Dawnflight (18 page)

“For anyone. Not many can boast of being able to stay astride this brute.” He stroked the stallion’s neck. The mane shimmered like liquid silver as Macsen tossed his head. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, your demonstration was quite impressive.” The Pendragon’s smile enhanced the sincerity of his statement.

Gyan meant to return his compliment; his exhibition was far more impressive. But her verbal shield was beginning to buckle. All she could manage was a modest word of thanks and a slim smile, which vanished as she riveted her gaze to the road. What in the name of the One God was coming over her? This Ròmanach was a son of her people’s deadliest enemies.

Yet here was a Ròmanach she might learn to like.

But it was scarcely appropriate to reveal that emotion, either. Perhaps silence would serve where words had failed. She retreated behind the invisible barrier. Mercifully, the Pendragon made no further attempt to draw her out.

They were close behind the others when Urien leaned over to whisper something to Accolon. Both men burst into laughter.

“Babies,” Urien chortled. “She won’t have time for swords and horses once the babies start coming along.”

Jabbing Brin’s flanks, she raced for Urien’s side. Her searing glare withered his smile. “If you think you can tie me down with children, Urien of Dalriada,” she snapped, “you are sadly mistaken!”

ARTHUR WATCHED the chieftainess wheel her black gelding around with expert grace and fly toward the mansio. Her fleeting glance announced that she needed to be alone. When Urien turned to follow her, Arthur drove Macsen into his path.

“See to the quartering of the Caledonians first, Tribune.” He didn’t bother to suppress the disgust in his tone.

Urien’s eyes narrowed. But to his credit, he did not have to be told twice. Urien gave his horse a savage kick to send it leaping toward the barracks. Centurion Accolon accompanied him.

Her brother also tried to follow her. He could hardly blame the man. Had it been his younger sister, he would have felt the same way. But a breach of discipline was not to be tolerated for any reason. He directed Macsen to bar the way.

The Caledonian regarded him with upraised eyebrows. Arthur signaled Peredur to follow Urien. Rebellion clouded across Peredur’s face, but he did not disobey.

Sparing a glance for the archway where she had disappeared into the courtyard of the mansio, he felt his chest tighten, as though his heart were trying to break bonds that had somehow grown too small. It was a strange sensation, quite unlike that which any other woman had evoked within him.

And not at all unpleasant.

He tried to destroy the feeling with a shake of the head. To covet the woman promised to one of his strongest allies was sheer lunacy. Yet the desire refused to die.

To fight this unseen foe, he needed advice. If any man could help him, his cousin could. He urged Macsen toward the praetorium.

MERLINUS AURELIUS Ambrosius Dubricius, Bishop and Garrison Commander of Caer Lugubalion, stood in the council hall of the praetorium. The tall window offered an excellent view of the street two stories below. Arthur, Urien, the Caledonian chieftainess, and her party appeared no bigger than puppets. But this was no children’s show. The tense faces and harsh movements belied that notion.

With his fist, he thumped the thick-paned glass. An outrageously expensive luxury, invaluable for sealing out winter’s chill, it also blocked most sounds. An accursed nuisance at a time like this. Yet he did not need to hear the words to marry a theory to his observations.

Chieftainess Gyanhumara, speaking in anger to her betrothed. Arthur guarding her escape, even against her clansman. Urien and the Argyll warrior both treading the dangerous line of insubordination.

An awful foreboding gripped Merlin’s gut.

The scene ended, and the players went their separate ways without further incident. But the foreboding did not go away.

One sound that rendered the glass powerless was the bell of nearby St. John’s. He withdrew from the window to obey the bell’s summons to vespers worship. Upon leaving the council hall, he descended the wide, black-veined marble steps and headed toward the side door nearest the church.

He never made it.

Arthur was standing in the atrium with Centurion Marcus, his scarlet-crested helmet nestled under one arm. Slapping gloves to palm, the Pendragon ordered his chief aide to check on the progress of the Argyll contingent. With a smart salute, Marcus left the building. Arthur met Merlin’s gaze. Beneath that cool control lay smoldering ire. Unless Merlin missed his guess—which did not happen often—Arthur would be wanting to talk.

“In my workroom, Merlin, if you have a moment.”

Vespers prayers would have to wait.

Most men did not own courage enough to look beyond the azure fire of Arthur’s glare. The years of their close association, first as priest and tutor and later as military adviser and friend, had gifted Merlin with this ability. Even so, it was never easy to read his young cousin’s moods.

Merlin ordered a passing servant to fetch a pitcher of uisge as he fell into step beside Arthur. A nagging voice told him he was going to need all the help he could get, however improbable the source.

They entered the antechamber. Arthur dropped gloves and helmet on the table, strode through the inner doorway, and started stalking the floor of his private workroom like a hound on the scent. Merlin dragged a chair over to a wall, well out of the way. The servant arrived with the uisge, filled both cups, set down the pitcher, and left with a bow.

Without prompting, Arthur’s tale of the afternoon’s events unfolded.

“Sit down, Arthur, before you wear out the tiles. Have you any idea how expensive replacements are these days?” He spoke in Latin, a habit that had lingered even after his time as Arthur’s tutor had passed.

Merlin was the only man Arthur would tolerate that tone from, in any language, and both knew it. But he ignored Merlin’s injunction. Merlin closed his eyes to the distraction of Arthur’s pacing.

“And then she said, not missing a beat, ‘But I already know that, Urien.’ There was no doubt what she meant.” The sound of footsteps stopped. Merlin opened his eyes to find Arthur’s gaze upon him. “I honestly thought he was going to throttle her. But before he could do anything, she asked to ride Macsen. She had him behaving like a kitten in no time. Her clansmen loved it. God, what a woman!”

Cradling the small pewter cup, Merlin pondered the amber depths of his distilled barley uisge. “Urien will have his hands full.” He took a sip. The potent liquor sketched a fiery trail all the way down.

Arthur shoved aside an unrolled scroll and some loose parchment to make room for his drink on the large table. He abandoned it beside the quills and inkwell, untouched, and the pacing resumed. “Urien doesn’t have a clue what his hands will be full of, other than flesh. I’ll lay odds all he can think about is what fine sons she will bear him. How beautifully she will ornament his hall.” He stopped at the table, reached for the cup, and stared at it before finally taking a swallow. “And, no doubt, how much land he will control through her.”

Merlin scrutinized his prodigy, trying to divine the young man’s thoughts. That Arthur was attracted to the chieftainess was obvious. Exactly how much damage had been done was anyone’s guess.

“Well?”

“I think she deserves better, Merlin.”

“And I think it’s none of your business.”

In two strides, Arthur crossed the gap to Merlin’s chair. Eyes glittering, he bent to grip the carved oaken armrests. “It is, if I make it so.”

The damage was worse than Merlin had feared. He hoped a dose of cold logic would seal this breach.

“Use your head, lad. You can’t afford to lose Moray’s support. Not with Cuchullain and his pirating Scots swarming the Hibernian Sea like flies on cow dung.” Arthur did not disagree, and Merlin forged ahead while he believed the balance tipped in his favor. “And if the West Saxons’ buildup leads to their capture of Anderida, what do you think their next step will be?”

Arthur released his hold on Merlin’s chair and straightened. His gaze flicked over the map of Britannia and Hibernia draped across one end of the table. A finger stabbed the inkblot in the center of the Hibernian Sea.

“Maun.”

“Precisely. You need a strong commander on Maun, at Dhoo-Glass.” Merlin gestured with his cup. “Urien is your man.”

“I need her too.” The words were quiet but no less certain. “And not on Maun.”

The most surprising aspect of Arthur’s admission was that he had volunteered it. And they weren’t even in confessional. Yet he could have forsaken talk for action, like his father before him. Perhaps the son of Uther could be diverted from this path to self-destruction. Time for a switch in tactics.

“What about Chieftainess Alayna of Clan Alban?”

Arthur shook his head. “I have all I want from Alban.”

“Senaudon? The cavalry troops?”

“And Alayna’s son. We’ll see what kind of warrior he makes. If he’s anything like his mother—” He gave Merlin a hard stare. “Nice try, Merlin. And don’t give me that innocent-as-a-babe look. You know what I mean.”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, it almost worked.”

“I want Chieftainess Gyanhumara at my side. Not Urien’s.” Arthur retrieved his cup but did not drink. Instead, he turned to the window and the graying twilight beyond. “The more I think about a Moray-Argyll union, the less I like it.”

“You think Urien’s house might grow too strong?”

“Allied with Argyll and backed by the rest of Dalriada? I know it will.” He drained the cup and set it down with a heavy
thunk
. “I was a fool to have allowed this to come to pass!”

“It came to pass,” Merlin patiently reminded him, “because your mother and Dumarec and the other Brytoni leaders were anxious for solid assurances that another Abar-Gleann would not occur anytime soon. Don’t be too hard on yourself, lad. You can’t be expected to foresee everything.”

“No. But I can correct the situation.” The azure fire returned to his eyes, even brighter than before. “I must.”

“For God’s sake, Arthur, don’t do anything rash! For my sake too. I cannot repeat for you what I had to do for your father.” Ugly memories assaulted him, and he fought them off. In fact, the event had been instrumental in Merlin’s decision to take vows—not in the hope that the decision would excuse him from his responsibility but to ensure his being forgiven for it. But with forgiveness came the cost of service. Service, he thought with irony, in ways he had never imagined. He gave a wry smile. “You have no idea the trouble that caused.”

“Oh, yes. I do.” Arthur strode to the wall of shelves. Amid the stacked scrolls stood Uther’s games helm. Arthur lifted it down to trace the intricate gold embossing. “His lust cost me the chieftainship of my clan.” He returned the helm to its shelf.

“If it hadn’t been for his lust, you wouldn’t be here now. And Britannia would be torn apart by her enemies like a doe in a pack of winter-starved wolves.” Not for the first time, Merlin was amazed at how God could bring forth good from an evil event. Arthur made no reply but continued to stare at his father’s helm. “Listen to me!” Arthur whirled. In that instant, Merlin knew no words would sway the son of Uther. So he surrendered. “At least, let her come to you of her own accord.”

“She won’t. Not if she honors the treaty.” Poignant disappointment paraded across his handsome face. “I do not qualify under the terms.” A harsh laugh escaped. “My terms.”

Cup in one hand, Merlin stood and laid the other on Arthur’s shoulder. “Take heart, lad.” The war might be lost, but this battle was his. And he wanted to celebrate. “If it is God’s will, it will happen eventually.”

Arthur shrugged the hand away. “I want it to happen now!”

Of all the foolish, mule-headed…how very like Uther, Merlin realized. But he reminded himself that Arthur had made the initial effort to seek advice, something his father had not done until it had been far too late.

“Haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve said, Arthur? Don’t force the matter! That’s the surest way to stir up trouble.” Merlin brushed his knuckles across the part of the map that represented Dalriada. “Trouble you can ill afford.”