by Headlee, Kim
Merlin frowned.
“Cai, the man’s hand is not whole!” Niniane protested.
Camboglanna’s garrison commander shook his sandy mane. “If he can hold a jug, Prioress, he can do it carefully.”
“Still,” she said, “it hurts nothing to show compassion.”
“Did he and his companions show any compassion when they attacked Maun?” Cai retorted. “When they slaughtered more than half the Tanroc garrison soldiers and civilians? And flogged all the rest of the surviving soldiers, including the wounded? Is that your idea of compassion?”
“Did the Lord Iesu command us to love only those who love us?” Her gaze melted from righteous indignation to humble appeal. “We are all precious to God, Cai, and should treat each other accordingly.”
“Amen.” Merlin gave her an appreciative nod.
Cai rolled his eyes. He said to Merlin, “Did Arthur give details?”
“Some.” He shoved the parchment across the table. “You read it.”
Cai regarded the dispatch, nodding slowly. “Arbroch. Why on God’s earth would Arthur want to winter at Arbroch?”
“Why, indeed?” Merlin pointed to the uisge. “Here, Cai. I suspect you may need it.”
Cai tossed it down and held out the cup for another round.
Refilling it, Merlin said, “Arthur has a wife to think about now.” He set the pitcher down, picked up his cup, took a sip, and peered over the rim at his guests. “And a child.”
Caught with a mouthful, Cai nearly spewed it. He swallowed hard and coughed. “You think she’s with child? Already? That wasn’t in the letter.”
“Of course!” The prioress clapped her hands once. “It makes perfect sense—and explains why Gyanhumara seemed so edgy.”
“And why they declined to stay at Dunpeldyr or return here. Most women prefer to be with their kinfolk at that time.” Merlin laughed, not unkindly. “You ought to know that, Cai.”
The young man with the legendary sexual appetite merely shrugged. “Wanting to see her there safely, perhaps even staying a few days, I can understand. But the whole bloody winter?”
“Come, now.” Merlin smiled. “What were you two planning to do here? Hunt together? Arm wrestle? Play gwyddbwyll?”
“Lay out next season’s campaign, dash it!” Cai drained his cup, and again, Merlin poured more. “Just as we’ve always done.”
Gripping the tray, Niniane rose. “Forgive me, Your Grace, Cai, but I really must be going. You must have much to discuss.”
As much as Merlin would have liked her to remain, he didn’t disagree. “Thank you for the uisge, Prioress. And the dispatch.”
“My pleasure, Your Grace.”
“One thing more,” added Merlin. The way she regarded him in innocent expectation sent a thrill coursing through his soul. He rebuked himself, hoping he’d shown no outward sign. “Gyanhumara’s servant, Cynda, has been summoned to Arbroch. I will detail an escort. Can you please convey this to her so she can make the necessary preparations?”
After murmuring her acquiescence and bobbing a curtsey, Niniane slipped from the room. Merlin kept staring at the door after it had swung to.
Cai uttered a low whistle. “Saints preserve us. Not you, too, Merlin?”
“Hmmm?” He reached for the model catapult. “Let me show you my latest design.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. That tactic didn’t work for Arthur, either. He refused to heed my advice, and look where it got him.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“What, indeed?” Cai rendered a credible imitation of Merlin’s tone and inflection, the primary difference being that Cai’s face had split into a wide grin. “I saw the way you were looking at Niniane, you sly old dog.”
“This dog isn’t too old to box the ears of an overcurious whelp.” He smacked the tabletop.
“Point taken.” Cai laughed. “So, what are we going to do about that wayward brother of mine?”
“Do?”
“You know what I mean. Now that he’s saddled with a wife and a child.”
Cai’s acerbity surprised Merlin. “You don’t like Chieftainess Gyanhumara. Why?”
If the question’s directness surprised him, he hid it. “She’s too aggressive. I’ve known the type. They want everything their way. Complete control.”
“Admirable qualities in a warrior and leader.”
“But not in a woman! Women were never meant to lead.”
“Ah. Then you wouldn’t mind telling that to Cleopatra, Boudicca, Vennolandua…or Alayna? Even though she lost, she fought an excellent battle.”
Cai expelled a noisy sigh. Tipping his chair onto its rear legs, he thumbed his cup’s intricate carving. “I don’t know, Merlin. It’s just a feeling, but…” He looked up, settling the chair onto all fours. “I think Arthur should have let Urien keep that woman.”
Merlin shook his head, as much in disagreement as to dispel his own nagging instincts. “He couldn’t run the risk of Urien—or any of the other chieftains, for that matter—growing too strong.”
“Good point.” Cai finished his uisge and set the cup down. Merlin moved to refill it, but Cai waved him away. “Then he should have waited to marry her, especially with the Scots and Saxons and Angles riddling our arses with their spears and arrows.”
“I don’t agree, Cai, for two reasons. Arthur has free access to Gyanhumara’s wealth—which is, as I understand, quite considerable. This will be a great boon to the legion.” Merlin downed his drink.
Cai nodded. “And the other reason?”
“The advice of the Apostle Paul, that it’s better to marry than to suffer the flames of passion.” Merlin’s lips curved into a smile. “Advice you would do well to heed yourself, Cai.”
“You too, my friend.” Chuckling, he made a show of protecting his hands from Merlin’s favorite punishment for insolence by tucking them into his armpits. The rod had gone the way of kindling long ago, of course, but Merlin appreciated the jest. Cai said, “If I’m ever that far gone, I’ll let you sing my wedding mass.”
The aging man who controlled swords and shaped minds and shepherded souls displayed a smile of paternal affection.
“Cai, nothing would please me more!”
BRACING HERSELF against the door, Niniane closed her eyes and blew out a slow sigh.
How long can I keep fighting destiny? Mine…and the bishop’s?
Thinking of him in that manner helped. She couldn’t fall to the temptation of referring to him by his familiar name, even in her deepest thoughts.
She’d grown accustomed to the Sight’s intrusion upon her life, until she arrived at Caer Lugubalion and the new visions began. Visions of herself and Mer—Bishop Dubricius, alone.
Curiously, she couldn’t discern what they were doing, except that he seemed to be teaching her something. The object in his fist remained maddeningly out of focus to her dream-eye. In each vision, they sat in the same room, remarkable by the profusion of light spilling in from its many tall windows. No such chamber existed in the praetorium of Caer Lugubalion or anywhere else she’d ever visited, in flesh or in spirit.
The scene appeared perfectly innocent, yet she couldn’t mistake the love that softened his sharp gaze, or the tenderness with which he clasped her hands. When she woke from these visions, her roiling emotions came dangerously close to being a natural response to what she’d Seen.
Therein lay the dilemma. When she’d first donned her plain robe and wimple in the service of the Lord, she vowed to ignore fleshly promptings. Her order didn’t require this; the Church of Brydein differed from its continental counterpart by permitting its servants to marry and raise families, but how could one dedicate oneself fully to the Lord with a family to consider?
The Sight might not reveal the whole truth, but it had not lied to her yet. Nor had she any reason to believe it ever would.
But how long can I hold my destiny at bay?
Her answer took the form of a
soft moan.
URIEN STOOD on the Dunadd battlements, buffeted by gales and squinting through the swirling snow at the frozen river that lent its name to the valley and fort.
The Add Valley boasted mild winters. Not even the most grizzled Clan Moray elder could recall a worse storm. This demonically strong wind shrieked through chinks, rattled loose stones as though they were a child’s playthings, and could rip a man’s cloak from his back in a thrice. Urien glanced at the nearest guardsman, who’d muffled his head and face with a fold of his cloak. After giving the man a sympathetic nod and making a mental note to advise his father to shorten the duty shifts until the wind calmed, he headed for the stairs leading down into the inner courtyard. Vigilance be damned; the feast hall was the only sensible place to be.
Not an original idea.
The firepits at either end of the hall labored to perform their dual duties of providing heat and food, and warmth enveloped him like a favorite quilt. Folk not involved with meal preparations stayed well clear of those stone-bellied monsters.
The primary disadvantage to passing the afternoon in the hall lay with the feast itself. The rewards of the hunting party’s labor, a wild boar and a score of conies and partridges, perfumed the smoky air. His stomach rumbled. The commencement of the feast seemed an eternity away.
He stopped inside the doors to survey the riot of activity. Women gossiped gaily while wielding needle or distaff. Children wrestled and tumbled and raced with each other and the hounds. Men amused themselves with various pursuits. The younger bucks, ale in hand and silly grins painted across their faces, flirted with the maidens. Dicing and arm wrestling occupied many a married man.
A sizable area had been cleared of benches and tables. To this impromptu arena he made his way. Amid a lively chorus of shouts and cheers, the men wielded staffs to sharpen eyes and wits and reflexes while vying for the “hero’s portion,” a haunch carved from the feast’s main attraction.
He grabbed a staff from the collection leaning against the wall and entered the friendly competition. After a few minutes on the defensive, his muscles had shed enough of that devilish cold to press an attack. An unguarded opening allowed him to trip his opponent. The warrior went sprawling. Urien pinned him beneath the staff’s butt.
“My lord, I yield!” To discourage any thought of trickery, he applied more pressure to his adversary’s chest. “I yield!”
Urien removed the staff. The warrior rolled to his feet and staggered off, probably to drown his disappointment in a brimming ale horn.
An excellent idea, in fact. As much as it rankled him to admit it, that bout, compounded by having fought the gales on the battlements, had left him a bit winded. Declining the challenges that flew his way, he embarked upon his new quest.
Every man in the hall knew he could capture the hero’s portion any night he chose. Gorging himself interested him far less than feeding his men’s loyalties.
A keg stood near the main entrance. He bypassed a closer keg in favor of the position affording a better view of the hall.
And a prettier serving-maid. The slender, raven-haired wench with a saucy smile and even saucier curves managed her task with cool efficiency, not becoming flustered as other women did when Urien bestowed his favor. Winking, he accepted her ale. At a more appropriate time and place, he planned to discover just how well those nimble hands could perform other tasks.
After taking a generous swallow, he dragged the back of a hand across his lips and peered over the horn’s rim at his father. Dumarec hunched in his tall-backed chair on the dais, the gold-trimmed black clan mantle draped about his stooped shoulders. He looked more like a crone than the chieftain of Dalriada’s most powerful clan.
A few generations earlier, the clan’s druids would have ordered Dumarec’s sacrifice when he had grown too weak to lead the war-band. Now, Christian priests legislated morality, forcing Urien to seek more creative means of accelerating his rise to power.
His gaze met Dumarec’s across the hazy gap. Urien raised his horn in salute. Dumarec responded with a gesture that might have been a nod or, more likely, a cough.
With any luck, Urien map Dumarec would be sitting in his father’s seat, swathed in the mantle of Clan Moray, before spring planting. Then the real work could begin.
“Lord Urien?” A hand dropped to his shoulder.
He whirled, preparing a rebuke. Annoyance evaporated into surprise as he beheld a mud-splashed, snow-dusted Accolon. Shadows beneath his eyes and the weary slope of his powerful shoulders proclaimed the length of his journey.
“Accolon, well met!”
Accolon’s presence could only mean news from Morghe too important to share in public. As Accolon dropped his hand to the pouch at his belt, Urien subtly shook his head.
“Later, my friend,” he whispered. Other clansmen had noticed the warrior’s arrival and were approaching fast. Grinning, Urien thrust his ale horn at Accolon. “First, let’s thaw you out!”
Chapter 16
“I SHALL ACCOMPANY the work party.” Gyan’s announcement won instant, open-mouthed attention among those clustered around her in the courtyard near Arbroch’s main gate. Her eyes flashed a challenge at anyone daring to meet her gaze.
The work party in question had been tasked to clear a path for the following night’s religious celebration to honor the advent of spring. Although how these folk could envision spring when snow still piled knee-high went beyond Arthur’s ken.
As near as he could gather, a clan ruler was required to oversee the priests’ handling of the workers, slave as well as free. Because of the Abar-Gleann treaty, no Brytons stood in the slaves’ ranks. Some had remained at Arbroch as free citizens, however, and had chosen to help with the day’s work. Of their compensation Arthur hadn’t a clue, perhaps their choice of lambs.
He studied his pregnant wife, proud of her devotion to her clan yet questioning her insistence to volunteer for the league-long hike. Bad enough that she’d have to make the journey during the ritual; as quickly as she tired lately, he didn’t like the idea of her making two such trips in as many days. But he held his peace, curious to see how this internal clan matter would play out.
One by one, the others remembered their tongues.
The High Priest said: “Is this wise, my lady?”
Cynda said: “Out of the question!”
Ogryvan said: “Have you gone daft, lass?”
Peredur said: “Aye, the bairn has addled her wits.”
Morghe said: “More than your wits will suffer if you insist on trudging about in this God-forsaken snow.”
Fists on hips, Gyan frowned. “You.” She stabbed a finger at Angusel’s chest. “I suppose you’re with them?”
Kicking at a lump of snow, he shrugged. “I think they’re right.”
“Ha.” Eyes narrowed, she faced Arthur. “What say you, husband?”
“What would you have me say? That you have my blessing to endanger our child?”
“Our child!” The words clotted into a ball of mist in the dim dawn. “That’s all anyone ever thinks about. Our child is about to drive me out of my skull!”
With a swish of her white rabbit-fur cloak, she stalked toward the living quarters. Clucking like a grouchy hen, Cynda set off after her, with Morghe not far behind.
Arthur, too, made to follow.
Ogryvan caught his arm. “This is women’s business.”
“She is my wife! I must—I want to—” He wanted to enfold her in his arms and never let go, but the Caledonian words danced maddeningly beyond reach.
“My wife acted the same way, and it’s not just the bairn.” He punched Arthur’s fur-swathed shoulder. “Gyan needs to be alone. Leave her be. You too, Angusel.” Ogryvan flung the command at the lad as he tried to edge away.
“In the feast hall, Angusel,” said Arthur. “I’ll join you for sword practice.”
“Not now!” Ogryvan’s thundering dissent surprised everyone. “Artyr comes to the Nemeton with me.”
“My lord,” began one of the priests, “no outsider may—”
Scowling, Ogryvan rounded on the man. The priest shrank back and winced as his shoulders grazed the snow-covered stone wall.
“In case that incense you snort all day has made you forgetful, Priest, Artyr mac Ygrayna is my son-by-law and father of the next heir to the Seat of Argyll.”
“Aye,” Peredur put in. “How can he learn our ways unless he participates?”
“What says the exalted heir-begetter?” asked Vergul, the priest who had presided when Gyan received Arthur’s dragon tattoo and Arthur swore his oath to her. His frosty stare sent a chill down Arthur’s spine. “Does he wish to join us?”
Arthur turned his gaze from person to person. The priests didn’t want him present; his wife’s kin did. So be it.
He answered, “I do.”
“Good, good!” Ogryvan clapped his gloved hands twice. “Then let us begin.”
Vergul cast Arthur a venomous glance before helping his brethren organize the workers. Arthur ignored him. He wasn’t about to let one sour-faced bigot jeopardize the hard work he and Gyan had invested to encourage unity between their peoples.
The High Priest selected another priest to accompany the work party. To Vergul’s credit and Arthur’s surprise, he did not argue with his superior.
Logic dictated the procession’s order. Those wielding picks and shovels worked in front, followed by the food and ale bearers, and behind them, the priest. Arthur and Ogryvan walked side by side to guard the rear.
Although accustomed to leading, Arthur recognized the position’s advantages. It let him watch the proceedings closely enough to step in quickly, yet far enough away to maintain privacy. The workers talked and sang among themselves, and the priest kept his own counsel, speaking only to direct the work.
This left Arthur and Ogryvan to each other’s company, which suited Arthur perfectly. As the work progressed across Arbroch’s meadows, he pressed his father-by-marriage for tales of Argyll’s history. Though claiming to be no bard—the word Ogryvan used sounded like “shawn-ah-kee”—he fulfilled Arthur’s request. Stories of battles and raids, famines and plagues, as well as periods of peace and prosperity, poured forth in Ogryvan’s booming bass tones. Arthur’s vocabulary expanded as he questioned unfamiliar phrases or concepts.
