Dawnflight (49 page)

“There’s no guarantee living men will do that. Enemies or allies”—Cai’s tone was charged with warning—“or friends.”

“True. My job is to see that they do. Yours is to give the orders to implement my decisions.” Arthur flashed an engaging smile. “Which you do so well, my brother.”

It was incredibly easy to fall under the spell of that smile, and Cai was not immune. He doubted whether he would ever be. Or whether anyone would ever be, for that matter.

He chuckled. “Shall I ask Chieftainess Gyanhumara for Niall’s head?” Cai meant it only as a joke.

“No. I will.” Arthur’s voice dropped into a husky half whisper. “And there’s a small matter I want you to look into after you secure Tanroc. Her woman, Cynda. If she’s alive, send her here. And if not, well, I’m sure Gyanhumara will want to know that too.”

Another alarm bell clanged in Cai’s head. He gave Arthur a critical appraisal. It went unseen by the Pendragon, who was studying the damaged Scotti banner.

Cai uttered a long, low whistle. “Saints preserve us all! The Dux Britanniarum is in love.”

Up jerked the red-gold head, shaking in violent denial. But Arthur did not meet Cai’s gaze.

“Oh, yes. Don’t give me that head-wagging routine.” His elbow found Arthur’s ribs. “Come on, Arthur. You of all men ought to know that I’ve been in and out of love so often, I can see the signs brewing ten miles away.”

Arthur gave a derisive snort. “God, I hope it isn’t that obvious.”

“Not to anyone who doesn’t know you like I do.” And Cai knew better than to pass judgment or offer unsolicited advice when Arthur was in a mood like this. Still, he had to try. “Arthur, do yourself a favor. Forget her. Mark my words, that woman will bring you nothing but trouble. I can set you up with a nice, biddable woman—”

Arthur jumped to his feet, grinding the Silver Wolf into the dirt as he stalked away. At the tent opening, he whirled. Even in the wake of last year’s regrettable “Caledfwlch” remark, Cai had never seen those eyes burn with such force. He fought the instinct to retreat.

“Do yourself a favor, Cai. Keep your counsel—and your women—to yourself.”

After Arthur left, and Cai’s heartbeat returned to a more normal pace, he swung his legs onto the cot and reclined on his elbows to stare at the canvas ceiling. He felt a grin spread across his face.

Poor Urien. Against lust of that magnitude, he stood a beggar’s chance in a whorehouse.

ANGUSEL WAS chatting with the guards outside the main entrance of the officers’ quarters when the doors crashed open. The guards snapped to attention as Urien stormed past. He did not bother to answer their salutes but struck off in the direction of the waterfront.

“Commander’s in a fine fettle.” One guard smirked as he eyed Urien’s dusty progress. “Wonder what’s got ’im started. A bit early for a nip, wouldn’t ye say?”

Grinning broadly, the other guard shook his head. “Never. If ye can afford it, that is. Aye, laddie?” He looked toward where their companion should have been. The place was empty.

Angusel dashed down the long corridor toward Gyan’s chambers, the ache in his knee overwhelmed by the desire to make sure she was all right. He found the door and knocked. When that prompted no response, he turned the handle and gave a tentative push. The door yielded.

“Gyan?”

Arms wrapped across her chest, she was standing at the window, staring out to sea. But for the slight shifting of her shoulders as she breathed, she might have been carved in marble.

He crossed the tiled anteroom floor to join her. She made no move to acknowledge his presence. Her face was composed, emotionless, except her eyes. They glistened with unshed tears.

“Gyan, what did he do to you?”

She lowered her arms. The bandage on her sword arm showed a line of fresh blood. Below it spread a hand-shaped red blotch. One just like it marred her other arm.

“That maiden-plowing dog-pig! I’ll kill him!” His hand was at his hip before he remembered he was unarmed.

“No. You will not.” Her gaze fell upon him like autumn mist, mourning herald of winter. “I will not have your blood on my hands.”

“You don’t think I could win?” As he thought about his fight with the herdsman, a man who’d outweighed him by at least four stones, her apparent lack of confidence hit him like a blow.

She clutched his shoulders. “Another day, another year, perhaps. Not today. I’ve sparred with him. He could have easily beaten me, but he always let me win.” Her hands fell away, and she turned back to the window. When at last she spoke again, it was with words so soft that Angusel had to strain to catch them. “I should have refused the betrothal. Now…it’s too late.”

“Nay, Gyan! You can break it off! You must.”

Her unbound hair whispered across her shoulders as she shook her head. “Whether I marry Urien or not, it doesn’t matter. The treaty that made you hostage decreed that I marry a Breatanach chieftain or chieftain’s son. The man I love is the—” Her chin began to tremble, and she clenched her jaw. “Does not qualify.”

Blinking in astonishment, he waited for her to continue. When no revelation of the man’s identity came, he quested through memories for clues.

Centurion Elian? Unlikely. They were never together except on the practice field, where mutual admiration of each other’s fighting skills was the only emotion they shared. Besides, Elian was older than her father. Not that age seemed to matter to some women; Angusel’s mother, for one, and what an embarrassment she could be.

He thanked all the gods that he couldn’t imagine Gyan and Elian in a more intimate setting. But who, then? Her tutor, Brother Lucan? Or maybe someone she’d left behind at Arbroch?

“Angusel, I’d like to be alone. Please. Why don’t you talk to someone about joining the Tanroc relief column?”

“Will you go to Tanroc too?”

“Ha. With this?” Her fingers flicked across the bandage. “You saw how I can barely lift a sword, much less use one.”

“Then I won’t, either. My place is here. With you.”

She stared at him for so long, he was sure she was on the verge of sending him away. He held his ground.

At last, a soft smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Angus. You’re a great help.” She held up an open-palmed hand. “But I must deal with Urien myself. Do you understand?”

“Nay.” He glanced pointedly at the blotches. “I swore to protect you, and you’re asking me to break my oath already.”

“You swore to act in my best interests. There may come a day when that will mean protecting me. Not today.”

“If you won’t let me fight for you, at least let me stay with you.” He ventured a hopeful smile. “Please, Gyan?”

“You win.” Ruffling his hair, she returned the smile. “Let’s get away from here for a while. I could do with a change of scene.”

They never made it to the stables. On the way out of the building, they were intercepted by one of Arthur’s officers.

“Ah, Chieftainess, well met. The Pendragon would like a word with you.”

As Angusel watched a spark ignite in her eyes, an idea began to form.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“At camp headquarters, my lady.”

“Good. Angusel and I are on our way out for a ride. I will meet with Arthur upon our return.”

The centurion frowned. “My lady, he indicated that the matter was of some importance.”

“What could be so important that it can’t wait an hour or two?” The centurion spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “Oh, very well. Angus, do you mind if we ride later?”

“Nay, as long as I can go with you to the camp.”

She laughed. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“My lady,” interjected the officer, “he can stay outside the tent while you’re talking with the Pendragon.”

“Then can we stop by the kitchens first?” asked Angusel. “If this is going to take very long, I want to be prepared!”

The centurion chuckled. “Just like my nephew, always wanting to eat. You’re of an age too, you and Drustanus.” Nodding, he eyed Angusel closely. “Yes, lad, we have time for a stop at the kitchens. A quick one.”

In due course, the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll set off for the Pendragon’s camp headquarters, accompanied by his aide, who introduced himself as Centurion Marcus. Angusel, a loaf of bread in one fist and a hunk of goat’s cheese in the other, tagged happily behind them.

AS ARTHUR read Urien’s report of the battle, he curled his free hand around the table edge in a conscious effort to keep from smashing the tablet to rubble. The report was a bloody disgrace. Poor grammar aside, the events were not described in chronological—or any other type of logical—order. Worse, Urien failed to present an acceptable reason for his foray against the Scotti camp. Rescuing Gyanhumara was not justification enough against those odds, on the enemy’s terms. If not for the timely arrival of the reinforcements, Urien and his men would be glutting the ravens. And Gyanhumara…

No. Such thoughts were useless. She was safe. That was all that mattered.

He glanced past the open tent flap at the long shadows of the guards outside and muttered an oath under his breath. This won an amused look from Cai, who was lounging in a camp chair, feet outstretched, casually paring his fingernails with his dagger.

“Have patience, Arthur. They will be here soon.”

The “they” Cai most likely was referring to—the centurions assigned to the Tanroc relief cohort—was not the “they” Arthur most wanted to see. If only Gyanhumara would get here first. Marcus could be dismissed easily enough, and Cai was good at taking a hint. Then Arthur would really have something to talk to her about beyond the paltry excuses he had fashioned to see her.

The sound of shod feet crunching across the sand outside the tent broke his reverie. He looked up as eight men trooped in. A ninth centurion followed them: Marcus, with Gyanhumara. Angusel too, although Marcus made him wait outside.

The lad appeared to be sincere in his loyalties. Most interesting.

But so much for wishes. Trying to get rid of the men would be too awkward. And too bloody obvious!

Arthur rose to approach Gyanhumara, who had made her way to the forefront of the gathering. As much as he wanted to prolong her presence here, there was no need for her to sit through his meeting with the leaders of the relief force. Even to ask would send a silent message he was not yet prepared to support with words or deeds.

He was smitten anew by her exotic beauty, made all the more alluring by the strength radiating from her proud stance. Even her blue doves had become dear to him. The other tattoo, no. But if Arthur had his way, its meaning would soon be changing. He wanted nothing more than to fold her to his breast, and a pox on what everyone else thought.

Logic prevailed. First, Urien would have to be persuaded to give up Gyanhumara and take Morghe to wife instead. How that was going to happen, Arthur had no idea. Of the options he’d considered, none seemed promising. And no one else could help him.

With a supreme effort of will, Arthur banished all emotion from his tone. “Thank you for coming, Chieftainess.”

“How may I be of service, Lord Pendragon?”

So coldly formal, so utterly correct. If word of this meeting reached Urien’s ears, he would have no cause for suspicion. Just as well. Surprise could be a useful tactic in any situation.

“I would ask two favors of you.”

Her eyes widened slightly. What in God’s name was she expecting? An open declaration of his love? He would gladly proclaim it from the parapets if he thought it would help. Unfortunately, that action would spawn far more harm than good.

Arthur said, “The first favor is in support of the Tanroc relief operation, which General Caius will be leading.” He spared a glance for Cai, who inclined his head toward the chieftainess. Cai’s frosty look appeared to border on outright dislike. This seemed odd coming from a man who worshipped mortal women more ardently than he worshipped any deity. That too was just as well; Urien was competition enough. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, may I have the loan of General Niall’s head for Caius to take with him to Tanroc?”

“Certainly, Lord Pendragon. I’ll send someone over with it as soon as I can.” She paused as though debating whether to say something else. An offer to deliver the head herself, perhaps? But no, as badly as he wanted to see her alone, he knew it wouldn’t be proper. Doubtless, she knew it too.