Dawnflight (47 page)

IT WAS not the love of a man for a woman that Arthur saw in the depths of those golden-brown eyes. The emotion kindling there was the love of friend for friend, framed by a good measure of respect, bordering on reverence. Arthur nodded approvingly.

“So would I, Angusel,” confessed the Pendragon. “So would I.”

Chapter 26

G
YAN WOKE AT first light. A figure was dozing in the chair beside her bed, and the memory of Arthur’s visit drifted back. How considerate of him to have kept vigil all night. She felt a swelling of love at the thought.

“Arthur?” Smiling, she stretched out her hand.

The eyes that flicked open to meet hers were not blue but violet.

“No, Gyanhumara, your lover is not here.”

Lover?

“Morghe!” Despite the pain lancing her wounded arm, Gyan pushed herself up. “How dare you accuse—”

“How?” Her grin was positively wicked. “By the evidence of my own eyes, of course.”

“It’s a lie.”

“Is it? Then show me a witness who can tell me what my brother was doing in this room for so long last night, if everything that happened between you was innocent.”

“A witness?” Gyan laughed. “You must be mad. I am not on trial.”

“No? Your reputation is.”

“My reputation, indeed!” She creased her brow. “Who would believe that anything—untoward—happened last night? I was half dead of exhaustion.”

“Really? You were awake enough to know that Arthur had been here.” Again, Morghe displayed a malicious grin. “And something made you think he would be here this morning.”

“Answer my question, Morghe.”

“Who would believe me? Why, probably anyone I choose to tell. People are always looking to believe the worst about their betters.”

A name burst from Gyan’s lips. “Urien.”

Immediately, she regretted her mistake.

“What an interesting idea.” Morghe’s grin widened. “Too bad I’ve already thought of it. He’s not very happy with you.”

“Fine.” Gyan strove to hide her plunging spirits behind a casual demeanor. “Then he can tell me himself.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Morghe rose from the chair, making a show of fussing with her skirts. “As soon as I inform him that you’re awake and appear to be feeling much better.” With a giggle, she flounced from the room.

Gyan shook her head at Morghe’s audacity. What could she possibly hope to gain by pouring her poisonous slander into Urien’s ears? His notice, perhaps, or his favor? But why? Did she think she could dislodge Gyan from Urien’s side? If so, Morghe was welcome to him, if he would have her. The heir of Clan Móran had never taken his eyes from Argyll lands.

She sighed.

Whatever came of Morghe’s actions was in the hands of the One God. Earnestly, Gyan prayed He would help her cope with the situation—with Arthur’s help too, she hoped.

Stretching, she assessed her body’s condition. The overall soreness had abated, except where Niall had cut her. No practice blade had ever made her arm throb like this. Even the wound Arthur had given her couldn’t compare. It would be several sennights before full strength returned; this she knew from watching the recovery of her clansmen following Abar-Gleann. Hugging her arm to her chest, she mentally railed at herself for letting the Scáth slip past her guard.

Excusing that flaw in her performance because of her weakened condition or because of her enemy’s superior skill wasn’t an option for her. Good warriors had no use for excuses. And after all, she had won the encounter to collect her first battle trophy. Her father and brother would be proud!

Gyan found the trophy wrapped in canvas beside her bed. Gazing at Niall’s bloodless face, reliving the fight, she wished she’d also had the opportunity to defeat Fergus, who had been instrumental in her capture. But she had not seen him defending the rear of the camp. That one had been a truer leader than the general he had served. Fergus probably had fallen at the forefront of the battle under Urien’s assault.

She rewrapped Niall, deciding not to display him until he could be cleaned and embalmed. As she put the trophy back, her stomach rumbled. Small wonder; more than a day had passed since her last meal.

Cleaned of mud and gore, her boots slumped against a pine chest at the foot of the bed. Inside the chest, she found her battle-gear, also clean, cloth bindings for her breasts and loins, and a dun linen tunic and matching breeches. Since the sun streaming into the bedchamber promised a warm day, she chose the linen garments. But the bronze dragon on her sword belt seemed to beckon.

Gyan picked up the belt, thoughtfully rubbing the ridges and valleys that formed the dragon’s body. She truly was one of Arthur’s warriors, blooded and victorious. After slipping the belt over the tunic, she fumbled with the fastening thongs behind her back before finding the hooks. She hoped practice would make it easier, as the merchant Al-Iskandar had promised.

With Urien looming over everything she did, she had no way of knowing whether practice would make it easier to say the things she wanted to say to the man she loved. But she refused to let that stop her from trying.

She caught the faint but unmistakable aroma of frying bacon, and her stomach reminded her of her body’s immediate need. Upon bidding a silent farewell to her vanquished foe, she stalked off toward the kitchens.

“LORD PENDRAGON, you really don’t have to go to this trouble,” protested the holy woman of Rushen Priory. “I can make it back by myself.”

“My pleasure, Prioress.”

Effortlessly, Arthur lifted Niniane to the back of her donkey. While she adjusted herself in the saddle, with both legs draped over one side because of her robe, he vaulted onto his borrowed chestnut horse.

“You’re not taking any men?” she asked.

Around them, soldiers labored to purge the camp of the chaos left in the wake of the previous day’s battle. But his brief smile in response to the gentle tease was only for her.

“This”—he patted Caleberyllus’s leather-sheathed blade—“is all I need.”

When they were well out of earshot of the camp, plodding along the beach at the donkey’s pace, they shrugged off all pretense of formality.

“A plain leather scabbard? Don’t tell me fortunes have been that bad for you, Arthur.”

“Not quite.” He chuckled. “It’s by choice. Having this apple on the pommel is bad enough. I don’t need the scabbard drawing attention too.”

“I thought that was why I gave you the sword. As a symbol for your men.”

“True. They needed it then.” Gazing out over the restless waters, he watched a fishing boat battle its way up the windswept coast. He empathized with its captain. At times, it felt as though he were fighting headwinds too, and not making any forward progress. “But I’ve learned in the past two years that men don’t follow a piece of metal. They follow the hand that holds it. And only as long as that hand brings victory.”

“There will come a time when you will not need Caleberyllus for battle because there will be no one to fight.”

He gave her a sharp glance. “You have Seen this, Niniane? Or are you just speculating?”

SHE SMILED ruefully. “With the Sight, it amounts to a little of both.”

“I think it’s going to take more than a campaign or two to make my enemies respect my territory.”

Niniane arched an eyebrow in response to the way he had referred to the land protected by the men under his command. “All I am saying is that when the time does come, you will need to find something else for your hand and your sword to do. Perhaps then it will be time to trade the old nicked, scratched battle scabbard for one that’s more in keeping with Caleberyllus’s value.”

“But then maybe the people will need to be reminded of those nicks and scratches, and how they came about.”

“Maybe,” she said. But having already Seen the battle signifying the demise of his realm—decades hence, she hoped—she knew that no number of reminders would help him repair bonds shattered by envy, mistrust, disloyalty, and treason.

THEY LAPSED into silence for a time, guiding their mounts through the inrushing waves. Scores of curlews scurried after the endlessly rising and receding waters, hunting with their long, curved beaks whatever bits of food the sea cast upon the beach. When the riders approached a flock, the birds scattered, squeaking, only to settle back into their timeless routine once the danger was past.

Angling away from the sea, Niniane and Arthur headed into a deep draw that broke the pale face of the surrounding cliffs. Tucked against the throat of the draw, the pristine priory walls peeped from behind shady apple boughs. Over the surf’s bass thunder rose the serene treble of the sisters’ singing as they went about their appointed tasks: washing laundry and hanging it to dry on ropes stretched between the trees, harvesting the leaves and flowers of the herbs growing around the compound, tending the large outdoor bread ovens.

A small group of nuns toiled in the vegetable garden, skirts hitched up to their knees to permit greater freedom of movement. Some of the nut-brown calves, Arthur observed, were quite shapely.

Hand to back, a sister straightened and glanced up. Seeing Arthur, she uttered a startled cry and began fumbling with her skirt’s knot. The others soon discovered the reason for her distress and followed her example.

He looked away, as much out of consideration for the embarrassed women as to conceal his quiet amusement. There was no need for them to fear unseemly conduct from him, but, of course, they had no way of knowing this. There was only one lady to whom he wished to devote his amorous attention. She had no way of knowing, either.

Apparently scenting home, the donkey pricked his ears and surged forward with renewed vigor. Arthur nudged his mare to match the new pace.

“Thank you for what you did for Angusel this morning, Niniane. I know you didn’t have to.”

“Oh, but I did. When the signals are that strong, one must obey.” Her eyes shone in the soft sunlight. “And pray that it is the right thing.”

“Today you did the right thing,” he said. “Because of you, I saved an ally’s life. And discovered someone who can’t be trusted.”

“You mean Urien?”

“Yes. I don’t like lies, no matter how small. Small ones spawn bigger ones.” He frowned at the memory of the meeting, and the fact that Urien had lied about when the execution order had been issued. “But I couldn’t dress him down for it without exposing your secret.”