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

by Headlee, Kim

  “Aye.”

  Angusel raised his sword before his face in salute, prompting the other men to do the same. Gyan couldn’t help but notice the winces, grimaces, and oozing wounds.

  She nodded sharply and appointed two soldiers to guard the remaining horses and any men too injured to fight. The rest she ordered to mount up. Whooping to wake the dead, they careened through the camp.

  Chapter 14

  WADING CALF-DEEP IN the frigid waters, Arthur had just dispatched another enemy warrior when he heard the thundering from within the thicket. He whirled, Caleberyllus at the ready, to behold what had to be the most glorious sight under heaven.

  The surviving raiders must have thought otherwise, for they broke off and bolted into the woods, howling as if the devil himself were chasing them.

  Arthur regarded his wife—braids flying, breath steaming, eyes glowing, cloak billowing, sword flashing—and understood their terror.

  He had never felt more relieved in his life.

  “Halt!” he shouted hoarsely as Gyan and her men spurred their horses through the stream. “Do not pursue.” He slogged onto the bank and gave the regroup order to all within earshot.

  Gyan and her troop sheathed their swords, wheeled their mounts about, and splashed back to Arthur’s side of the stream. She kicked Macmuir close to him, her arched eyebrow issuing a challenge.

  Arthur didn’t need to explain orders to a subordinate, but he needed an argument with his wife even less. “They know this land better than we do. And they know our number. I suspect the attacks covered the archers’ retreat. If they have an outpost nearby, they will return with reinforcements.”

  The night’s events seemed to overtake her, for she gave a heavy sigh and slid from her mount, steadying herself against Macmuir’s neck. “You do not believe these were brigands.”

  “Not bloody likely. These men were clever and well organized.” Arthur didn’t see any potential captives in the immediate vicinity, though that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find any later. He strode to the corpse of the last man he’d killed, which was lying facedown on the bank, head in the water. He rolled it over to reveal the man’s badge, a snarling leopard’s head. “Colgrim’s men. Either a raiding party or a patrol.” He ordered the others to collect the dead, help the wounded, secure any injured Angli prisoners, and move everyone back into camp.

  “If they do have an outpost in this district, don’t you want to look for it?” she asked.

  Not with his gravid wife in the troop, though Arthur knew better than to make that announcement. “Our best course,” he said as activity bustled around them, “is to put as much distance between us and this location as possible.”

  For once, she didn’t disagree. One look at her face in the advancing dawn told him why. Fatigue and pain had etched their marks. She staggered to him, threw her arms around his neck, and sagged against his chest. He held her tightly, wishing he never had to let her go.

  The force of her lips against his proclaimed the same wish.

  ANGUSEL WORKED with the rest of the company to help recover the wounded and dead of both sides, collect weapons and other valuable items, bind wounds, dig graves, fill the latrine, gnaw on bannocks and dried beef, swill ale, strike camp, and try to make sense of having lost eight to death, five to disabling injuries—and all the wounded Angalaranaich, before they could be securely guarded, to suicide.

  Absent a priest, it fell to the Pendragon to commend the departed souls to the One God. “Or whichever gods they followed in life,” he added diplomatically.

  While the entire company saluted their fallen companions with raised swords, Gyan led the Caledonaich in singing the warrior’s lament. Angusel saw unshed tears brimming in her eyes and heard the catch in her lovely voice. In this she wasn’t alone.

  They had dug the two mass graves on a low rise overlooking the burn where they’d repelled the bulk of the attack.

  “Abar-Bhàis,” Gyan named the battlefield, drawing her cloak close, as if it could shield her from what she’d invoked.

  “What does that mean?” asked her consort as they picked their way toward the horses. “River Mouth—something.”

  “Mouth of the River of Death,” she replied reverently.

  A fitting tribute, Angusel silently agreed. The Pendragon’s seannachaidh would have a fine time crafting songs from that theme for the living as well as the dead.

  THE REST of that day passed in taut silence. A man died of his wounds in the night, so the next day had to begin with digging another grave and singing another tearstained lament. This was followed by more subdued words and oppressive stretches of silence as they ate, broke camp, and rode on. No one spoke of the skirmish, as though fearing that a careless word might invite another attack. Normally, Angusel might have tried lifting his companions’ spirits with jests, but the exhausted, pain-wracked, dour faces bespoke the need to be left alone.

  With the exception of Gyan, her consort, and the worst of the wounded, everyone took turns as outriders, flanking the column in all four directions at a hundred paces. At regular intervals, the outriders reported back, and other men took their places.

  After Abar-Bhàis, no one scoffed at the precautions.

  Yet Angusel brooded less upon the recent past than upon what would happen later this evening. For the Pendragon expected the troop to reach Senaudon by dusk, and Gyan expected Angusel to remain there while she and her consort and the others traveled on to Arbroch.

  Conflicting desires battled within him.

  After a year’s absence, he eagerly anticipated watching the sun rise from atop Senaudon’s battlements, sparring with his clansmen, renewing his friendship with his mother’s cats, even seeing her again—in spite of the less than pleasant memories they shared.

  But now his heart was Gyan’s to command. His oath meant more to him than life itself. He’d known it from the first moment the idea had entered his mind in her quarters after the Scáthinach battle. Even without his sword with which to make the pledge, no decision had ever felt so right. He, Angusel mac Alayna, deserved a place at Gyan’s side no less than her clansmen did.

  By midmorning, his fretting had bested him. He broke rank and nudged Stonn forward.

  “Angusel—” began the Pendragon sternly.

  Gyan cut him off with a sharp glance. “Something wrong, Angus?”

  “Can we talk, Gyan?” Angusel pleaded, in Caledonaiche. “Alone?” He shivered as he uttered the last word, “aonar,” but dismissed it as a reaction to the cold.

  She relayed the request in Breatanaiche. Her consort didn’t seem pleased but nodded his consent. Angusel gave him a look of thanks that went unacknowledged. The Pendragon continued his course, motioning the troop to do the same as Gyan and Angusel reined their mounts out of formation. Once the last rank had pulled several horselengths ahead, they kneed their horses forward.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I think you know.” She raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer. He drew a deep breath. “Why can’t I stay at Arbroch with you?”

  “Don’t you want to winter at your home? See your mother again?”

  “See her, aye.” He ran a gloved finger over his fealty-mark. “Winter with her, nay. My place is with you.”

  She stared into the distance, and Angusel tried to follow her line of sight. Her consort’s gold-tipped scarlet horsehair crest floated above the heads of the other riders. The Pendragon also bore the dìleas-tì, the Caledonach symbol of a warrior’s fealty. Angusel felt proud that he and Arthur shared this kinship…but he couldn’t ignore the twinge of jealousy.

  “If that is your wish.” She flashed a smile that looked more like her usual self. “But I fear you will be bored.”

  “It’s only for the winter.”

  “I go to Arbroch to bear Artyr’s bairn,” she whispered.

  His jaw dropped, and he stared at her. “What? Nay, you can’t be—” He snapped his mouth shut to collect his whirling thoughts. “Wait. You two have
been together only since, what, October? How—” He felt his cheeks heat. “I mean, when—”

  “In September, during his visit to Maun.”

  “But you fought the Angalaranaich!”

  “And you saved two lives that night.” Her fingertips strayed to the fresh dent in her bronze sword belt, and she bowed her head.

  “I saw the raider’s war-knife hit you.” Angusel sucked in a breath. “Is—is your bairn all right?”

  “I think so.” Slowly, she shook her head. “One thing is certain. I am done with battles for a long time.” She leaned over to grip his arm. “Only Artyr and a few others know. Until Arbroch’s walls surround me, I plan to keep it that way, understood?” Straightening, she let go of him.

  “Aye. But what about me? Do I have to stay at Senaudon?”

  A short laugh burst from her lips. “If you fret about being left behind when Artyr joins his troops in the spring, I will make sure he doesn’t forget you.”

  “That’s not it.” A tide of memories threatened to overwhelm him. “How well do you know my mother?”

  She shrugged. “We have met.”

  Absently scratching the bandage on his shield arm, he studied Stonn’s coaly mane, speckled with snowflakes. As he brushed them away, deciding what to say, more floated down. “When the Pendragon took me as hostage after Abar-Gleann, I—” He looked up. “I was glad to go.”

  “Forgive me, Angus. I thought, since you hadn’t been home in a long time…I didn’t realize—” Her smile conveyed the warmth of their deepening friendship. “Of course, you will be welcome at Arbroch.” Her eyes lit with a mischievous glow. “But at the first jest about how fat I get, it’s out into the snow with you!”

  GEREINT MAP Erbin, commander of the Brytoni occupation force at Senaudon, had spent the afternoon whisking from inspection to inspection. Troops, barracks, horses, fortifications, sentries, armory, supplies: everything had to be perfect for the Pendragon. Fortunately, Gereint’s vigilant command had borne fruit. The discrepancies—a careless uniform here, a cracked harness there—were easily set aright. For the first time all day, he stretched his feet to the fire, pewter mug of mulled wine nestled warmly in one hand, and let his heart slow to a more decorous pace.

  It didn’t last.

  “Enter,” he responded to the impatient rap on the door.

  The angular form of Centurion Ulfyn strode into the workroom. He thumped fist to bronze-clad breast. “Sir, the Pendragon is here.”

  Gereint’s wine sloshed as he stood. “Here? In my antechamber?” He set the mug down and, tugging at his gleaming cuirass, made a swift check of his uniform.

  “No, sir. The feast hall. With Chieftainess Alayna.”

  The prefect of the Badger Cohort downed his wine without tasting it. Who did that woman think she was? This was her fortress, and her clan’s doings remained hers to govern, but the latitude Arthur had granted her didn’t include the right to play hostess to Gereint’s commander as if Gereint himself didn’t exist.

  “Eleven of the Pendragon’s escort,” Ulfyn continued somberly, “have reported to the infirmary. Most of the rest have minor, field-dressed wounds. They lost nine men: eight in action and one from his wounds the following night.”

  “Bandits?” Only a village-size band could have inflicted that much damage on one of the Pendragon’s vaunted cavalry squads, but the alternative…

  “An Angli ambush, sir, two days to the south.”

  For Ulfyn’s sake, Gereint squelched his surprise. Two days was far too close for comfort. He resolved to ask Arthur for reinforcements. “Very well, Ulfyn.” He abandoned his mug on the table, snatched his scarlet cloak from the back of a chair, flung it about his shoulders, and pinned on the red-and-green-ringed silver dragon. “Let’s go.”

  Gereint found the Pendragon and a score of his men—Picts, to judge by their armor—standing just beyond the feast hall’s tall oaken doors. They concentrated on the stately progress of Chieftainess Gyanhumara as she passed the many-tiered niches containing skulls and embalmed heads representing generations of vanquished foes. Without sparing a glance for her surroundings, Gyanhumara marched to the dais, where the Chieftainess of Clan Alban reclined in languid anticipation.

  Alayna looked absurd, her raven hair wound in elaborate braids atop her head, plaited with strands of silvery thread that sparkled in the torchlight. Gereint would have wagered a wagonload of heather beer that she was wearing too much face-paint, as usual. The gold lions of her torc snarled at each other across the hollow of her throat. Her bosom threatened to burst free of the scarlet gown.

  Squelching his amusement, Gereint turned to his commander, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat. “Lord Pendragon, I have conducted a thorough—”

  “Everything I’ve seen so far looks excellent, Gereint. I will hear your full report later.” The Pendragon directed his attention toward the far end of the hall.

  Gyanhumara reached the dais, and her sapphire-pommeled sword hissed free of its bronze scabbard. She stooped to lay it on the flagstones and took a step backward. Alayna nodded once. Gyanhumara raised her right hand, fingers knotted into a fist. From his angle, Gereint could see blue wing tips of one bird and the tail feathers of another. The older woman responded with a similar gesture, displaying a rearing, roaring, grayish-blue lion.

  “Argyll is well come to the Seat of Alban.” Alayna spoke Pictish, which Gereint and his men had learned to facilitate their duties.

  “Alban is most gracious,” Gyanhumara replied, lowering the arm.

  Alayna’s lips pursed. “Identify Argyll’s àrd-ceoigin.”

  Gereint gave his head a slight shake; he’d never heard that term during the past eighteen months and had no clue what to make of it.

  Gyanhumara raised her other arm. The spread wing tips and lashing tail of this creature were decidedly draconic.

  Alayna leaned forward in her chair, animosity—but not surprise—etched into every line of her face. “State his name and titles.”

  “Ròmanach Artyr mac Ygrayna”—Roman Arthur son of Ygraine, Gereint mentally translated—“Càrnhuileanach Rhioghachd agus Àrd-Ceann Teine-Beathach Mór”—Man of Clan Cwrnwyll of Rheged and…High-Chief Great Fire-Beast?—“Bhreatein.” Of Brydein. He had never heard anyone render “Pendragon” in Pictish; they always uttered the word with their quaint accent. After listening to that mouthful, he understood why.

  The Chieftainess of Clan Alban shifted her gaze past Gyanhumara. “Let him approach.”

  Gereint had witnessed plenty of bizarre behavior at Senaudon, but Alayna’s treating her conqueror like a piece of property vaulted to the top of the list.

  Yet Arthur looked as unperturbed as ever. At his wife’s nod, he signaled a young Picti warrior, who strode with him to Gyanhumara’s side. Arthur made no move to disarm, though the Picti lad did.

  Alayna scrutinized the trio. “This man does not wear the Doves of Argyll. By what sign can you prove that he is your consort?”

  “Artyr mac Ygrayna wears the fealty-mark,” declared Gyanhumara, “sworn unto Argyll and sanctified in the rite of bonding the moon before Lugnasadh.”

  Arthur unwound and removed the short white stole that served as neck padding. With his fingers, he shifted his armor and undertunic toward his left shoulder far enough to reveal a thin red scar at the base of his neck. Gereint couldn’t fully suppress a shudder.

  Alayna’s eyebrows lowered. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, have you not instructed your consort in our ways?”

  Gyanhumara and Arthur exchanged a nod. Arthur grasped the Picti warrior’s shoulder and urged him forward.

  “Chieftainess Alayna, I am advised that I may display a different sign of friendship. To that end, I restore your son, Angusel mac Alayna, to you.” In Brytonic, that commanding voice rang throughout the feast hall. “His courage and loyalty have proven to me that the honor of Alban need not be enforced by retaining him as a hostage.”

  Gyanhumara rendered his remarks in Pictish. Smil
ing, Alayna extended an open hand. Angusel mounted the dais, clasped her hand, knelt, and bowed until his forehead touched her hand.

  “Well come, Àrd-Oighre h’Albainaich.” Another term Gereint had never heard, but it was much easier to grasp: Exalted Heir of Clan Alban. The fingertips of Alayna’s other hand brushed Angusel’s shoulder bandage. “What did they do to you, son?”

  “Not them, Mother,” Angusel said with a nod toward Arthur and Gyanhumara. “Angalaranach warriors.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  Gereint pursed his lips to restrain a laugh, wondering at what point during their history the Picts had started calling the Angli “the Diseased People.”

  Alayna accepted Angusel’s news with a thoughtful nod. Abruptly, her face clouded with a scowl. “Angusel, which clan has claimed your fealty?”

  “Argyll!”

  “Argyll.” Alayna extracted her hand from her son’s. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, I hope you appreciate the treasure you have won from me.”

  “Indeed I do. Angusel mac Alayna has saved my life and the future of Clan Argyll. He is a credit to his clan.” Pride rang from each syllable. “And mine.”

  ANGUSEL SAT on a bench near the round stone firepit in the center of Alayna’s private reception chamber, her sleek black cat Eala curled in his lap. If he’d ever worried about how his mother fared since Abar-Gleann, one glance around the room served to allay those fears. True to her name, which meant “splendid,” she never had been one to scorn luxury, but Angusel could have sworn that her pillows, furs, tapestries, and furnishings had doubled. He ran his fingertips over the nubby, brocaded cover of the bench’s cushion.

  “Argyll.” On his mother’s lips, it sounded like a curse. “Must I lose everything to Argyll?”

  Bronze mirror in hand, Alayna perched on an ornately carved stool while a maid finished unwinding her braids, extracted the silver threads, and wrapped them around a stubby pine spool. The woad Lion of Alban prowled along one lean forearm. Wings splayed and beak split in a screech and talons flexed for the kill, the Falcon of Tarsuinn swept across the other. Her shoulders, swathed in her clan mantle, trembled with barely leashed fury.