by Headlee, Kim
When the steepening path became treacherous with roots and ruts and rocks, however, he devoted more attention to how he might help Gyan navigate this route the following evening.
“Your turn, lad.”
He directed a quizzical glance at Ogryvan, who regarded him with amusement. The work party had halted, and the men, the priest included, were straining to lever a downed pine off the trail.
“Sir?” He wasn’t sure whether Ogryvan meant for him to help move the tree, or if he’d missed something Gyan’s father had said.
“I’ve told you about Argyll. Now, you speak.” He tapped Arthur’s chest. “About yourself. How did you come to lead the Breatanach army at such a young age?”
Arthur thinned his lips. Gyan didn’t know the whole story of Dun Eidyn. Hell, not even Merlin knew. “I could ask you the same of Gyan. She has much responsibility for clan rule.”
A shout went up, followed by a series of crashes and thuds as the tree rolled off the path and into the ravine, startling dozens of crows, sparrows, and grouse into flight.
As forward progress resumed and the birds’ squawks died down, Ogryvan stroked his graying beard. “Aye, that she does. It’s been so ever since she reached womanhood.” The chieftain gazed up the path. “My dear wife died birthing her.”
“And you still miss her.”
“Aye.” More a sigh than a word.
“You’re not afraid you’ll lose Gyan like that, too?”
“Gods, I hope not.” Ogryvan uttered a rueful laugh. “But I’d be a liar if I said I never thought about it.”
“So would I,” Arthur admitted. “But I believe she will be in good hands.” In death as well as in life, though he felt ill equipped to explain this to someone who worshipped other gods.
“Aye, lad. That she will.” After striding in silence for a while, Ogryvan said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
Since Ogryvan had chosen to bare his soul, fairness demanded the same of Arthur. He willed the guilt to stay submerged.
“Dun Eidyn—the fort you call Dùn Éideann—was my first battle. Colgrim had lain siege, and my father led the standing army to relieve the fort. He promoted me to lead the reserve troops. I wanted to fight in the main division, at his side, but command of the reserves was too great an honor to refuse.”
Arthur snorted, recalling everyone’s reaction, including his. “I never questioned my father’s judgment, even though most of his generals did. I thought I could do damn near anything.”
“Surely Uther had good reason to trust your abilities.”
“Only Merlin’s word.” In response to Ogryvan’s puzzled look, Arthur added, “Merlin, the priest who performed our wedding, was one of my father’s best generals, and he trained me.”
“Ah.” Ogryvan’s smile turned cryptic. “Then I imagine your father had good reason indeed to trust the man’s word.”
“I don’t know.” Memories rushed back, unwelcome but unchecked. “When we got to Dùn Éideann, we had no idea…” The Angli-infested scene returned as vividly as the accursed reality had been.
“That there were so many enemy troops?”
Arthur nodded, reliving his shock and fear as the Angli forces, outnumbering the Brytons by ten to one, had pulsed around Dun Eidyn’s walls. He forced himself to continue. “My father fought in the unit behind the phalanx.” With his hands, he formed a wedge to explain the formation. “A strong phalanx will open the enemy’s line for the main body. He posted many of his best men to the phalanx.” Where I should have been. Arthur grimaced at another bloody memory. “Against those odds, they didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his unit.” His chest ached as though the Angli spear that had taken his father’s life had struck him instead. Briefly, he ground his knuckles into the spot.
There were still days he wished it had.
“And your unit?” Ogryvan asked. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” Arthur laughed mirthlessly. “That’s the hell of it. I was too surprised by the enemy’s numbers. I should have ordered my men to help my father’s troops, instead of holding them back.”
“As you were ordered to do.”
Arthur had never considered it that way before and told Ogryvan so. “Still, under the circumstances, I—”
Not even Merlin had heard this confession. He could scarcely admit it to himself. But here walked a man who might not feel the sting of disappointment upon learning of Arthur’s failure. He wished he could leave it unspoken but knew he couldn’t.
He regarded Ogryvan squarely. “I should have overcome my fears, sir, and reacted quicker. Maybe then my father would have lived.”
“Or maybe not.” Arthur started to protest, but Ogryvan put up a hand. “A similar quandary faced me at Abar-Gleann. The battle might have gone differently if I had beaten Urien in that race to the dike.” Arthur raised an eyebrow, and the chieftain laughed. “And don’t go abusing that notion, you whelp! Leave this old man a shred of pride.” His expression sobered. “Of course, that might not have changed anything. In battle, you never know when an insignificant event will turn the tide.”
True enough. One thrown horseshoe, one miscommunicated order, one ill-aimed arrow might rob victory from the winning side.
The chieftain said, “You feel badly about your father’s death, perhaps even responsible. Anyone would, lad.” Ogryvan gripped Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ll wager your guilt is undeserved.”
Arthur shrugged the hand away. Guilt he deserved, not what had happened after Uther’s death. “The men insisted on following me. Heaven only knows why, when Merlin and other officers had survived.”
“Because you transformed the rout into an orderly retreat to save countless lives. No mean feat, that. Panic is a vicious plague.”
“You heard about that, sir?”
“And the main details of the battle, aye. Word does get around, even up here.” Ogryvan smiled. “But I wanted to hear it from you. A man reveals his true measure by how he handles defeat.” The smile vanished. “Having guilt is natural, but if you let it consume you, Artyr, you will be of no use to anyone. Gyan included. I’d rather not see that happen to her. Or”—affection crinkled the corners of his mouth and eyes—“to the man she loves.”
The procession stopped. The priest ordered silence while he intoned a prayer. A blessing, Arthur surmised, even though he didn’t recognize all the words.
“You’re right,” he told Ogryvan after the priest had concluded.
Two stark choices reared up like the monoliths of the nearby circle where the workers resumed their shoveling. He could forever wonder how he might have saved his father’s life. Or he could bid Uther farewell and put the matter behind him, laying it, and his father, to rest.
He drew a breath and chose.
Fist to chest, Arthur said, as much to himself as to his father-by-marriage, “I swear I will not let guilt best me.”
PROPPED ON a bench in Arbroch’s feast hall, shoulders to the wall and feet buried in a cushion atop a stool, a cup of heather beer in hand and sweltering under her ceremonial robe, Gyan felt like an outsider in more ways than one.
Tables and benches had been shoved aside to make room for the Dance of the Sun. Revelers leaped and kicked and shouted and clapped and whirled in a double-ringed blur. The frenzied rhythm couldn’t be hampered by the injured or ill, those too far gone in their cups, or any woman with child. The sun had to return to full strength to assure another year of bounty, and this dance, madly spinning in every feast hall across Caledon, was believed to ensure success.
Gyan knew better. The One God had revealed the Old Ones as mere hunks of granite. By infinite contrast, He was mighty enough to weave the fabric of heaven and earth, yet compassionate enough to fold to His eternal bosom the soul of a bairn.
This knowledge turned bittersweet in the face of her clansmen’s beliefs. Upon the word of the clan priests swung the pendulum of life and death. Not even rulers could claim immunity.
A reasonable man li
ke Argyll’s High Priest might be swayed to the One God, but he’d need a miracle to see another Àmbholc. Several priests, Vergul included, were already vying for succession, straining to prove their worthiness by adhering to the least jot of the law, regardless of whether it served the greater good.
Gyan shuddered to think what would happen to the clan under the spiritual control of an intolerant man like Vergul. Earnestly, she prayed that, should it come to pass, she would be politically, emotionally, and spiritually strong enough to beard that lion in its den without being mauled. Dafydd’s occasional letters provided her only training in the faith, and she had far more to learn before undertaking such a crucial task.
Fortunately, the priests were occupied at the temple, preparing for the evening ritual. Common wisdom dictated that they could divine a person’s most secret thoughts. It wouldn’t have surprised her.
Within the last few days, she’d begun to notice the stirrings of the life that dwelt within her. She felt another nudge and studied the swell of her belly beneath her gray-feathered robe, recalling how precipitously Arthur had relieved her of command following her accident with Macmuir, citing love as the reason. Perhaps it had been merely a convenient excuse.
Their child constantly reminded her of that love. Arthur hadn’t seemed overly pleased that she wouldn’t be wielding Braonshaffir for a long time, but, knowing how much this meant to her, he might have been exercising diplomacy. On the other hand, she couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep her safe. She’d do the same for him without hesitation.
Denying her nature to satisfy Arthur’s concerns, however, was rapidly becoming too expensive a cost to bear.
She kicked aside the stool and rose. The room started spinning. She braced her hand against the wall, closed her eyes, and bowed her head, praying for strength, guidance, wisdom, answers, anything that could ease her turmoil.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes, wishing for better company than her thoughts, but Per and Angusel were dancing. Cynda had disappeared to find Gyan more heather beer. Ogryvan sat in his usual corner, challenging all comers to arm wrestling. Arthur, looking regal in Caledonach ebony leather beneath his gold-trimmed scarlet legion cloak, was—
She blinked hard, but the scene didn’t change.
Arthur was sitting down to Ogryvan’s challenge. The Ogre never lost. This Arthur knew as well as anyone, having witnessed countless bouts over the past several weeks, though never as a contestant. Why he’d decided to try his luck tonight, she could only guess. Her misgivings yielded to pride and love.
“Artyr, wait!” Although she tried to pitch her voice over the din as if on a battlefield, the bairn had dampened this ability, too.
Miraculously, Arthur glanced at her. She waved and began to pick her way toward her father and her consort.
“I had to see this,” she confessed to both of them as she drew near.
Ogryvan chuckled. “Who will you be cheering for, lass?”
“I think this hall needs a new champion.” The kiss she bestowed upon her consort underscored her hope. “Good luck,” she whispered, grinning, “my little champion.”
Arthur beamed at her.
“Ha!” roared the Ogre. “Then let us see what this demon-whelp husband of yours can do!”
Gyan helped Arthur remove his cloak, marveling at the crowd the event had already attracted. She could hear the measured handclaps and pounding of feet as the dance whirled behind them, but anyone not dancing was either standing near Ogryvan’s small, square table or hastening there with all possible speed.
The combatants greeted each other with a stately nod as though meeting on the field of blood.
Elbow to table and arm cocked and fingers flexed, hand met opposing hand with a resounding slap. Sinews writhed, lips curled, jaws clenched, knuckles whitened. The advantage teetered like a pine battling the wind. Perspiration beaded upon furrowed brows.
A chant intruded, quiet but intense.
“Ar-tyr…Ar-tyr…Ar-tyr…” Her consort’s Caledonaiche name danced upon the lips of many Argyll warriors. Hugging his cloak to her bosom, she raised her voice with them as the battle raged.
An arm weakened. The opponent pressed the advantage. His adversary fended off the attack. Stalemate again.
“Ar-tyr! Ar-tyr! Ar-tyr!” More onlookers hurled the name toward the rafters.
A surge of strength proved too much for the other. Both arms crashed to the tabletop. Fist thrust upward, the victor stood and surveyed his realm. His fiery smile rivaled the sun.
The Dance of the Sun froze.
“Artyr!”
Every man and woman in the hall joined the chorus.
“Artyr!”
Even the Ogre.
“Artyr!”
MORGHE HUNCHED over the scroll drooping across the too-small table in the too-cold anteroom of her too-Spartan chambers, squinting under the too-dim candlelight while the barbaric Picti form of her brother’s name blew the roof off the feast hall.
Jamming hands to ears, she jumped down and paced to the hole in the wall that had the audacity to call itself a hearth. Just like everything else in this God-forsaken barbarian stronghold, the fire’s warmth failed to lend comfort.
Mercifully, the noise ceased. She heaved a log onto the glowing heap. Summoning Arthur’s face, she jabbed the embers. Flames roared to life. Gasping, she stepped back.
With a toss of her auburn braids, she chuckled softly. She could take a hint.
If she didn’t exercise care, Arthur would devour her as he devoured anyone he deemed of use. Just as he’d devoured these Picts: horsemen, lands, wealth, women, and their very hearts. And the poor fools had no idea what he’d done to them.
A tentative knock disrupted her thoughts.
“Enter,” she snapped.
The door opened to reveal a slave bearing an oil ewer. She recognized him by his maimed right hand. Winter’s bite had chapped the stumps where two of his fingers should have been.
“Ah, Lughann, well come!” She didn’t have to force a smile. “The days don’t lengthen quickly enough for me.”
“Aye, me lady.” He bobbed a bow and set to work.
This man and several of his Scotti brethren, captured during the failed invasion of Maun, had accompanied Morghe to Arbroch to replace freed Brytons who’d returned to their villages.
Lughann’s half-hand didn’t prevent him from working efficiently, first filling the lamps, and then using the candle to light each wick. He turned the logs in the fireplace and added several more.
Experience had taught Morghe to cultivate allies everywhere. Even if she had no intention of being true, she deemed it wiser to appear so, as with Gyanhumara and her kin, until necessity dictated otherwise. A slave, whose presence commanded no more attention than would a chair, could prove useful.
“Thank you, Lughann. Wait.” As he paused to regard her expectantly, she glided to the shelves bearing her herbs and medicines. “I have another task for you.” Scanning the rows of neatly labeled clay jars, she asked, “Would you happen to know why my brother’s name was being shouted in the feast hall?”
“Oh, aye, me lady, that I do!” His face split into a crooked grin. “The Pendragon arm wrestled the Ogre and won.”
Arm wrestling Gyanhumara’s father—that was all? These Picts were even more gullible than she’d given them credit for. Suppressing a laugh, she selected a small jar and passed it to the slave.
“Apply a dollop twice each day, upon rising and before retiring. Mind that it gets rubbed in well.”
“Who’s to be receiving this, me lady?”
“Why, Lughann, it’s for you. For your hand.”
Ewer tucked under one arm, he cradled the jar as though it were the most precious gift on earth.
“Many thanks, Lady Morghe! A true angel, ’tis what ye be.”
Bowing repeatedly, he shuffled backward from the room. She closed the door, latched it, and faced the fire. By the time she’d collapsed into her chair, tears of laughter
coursed down her cheeks.
An angel? Not bloody likely. The word wasn’t in her vocabulary.
“WELL DONE, lad!” Ogryvan’s dove-feathered ceremonial robe added to the cacophony as he thumped Arthur’s back. “Even the Dance of the Sun stops for you.”
Gyan glanced behind her and gasped. “Father, shouldn’t we order it to begin again?”
Arthur shot her a questioning glance. As a Christian, even a covert one, the pagan rituals should hold no import for her. Then the truth smote him with awful clarity. Caledonian priests held as much power over their devotees as the Church of Brydein did over theirs and for the same reason: control of the masses.
He reached for her hand. Relief dominated her expression.
Ogryvan gazed at the feast hall’s double doors, propped open to allow winter’s chill to combat the heat. The westering sun’s rays filtered through the trees, bestowing a golden glow.
“Nay, lass. The priests are due at any moment.” He returned his attention to Arthur. “Although another bout like that, Artyr, and Clan Argyll will be clamoring for you to replace me as chieftain.”
This prompted more cheers.
Arthur’s heart lurched. A Caledonian prophecy had decreed that a Brytoni chieftain would bring Gyan great joy and great sorrow…and death. He banished the thought. Even if it were possible for him one day to wear a chieftain’s mantle, no power in heaven or on earth could ever force him to bring sorrow to his beloved Gyan.
That he would cause her death was obscenely ludicrous.
“Surely, sir, you cannot mean—”
“Nay. But you are my son-by-law. It’s time you started acting like it,” Ogryvan declared. Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “Call me Father, as does Per, the son of my heart. Or Ogryvan.” His grin radiated pure mischief. “Or Ogre, if my name proves too much for your feeble Ròmanach-Breatanach tongue.”
If only half the rulers of the Caledonians, Scots, Saxons, Angles, and Brytons—especially the Brytons—would wield humor rather than swords, Brydein wouldn’t suffer half its problems.
