Dawnflight (61 page)

GYAN’S HEART was so uplifted by the glorious music and by the steady presence of her consort that she felt it must surely take wing.

Every detail seemed infinitely precious: the lulls and crescendos of the harmonious monks…the snowy altar cloth embroidered with crimson Christian symbols…the bishop’s mellow voice and stately movements as he performed the duties of his office…the warm, fragrant bread…the flickering candles reflected upon the golden chalice…the wine’s rich sweetness…the pungent aroma of incense from the acolytes’ censers…the shafts of westering sunlight blazing across the wounded face and body of the dying Christ…the brilliance of united flame as she and Arthur lit the center candle…Arthur’s smile before bestowing the ceremonial kiss…the thunderous jubilation of the crowd when their lips finally met.

The bejeweled moments tumbled one by one into the treasury of her mind.

“GOD, WHAT a day!” Arthur plucked the laurel wreath from his head and flung it across the room. It hit the wall and burst into a shower of greenery.

Gyan laughed. “All those toasts—I thought they’d never let us escape from the feast.” She laid her cloak aside, retrieved the copper mirror, and began tugging twigs from her braid.

“Here, let me help.” To her pleasant surprise, he worked quickly yet gently.

“Thank you, mo laochan.” Most of her thoughts raced ahead to the moment when they could douse the lamps and lose themselves in the pile of sleeping furs, but one matter required immediate attention. “I really appreciate what you did for me this morning.”

He paused. In the mirror’s flame-tinted face, she watched him remove the blood-stained linen and trace a slow course over the fealty-mark.

“I did not swear an empty oath, Gyan.”

“I know.” The memory of Caleberyllus’s power was one she would never forget. His hands cupped her cheeks. She tilted her head back as he bent to cover her mouth with his. The fires of her passion roared to life, hotter than ever. Such a pity to have to interrupt, but…“Shall we finish with my hair, so we can make ourselves a wee bit more comfortable?”

He chuckled. More twigs pattered onto the tiles. “You seemed to enjoy yourself in St. John’s, my love.”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?” He pulled the last laurel leaves from her hair, and she turned toward him.

“I thought you might not understand everything. I don’t mean the words,” he amended, silencing her protest with a finger to her lips, “but the symbolism.”

Smiling, she clasped his hands, glad for the chance to share this secret. “The man who taught me your tongue taught me about…my God.”

He didn’t hide his astonishment. “But the candle-lighting?”

“I asked Merlin to add that Caledonian custom for the benefit of Father and the rest of my clansmen, not for myself.” She recalled the private conversation in the bishop’s workroom, scant minutes before riding to the bonding ritual. Swept along by the tide of events, she hadn’t noticed anything odd at the time. Hindsight was telling a different tale. “I’m amazed he agreed so readily.”

“Maybe it was his way of apologizing for advising me against accepting your clan-mark.”

“Maybe.”

Self-doubt, planted by Merlin, grew within her. She disengaged her hands, stood, and walked to the window overlooking the inner courtyard of the praetorium, but from the mental tirade there was no escape.

“Does the One God care so much about a mark on the skin?” With the hand of her sword arm resting over her heart, she slowly stroked her clan-mark. She couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper: “Does this mean I’m really not a Christian?”

His chest pressed to her back as his arms twined about her waist. His lips were warm against her neck. The aromatic essence of his victory crown lingered like a halo.

“I believe God cares more about what’s in our hearts than what’s on our bodies. But some people”—he sighed—“priests, especially, can get strange notions sometimes.”

Strange notions, indeed. It was all too confusing.

“I have to be careful,” Arthur continued. “So do you now. The Church holds a lot of sway. Not so much over the regular army but the common folk. Our auxiliaries.” He started massaging her shoulders. “I think allowance could be made for you, that you received the mark before you became a Christian. But me—” His hands stilled. “One day, I will wear the Argyll Doves for you.”

“You cannot risk the wrath of priests.” She suppressed a shudder. “I won’t let you.”

“I will find a way. I promise.” The steel in his tone melted as he asked, “What made you turn to Christ?”

Contemplating the moonlit courtyard, she grappled not with the answer to his question but with the idea of whether she should say anything. Regret over her conversion was not the issue; her most recent taste of the sacramental wine had affirmed the rightness of the decision. But what would her consort think of a warrior and leader of warriors who had forsaken the religion of her people because she had been afraid of her prophesied destiny?

She leaned against his chest, feeling his arms tighten protectively around her, grateful that he seemed willing to let her take her time. But she knew he wouldn’t be put off forever. “It is the way of my people to ask help from the god who is most able to grant it.” The secret threatened to lodge in her throat. Resolutely, she pushed it out. “Only the One God proved strong enough to help me face my doom.”

He clamped a hand on her shield arm and spun her to face him. “What do you mean, your doom?” She saw no reproach in his eyes, only profound concern.

Gyan translated the words of the prophecy into Breatanaiche.

“I’m certain the High Priest meant Urien.” The doubts fell silent at last. She reached up to caress his cheeks. “Now that I have you, Arturus, my Roman love, that fate no longer awaits me.”

Her lips parted in an invitation he wasted no time to accept.

THEY LAY entwined as love had left them, naked and wreathed with the blended tang of sweat and sex. Gyan had already yielded to sleep. Arthur couldn’t blame her; it had been one hell of a long, emotional day. She nestled with her head pillowed on his chest, a soft smile bending her lips, her breathing slow and even, the fingertips of her left hand twitching against his flesh in the transport of her dreams. He hugged her gently. The twitching stopped, but she didn’t wake.

Fatigue and wine were doing their level best to send him into his own dreams. But he couldn’t stop pondering what she had said.

His Christian conscience chastised him for paying heed to a pagan prophecy, yet some small part of him refused to ignore the matter. Though his father was Roman, he was the son of a Brytoni woman, and Caledonians traced their lineage through the mother…

No. It was absurd. He was a soldier, not a chieftain. Thanks to his father, his feet trod a different road: Roman-built, and dusty, and hard. The only accolades along the way would be those he would win for himself, not bestowed by she who had pushed him into this world. But now, he had a companion to share the trials and triumphs of his journey.

As he brushed his fingertips over the azure lines of the dragon that ramped around her left forearm, his heart surged with the great love he felt for her. She was incontestably his, just as he was hers. Caleberyllus would never let him forget that.

And as long as he had breath in his lungs and strength in his body and fight in his soul, no one was ever going to come between them.

Explicit Liber Primus

kdh
, MCMXCVIII, recognoscantur MMXII

Psalm 139:9-10 NIV, Soli Deo Gloria

Author’s Notes

P
RECIOUS LITTLE IS known about the period following the withdrawal of the Roman legions in about A.D. 410. From the only surviving contemporary British source, a sermon of woe written by Christian cleric Gildas “the Wise” in the mid-6th century, one can infer that it was a period of political, economic, social, military, cultural, and religious chaos. The British fought not only amongst themselves for leadership to fill the power vacuum they inherited from the Romans, but also against the various invaders from the Highlands, the Continent, and Ireland. Everybody had a different agenda, and a different means of pursuing that agenda, covering both ends of the moral spectrum and points in between. Faith flagged—not just faith in whatever divine power one chose to worship, but faith in their leaders, each other, and themselves.

Tradition asserts that roughly fifteen hundred years ago, a leader arose from the tumult to weld the sundry factions into a strong, prosperous nation, buying a generation of peace for his people. Tradition names him Arthur. Tradition also acknowledges that he had help in many forms: prophets, advisers, heroes, and friends.

I postulate that Arthur’s assistance came, first and foremost, from his wife. And not merely to weave his cloak and embroider his shield cover and use his banner to dry her tears while languishing in the cold castle, wondering whether he was going to return alive.

Over the years, as I devoured every Arthurian title I could find, fact as well as fiction, one thing became clear to me: Guinevere has taken a bum rap. And she’s in good company, along with Cleopatra and even “Good Queen Bess,” Elizabeth I, who had a fair share of detractors. The female Pharaoh Hatchepsut, who habitually wore a fake beard, was all but lost to us until recently. And the 9th century’s Pope Joan, who held the office for two years, has been the subject of one of the biggest coverups ever instigated by the Roman Catholic Church. A woman of true power is anathema to her male peers, chroniclers, and historians.

But it is not my intent so much to exonerate Guinevere as it is to present a version of her story plausible enough to explain how the medieval and later versions, rife with themes of lust, adultery, and treason, might have come to be. To that end, I have striven to create as accurate a picture of late-5th-century Britain as possible, avoiding such words as
potato
and
tartan
. This is by no means a claim of perfection, and if I’ve overlooked something obvious, I welcome the opportunity to learn from readers’ comments.

A warrior-queen Guinevere is not as farfetched as it might sound. Writers of antiquity, men like Diodorus Siculus and Ammianus Marcellinus, traveling in what was then known as Gaul (modern-day Western Europe), recorded their observations of Celtic society at about the time of the birth of Christ. These writings included commentary on Celtic women, who were noted to be at least as strong and fierce in battle as their husbands, if not more so. By this time, some Celtic tribes already had begun migrating into Britain. There they encountered an ancient aboriginal race, the Picts, living in what is now the Scottish Highlands.