Morning's Journey (22 page)

To say nothing of tempers.

Mentally reviewing the list of bedding and other supplies Arthur’s men would need, she studied the activity. Loth and Arthur stood talking in the center of the courtyard while the cavalrymen eddied around them, dismounting and leading horses to the stables. Including...Gawain! Thank God. More or less. Loth turned pointedly away as his son and mount passed by. Annamar shook her head but dispelled her irritation to wave cheerfully when Gawain glanced up at her window. Even at this distance, she saw sadness and regret dampen his answering smile. Her heart ached for him. For Loth, too.

As Gawain moved from view, another figure joined the brothers-by-marriage, wearing a cloak of midnight blue over leather-and-bronze armor. The warrior removed the helmet and shook loose long coppery braids in a decidedly feminine gesture. The way her hand lingered at her belly as she brushed dried mud from her sword belt spoke its own story.

So. Arthur had brought his bride…and his unborn child.

Annamar felt her lips slowly curl into a smile as she speculated about how Loth was handling this turn of events.

“WOMEN!” LOTH snapped. “This is no operation for women!”

Gyan laid a hand on Arthur’s forearm as he readied a retort. “Chieftain Loth, perhaps you haven’t heard. Dunpeldyr is, after all, a wee bit removed from events.” As Loth spluttered an impotent protest, Arthur suppressed a laugh. She continued, “I defeated the Scotti invasion commander in single combat.”

“Gyan, you’re being too modest.” Arthur captured Loth’s gaze. “By that one act, she probably prevented scores more casualties on both sides. My wife is fully capable of holding her own against Angli cattle thieves.” Arthur hoped she understood how deeply he meant it.

“Hmph. Let’s get out of this blasted snow and into my private council chambers, Arthur, where we can continue our discussion in comfort. Gyanhumara, my wife should be down shortly to conduct you to the guest chambers.”

“Gyanhumara comes with us.”

“Are you mad, Arthur? Are all the affairs of men to become women’s work?”

“I respect my wife’s judgment.” He sharpened his tone. “I suggest you do the same.”

The two men glared at each other. Being much shorter put Loth at a disadvantage. He relented, but not at the sacrifice of his pride. As the chieftain whirled, his cloak flared behind him.

“Follow me.” He didn’t look back. “Both of you.”

Arthur and Gyan exchanged amused glances as they started after their brother-by-marriage.

“Is he always like this?” she whispered.

Arthur shook his head. “I think Loth fears the Angli threat has grown beyond his control.” Gazing at nothing in particular, he saw only the bodies of murdered Brytoni villagers. So much waste of life, and for what? A few head of beef that could have been purchased for a fair price, had Brytoni-Angli relations rested on better footing. Small chance of that ever happening now. “He may be right.”

Hammering footfalls drew his attention. Gareth came pelting down the colonnade, his Lothian-patterned cloak streaming behind him like a green wing.

“About time you got here.” Loth gave his son a stern appraisal. “Your mother had you clean up, I see. Good. We don’t need the council chambers smelling like a midden.”

By this time, Arthur and Gyan had caught up with Loth and his son. Mischief gathered on Gyan’s face. “So, Loth, are the affairs of adults to become children’s work?” she said with a teasing grin.

“Permit me to remind you, Chieftainess, that as my heir, Gareth has as much right to be present as you do.” The stare he fixed on her was frostier than the snow underfoot. “Perhaps even more so.”

Arthur wondered what she’d choose for her verbal parry but never found out. Annamar approached them from across the inner courtyard.

“My husband, where are your manners? Keeping our kin out in the cold.” She embraced Arthur and gave Gyan a warm handclasp. “Well come, both of you. If Loth hasn’t the grace to thank you for arriving so quickly, I will. We appreciate it very much.”

“Aye.” Reluctance and gratitude warred in Loth’s tone. “We do.”

As the sky spat more snow, Annamar fussed with her cloak to shake off the flakes. “Let’s get inside before we all catch our deaths!”

THE PRIVATE council chambers of the Chieftain of Clan Lùthean easily could have been mistaken for an armory. A legion of swords, war-knives, hammers, axes, pikes, spears, and javelins marched across the timber-ribbed stone walls. The oil lamps illuminated shields of various sizes and designs: the chest-high, oval, leather-bound oaken style favored by Caledonaich; the curved, shoulder-high, rectangular tin Ròmanach infantry type; and the small, round, ashwood version with its wickedly sharp bronze boss, which Gyan recognized from Arthur’s scouting reports as a Sasunach design. Of the many others, their origins she could only guess.

Enshrined over the hearth, which housed an inferno that roared like a raging dragon, hung a weapon whose owner had to be the chieftain himself. Subordinate only to Braonshaffir in beauty and Caleberyllus in length, this double-bladed sword boasted a pommel inlaid with polished amber. Had she not possessed such a magnificent weapon, her heart would have been ablaze with envy.

Servants scurried everywhere, carrying pitchers of wine and uisge, bearing platters heaped with fragrant beef and bread, moving the massive oak table to the center of the room, arranging chairs around it, filling and lighting the lamps, securing the window-coverings, prodding the fire.

A wonder they didn’t collide.

Like a rock in a wind-whipped sea stood Loth’s wife to direct the work. When they finished, she herded the servants from the room. On her way past Gareth, she paused to bestow a kiss on his brow. The lad bore it with a half-pleased, half-disgusted look.

“Loth, send Gareth to bed if he gets sleepy. Don’t forget about him.”

Absorbed in the task of spreading a large hide map across the table, the chieftain grunted.

As Gyan stepped toward the table, Annamar caught her hand. The steadiness of the older woman’s gaze was much like Arthur’s yet softer, as though worn by the march of years.

“Your sleeping quarters will be ready soon, Gyanhumara. Any of the servants can conduct you there, if you decide to retire early.” Annamar’s smile reminded Gyan of the absent Cynda.

Loth’s wife glided from the chambers. The double doors swung to with a resounding thump. Gyan spent several moments staring at the ornately enameled Lùthean Bears that appeared to growl at each another from opposite doors.

Could her sister-by-law have guessed about her bairn? Would this jeopardize Gyan’s already tenuous relationship with Loth? Affect the outcome of this mission and her participation in it?

“Gyan?” Arthur’s voice carried across the chamber. “Joining us?”

Warding off her uneasiness with a toss of her braids, she strode briskly to her consort’s side.

Loth didn’t look up at her approach. “My people were hit here.” With a quill dripping crimson ink, he marked five
X
s on the map, each a day’s ride from the nearest Angalaranach settlement.

“Have you retaliated?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet.” Loth tapped the map with the quill’s gray-feathered tip. “They left only one survivor, which is why I found out when I did. The bastards probably were too drunk to realize their mistake.”

“Then we must capitalize on it.” Arthur’s tone blew as cold as the snow-chilled winds rattling the windows’ shutters.

“Aye! Then you’ll help me hunt them down?”

“Certainly. This spring, after—”

“But—”

Arthur silenced Loth with a glare. “After the troops return, and supplies are replenished, and the roads and tracks are passable again. Not one day sooner. A winter campaign with a third of the legion is suicide.”

“To the devil with risk, Arthur!” Loth smashed his fist to the tabletop. The goblets rocked, slopping wine. “Those murdering Angli thieves must be punished!” He gave Arthur a pointed look. “I’d have expected you to be the first in line.”

It seemed an odd comment until Gyan recalled that Arthur’s father had died fighting the Angalaranaich. She tried to divine her consort’s thoughts. Sorrow, perhaps, or revenge? Impossible to tell. His face may as well have been chiseled in granite.

“They will be punished, Loth.” Arthur gave a solemn nod. “You have my word.”

“I don’t want your bloody word.” Loth’s lip curled into a snarl. “I want results!”

“Gentlemen, please.” Gyan held up her hands. “Our task is to solve problems. Not to create new ones.” With their full attention, she forged on. “Loth, you are concerned that more villages will be raided this winter?”

“Aye,” he muttered.

She faced her consort. “Arthur, you need time to devise and implement a detailed campaign plan, correct?” He nodded. “Then I propose we take some of our men, dress them as villagers, and send them to defend the villages standing in the greatest danger.”

“Impossible!” Loth made a dismissive gesture. “It can’t work.”

“Why not?” Arthur grinned at Gyan. “It’s an excellent plan.”

“Too hard to implement,” declared Loth. “An influx of men would be noticed. The Angles are probably watching the other villages.”

Arthur said, “We can send in the men under cover of darkness, perhaps during a new moon.”

“Or during a snowstorm,” Gyan suggested. “Even the hardiest spies must take cover from the weather.”

“Very well. Let’s assume we can get them into the villages unnoticed. We’re talking—what? A dozen men per village? A score?” Loth’s eyes issued a glittering challenge. “In a village of a hundred, how long do you think these men will stay unnoticed?”

Arthur parried Loth’s glare. “If we time their arrival with a snowstorm, they could easily be taken for travelers or huntsmen seeking emergency shelter.”

“They’d have to be well provisioned. I will not impose undue hardship on my people.”

“God’s wounds, Loth!” Gyan glanced at Arthur, surprised by his outburst. He clenched his jaw. “Every element of this plan can be worked out to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“Hmph. It would never fool the Angles.” Loth shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what manner of trappings you hang on a warrior, you can always spot one a mile off. But the point is moot, Arthur. Most of the men you brought are Picts.”

“They are men!” Gyan fought down a surge of battle frenzy as she rounded on Loth. To her satisfaction, he backed up a pace. “Fine, honorable
Caledonian
men who have learned to speak your tongue.”

Loth’s gaze didn’t waver. “I meant no offense, Chieftainess.”

She let her crossed arms and arched eyebrow answer for her.

“I think Uncle Arthur is right. It’s a great plan, Father!”

Loth whirled toward his son. “My own flesh turns against me, eh?”

Wide-eyed, Gareth shrank back. Gyan laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He whipped his head around. Recognition spread across his face, and he relaxed visibly. She gave him a brief smile.

“Your flesh, Loth,” and she sharpened her words to sting like icy needles, “possesses a good deal more sense than you do.”

She spun and strode toward the door. Neither Loth nor Arthur moved to stop her. It would have mattered naught had they tried.