Dawnflight (19 page)

“You worry too much, Merlin.” A world of confidence lived in his grin. “You taught me well enough to handle anything.”

“I hope so.” Merlin sighed.

And he hoped his fledgling dragon would not try testing newfound wings against this emotional storm. Such a test could prove fatal—for Merlin’s nerves, if nothing else. He tossed back the rest of the uisge. Its fiery taste failed to sear away the doubts.

“For the sake of Britannia, Arthur, I do hope so.”

Chapter 12

G
YAN LED BRIN into the stables behind the mansio. She ordered a brush from the waiting stable hand, but refused his help and began attacking the day’s accumulation of road dirt marring her horse’s hide. Weighted by exasperation, her hand was much heavier than usual. Brin stamped and snorted in protest. She called the stable hand back to Brin’s stall and left him in the older man’s care.

Storming away from the stables on her way to the main tile-roofed stone building, she passed two small structures. The aromas of beef and bread wafting through the open door of one marked it as the kitchen. As she passed, two men emerged from the other, laughing and shaking droplets from their hair like a pair of waterlogged hounds. This building’s function posed a mystery she was in no mood to solve.

She found Cynda and the menservants waiting beside the wagon in the outer courtyard. By Cynda’s black glare, it appeared she had endured a bout of frustration from trying to make the Breatanach innkeeper understand her wishes. Though it took only a few minutes to set matters straight, the delay did not improve Gyan’s humor.

The innkeeper assigned her quarters on the top floor of the two-story mansio, overlooking the rectangular inner courtyard. The chambers consisted of a reception room, where Cynda was to sleep, a dining room, and a bedchamber. While not lacking for basic comfort, the rooms did not display an overabundance of luxury. The linens and pillows and window coverings and wall hangings and other furnishings were adequate but plain. Cynda lost no time in pointing this out.

“Fret not, Gyan. When the men get here with your things from the wagon, I’ll have this place looking like home in a thrice.”

Gyan made no comment. In her present state of mind, the chambers suited her perfectly.

As soon as everything was toted to the chambers, she dismissed the men for the evening. She could contain her anger no longer.

“Cù-puc!” She hefted a pewter goblet and flung it into a corner of the bedchamber. It hit the timbers with a satisfying clang. “I have consented to marry a cù-puc!” She didn’t care that likening Urien to the offspring of a hound and a pig was an insult to both creatures.

Unperturbed, Cynda put down the pillow she was fluffing. She filled another goblet with wine from the pitcher and pressed it into Gyan’s hand. “Have some of this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.” Gyan downed the wine in four swallows and thrust the goblet back at Cynda. “Tell me what happened.”

Gyan paced to the window to grip the ledge with whitening knuckles as she repeated Urien’s remarks.

“Perhaps he didn’t mean those things the way they sounded.”

“He meant them.” She came away from the window to drop onto the bed.

“So what are you going to do?”

Gyan’s laugh was mirthless. “You think I have a choice?”

“Aye. Break your betrothal, and marry someone else.”

With all her heart, Gyan wished her course could be that simple. “And have Urien lead his clansmen to war against us? Or have you forgotten that Móran is our neighbor?” She shook her head. “I won’t expose the clan to that threat. Not because of someone who cannot consult his head before opening his mouth.”

“Those kinds of men are the easiest to handle, anyway, once you learn to ignore what they say.” That coaxed a faint smile to Gyan’s lips. Cynda patted the dove-tattooed arm. “Shall I try to find us something to eat?”

“Good idea. But I’d better come with you to prevent any more misunderstandings.”

Together, they went from the bedchamber, through the dining area into the antechamber. Cynda tugged open the outer door. In the corridor, fist poised to knock, stood the scion of Clan Móran.

The sight of Urien rekindled Gyan’s rage. She fought to contain the blaze.

“Cynda, let him enter. And leave us, please.” Though she was speaking in Caledonaiche to Cynda, she glared at Urien. “It’s time for some answers.”

Cynda looked at Gyan, at Urien, and at Gyan again. “Are you sure you want me to go?”

The days of clinging to her nursemaid’s skirts were long past. This man would soon be her husband. If she could not confront him unaided, her marriage truly would be doomed.

“Yes.”

Muttering and wagging her head, Cynda pulled the door shut behind her.

Gyan retreated to the window, whirled, and crossed her arms. “Well. Would you care to explain yourself, Urien?” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Or have you come to deliver more insults?”

“I did not intend to insult you, my dear.” As Urien strode across the room, the smiling arrogance dimmed. “I’m sorry if my words were so upsetting.” He reached for her hand.

She could almost hear Cynda crowing, “See, what did I tell you?” Indeed, it was tempting to hope in the sincerity of his apology. To shrug the matter off and take refuge in stoic acceptance, to convince herself that he wasn’t such a thoughtless boor after all…how easy it sounded. She was fated to spend her life with this man. What good would it do to remain angry with him?

Yet there was something she had to know.

“Then why did you make those remarks?”

The smile vanished. He yanked on her hand, pulled her to his chest, wrapped his other arm around her, and crushed her against the wall. She struggled to break his hold. And failed.

“You will learn, Gyanhumara”—she did not like his emphasis on the word “will”—“that the wife of a Bryton never questions her husband’s actions.”

“It is you who have much to learn, Urien map Dumarec,” she growled. “I question things as I see fit.”

“Good. Then question this.”

He fastened his lips to hers. When she clenched her teeth to deny passage, his mouth attacked her bare throat. Her heart thrashed against her chest.

Enough was enough! Gyan planted a foot against the wall and shoved with all her strength. Startled, Urien loosened his grip. She broke free, dashed past him, flung open the door, and reached toward her boots. As she turned to face him, a dagger gleamed in each fist.

“Get out.” Deliberately, she kept her voice low. “Now.”

“As you wish, my dear. We will have time aplenty to engage in these games.” Thumbs hooked in his belt, he sauntered to the door. She wanted to carve that leer from his face. “A word of advice, Gyanhumara: no one ever denies me what is rightfully mine.” The leer twisted into a snarl. “Least of all a woman.”

Gyan slammed the door on his churlish laughter. The thick wood muffled it; distance diminished it even more as Urien strode down the corridor. Eventually, the laughter disappeared altogether. But silence could not erase the memory of that dreadful sound. It echoed through the chambers of her brain like a demonic chorus.

What in heaven’s name had she done? More to the point, what was she going to do now?

She returned the daggers to her boots. No telling when they might be needed again. Head in hands, she sank to the couch, her mind racing to formulate options.

She could refuse Urien and marry a Caledonach of a strong clan, one that could provide many warriors to help fight Clan Móran. Alban, perhaps. No. That plan would never work. The Pendragon’s treaty had sapped the clans’ strength, especially Alban’s. Besides, she was bound by that treaty to marry a Breatanach lord.

And Arthur the Pendragon was not a man to be crossed. Their meeting, brief as it was, had taught Gyan that much.

The door creaked. She glanced up. Cynda stood in the open doorway with a boy in tow.

“Gyan? What happened?”

Donning a smile that she knew would never fool Cynda, Gyan rose. “Who is this boy?”

“I don’t know.” Cynda nudged the Breatanach youth forward. “I caught him dawdling outside your chambers.”

Gyan studied the lad, who couldn’t have been much older than eight summers. The neatness of his straight blond hair and white tunic suggested that his presence at her door was no accident. Lowering his eyes, he dug a sandaled toe in a crack between the tiles.

“Yes, boy?” Gyan prompted softly in Breatanaiche. “Have you a message for me?”

“Aye, my lady.” His bow was well practiced. “His Grace, Bishop Dubricius, requests the honor of your company for dinner. In the praetorium.”

“Bishop…Dubricius, did you say?”

“Aye. He commands the garrison here at Caer Lugubalion, my lady.” Pride seemed to swell the small chest. “His Grace is the Pendragon’s right-hand man.”

“I see. Thank you, lad.” This was exactly the kind of diversion she needed to take her mind off Urien for a while. “Please tell his Grace that I shall be delighted to accept.”

As the boy scampered away to fulfill her directive, Cynda marched into the room. “Well?”

“I’ve been invited to dine with the garrison commander this evening.” Gyan suspected Cynda was not referring to the message, but she was in no mood to wrestle with explanations. “I’ll need your help with my hair.”

“That’s not what I meant, young lady.” Cynda waved an accusing finger. “And you know it. Did you get your answers?”

“From Urien? Oh, yes.” Gyan paused at the threshold of the dining chamber. All her years of combat training combined couldn’t leave her feeling so utterly weary. To steady herself, she laid a hand on the heavy, wine-colored wool of the doorway’s curtain. “More than I ever bargained for.”

Cynda sighed with exasperation when Gyan refused to elaborate. Grumbling, she collected brush, mirror, and combs and followed Gyan into the bedchamber.

For her meeting with the Bishop of Dùn Lùth Lhugh, Gyan selected an azure gown of the same hue as the clan-mark and betrothal tattoos on her forearms. A torc of twisted gold encircled her throat; matching armbands adorned both upper arms. All three torcs bore the dove motif of Clan Argyll. Her unbraided hair cascaded in flaming waves over the silver-trimmed, saffron-and-scarlet-banded midnight blue of her woolen clan mantle. Ankle-high calfskin boots protected her feet from the evening chill.

The only drawback: no place to conceal a weapon. She fervently hoped the need would not arise in the house of a holy man.

Cynda pinned the sapphire-eyed, silver Argyll Doves brooch to a fold of Gyan’s mantle.

“Epona herself would be jealous, Gyan.”

Epona, indeed. As though a stone carving could be jealous of anything. Yet Gyan appreciated the spirit in which the compliment was offered. She gave Cynda a quick hug and strode off to keep her appointment with Bishop Dubricius.

The Pendragon had pointed out the praetorium, with its unusual square, tiled pond in front, so Gyan knew where to go.

Outside, she took a moment to survey her surroundings. The main thoroughfare was all but deserted. Only a small unit of foot and a handful of mounted soldiers traveled the road. Most inhabitants, she surmised, were enjoying their evening meal. Across the street, she recognized the long, low building of officers’ quarters. Many chambers were lighted against the advancing dark. One had to be Urien’s, although she did not know which. Nor did she have any desire to find out.

During those fateful days of his visit to Arbroch half a year ago, how could she have failed to discern his true character? The language barrier was no excuse. Other signs, she realized miserably, had been present. His actions on the practice fields and in the feast hall had shouted volumes. How could she have been so deaf, so blind?

That wasn’t true, she reminded herself. Her instincts had given ample warning. She had chosen not to heed them. Now her choice trapped her in an emotional bog. Why?

Duty, the same concept that prevented her from seeking escape. Duty to the Pendragon and his treaty. Duty to her people and Urien’s, who stood the most to gain from their marriage and the most to lose from a broken betrothal. Duty to her father, who had been the first to recommend the match and whose counsel she had always held in the highest regard. She’d have traded her sword arm for some of that counsel now. Because her burden left no room for duty to self.

So be it; she vowed to survive as best she could with the tools at her disposal. Wits, skill, and courage would have to suffice. They were all she had.

A cool breeze toyed with the ends of her hair, and her thoughts winged back to the task at hand. If Bishop Dubricius was as closely associated with the Pendragon as the messenger boy had implied, she couldn’t give Dubricius cause to suspect that anything was amiss between Urien and herself. No sense in alerting the Pendragon to the possibility of trouble. Doubtless, he would ally his forces with a fellow Breatan.

Time to see how well she could pretend. Drawing a deep breath, she walked briskly toward the praetorium.

Gyan paused at the edge of its manmade pond. A statue of a woman stood in the center. Light from the rising moon danced across the contours of her smooth face and bare arms and flowing gown, and shadowy shapes glided through the water around the statue’s feet. In her arms rested a large jar, poised to pour. Its mouth spewed a steady stream of water that fell with a musical tinkle into the pond.