Dawnflight (5 page)

He spared a glance for his friends and was thankful they were too far away—and too engrossed with flirting with two more serving women—to have overheard the exchange. Two months was enough time to heal flesh wounds but not enough time to salve Cai’s pride for having to endure Arthur’s public rebuke in order to preserve the fragile peace. He returned his attention to Urien. “Do not forget that your charge was carried out under my orders.”

Urien glared but let the remark pass. “The Picts have been a menace to our borders for time out of mind. Why didn’t you—”

“The same can be said about the Saxons, Angles, and Scots.” These last two Arthur spat like the curses they were to him. The Angli had killed his father. And the Scots…he banished a grisly memory with a long blink. “None of them have demonstrated a willingness to negotiate with us for peace. The Caledonians were willing, and Brydein will be getting a much stronger cavalry as a result.” Arthur grinned. “You should thank them for your promotion.”

Urien grunted. “By the way, I thought it was quite magnanimous of you to word the treaty to preserve the Picti woman’s customary right to choose a husband, providing he’s a nobleman on this side of the border. So if you’re so set on this alliance, Lord Pendragon, why don’t you see if she wants to marry you?” He gave an elaborate shrug. “But I forget. By the terms of your own treaty, you don’t qualify. How clumsy of me. Sir.” His smile was so thick with insubordination that, had they been anywhere else, Arthur would have settled the matter with Caleberyllus. And then he’d have renamed it
Urienfwlch
.

“Yes, Tribune, it was.” He let enough warning seep into his tone to convey his irritation without alerting anyone around them.

What irritated him far more than his subordinate’s attitude was the fact that, because Clan Cwrnwyll had never waived the illegitimacy of Arthur’s birth, Urien was absolutely right.

“I DON’T like it.”

Gyan glanced up to see Cynda, hands on hips, scowl at the pattern of rushes and crushed lavender strewn across the floor of the guest chambers. These rooms would soon house men who, as recently as midsummer, had been Argyll’s sworn enemies.

The slave girl clutching the shallow basket of lavender looked up, startled. The basket tipped. A pile of petals fluttered to the floor. With a squeak of alarm, the girl tried to scoop them back into the basket.

Cynda softened her gaze. “Never mind that, dear, just spread them around now. Ach, that’ll be fine.” She pointed toward the window. “Perhaps a wee bit more over there.”

The slave bent to her work. In moments, she finished and, bowing, scurried from the room.

“What is it, then?” Gyan smoothed the wool-lined wolfskin sleeping fur on one of the beds. “Have we forgotten something?”

Stepping back, she surveyed the chamber. Everything seemed to be in place: fresh linens and furs on the beds, a fire snapping in the fireplace with a generous stack of wood nearby, clean rushes on the floor, an empty trunk for clothes against the far wall, a basin and pitcher of water on the table, the lamps lit and brimming with oil. Anything else Chieftain Dumarec or his son might need could be sent for easily enough.

If something were amiss, Gyan couldn’t see it.

“Nay.” Cynda made a gesture of impatience with her hand. “The reason for all of this. That’s what I don’t like. Sheltering enemies at the Seat of Argyll, it’s unheard of!”

“They are not our enemies now.” Gyan wasn’t completely prepared to accept that a collection of strange scratches on sheepskin could be taken as proof, but she kept that confession to herself.

“Oh, aye, if you can believe the words of a flock of thick-witted men who spend most of their time fighting and drinking and wenching.”

Gyan laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell Father what you think of his exploits.”

“You do that, young lady. Not that he’d listen. But his ‘exploits’ have gotten his daughter tangled up in marriage with one of these Breatanach curs. Your mother never would have approved.”

“I imagine my mother would have done whatever was best for the clan even if it meant accepting my marriage to a Breatanach lord.” She fixed Cynda with a hard stare. “But you don’t approve. Why?”

Cynda wrung her hands as her eyes adopted a faraway look. “You didn’t see what those savages did to our poor brave warriors.”

That was partly true. Blessed with a deft hand with bandages and a strong stomach for the sight and stench of blood, Cynda had accompanied the war-host to help with the wounded. Since Gyan had no heir, she’d had to stay behind. By Caledonach law, the clan chieftain and chieftainess could not be exposed to the same risk of death, lest there be a struggle for succession should the worst come to pass. Since Chieftainess Alayna had more need of Ogryvan’s wealth of fighting experience—although in hindsight his skill had not made a whit of difference to the outcome—Gyan had missed the chance for her first taste of battle.

Gyan had understood the reasons and even agreed in principle. But this had not stopped her from brooding over the injustice.

When the ragged remains of the host returned, she cauterized her wounded feelings to help tend to injuries of a life-threatening sort. This work gave her a glimpse of the harsh realities: the gaping gashes, the missing limbs and eyes, the raging fevers…and the blood-crusted bodies of clansmen who would never again feel the warmth of the sun, or hear a child’s laugh, or smell the furrowed earth after a spring shower.

No, working in the sickrooms was not a pleasant duty. But that was a consequence of war. Whether Caledonach or Breatanach, Angalaranach or Scáthinach, the best and luckiest warriors survived with their skins intact. The others did not.

She laid a hand on Cynda’s shoulder. “I saw enough, afterward. That can’t be the only thing bothering you about this visit.”

The woman who was the only mother Gyan had ever known collapsed into her arms. “I feel as if”—Cynda drew a shuddering breath—“as if I’m losing you, Gyan…my wee dove.”

Gyan hugged her. Words fled. It had never occurred to her that Cynda might not be able to leave Arbroch. Having to bid farewell to her father and brother and home was bad enough. But Cynda too?

“Nonsense, Cynda. When I leave Arbroch in the spring, you’ll be coming with me.”

Cynda shook her head. “Your father would never allow it. I know more about the day-to-day doings of this place than anyone else.”

“Then it’s time you began sharing your knowledge, wouldn’t you say?”

“Aye, Gyan, that’s a wonderful idea!” Her eyes sparkled. “The winter will be more than enough time to train a replacement. But who?”

“Bryalla?”

“Not with that wee bairn of hers. Perhaps Rhianna.”

“She seems a little slow in the wits.”

“Aye, you’re right, Gyan. Then there’s—”

A thought flashed. The woman in Gyan’s mental picture was pretty and competent, and able to satisfy Ogryvan’s needs in more ways than one. “Mardha!”

“The very lass I was thinking of.” Cynda grinned.

“Gyan, there you are!”

Resplendent in his freshly oiled leather battle-gear, silver torcs, and midnight-blue woolen clan cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a silver Argyll brooch, Per stood in the doorway. Gyan hoped the warmth of her smile told him how handsome he looked.

“Per? I thought you’d ridden out with the patrol.”

He shook his auburn head. “Father and I are trying to decide which of our Breatanach slaves can be trusted to act as translator.” Slaves, Gyan reflected, captured as a result of border disputes, or their children born at Arbroch over the years. Either way, Per was right: not many of them could be trusted with such a critical task. He continued, “We wanted your thoughts on the matter.”

“Good. Where is Father?”

“At the stables, inspecting the honor guard’s mounts. He sent me to find you.”

Gyan faced Cynda. “Can you finish here? And make sure there are enough pallets and sleeping furs in the Commons for the rest of Dumarec’s party?”

“Ach, Gyan, be off with you!” She gave Gyan a gentle but firm shove toward the door. “I’ve been doing this sort of thing since before you were born, and not likely to forget anything now.”

As the door thumped behind them, Gyan and Per shared a laugh.

“You know,” he said between chuckles, “I will miss that little tyrant.”

She made a noncommittal grunt. With luck, she would not have to miss Cynda at all.

The area outside the stables was bustling with the regular Argyll patrol and the twenty-two mounted men selected to serve as Chieftain Dumarec’s honor guard. In their midst loomed Ogryvan, scrutinizing everything from harness furnishings to helmet crests. Like Per, he was impressively arrayed in his finest battle-gear, as were the honor guard and their horses.

Gyan yearned to be riding out with the guard, to see these fierce Breatanach warriors for the first time and meet destiny headlong.

But duty tethered her to the settlement. Everything had to be in perfect readiness for the guests. This task was just as important as the honor guard’s, though not nearly as exciting. She released her disappointment on the wings of a sigh.

Ogryvan looked up as his daughter and stepson drew near. “Ah, good.” His eyebrows made a thick line across his forehead as he glanced at the sky. Dark clouds were boiling over the mountain peaks, heralding a storm. “Let’s go inside before the skies open on us. Gyan, I don’t want you to ruin your gown.”

“What’s the matter, Father?” She grinned teasingly. “Afraid I might melt?”

“With you, I don’t know anymore,” Ogryvan retorted. “You seem to be full of surprises lately. Now, go on inside, both of you.”

The three crowded into the nearest chamber to offer any measure of privacy, the tack room. Outside, the first drops assaulted the timbers of the roof.

“Did Per describe our problem? That we need to have one of our slaves act as translator?” When Gyan nodded, Ogryvan said, “The slightest misunderstanding could spell disaster. I don’t want to trust just anyone.”

“Trust, aye. We don’t need someone who might say something other than what he’s told to say. Although…” Per’s face clouded with a rare frown. “I have to wonder whether any of them can really be trusted that far.”

“But since none of us knows the Breatanaiche tongue beyond a few words to get the slaves to do our bidding, we don’t have much choice, do we?” Gyan glanced at Ogryvan. “Father, what is to be the reward if the person does well?”

Scrutinizing a spare length of saddle girth, Ogryvan did not answer right away. Nor did he look up when at last he spoke: “Freedom.”

As Gyan started to voice her consent, Per said, “I thought one of Arthur’s treaty terms was for the clans to free every Breatan.”

“Aye, son. By this time next year, we must.”

“Then why not let them all go now?”

“Think, Per.” Gyan laid a hand lightly on his leather-covered forearm. “We have close to threescore men and women here, and I’ve lost count of how many children. We can’t free them all at once, especially with winter at the gate. The slaves own little more than the clothes on their backs. They couldn’t make it to their villages on foot before the snows come. And think what the loss of their labor would do to us.” She grinned to soften her words. “Would you want to be shoveling Rukh’s manure all winter?”

“I suppose not.” Her brother’s short laugh sounded rueful.

“Very well. Let us grant freedom for the slave and his or her family and offer them passage home, wherever it may be,” Ogryvan said. “We can manage the loss of two adults and a few children, agreed?”

Per nodded. “But we’re still faced with the original question. Who will it be?”

Studying the neat rows of bridle pegs, Gyan pondered the options. Many pegs were empty, another blunt reminder that the fetters of duty were as strong as those made of iron. And fighting the intangible bonds was just as futile.

She abandoned her mental struggle to regard her father and brother. “We can rule out the women.”

“Oh? Why?” From the surprise in Per’s tone, it seemed he had expected her to suggest one of the female slaves.

“They’re a timid lot.” She shrugged. “We need someone who can keep his wits about him under pressure.”

“Aye. Trouble is”—the folded leather strap snapped taut between Ogryvan’s fingers with a loud crack—“we haven’t seen any of our slaves react in a real crisis.”

“What about the fire in the stables last summer?” Per asked. “Who was that stable-mucker? Dav? Daff—”

“Dafydd! Of course!” The memory of that dreadful afternoon sprang up, when Gyan had nearly lost her beloved Brin. “It was his idea to blindfold the horses so they could be led to safety.”

For his role in saving the horses, Dafydd was given a position as one of Ogryvan’s personal manservants. An appropriate reward, although Gyan had always wondered why Dafydd had not been set free for his efforts. In her father’s place, she wouldn’t have hesitated.

Perhaps now Dafydd would have his chance.

Slowly, Ogryvan stroked his beard. “Hmmm, Dafydd…he’s so quiet and unassuming that most of the time I forget about him.” He favored his daughter and stepson with a proud smile. “By all the gods, you two are right. He’s got a good head about him. I do believe Dafydd is our man.”