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

by Headlee, Kim

  There had been something, Niniane realized: a mark on the heel of one foot, too regular in shape to be a natural one. A Caledonian child, although the people had spoken Brytonic? Niniane hadn’t heard of Caledonians tattooing infants, but Brytons never wore tattoos.

  Rubbing her eyes, she again conjured the vision, concentrating on the baby’s heel. Not one mark but two. Two birds, wings spread.

  Loholt of Argyll!

  Queasiness gripped Niniane’s stomach. The baby hadn’t seemed very old. Her return to Rushen Priory would have to wait until after she had warned Arthur and Gyanhumara.

  As Niniane rose and reached for her robe, her eyesight blurred and the room began to spin. She flailed her arms, trying to find something to grab for support. A bedpost, a chair, a wall, anything.

  She couldn’t see. Her legs buckled. Gasping, she tried to cry out, but she couldn’t summon enough breath for sound. Pain hammered her head as she collapsed.

  AS ANGUSEL neared the living quarters of the rulers of Clan Argyll, he shook his head in astounded disbelief.

  “Gyan!” Grinning, he ran toward the doorway where she stood. “You look great!”

  He clattered to a halt, and she pulled him into a brief embrace. “Thank you, Angus.” She released him and glanced around, inhaling deeply and flexing her arms. “I feel great.” A smile lit her face as she regarded him again. “Ready for a practice session?”

  “You mean, with you? But aren’t you—I mean, your strength—”

  She chuckled. “Of course, I won’t be in top form yet. I won’t break, either, if that’s what worries you. I don’t stand a chance of returning to top form without practice.” Her smile deepened. “Exercising my tongue is the last thing I need to do.”

  As she headed toward the practice grounds, Angusel broke into a trot to catch her.

  “But Loholt—”

  “Will be well taken care of. Even if he gets hungry in my absence.”

  Angusel nodded his approval as Gyan bypassed the racks of practice weapons and drew her sword to begin a solo routine of slashes and thrusts. Angusel selected a pair of swords and shields and joined her.

  “Here, Gyan.” He held out a shield and a blunted, weighted sword when she paused to rest. “Let’s have a go with these.”

  Her mouth bent in amusement. “Loholt may have stretched my body, but he hasn’t addled my wits. I was going to get a practice sword before sparring with you.” She sheathed Braonshaffir, unhooked the scabbard from her belt, and laid the sword aside. “Thank you for saving me the trouble.”

  He barely had time to ready his sword before she shifted into attack posture and lunged at him.

  As he studied her face, aglow with fierce joy, he couldn’t suppress his happiness. What she lacked in strength she made up in sheer determination. Several times, she drove him back a pace or two. Yet she was tiring quickly. He could see it in the runnels of sweat on her face, the graying look around her eyes, and the laboring of her breath. But she refused to quit.

  Saluting her with his sword, he ended the match.

  She stuck her sword point-down into the dirt and leaned against the hilt, panting and smiling.

  “I can see,” she said between breaths, “that I have much work before me.” She straightened, lifted the sword, and pressed its rounded point against Angusel’s chest. “So do you.”

  “What?” He dropped his sword and shield, and raised both hands in mock surrender. “Me?”

  “Absolutely. You need more battle experience.”

  That argument again. “But, Gyan, my place—”

  “Your place is where you will do me and Clan Argyll the most good.” She lowered the sword, but her gaze didn’t dim. “Loholt and I are well guarded here. I want you to join Arthur.”

  Although he hated to admit it, she had a valid point. He never would become a great warrior fighting on practice grounds all his life. For her sake, he wanted—nay, needed to become the best.

  Going to Senaudon presented two problems, though he shoved from his mind the one matter over which he had no control. His deuchainn na fala, however, he could control.

  “I will join the army at Senaudon.” Angusel challenged her with a gaze every bit as intense as hers. “As a true warrior.” Grinning, he added, “Wearing the finest pelt-purse you’ve ever seen!”

  Chapter 22

  MORGHE HAD TO admit the Picts knew how to stage a celebration.

  The occasion in question, Lugnasadh, started on the calends of August and would run for a week to honor the bull-god Lugh with such activities as horse racing, cavalry drills, animal exhibitions, and sales—not only sales of livestock, but clothing, jewelry, weapons, tools, food, drink, medicines, and anything else that could be piled onto a wagon or stuffed into a crate, barrel, or sack. The meadows surrounding Arbroch had grown tents and booths and pens by the score, rendering it impossible to walk in a straight line from one end to the other. Music and haggling and laughter abounded, often masked by roars of approval as a race ended.

  The odors of live animals clashed with roasting meat, making it hard to decide upon the more pervasive. Since a mare stood closest at the moment, Morghe opted for the former.

  What a sleek animal, too: black as midnight, with a white blaze and three white-stockinged feet. While the owner held the halter, Morghe rubbed her hand over the velvety nose.

  “Looks can tell you only so much, my lady.” The voice behind her sounded vaguely familiar. She turned. A stranger casually bestrode a chestnut horse. “If you’re serious about buying that mare, I suggest you try her paces first. I shall be honored to provide escort.”

  “Indeed.” Morghe planted a hand on her hip. “Why, may I ask, should you be wanting to do that? And why should I be wanting to let you?”

  His face split into an impudent grin. “You really don’t recognize me, do you, Lady Morghe?”

  Recognize him? She wanted to slap that grin off his face, whether she knew him or not. Narrowing her eyes, she studied his bearded face.

  “Accolon! Why are you here? And why the disguise?” Not only had he sprouted facial hair, but he wore a plain tunic and trews and an equally plain cloak. He carried no weapons that she could see, and no clan or army badge betrayed him. Her suspicion ignited.

  He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Traveling clothes.” To the horse’s owner, he said, “A saddle and bridle, if you please, good man. We won’t be long, I assure you. This should allay your fears.” He dropped a silver buckle into the man’s outstretched palm. As the owner bowed and disappeared into a nearby tent, Accolon nudged his mount closer to Morghe. “I promise, my lady”—a chill crept up her spine at his quiet menace—“you shall have your answers soon.”

  He said nothing of consequence while the owner saddled and bridled the mare, nor as they trotted their mounts into the forest west of Arbroch. Once the trees had screened them from view, he kicked his horse into a fast canter. She urged the mare to keep up. Normally, she would have enjoyed the mare’s smooth gait and the fact that the animal didn’t seem taxed by the pace.

  After what felt like an eternity, he reined his horse to a halt, and she followed his example.

  “Accolon of Dalriada, explain yourself.”

  “Take a look around you.” His voice hardened in a manner she didn’t like. “A good look. You must remember this place.”

  She laughed. No one told Morghe ferch Uther what she must and mustn’t do. No one save her brother, but she ignored that niggling thought. However, she would never discover the nature of Accolon’s game unless she played along. She maneuvered the mare in a tight circle, taking in a full view of her surroundings.

  This strip looked much like any other ill-built Pictish road, little better than a parallel pair of cow tracks, grassy down the center and flanked to either side by oak and elm trees and undergrowth, lush in the fullness of summer. A few paces ahead, the road bent sharply to the left around an outcropping of rock. Nearby stood a shattered, lightning-charred oaken monume
nt to the capricious ravages of nature.

  “Why should this place be important to me?”

  “Loholt mac Artyr.” Accolon’s eyes took on a sinister glint. “Bring him to me here in three days, and I will handle the rest.”

  Hand to mouth, Morghe stifled a gasp. That was low even for Urien. Abruptly, Accolon’s disguise made terrible sense.

  She drew a breath to steady her voice. “This is madness. Surely you can see that. I cannot spirit the baby past the gate guards at night. And I can’t believe you expect me to accomplish it in full daylight.”

  He leaned toward her in the saddle, leering. “Oh, but I do, my lady. What better time than when the gates stand wide open for the festival, and everyone is buried in their own petty distractions?”

  “Loholt is never left unguarded. If Gyanhumara isn’t with him, you can wager that her servant is. Or his wet nurse. Trying to slip past any of them would be impossible.”

  His grin widened. “Not for someone of your talents.”

  “Talents?” Her heart twisted. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Ha. Let’s just say that I am aware of the part you played in Urien becoming chieftain when he did.”

  She struggled to keep her expression neutral. So that’s what had become of the aconitum. The enormity of her actions dragged at her heart. Perhaps marrying Urien wasn’t so wise…no. He would bestow upon her the only worthwhile thing in life: power. She just needed to stay on his good side, which wouldn’t happen if she didn’t cooperate with his war-hound.

  “Someone with your knowledge of medicines,” Accolon whispered, “can doubtless concoct something to help you smuggle a baby from his mother.”

  The mare snorted and shook her head. Morghe stroked the glossy neck, thinking less of the risks than of the innocent baby who had not asked to become Urien’s enemy, the baby who always gave her a smile.

  Regardless of how much she wanted to please her future husband, in this act she would take no part.

  She met Accolon’s gaze unflinchingly. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will find another accomplice.” He parted his cloak to reveal a cavalry sword. “The brat has a wet nurse, you said.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare kill me!”

  “Oh, but an accident would be so tragic, don’t you agree?” He laughed harshly. “And so pathetically easy to arrange.”

  “I’m betrothed to Urien!” She couldn’t help the shrillness of her voice or the thrashing of her heart.

  “You were not his first choice.”

  And may all the gods of all the people on earth damn Urien to hell and back for that! After he made her Chieftainess of Clan Moray.

  As she scanned the tangled tree branches, she glimpsed a woodcutter’s hut set well back from the road, and an idea formed.

  “Very well, Accolon.” She looked down, sighing and slumping her shoulders to feign resignation. “Three days.”

  ANGUSEL FELT something crawling on his leg and groggily batted it away, hoping to get back to sleep. His head throbbed, and his body felt stiff and chilled as if he’d spent all night on the—

  Ground?

  His fingers dug into what should have been his bed and pulled up a fistful of dirt and musty leaves.

  He sat up, instantly awake. A circle of oaks towered overhead, their intertwined branches forming a thick canopy lost in the tendrils of mist. The forest stretched in every direction.

  Which forest? And why?

  He snorted at his slow wits. His deuchainn na fala, of course.

  Someone must have drugged his wine at the feast. His last recollection ended after Seannachaidh Reuel had begun to sing.

  He scratched his chest and glanced at his loincloth. A quick check nearby turned up his sheathed dagger, a water skin, and a sack containing a day’s ration of dried beef, bread, and cheese, exactly as prescribed by law. Everything else he needed to survive his hike to Arbroch he’d have to find, hunt, or fashion himself.

  The trial had to take at least three days or the candidate suffered allegations of having received help. Whether true or not, such warriors bore the stigma of cowardice and were never accepted into the clan’s war-band. The law prohibited overly mourning youths who never returned.

  Angusel shinned up the nearest tree and peered through the branches. If he could determine his location and close some of the distance, it would be a simple matter to camp, hidden, near Arbroch until enough time had passed for his trial to be declared valid. The sun warmed his skin, but he could only tell that he was in a hollow. No wisps of smoke curled above the trees or beyond the ridge crests. Just as well, since even speaking to other people was forbidden.

  After climbing down, he kicked through the deadfall for a stout and nearly straight branch. He unsheathed his dagger and sat on the cool ground beneath the tree. With the branch balanced on his lap, he made quick work of stripping off the twigs and set to work sharpening the narrow end.

  By law, he’d been left a day’s walk from Arbroch, but in which direction? He could make a guess and walk for half a day. If nothing started to look familiar, he could return to this spot by nightfall and pick another direction on the morrow…and on and on until he finally stumbled on the right way. That presumed he could recognize the land within a half-day’s walk of Arbroch. Or he could improve his chances by reason.

  A day’s walk east would put him close to the coast, but this place bore none of the usual signs: no gulls, no trees stunted by a diet of salt spray, no fishy or tarry tang in the air, no restless murmur of the waves.

  He could rule out being south of Arbroch, because that would have left him near the northern bank of the mighty Ab Fhorchu, within shouting distance of Senaudon. He’d climbed every rock and explored every deer path surrounding his birthplace. This wasn’t Senaudon.

  Since candidates had to travel in one of the four primary directions—the deuchainn na fala was designed to be challenging, not impossible—this left north and west. Due west of Arbroch lay the border of the Breatanach Clan Móran; going north would thrust him deeper into Clan Argyll territory.

  Both seemed equally likely.

  He preferred to do things the hard way, his mother had said of his dead father. And look where it got him. Angusel rubbed his chin, questioning the wisdom of his choice to conduct the deuchainn na fala here rather than at Senaudon.

  Too late now.

  He sheathed the dagger. Upon testing the spear’s point with his thumb, he deemed it serviceable and far better to have on hand in case trouble attacked him in the shape of a wild cat, bear, or boar.

  As he gazed southward, instinct made its suggestion. Failing this test would bring shame not only upon Clan Alban but upon Gyan and Clan Argyll, which, gods help him, he’d never willingly do.

  He stowed the dagger with the rations, shouldered the sack and water skin, and gripped the spear as a walking staff. Upon turning to put the rising sun over his left shoulder, he began his trek.

  “GET DOWN. Now!” A sword glints in the man’s hand.

  Beyond the brush stands a wagon drawn by a lathered horse. Three figures sit in the wagon, two in front. The person sitting in the rear holds a bundle in both arms. A riderless horse stands nearby, foam-flecked sides heaving. Shadows obscure the faces.

  A scream rings out, followed by a piercing cry. The scream belongs to a woman; the cry, an infant.

  One by one, the people abandon the wagon. The figure holding the sword moves slowly, inexorably toward the others…

  Niniane gasped. The vision vanished.

  Worse than Seeing someone’s imminent death came the certainty that these visions described an attempt to abduct Loholt. Illness had kept her confined to her chambers for most of the past fortnight. She’d been too ill to even send a message.

  Not that a written warning would have helped. Niniane found it best to speak privately to the parties involved. Besides, too many things could happen to the message or its bearer, even if the courier were one of Arthur
’s most trusted soldiers.

  Illness be hanged, she’d have to make the journey herself.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her balance failed, and her flailing arms knocked the pitcher from the washstand. It hit the tiled floor and shattered with a resounding crash. Groaning, Niniane slumped back onto the bed. She didn’t need the Sight to forewarn her of what would happen next.

  As if on cue, the door banged open, and an older woman rushed in, tongue clucking and head wagging. Sister Dorcas picked up the shards and set them on the side table. She planted her fists on her ample hips and surveyed Niniane with a scowl.

  “Prioress! What are you doing out of bed? You are not well enough—”

  “I must try, Dorcas.” Niniane massaged her temple, willing away the pain. The visions she could do nothing about. They wouldn’t leave her mind until the events had passed. “Lives may depend on it.” With Dorcas’s help, she tried her legs again.

  While Niniane steadied herself, Dorcas retrieved Niniane’s robe from the back of a chair. “Lives? Whose lives? What in heaven’s name are you prattling on about?”

  Niniane sighed and ran her fingers through her unbound hair. She didn’t know Sister Dorcas well, but the woman seemed forthright and hardworking, if her zealous nursing was any indication.

  Again, pain speared her head. To even contemplate a journey to Arbroch, she’d need help.

  “The son of Arthur and Gyanhumara is in danger.” As Niniane watched Dorcas’s face transform into an expression of horror, she added, “Perhaps others are, too.”

  Niniane lifted her arms, and Dorcas slipped the robe over her head. As the prioress moved toward the door, Dorcas stepped in front of her, arms crossed. “You could have had a fever dream.”

  “My fever is gone. Feel for yourself.” Dorcas pressed her hand to Niniane’s forehead but didn’t look convinced. “I can’t tell you how I know. I just do. Please, Sister, I must hurry. I don’t know how much time is left.”