Dawnflight (50 page)

How could she stand there acting so calm, so reserved? Couldn’t she hear his heart thrashing about, trying to get nearer to her?

She asked, “And the other favor?”

What was that light shimmering in the depths of her sea-green eyes? Hope? Desire? Before he could decide, it flickered out.

Again, he fought the impulse to pull her into an embrace. The margin of victory was shrinking with each bout.

“Could you please give me a written account of your involvement in the Scotti invasion, especially of what happened before my arrival? Centurion Marcus can be your scribe.”

“No need for that,” she replied, “if you don’t mind the report being written in Brytonic. At present, my skill with Latin is limited.”

“Brytonic?” Would this woman ever run out of surprises? Probably not, and it made him love her all the more. Reluctantly, he buried the emotion before it could touch his face. “Brytonic will be fine.”

She nodded tersely. “Is that all, Lord Pendragon?”

He wanted to shout, “No!” and fasten his lips to hers, to unleash the passion she had ignited within him. But the voice of reason echoed coldly through the corridors of his brain.

Instead, he answered quietly, “Yes.” He refrained from adding, “For now.”

At his signal, the centurions stepped aside to let her through. As she turned to leave, a patch of afternoon sunlight streaming through the tent opening fell upon her arm.

“Chieftainess, wait. Those bruises—you didn’t have them yesterday. Where did they come from?”

“I had an argument with…someone. It’s nothing that need concern you.”

It wasn’t hard to guess who that “someone” was, and by God’s holy wounds, it most certainly did concern him! Betrothed or not, the bastard had no right to treat her like that. Urien would pay even if it took Arthur’s final breath.

A plan gelled. It carried plenty of risks, but the best treasures were never won without them. His only lack was an opportunity.

It was all he could do to keep the triumph from his voice as he replied, “I see.”

She stepped out of the tent and was gone. As Arthur watched Angusel bound excitedly at her side like a colt frisking around its dam, he would have given his right arm to be in the lad’s place.

THE FOLLOWING dawn broke upon the ranks of the relief troops, formed up and ready to march, outside the gates of Port Dhoo-Glass. General Niall’s head glared balefully from a spear carried by General Caius. The two halves of the Scáthinach Silver Wolf banner were tied to the spearshaft, its torn edges fraying in the early-morning breeze. Beside Caius stood the cohort’s standard-bearer, in whose hand the gold-framed Scarlet Dragon fretted and writhed. The soldiers’ faces were tilted toward the parapet beside the gate tower where the Pendragon stood. His heart-stirring voice arrowed out to meet them.

Gyan’s irritation grew as she felt herself coming under the sway of his exhilarating encouragement. The words did not apply to her; the injury to her sword arm had left her no choice.

She had donned her battle-gear, but only for show. Rubbing the bandage, she wished she were standing with the men to receive Arthur’s bellicose benediction instead of being on the wall with him, all but chained to Urien’s side.

Angusel’s presence on her shield side was some comfort. Although he would be missing combat experience, she was grateful that he had rejected the idea of joining the relief cohort.

Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword. The ribbed bronze sphere, cool against her palm, did little to fight the heat raging in her veins. Was it only battle lust? Or was the sight of Arthur in his gleaming ceremonial gear igniting a fire of a wholly different type?

She wasn’t sure she could live with her heart’s answer…or without it.

“And so you have been given another chance to avenge the valiant deaths of your comrades by punishing the Scotti marauders. Acquit yourselves this day with courage and honor”—Caleberyllus was a silver blaze in Arthur’s fist—“and the victory will be yours!”

General Caius permitted the men a few moments’ undisciplined appreciation before shouting the marching order. As one, the cohort spun to put the rising sun to their backs and surged forward with barely leashed enthusiasm.

WHILE THE Chieftainess of Clan Argyll, the Pendragon, and the heir of Clan Móran watched the departing troops, Angusel of Clan Alban eyed the three warriors.

He earnestly hoped Arthur was the man who had won Gyan’s heart. The Pendragon was much worthier of being her consort. If only she could see it too, and send the Dailriatanach pig back to Dùn At where he belonged.

After the column disappeared up the winding river valley, Arthur sheathed his sword and turned to leave the parapet. His eyes met Gyan’s with profound intensity. Hers seemed to draw his gaze in and reflect it back with their steady power. Angusel could almost see the sparks fly to embrace each other across the gap. It proved his suspicions and made him want to cheer.

Angusel glanced at Urien, whose eyes were generating their own sparks. Urien’s hand began to twitch toward his sword hilt.

As in the instant before a lightning strike, Angusel fancied that he could feel the hairs lifting from his head. He had to do something about the crackling tension before the bolt hit.

Donning what he hoped was his most endearing grin, he reached for Gyan’s hand. “Come on, Gyan.” He gave it a firm tug. “Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starved!”

GYAN OBSERVED the bustling wharfside activity from the window in her antechamber late that afternoon with unshakable depression. The captured vessels were moored at the Dhoo-Glass docks, being readied for the return to Caer Lugubalion.

She cocked her head as an odd question struck her: when had she begun thinking of that fortress in the Breatanach way?

The Scarlet Dragon tied to the top of each mast of the crimson-rigged Scáthinach ships snapped the answer.

Sighing, she returned her attention to the scene below.

There was a hypnotic rhythm to it all. An unceasing parade of workers toted barrels and crates to each ship, stowed their burdens in wolf-headed prow or stern, and came away flexing empty arms. Breatanach crewmen swarmed over every oaken handspan, eyes sharp for evidence of enemy treachery: a cracked oar, a missing treenail, a half-severed rope, a slashed sail, a hidden hole in the hull. Though it was serious work, the men bore it with high spirits begotten of the knowledge that they were soon going home. Snatches of their jaunty tunes and vulgar jokes and coarse laughter sailed on the salty breeze.

It appeared to Gyan that the warships would be ready to depart on the morning tide, and one of them would be carrying Arthur.

With another sigh, she sank into the chair behind her desk. Fingering the stylus, she dragged the clay tablet toward her and resumed the task of composing her account of the Scáthinach invasion and the Battle of Dhoo-Glass.

The writing was not going well. Finding the proper words was not the problem; Arthur’s face kept intruding upon all other memories, rendering concentration impossible.

Under the circumstances, she might not have bothered with writing anything, but he had asked for her report. Not commanded, asked, just as he had asked for the loan of Niall.

That interview with Arthur the previous afternoon had been monstrously difficult. His headquarters tent had been crawling with legion officers. Her feelings toward the Pendragon were not the business of his men. She’d retreated behind a wall of aloofness, and she had been unable to discern anything from Arthur.

This morning on the battlement was entirely different. Gyan had seen the passion smoldering in the fiery blue depths of his eyes. In a moment of sheer folly, right in front of Urien, she had returned Arthur’s gaze, ember for burning ember. If Angusel hadn’t spoken up when he did…

And she had paid for her indiscretion. Urien had thrown a hundred excuses at her to keep her within his sight all morning. Trivial matters, hardly worth her consideration. Finally, she’d taken enough penance and had escaped to her quarters with a plea of fatigue, which he had readily believed. She had recovered enough of her good sense to refrain from telling him that she needed to finish Arthur’s report.

Now the half-done report lay before her. The completed portions had been copied to parchment. The tablet’s smooth ochre clay seemed to mock her, and the cold iron stylus felt like an alien thing between her fingers.

Someone knocked. She glanced up, grateful for the distraction. Perhaps Arthur had heard her silent call. “Yes?”

No.

Centurion Marcus marched into the antechamber, halted in front of her work table, and gave her a respectful nod. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, the Pendragon wishes to speak with you as soon as possible at camp headquarters.”

Not that again!

“Please convey my regrets.” She gestured at the tablet and parchment. “As you can see, it will be quite impossible.”

As the refusal passed her lips, she realized this might be her last opportunity to see Arthur before he left Maun. She was tempted to recant. But she needed to be alone with him, not ringed by his men.

Disbelief cracked Marcus’s bearing. “My lady, no one refuses the Pendragon.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Centurion”—she slapped the ebony leather encasing her chest, her voice adopting an edge that was just as hard—“I do not wear a legion uniform. I am under no obligation to answer to anyone. Least of all your war-chieftain.” Palms flat on the tabletop, she pushed to her feet.

“You can tell the Pendragon that if he has something to say to me, he can come here and say it.”

Chapter 28

C
AI MADE NO attempt at stealth but marched the Herring Cohort boldly up the Dhoo valley toward Tanroc. The unit’s name had begun the day before as a joke when some soldiers selected for the relief operation realized that most of their companions had come to Maun smuggled in the fragrant bellies of the fishing boats. Yet it was fitting, and Cai encouraged it. He enjoyed a good laugh as well as the next man. Anything to foster a sense of unity among his troops was welcome, however unorthodox.

To keep in step, Cai started the men to singing one of his favorite tavern tunes, “The Seven Saxon Sisters.” The rhyme wasn’t as good when swapping the nationality of the notorious wenches to match the foes the army was soon to engage, but the men didn’t seem to care. Voices were boisterously loud, if more than a little off-key, and spirits ran high, and the miles dropped quickly behind them.