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

by Headlee, Kim

  Truly staggering, the many ways warriors could maim each other.

  Being outside made it easier to steel herself against the suffering. The tent walls veiled the sights and muffled the sounds, and zephyrs purged the smells from the field-hospital compound erected on the Dhoo-Glass practice grounds.

  Some part of her had rejoiced when she’d applied the last of the salve. Refusing her assistant’s offer to fetch more, she’d latched onto this excuse to escape the gashes and burns and dislocated joints and broken bones and ruined eyes and missing limbs, if only briefly.

  Niniane proffered the bucket to the woman minding the nearest cauldron. Her linen apron smeared with hog tallow and ragged black braids framing her sweat-streaked face, the woman looked as exhausted as Niniane felt. Grunting, she gave the thick, infection-fighting elder-leaf ointment a few stirs with her paddle before filling the bucket. Niniane murmured her thanks and managed a smile. Drawing the back of a callused hand across her forehead, the woman nodded.

  After stopping by the supply tent to collect an armload of bandage rolls, Niniane returned to her patients.

  The first young man to receive her attention had taken a spear above the heart, though not deep. Someone had removed the spearhead. She cleaned out the dirt and blood, applied a generous dollop of warm ointment, and covered it with a bandage. With a clean cloth dipped in cool water, she gently wiped sweat from the soldier’s forehead. He stirred but, luckily, didn’t wake.

  As she collected her implements to move to the next cot, the ground began to waver and spin. She felt a pair of hands grasp her shoulders. Sister Willa, who’d accompanied her to assist with the wounded, said something Niniane couldn’t make out. Pressing fingers to temple, she braced herself for a visitation of the Sight.

  No visions came. Simply fatigue, she presumed, unsure whether to be relieved or not. Evening was nipping at afternoon’s heels, yet so many soldiers remained in need of help.

  The dizziness passed. Niniane turned with a sigh—and saw Arthur.

  “Is she here?”

  She noticed the cut on his forearm. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara is at the fort.” It was the first question she’d asked upon arrival, and Cynda had left the field hospital shortly thereafter. “Cynda should be with her. But first, let me dress your”—she blinked and found herself talking to the air—“arm.”

  Bedwyr chuckled softly. This surprised her, for a melon-size burn branded his right shoulder. She reached for her knife and the bucket of ointment. Willa handed her a bandage roll.

  “That’s his way, Prioress.” He groaned as she sliced away charred leather to expose his damaged flesh. She smoothed on the salve and watched his face’s tension ease. He gazed at her through steady, moss-green eyes. “Especially with those he loves.”

  Niniane wrapped his shoulder. “I know, Bedwyr.” She couldn’t bear to tell him that Arthur’s concern for others, which outweighed all thought of his own safety, would one day be his death. “I know.”

  Chapter 30

  ARTHUR STRODE THE corridor toward the cohort commander’s workroom. By all reports, she had suffered only minor wounds, but he needed the kind of proof only his eyes could provide.

  What would happen after that, God alone knew.

  He burst into the antechamber to find Rhys seated behind the table. From a ledge glared the embalmed head of the auburn-haired Niall, beside what had to be Gyan’s latest trophy, its golden hair and mustaches drooping, mouth rounded in a shocked O, and its blue eyes reflecting eternity above the bloody, torn remains of the rest of the poor bastard.

  Rhys scrambled to his feet, tipping his chair and scattering parchment, quills, and nibs across the tabletop. He saluted.

  Arthur wrenched his gaze from the trophies to regard Gyan’s aide, rendering a short nod. “Where is she, Centurion?”

  “Resting in her quarters, Lord Pendragon. Left orders not to be disturbed by anyone.” He pawed through the parchment to unearth a wax tablet and offered it to Arthur. “Preliminary report, sir.”

  Arthur’s top priority lay in the adjacent building, probably asleep. He read the report anyway—and felt his eyebrows lift. Gyan’s order of battle and its execution was nothing short of brilliant. A surge of love and respect deepened the wound her departure had wrought.

  I was a fool to have let her go!

  Hell, no. I was a fool for trying to hold her too tightly.

  Rhys’s hopeful expression reined in Arthur’s thoughts far enough for him to make some encouraging remarks and offer a few suggestions. After returning the report to its author, he left the room.

  Left orders not to be disturbed—by anyone.

  He’d have flown to her on the wings of the wind; surely, she knew that. Had she meant to include him in her directive too? Even if she no longer loved him, seeing her again would be sufficient. He hoped.

  Lengthening his stride, he battled the temptation to run.

  He found her antechamber door bolted. Cynda’s doing, no doubt. Would he interrupt their reunion? Would it matter?

  Left orders not to be disturbed.

  Bloody hell, I have more right to be here than any servant! Arthur’s pounding rattled the timbers. The pain steadied him. He shook his hand, reformed the fist, and pounded again.

  The door opened. To his surprise, an irate Peredur appeared, but the ire melted into a relieved grin. “Gods, Artyr, how did you get here so quickly? Nemetona’s chariot?”

  Caledonians believed their war-goddess drove a crimson chariot drawn by four winged, fire-snorting, ebony horses. Arthur grunted. “Something like that.”

  He stepped into the room, and Per closed the door behind them, his grin broadening. “You must have left the cavalry behind again.”

  Arthur chuckled at the old jest. “You’re fortunate. I don’t tolerate insubordination from just anyone.” Gazing at the door to the inner chamber, he sobered. “How is she?”

  Per crossed to the door, slowly worked the handle, and eased the door open a crack. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

  Arthur’s grief, doubts, and fears rooted him. Entire enemy armies didn’t faze him a tenth as much as the prospect of losing her love.

  “Well?” Per studied him intently.

  He shrugged. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

  Per crossed his arms, disgust puckering his face. “Artyr mac Ygrayna, I never figured you for a coward.”

  The accusation ignited his anger. Not because it was wrong, but because it came too damned close to being right. “This matter is between me and my wife. You have no right to interfere.”

  “Like hell I don’t. I have her best interests and her happiness at heart.” Eyes glittering, Per stalked up to Arthur. “Do you?”

  They faced off, unmoving and silent. Did he, Arthur map Uther, have Gyan’s best interests at heart? Did he even know what they were? Or what would make her happy again? The birth of another child seemed to help most women move past their loss. His own mother, for one. He ached to be intimate with Gyan and, God willing, to give her more children. Did she want a family?

  Does she want me?

  Only one way to find out. No battle could be fought without first scouting the land. By God, he’d win her back from wherever grief had imprisoned her, even if it took his very last breath.

  “You’re right, Per. I need answers.” The rhythmic sound of her sleep-deepened breathing filtered through the crack. “Is Cynda with her?”

  “Cynda? She’s still at Arbroch.”

  Arthur swore under his breath.

  “Isn’t she?” Per asked, brow furrowed.

  “I brought her with me but entrusted her to Prioress Niniane’s care. In the field hospital, the prioress told me Cynda would be here.”

  Per’s frown deepened. “Odd that she isn’t. I’ll find her.” He aimed a nod at the bedchamber’s door. “But not too quickly.” Chuckling, he left the room.

  Arthur stepped past his fears and into Gyan’s bedchamber.

  Left orders no
t to be disturbed.

  He could understand why.

  She sprawled on her back atop the furs. Of her armor, only the boots, helmet, and sword belt had come off. They lay in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. Her hair splayed about her head in a fiery halo. The reason for its shortness lanced his heart. Bowing his head, he briefly knuckled the ache.

  The scratch at the base of her neck brought to mind her trophies, and profound thankfulness dispelled his grief. However, he knew that kind of fatigue. After Abar-Gleann, he didn’t want even a sparrow to come within five leagues until he’d slept himself out.

  Mesmerized by the gentle rise and fall of her chest, he drank in the glorious sight of her as a man gulps water after crossing the wilderness. In retrospect, that was exactly what his life had become: an arid wilderness of daily routine that maintained the outward semblance of normalcy while inwardly he struggled simply to survive, with little time to think and no time to feel.

  Long-disused feelings pummeled him with redoubled force, beginning with the familiar twinge in his chest he’d felt each time their gazes met and held.

  Left orders. Not to be disturbed. By anyone.

  He had no desire to damage whatever relationship might remain by deliberately ignoring her wishes.

  For this, he realized, was precisely what he’d done by trying to interfere with the calling of her warrior’s blood, which had powered her heart long before she’d become his wife or the mother of their child. Her midnight rout of the Saxon invasion, against daunting odds, proved she could plan battles and lead men as well as anyone. Including him.

  Casting about for a way to demonstrate the depth of his love and respect for her abilities as a warrior and leader, his gaze fell upon her cloak and rank badge.

  Urien’s damned badge.

  It inspired the easiest military decision he’d ever made, and he prayed for sufficient time to implement it.

  He kissed her sweet, sleep-parted lips and slipped from the room.

  GYAN’S EYELIDS fluttered open. Pain wracked her muscles, and she groaned. Hearing the tattoo of receding footsteps, she glanced over in time to see the gold-trimmed cloak disappear through the door.

  “Artyr?” Her whisper sounded hoarse. Desperate for assurance that he didn’t blame her for Loholt’s death, she said, “Please don’t go.”

  The latch clicked with lonesome finality.

  Tears burned her eyes as she rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in the pillow, and wept.

  CYNDA SAT at an empty table along a wall of Dhoo-Glass’s feast hall, trencher of cold pork, carrots, and bread lying untouched before her and her fourth mug of ale at hand. Almost empty, she observed, as she gazed sadly into its pitch-sealed leather depths.

  Mayhap she should return to the field hospital, where she might be of some use. Her hands’ tremors convinced her otherwise, and she tightened her grip on the mug.

  She observed the comings and goings in the hall with bleary disinterest. Soldiers, mostly, swaggering this way and that with pints in their palms and lies on their lips, regaling anyone fool enough to stop and listen. At least, that’s what she assumed they were doing, since she couldn’t make out more than one Breatanaiche word in five.

  The merchants, craftsmen, and farmers in the hall, many with families, kept to themselves. No one paid heed to an old Caledonach servant woman. Exactly as it should be.

  When a group of Argyll horsemen tromped in, gazing about as if scouting a battlefield, she hunkered into her cloak and stared at her ale. Recognition meant questions she had no wish to face. Questions meant answers she wasn’t prepared to render. Answers meant examining feelings she dared not resurrect. Feelings of guilt for failing the one person on earth she’d gladly have died for, and her son. Of burning shame for traveling all this way only to hide behind a rampart of fear. And of fathomless despair that Gyan would never forgive her.

  Eyes stinging, she took her last pull of the bitter brew.

  “There you are!” Decades of habit moved Cynda’s head. Per stood before her, fists on hips, typical cocky grin painted across his face and a fresh cut adorning one cheek. Habit also forced her to note that the wound appeared clean and not too inflamed. “I was beginning to think my brother-by-law had lied to me.” He beckoned. “Come, Cynda.”

  She didn’t need to ask his destination. Hands braced on the tabletop, she rose. The drink fuzzed her senses and heightened her qualms. Head bowed, she shuffled from the hall in Per’s wake.

  “What ails you?” He glanced her way as they neared the officers’ wing. “You look as if you’re walking to a funeral.”

  She snorted softly. “Aye,” she muttered. My own.

  “If you’re worried about Gyan, don’t be. She’s exhausted and has a few cuts and bruises, but nothing worse, thanks be to the gods.”

  Cynda mumbled her thanks; his remarks confirmed what she’d already heard. They entered the building between a pair of smartly saluting guards and trod the familiar route to the commander’s quarters. Per pushed open the door and held it for her, but he didn’t enter the chamber. She lifted an eyebrow.

  “With you here, I can see to the needs of my men.” The door banged shut behind him as he left.

  “Artyr?” called a muffled voice from beyond the bedchamber’s closed door.

  Epona, please give me strength!

  Cynda sucked in a breath and opened the door to her fate.

  Gyan stood at the window, her arms crossed and her back to the door, looking out over the harbor, where Lord Artyr’s war-fleet bobbed at anchor. When she turned, astonishment cascaded over her face, followed quickly by—joy?

  Cynda shook her head in disbelief as Gyan rushed to her, arms wide, to fold her in a crushing embrace. Her second shock in as many moments came when she realized Gyan was weeping. Tears pooled in Cynda’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Sweat, leather, and the pungent salve slathered on Gyan’s cuts evoked a flood of memories, the most recent and painful of them riding the crest. Failure and guilt forced Cynda’s sobs to erupt. She wanted desperately to run, to hide in her unworthiness and misery, but she could only cling to Gyan tighter and cry harder.

  “I am so sorry, Cynda,” Gyan whispered raggedly. “I’ve wronged you. Please forgive me.”

  “Gyan, my dove—”

  My dove.

  She had not believed she would ever use the old endearment again. Pain savaged her heart. “I should be begging your forgiveness.” Pulling back, she clapped a hand over her mouth, choking on another sob. “If—if you can.”

  Gyan gripped Cynda’s shoulders gently but firmly. “Of course, I forgive you.” When Cynda refused to look up, Gyan gave her a little shake. “Grief made me blame you in part for Loholt’s death.” Sighing, she bowed her head. “That was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  Nearly two decades ago, Cynda had lost her bairn and her husband to the killing fever; well did she know how grief could maul the soul. “Fret not about me, my dove, but set your heart at rest.” She grasped Gyan’s hand. “What of Lord Angusel? Have you forgiven him?”

  Anguish dominated Gyan’s face. “It may be too late for that.” Their gazes held for a long moment. Finally, Gyan said, “The pain—it does go away, doesn’t it?” The raw yearning in her eyes wrenched Cynda’s heart.

  She squeezed Gyan’s hand. “In time, aye.” Recalling how she’d learned to overcome her losses, she added, “Keeping busy helps.”

  “I don’t think the men would appreciate my way of keeping busy.” A sardonic smile bent Gyan’s lips. “Yet they did seem to relish last night’s activities, so perhaps—” Smile fading, she pulled her hand from Cynda’s grip. “I must check on them.” She moved toward her belt and boots. “And find Angusel.”

  While Cynda cinched Gyan’s sword belt, she pondered the idea of encouraging her to rest. The darkness around her eyes proclaimed the need, even if she remained too stubborn to admit it. The strength of purpose in Gyan’s movements as she donned her boots and straightened her battle-tunic,
however, bespoke a different need, one no less vital to her soul’s healing.

  Gyan flung her cloak in place and, Cynda was dismayed to notice, casually pinned it with Lord Urien’s old jet-eyed bronze dragon. What had become of Lord Artyr’s bonding-day gift, Cynda hadn’t a clue. Unsure whether to inquire about it, she asked instead, “What shall I tell Lord Artyr if he comes here looking for you?”

  A confusing mix of emotions—fear, sorrow, uncertainty, regret, dread, annoyance—flashed across Gyan’s features. “I am going to the field hospital and then the battlefield.” She lowered her eyebrows. “If the Pendragon desires speech with me, he can seek me there.”

  Coldness gripped her gut as the breeze created by Gyan’s departure enveloped her. Whatever was amiss between Gyan and her consort, Cynda vowed to help them resolve it. To atone for her part in Loholt’s death and truly feel worthy of Gyan’s forgiveness, it was the least she could do for either of them.

  ASTRIDE MACMUIR, Gyan surveyed the Dhoo-Glass battlefield from the pine-crowned ridge where the charge had begun, searching for the one warrior who had made it possible for her to be there.

  Soldiers in the valley were collecting adornments, usable weapons and armor, and separating friend from foe for burial. Arthur’s men comprised the majority, though she recognized Gawain and other Manx Cohort troops among them while their companions recuperated in the field hospital or the barracks, depending on their skill and luck. Mounted patrols discouraged thieves and the morbidly curious.

  Everywhere with impunity hopped raucously greedy, impartial, midnight-feathered scavengers.

  Stonn had been safely stabled, but Gyan could find no sign of his rider in any of the places she’d searched.

  At the western end of the battlefield, a huge pit had been dug for dead Breatanaich and Caledonaich. Though it wouldn’t see nearly the same numbers as the Sasunach pyres, the grave was filling rapidly.

  Most of these soldiers had sacrificed themselves to protect the lives and lands of strangers. She refused to believe Angusel had too.