Dawnflight (56 page)

“Ha, well, there’s another story you’ll never tell me, I’ll wager!” Cynda sobered. “Truth be told, his war-leader sent me here.” She jerked her thumb in Arthur’s direction.

Gyan gazed up at him. There had been no time to issue such an order either last night or this morning, which meant he had to have done it sometime before the fight, the feast…and before they had confessed their love. As her smile widened, her heart pulsed with even greater love for him. His smile was brief but no less loving.

“Report,” he ordered the soldier.

Thumping fist to bronze-clad breast, the messenger began, “Tanroc and St. Padraic’s Isle are free, Lord Pendragon.”

The crowd’s cheers flew heavenward. Arthur nodded.

The messenger untied a canvas-wrapped parcel from his saddle horn and handed it to Gyan. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, General Cai sends his thanks. This was a great help.”

“Casualties?” asked Arthur.

“The original detachment lost eight horses and two hundred sixteen men in the first assault, sir.” The messenger drew a breath and let it out slowly. “The surviving soldiers were flogged, even the wounded.”

Hand to mouth, Gyan gasped. Arthur said nothing, but his clenched jaw betrayed his fury.

She asked, dreading the answer, “What of Centurion Elian?”

“His right leg was crushed when a horse fell on him, my lady.” She felt her eyes widen. Had he been the one riding Brin? The soldier added, “He lost the leg, but he’s expected to recover.”

Not even a ripple of sorrow touched Urien’s flinty face for the fate of his cousin, which angered Gyan but didn’t surprise her.

Head bowed, she silently recited the Caledonach warrior’s lament and commended the souls of the fallen to the One God. For the wounded, especially Elian, she offered a special prayer for the healing of their bodies and their spirits.

Continued the messenger, “General Cai’s cohort suffered thirty-four casualties. Fleet Commander Bedwyr lost no men. The wounded total one hundred thirteen. The fight to reoccupy Tanroc was brief. After spending their arrows, the Scots at the monastery surrendered.”

“Cai is still at Tanroc?” Arthur asked.

“Aye, my lord. Awaiting your instructions.”

“First, Cai must select a contingent from his cohort to restore Tanroc to its original complement. Second, he is to appoint someone to serve as interim commander until the replacement arrives.”

“Lord Pendragon,” began Urien, “may I ask who—”

“No, Tribune. You may not.” To the messenger, Arthur said, “Finally, Cai is to take the remaining men, the Scotti prisoners, and any wounded fit to travel, and sail for Caer Lugubalion on the morrow. Repeat it.”

And the man did, perfectly.

Gyan left Cynda’s side to join her consort on the platform. “Arthur,” she whispered, “what of the captives?”

“Cuchullain is the barbarian, not I.” The intensity of Arthur’s glare took on frightening proportions. “My prisoners will be treated exactly as their crimes warrant. But to take the battle to Cuchullain’s shores and expect to win, I need a second legion.” Though he kept his voice low, vehemence shaped each syllable. “One that doesn’t exist yet.” Gaze softening, he reached for her hand. “Gyan, I’m sorry. It’s Cuchullain I’m angry with. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

She understood all too well; captivity had taught her the frustration of being powerless to dispatch an enemy. “We will build up our forces and deal with that Scotti cù-puc when the time is right for us, mo laochan.” An irreverent thought occurred, one she hoped would cheer her consort. “I don’t know about Cuchullain’s language, but in mine his name sounds like ‘hound puppy.’”

“I’ll remember that.” Chuckling, Arthur gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it. To the soldier, he said, “Get a fresh mount from the stables, and ride back to Tanroc at once.”

The townsfolk began to disperse as the messenger saluted, collected the reins, and led his horse away. Urien stepped off the platform, Morghe on his arm, and headed back toward the fort without so much as a glance in Gyan’s direction.

Gyan descended and gave the bag containing her battle trophy to Cynda. She said to Angusel, in Caledonaiche, “Please show Cynda to my quarters. I’ll be along soon.”

As Angusel and Cynda left, Arthur joined Gyan below the platform. Few townsfolk remained in the square, but even if the place had been packed, Gyan wouldn’t have cared.

“Thank you, Mel-Artyr,” she murmured, “for thinking of Cynda.”

“I’m glad Cai was able to find her for you.” His eyebrows lowered. “What did you call me this time?”

“Artyr. It’s your name in my birth tongue.”

“I gathered that. But the other part—‘mal’?”

“‘Mel.’ It means…” She reviewed the list of Breatanaiche and Ròmanaiche equivalents, examining each meaning like trying to decide what to wear. The Ròmanaiche word she selected could not convey all the nuances, but it came the closest. “Consort. The honored consort of the àrd-banoigin.”

“A title, then. Sometimes I think I have too many.”

A gentle smile tugged at her lips. “You don’t have to use it.” Not all àrd-ceoiginich changed their names to reflect this status; her father, for one. “It’s the consort’s choice. Receiving my clan-mark is a different matter, of course.” She caressed his shield arm, imagining the blue Argyll Doves soon to be winging across the bronzed flesh. “Mo laochan.”

“God help me, Gyan. I love you so much!” Naked desire flared in his eyes. “Let’s get married right away.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “By Caledonian law, we already are.”

“For our union to be legal in Brydein, it must be sanctified by the Church. Any child born too soon after the ceremony would not be considered legitimate. I was such a child. It has caused problems.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t inflict that fate on anyone.”

Although she failed to understand a culture that didn’t recognize the inherent holiness of the soul-bond, she sensed that her consort’s concern was real—and this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Another matter, however, completely eluded her. “You must return to headquarters soon. And you still want me to stay here to lead the Manx Cohort?”

“I don’t like it, either. But I like the alternatives much less.” His grin returned. “So, my love. Shall we go to St. Padraic’s and ask the abbot to conduct our ceremony?”

The church at St. Padraic’s Monastery was…the Sanctuary of the Chalice! What had happened to it during the Scáthinach occupation? The messenger had only reported military details, as duty demanded. But what of Dafydd and his family, Father Lir, and the other monks? Gyan was smitten with a strong desire to find out, and not from the mouth of any messenger.

Arthur was regarding her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t responded to his suggestion about a Breatanach joining ceremony. She did want to honor his people’s custom, but a difficulty occurred to her, as well as a solution.

“We can’t, Artyr.” She softened the words with a smile. “That church is too small, and too remote. I imagine many people will want to attend, Caledonians as well as Brytons. After all, it’s not every day that the Pendragon of Brydein marries a Caledonian chieftainess. Caer Lugubalion would be best. The event will require planning, and we must allow time for folk to arrive, especially my clansmen, who will have the farthest to travel.” She searched his face for a sign of agreement and was a bit concerned when she didn’t find it. “That is, if my lord Pendragon believes the Manx Cohort can do without its commander for a fortnight.”

His eyes lit with a vivid blue twinkle. “You, my lady,” he declared with mock reproach, “can be entirely too sensible.”

Her smile deepened as he bent his face closer to hers. “One of us has to be,” she whispered. Their lips met, not with the blazing passion of the night before or the warm earnestness of the morning, but she still felt the full force of his love.

Even with the sounds of the Dhoo-Glass marketplace clamoring in her ears, it was all she could do to keep her desire in check. One of them, she thought with an inward grin, had to be sensible, indeed.

Chapter 31

G
YAN WAS RELIEVED to discover that St. Padraic’s Monastery had been left undisturbed by the Scáthinaich. Physically, that is.

Of the monks she was not so certain.

Where once it had been customary at this hour of the afternoon to see several small groups of monks strolling about or seated on benches in the orchard to discuss Scriptures or other treatises, the monastery stood all but deserted. A few brethren were doing chores: tending the garden and livestock, cutting wood, hauling water, washing laundry. To a man, they performed their work with a solemn sense of purpose that was nothing at all like the way they had acted before the attack.

She was still pondering their behavior as she rounded one of the cruciform wings of the church. Stifling a gasp, she stopped. Her visit with the badly wounded Elian had been difficult, but this sight made her heart lurch. Spread out before her was a field of mounds, each topped with a wooden cross. It was the place where she and the monks had made their stand against the Scáthinaich.

The memory staggered back in all its agonizing detail: the fighting, the wounding, the dying, the surrender. The loss. And none of the monks had had to die. That realization struck her like a sword through the heart. She had led these decent men to their deaths, and for what? Her foolish pride. Had she not chosen to resist, this graveyard would not be here to accuse her.

Gaze averted to the ground at her feet, she leaned against the stone wall. She did not fight the tears coursing down her cheeks.

“My lady?” asked someone, in Breatanaiche.

She knew that voice. Swiping at her face with her tunic sleeve, she turned and frowned in puzzlement. The man standing before her wore the black, hooded robe of the monks’ order. This image did not match the voice.

“Dafydd?”

He pushed back the hood. Even if she had not recognized his face, the fading red mark of the slave collar would have confirmed his identity.

“You’re a monk now?”

“Yes, my lady. Renewed my vows, actually. Ten years ago, I was a monk. Before Arbroch.”

His statement didn’t sound like an accusation, but as a ruling member of the clan responsible for his enslavement, it was hard for her not to take it as such. Quietly, she asked, “Why take vows, when you can visit as often as you like?”

“It’s not the same, my lady. And…” The smile he showed her was suffused with peace. “I had to fulfill my promise to God.”

That type of peace for her seemed hopelessly far from reach.

“What of your family?”

“They will stay here until Tanroc is rebuilt, Katra and young Dafydd. After that, I will be able to see them whenever I wish. Many of the brethren have wives and children.”

“And your daughter? Is she at the priory?”

Sorrow clouded Dafydd’s face, and he lowered his head. “My little Mari is with God.”

“The Scots?” He answered with a nod. She reached for the yielding hand. “Dafydd, I am so sorry.” There was nothing she could have done to prevent his loss, but that knowledge was no help to her.

His other hand closed over hers.

She peered into his face. There was no bitterness, no blame, no remorse, no regret. Memories intruded of the soldiers and civilians—and horses, like her Brin—that had died to defend Tanroc. So much death that day…Gyan didn’t know how Dafydd could bear it. Her tears welled.

“Come, my lady.” He tugged on her hand. “There is something I think you need to do.”

He led her into the church. Though she was convinced of the futility of this visit, she didn’t bother to resist.

Yet she had to admit the statues were a familiar, comforting presence: Màiri with her Holy Infant and Padraic with the serpent, ever wreathed by flickering candlelight. Fragrant incense permeated the air. The Chalice sat enshrined on its golden platform in front of the crucified Christ. It was as though the invasion had never happened.

But the graveyard would not let Gyan forget the truth.

Dafydd strode to one of the side banks of candles, lit a twig, and used it to light the tapers flanking the Chalice. Their glow made the relic look ethereal, as though not of this world. Perhaps, in a sense, it wasn’t.

Gyan approached the altar. “Are you the Keeper now, too?”

He snuffed the twig between moistened fingertips, laid it down, and turned toward her. “No, my lady. But one day, by the grace of God, I might be.” Her eyebrows shot up, and he explained, “The brother Abbot Lir had been training as his successor died resisting the Scots. Father Lir hasn’t chosen anyone else yet, so those of us who remain have been taking turns with this office. It’s another reason I decided to stay.” His clear blue eyes misted, and his gaze seemed very far away. “I think Father Lir’s spirit has broken, my lady. Even though the Scots are gone, he has not moved from his bed.”

First the monks, now Father Lir. More tears threatened. “This—all of this is my fault.”

“Oh, no, my lady. Please don’t blame yourself. You did what you thought was best.” He reached for her hands. When she tried to pull away, he held them with surprising strength. “Who could have known the Scots had other motives?”