cantered into the village. Upon reaching the outer ring of huts and pens, the unit divided into turmae to quicken the search.

  While Arthur and the others rode off to inspect different areas, Gyan circled with Angusel and the rest of her men to the far side of the village. The snow-covered lumps that had looked like tree stumps from the hilltop revealed their identities. She halted her troop before a cluster of huts and dismounted for a closer look.

  Upon dusting the snow from the nearest mound, Gyan discovered two frozen corpses that had been savaged by animals. Enough remained to identify them as a woman clutching a baby to her bosom, both with their throats slashed. Though she’d been dead more than a sennight, the cold had preserved the terror on the woman’s face. The infant had died in innocent ignorance.

  Pressing a hand to the bronze dragon guarding her belly, Gyan staggered away and slipped around a corner. She leaned against the cold, rough stone wall of a hut, gulping air to fight the nausea.

  “Gyan, what’s wrong?” Angusel gripped her shoulder.

  “Leave me alone, Angus.” Doubled over and losing her battle, she swatted feebly at his hand. “Please.”

  His receding footsteps bespoke his obedience. The remnants of her bannocks and tea burned through the snow to form a steaming puddle between her feet. She closed her eyes to blot out the carnage and failed. Her stomach began churning again.

  “Gyan?”

  As an arm settled across her shoulders, she turned. “You! This is all your fault!”

  She used Arthur’s surprise to duck past him and strode toward her horse. He caught her hand.

  “What in God’s name do you mean?” He glanced at their surroundings.

  “Not the village, you idiot.” The bile rose again. Grimacing, she spat it out. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman with child?”

  “SON, I’M getting old.” Dumarec lifted his wine goblet with a trembling hand. “See? My body betrays me.”

  Urien knew what troubled his father, and it had little to do with old age. “Nonsense, Father.” He hoped his smile conveyed only deepest filial devotion. “You’ll lead the war-band for many years yet.” He took a long pull from his ale horn to hide his smirk.

  They sat at the table on the dais in Dunadd’s feast hall. Their clansmen packed the lower tables, gorging themselves on pork and ale and flirting with the women who served them. A few warriors engaged in arm-wrestling bouts, and the shouts and laughter emanating from one corner announced a game of dice. Aneirin sat in his place of honor beside the hearth, softly plucking his harp. A typical winter picture for Clan Moray, but for Urien it lacked one crucial, green-eyed, flame-haired detail.

  Dumarec’s goblet hit the table with a dull thump, commanding his son’s attention. “Lead the war-band? Against whom?” He snorted. “With the Picts as our allies—”

  “You forget the Scots, Father.”

  The chieftain reached for a rib and with yellowed teeth stripped off the meat. “I forget nothing.” He waved the denuded bone in Urien’s face. “After the thrashing you and Arthur gave them, we won’t be seeing their filthy faces for another five years at least.”

  True, Urien had to admit.

  Dumarec tossed the bone over his shoulder, prompting a canine brawl. “Aneirin! Quit fondling that harp like a lover and give us a good lay!” To the chorus of warriors’ guff
aws, Dumarec settled into his tall-backed chair, a grin painted into the creases of his face.

  Enjoy your jests while you can, Father.

  Nodding toward the high table, the bard rose. Wood rasped against stone as several men shoved tables out of the way to create room for the performance. Aneirin pointed to a bench, and a servant moved it into the cleared area. Smiling brightly, a woman handed him a brimming wine goblet. He took a swallow and set it upon the bench.

  “What is your pleasure this evening, Chieftain Dumarec?” Though the young man didn’t shout, his clear tones reverberated throughout the timbered hall. Urien’s envy rose. With a voice like that, Aneirin would have been a tremendous asset on the battlefield.

  “Something to warm the blood, I think.” Dumarec suppressed a shiver. When Urien’s mother stepped forward to lay his cloak across his shoulders, he shrugged her away like an ill-tempered falcon.

  Aneirin smiled and bowed. “For your blood, then, my lord.” Lifting his foot to the bench and setting the harp on his thigh, he bent to his work.

  From the first series of chords, Urien knew which song the bard had selected. The images flooded back in painful detail.

  As Aneirin caroled the glories of Urien’s charge against the Scotti invaders, Urien experienced anew his frustration. His battlefield brilliance had been fired by rage that Arthur had stolen what had belonged to Urien by right of treaty.

  Not true. The whore had gone to Arthur willingly.

  He studied the blue tattoo encircling his left wrist, hatred surging with each heartbeat. Gyanhumara’s wrist bore an identical mark, but a rampant dragon covered the rest of her forearm where there should have been a boar.

  The bard sang Urien’s praises, but the heir of Clan Moray knew the bitter truth. If not for the arrival of Arthur’s reinforcements, this song would have been Urien’s dirge. Gyanhumara wouldn’t have survived, either, and that thought gave him a measure of satisfaction.

  The Scots had devised a clever invasion plan but failed to consider the likelihood of Arthur’s swift response. To a man, they’d paid for this mistake. Arthur’s Roman blood and training made him thorough in matters of war. In all matters, curse his black soul.

  Urien took another pull of ale. Perhaps Dumarec wouldn’t see the Scots in battle again, but his heir had conceived plans that didn’t involve fighting the men from Hibernia.

  With thumb and forefinger, he stroked the leather headband hiding his scar.

  Dumarec, swaying snakelike to the music’s rhythm, collapsed into a coughing fit. While others scurried to help, Urien eased deeper into his chair, ale horn in hand, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

  His plans were budding nicely, thanks to his future wife’s impressive knowledge of herbal lore. Quite nicely, indeed.

  EFFORTS TO bury the villagers had to cease as a snowstorm blustered over the hills. Arthur and Gyan appropriated a hut for themselves; their soldiers occupied the remaining buildings.

  Under normal circumstances, Arthur wouldn’t have minded bedding down with his men. In fact, he would have preferred it, but his wife’s presence hardly could be considered normal.

  As she knelt beside their saddle packs, questing for rations, he wrestled with his thoughts. Initially, he hadn’t been troubled by loving a warrior-woman. Their separation had been hell, but he’d assumed that once it ended, all would be set to rights.

  So much for assumptions.

  He didn’t doubt her abilities as a warrior or leader. Her handling of the men had experienced a rocky start on Maun, but at headquarters, she’d seemed more in her element. Under her firm but fair influence, tensions between the Brytoni and Caledonian troops had begun to recede.

  However, volunteering to risk herself in combat was one thing. Jeopardizing the life of her unborn child—and his—was quite another.

  She unwrapped barley bannocks and dried beef strips, took a portion, and passed the rest to him, along with a measure of wine in his upturned helmet. The necessity for speed had precluded bringing the usual amenities.

  He set the food on the hut’s only surface elevated above the dirt and cobwebs, a squat table. After he downed the wine, the helmet followed. One of the table’s legs, noticeably shorter, threatened to dump everything on the floor. He sacrificed a bannock, wedging it under the short leg to avoid disaster.

  But he couldn’t avoid the topic suspended between them like a drawn sword.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the baby before we left?”

  “So you could treat me like a broken piece of battle-gear?”

  “That’s unfair, Gyan.”

  She left her uneaten supper on the table, paced to the hearth, and whirled to face him. The fire at her back put her face in shadow, but he knew the heat of her glare. He parried it with his.

  “Is it?” Her voice dropped into a half whisper. “Would you have brought me with you, had you known?”

  Only in the direst of circumstances would he ever order a wounded man to fight. All other considerations aside, she was one of his soldiers. Yet he also had vowed never to be parted from her.

  He shrugged under the burden of truth. “Probably not.”

  “Ha!” She faced the fire. “I suspected as much.”

  “Gyan—”

  “I do not need your excuses.” The flames popped and sizzled and belched smoke, as though goaded by her words.

  He crossed to her side, grasped her arms, and spun her around.

  “By God’s holy wounds, woman, don’t you know that I care for you more than life itself? What if we encounter Angli raiders while we’re still miles from Dunpeldyr?”

  Incredulity froze her face. “What? Is the mighty Pendragon worried about that diseased, heathen rabble?”

  “I’m worried about you!”

  “Bring them on!” She shrugged out of his grip and slapped her bronze scabbard. “Braonshaffir craves the taste of enemy blood.”

  “You would risk our child—”

  “I am a warrior first. The bairn hasn’t changed that.” Again she reverted to that low, dangerous tone. “Are you suggesting otherwise?”

  Am I? Should I?

  He waded through memories of tales to a mist-shrouded time before his mother’s people had settled the Island of the Mighty, when they’d clashed with the ancestors of his father in the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. Greek and Roman writers had reported the strength and ferocity of these barbarian women, who fought alongside their husbands.

  Presumably, these women had had children, too.

  Who was he to gainsay his wife, an adept warrior?

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind, Gyan.” A smile lit her face. “I just hate seeing you hurt. Or sick.”

  The smile vanished. “I am not sick.”

  “Then what do you call what happened at daybreak? Or later, when we first got here?”

  “It comes with the territory.”

  “I may not be privy to the secrets of womanhood, but I suspect what happened outside the hut had nothing to do with your child.”

  She folded her arms and looked down. Her prolonged silence heralded a private battle he couldn’t help her with no matter how much he wished to.

  “In a way, it does,” she said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  She uncrossed her arms and slumped against his chest. He circled his arms around her and ran his fingers through her long, silken hair.

  “Seeing that baby…” she whispered, shuddering, into the folds of his tunic. “I kept imagining it was my child.”

  Her child—their child. Accustomed to ending life, creating it filled him with unending awe. He lifted her chin to kiss his warrior, his wife, and the mother of his son. Their son. “I won’t let that happen to our son.”

  She sighed and moved away. Seated cross-legged on the thin straw pallet they had spread before the hearth, she propped chin on fist and stared toward the leaping golden flames. “I almost wish it will be a boy-child.”

  A gust of win
d howled down the chimney, toying with the fire. He fed it another lump of peat and joined her on the pallet. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. “Does it matter so much?”

  “Bearing a girl-child first portends good fortune for the clan.” Drawing her knees up, she sighed again. “I was Hymar’s second bairn.”

  Arthur knew Caledonians traced descent through the mother, and their women shared in clan rule. This differed from Brytoni tradition, wherein children bore their father’s name and women rarely ruled. Beyond that, he could cite few customs of his wife’s people and knew little of their language—lacks he needed to remedy.

  “Peredur’s birth couldn’t have brought bad fortune to Argyll.”

  She shrugged. “That year’s harvest was lean.”

  “And when you were born?”

  “I killed my mother.” She stopped his protest with an upraised hand. “When she took my father as consort, the priests foretold that a girl-child would be born to them, a child that would be her death. No specifics were mentioned, but when Hymar learned that her confinement would occur at Samhainn, she knew she hadn’t long to live.”

  “Why?”

  “Caledonians believe that a kinsman—or woman—of a child born at Samhainn shall die within the coming year…” She trembled, and he hugged her closer. “It’s all too often true.”

  No provision in Arthur’s Christian upbringing allowed him to believe such a superstition. Not wishing to belittle the beliefs of Gyan’s people, however, he pursued the topic closest to his heart. “What of our child if it’s a boy?”

  “By Caledonian law, the children of the àrd-banoigin must be raised at her clan seat. If this bairn is a boy, my father can see to his rearing and training. It is not a common practice, but the law permits it.” She glanced down at her belly, as if trying to glimpse the child, before staring at the fire.