Dawnflight (28 page)

“I see.” With no small effort, she smothered the elation in her tone. “Then we won’t be seeing as much of each other as—as I’d—”

“As you’d hoped? Don’t worry, my dear.” He lifted her hand to his lips to bestow a lavish kiss and did not see her wince. “Tanroc is but a short ride from Dhoo-Glass.”

Even so, this was far better than having to endure Urien’s presence daily. At Tanroc, she would have the benefit of Dafydd’s company too, and that of his family, since Dafydd had decided to resume his studies at the Breatanach school. Perhaps, Gyan mused, her stay on Maun might not be as arduous as she had come to expect.

FOR INVENTORY and placement of furnishings, Fort Tanroc’s eastern guardroom was no different from its kin. A rack of spears lined one wall. A glittering array of swords, axes, bows, and full quivers faced them from across the room. Every edge was honed razor perfect, every shaft stout and sure. The wall opposite the door featured the chamber’s only window. Four stools surrounded a large, rough-planked table in the center of the floor. An oil lamp perched on each corner of the table.

Though the soldiers were out on patrol, the lamps shed their glow upon the pair of scrolls spread across the tabletop. The two students who had borrowed the haven for the afternoon attacked their work with energetic silence.

Until the rumbling began.

“Horses!” Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban of Caledonia dashed from his stool to the window.

His companion didn’t appreciate the interruption. The Latin medical treatise she was studying, written more than three centuries ago by Galen of Pergamum, was difficult at best. But Morghe ferch Uther of Clan Cwrnwyll of Brydein had known Angusel long enough to realize that if she didn’t respond in some way, he’d keep chattering at her until she did.

“Can you see them yet, Angus?” Morghe continued to stare at the scroll, hoping to retain an iota of concentration.

“Aye! The reinforcements are here—Chieftainess Gyanhumara too!”

Reinforcements, she thought with mild interest, ought to provide a refreshing change of scene. Languidly, she pushed away from the table to join Angusel at the window.

His finger bobbed to count the ranks. “Looks to be a cavalry turma and a century of foot. Maybe more!”

She regarded him with tolerant amusement. “A hundred and thirty, according to Arthur.” As she returned her gaze to the scene outside, she felt a tug on her hand.

“Come on, let’s go.” He started for the door.

“Go?”

“To meet them, of course.”

“You go ahead.” Disappointment seemed to cloud his eyes. She smiled an apology. “I’m not up to matching your pace today, and I don’t want to slow you down.” The harmless lie served to get him out of the room.

His pounding footsteps faded on the timbers of the outer corridor as he raced for the stairway. She pictured how he must look as he took the stairs three at a time. Moments later, he popped into view beneath her window, pelting down the road leading to the wooden palisade’s gates. Many of the fort’s resident children had also seen the troops. Angusel’s following grew into a dusty, laughing parade.

The truth of the matter was that as the youngest daughter of Chieftainess Ygraine, Morghe felt no obligation to run to meet anyone, including a Picti chieftainess.

She brought to mind Arthur’s message that had come by way of a merchant ship the day before. Her brother had mentioned Gyanhumara of Caledonia only in regard her betrothal to the Manx Cohort’s commander, and that she would be living at Tanroc while studying at the monastery. Morghe wondered why Arthur had not foisted his opinions about this Gyanhumara upon her. He never spared her about anything else.

So much thinking about Arthur poisoned her mood. She had yet to forgive him for her unjust exile to this bee-infested island in the center of a sea boiling with enemy ships.

Upon the death of their father, Arthur had wrenched her from her place as one of Merlin’s pupils. He needed their cousin’s military expertise, so he said.

Morghe knew better. Snippets of overheard conversation confirmed that Merlin had recommended the move because of her flowering interest in non-Christian lore. Living at Rushen Priory under the watchful eye of Prioress Niniane—isolated from the rest of the world, with the sea to enforce the sentence—was supposed to have killed Morghe’s lust for things unholy.

The thought sparked a snort of derision. If anything, she craved the arcane knowledge all the more. But it was one of many cravings she had yet to find a way to satisfy.

Now beginning her third year on Maun, she liked it less with each passing season. Yet this year promised to be different, since she had won free of the priory and its oppressive mistress.

Life at Rushen Priory had been agonizingly dull. She missed Caer Lugubalion and the constant excitement of the comings and goings of dignitaries and merchants and craftsmen and soldiers and ships and horsemen. Visitors at the priory were more rare than snow in July. The worst of it was having to beg permission to ride to Dhoo-Glass on market days, such as they were in that backwater port. Yet riding to Port Dhoo-Glass, if only for the day, had offered welcome relief from the constant presence of Niniane, who so admired Arthur that she’d given him that priceless sword to secure his election to the Pendragonship. Why the prioress had done this, Morghe couldn’t begin to fathom. Morghe ferch Uther would have sooner given it to her bitterest enemy.

She shattered that line of reasoning with a rueful toss of her auburn braids. The Fates certainly had peculiar ideas about the course of mortal lives.

The highlight—if it could be called that—of most days during her incarceration at the priory had been the lessons in the healing arts and herbal lore. She had to admit that the Lady Niniane was a talented physician and teacher. She’d managed to squelch her dislike of the prioress long enough to soak up all the knowledge she could and set herself along the path to becoming a highly skilled healer. With a smile, she recalled the medical scroll she’d been studying all afternoon. How the body reacted to treatment, and what plants and other tools of nature made up the various remedies provided a constant source of fascination.

During one of her woefully infrequent furloughs outside the priory walls, Morghe had heard about the library kept by the monks of St. Padraic’s. This library was reputed to house scrolls covering the gamut of subjects: from history to mathematics, poetry to philosophy. And, of course, the Christian Scriptures, which didn’t rank high on her reading list.

That day, she decided Niniane no longer possessed the right to be her jailer and moved to the western side of the island to live at Tanroc while she studied at the monastery across the strait. No small amount of cajoling and wheedling and threatening had broken Niniane’s grip. Being accepted as the only female pupil of the monastic school had presented another challenge. But her determination had won out on both accounts in the end.

Actually, it didn’t take long to charm the monks into accepting a woman in their midst. A glance usually sufficed to keep her tutors from becoming too charmed. Like sheep, they were easy to handle and useful. And for company, they were about as stimulating.

The friendship of Angusel helped more than Morghe would have predicted. His unquenchable cheerfulness and exuberance provided a pleasant contrast to the solemnity of the monks. And she identified with the Picti lad. Although she now lived in a place more to her liking—which could be said of any place that was not Rushen Priory—Arthur’s refusal to let her come home meant only one thing. She too was a noble hostage.

As the troops marched through the palisade gates, she noticed that Angusel had befriended Gyanhumara. Although she was too far away to hear the words, she could tell they were speaking in their native Picti tongue, which she was learning from Angusel. But the lad’s animated face and the chieftainess’s laughter told the story. Vines of jealousy twined around her heart. Angusel was the one person on this entire rock fit to call friend, and a stranger was usurping his attention.

Her nails drummed the ledge as she regarded the woman. She was beautiful, regal, and…armed? Wounded too? A warrior, then, like Angusel’s mother. And probably just as likely to stir up trouble against Brydein: another hostage for Arthur’s growing collection. And, she observed with a derisive laugh, the Picti woman was acting as though she didn’t recognize her plight.

Then it occurred to her that Arthur had made no mention in his letter of Gyanhumara being a warrior. Maybe he wasn’t aware—no. If Arthur had caught even a glimpse of this exotic-looking woman, he would have made it a top priority to find out as much about her as he could. And since the chieftainess had come to Maun by way of Caer Lugubalion, there was no way on this side of the River Styx that Arthur could have missed seeing her.

She slowly moistened her lips. Not everything about this Gyanhumara of Caledonia was as it seemed, and she resolved to find out why.

“WELL, NOW, and here comes our welcome, if I’m not mistaken.” Cynda pointed at the giggling flood of children gushing over the crest of the hill.

Gyan raised her freshly salved and bandaged arm to shield her eyes from the afternoon glare. “I wonder who the lead boy is. He’s dressed like the others, but I don’t think he’s a Breatan.” A vague recollection nagged. “I feel I should know him.”

“Aye, you should.” Leaving Gyan to puzzle out the mystery, Cynda busied herself with the task of driving the supply wagon.

Gyan fixed her with a commanding stare and was placidly ignored. That woman could be so infuriating! No closer to an answer, she admitted defeat.

Smug satisfaction lit Cynda’s face. “Chieftainess Alayna’s son.”

“Angusel of Clan Alban?” Gyan didn’t hide her surprise. “Are you certain?”

Cynda had no time for more than a single nod as the children eddied around the company in gleeful confusion. Well did they know not to get in the way of marching men and prancing horses and lumbering wagons. Their leader fell into step beside Gyan and Brin.

“Chieftainess Gyanhumara, well met!” His use of Caledonaiche erased all doubt of his identity. “You don’t know how glad I am to see other Caledonaich!” The sentiment shone plainly in the golden-brown eyes.

She couldn’t begin to imagine what life had been like for him these past several turnings of the moon, but she was not immune to the stirrings of sympathy. “Well met, Angusel.” Her smile was gentle.

“My lady, you—you remembered!”

Angusel was four when Alayna had come to Arbroch to visit Ogryvan shortly after the death of Angusel’s father, when Gyan was almost eight. Gyan had not seen much of him then, for she had been busy with sword and equestrian training, and he’d spent most of the time with the younger children. The strong resemblance to his mother was her only key to recognizing him today.

If it made him happy to think she’d remembered him from an encounter several years ago, she wasn’t about to dispel the notion. A warning glance at the supply wagon’s pesky driver forestalled trouble from that quarter.

“You’re wounded, my lady! How did—”

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “A sword practice that got a little too intense.” Before another round of memories could assail her, she changed the subject. “How goes it with you, Angusel? Have they treated you well?”

“Well enough, my lady. Everyone is kind to me. And I’m learning all sorts of things.” As he studied the rocky path at his feet, his voice dropped to a whisper. “But it’s just not the same as being home.”

“I know.” Up rose an image of Arbroch, cloaked in the emerald majesty of spring. She saw the meadows resplendent with wildflowers, the barley fields neatly furrowed with rich brown earth, the pastures dotted with mares and cows and she-goats and ewes and their nursing young. Amidst this blessed bounty rode her father to oversee their domain. And she wasn’t there to help him. She wondered if Angusel’s sorrow was even half as heavy as hers.

She got an idea that she hoped would cheer them both. “In the next day or two, as our duties permit, why don’t you set aside some time to take me around the island?”

“May I?” He gave her a lopsided and thoroughly endearing grin. “I’d be honored, my lady!”