Dawnflight (6 page)

Chapter 4

“
R
EMEMBER, MEN, DO not draw your weapons unless you hear the word from me. From me!” Ogryvan roared. “Is that clear?”

If the chorus of “Aye, Chieftain” sounded less than enthusiastic, it was not unexpected. They’d heard the command at least a dozen times in preparation for this special duty. But he had to be certain of their obedience.

“I said, is that clear?” The Ogre hurled the full force of his glare at each member of the guard.

Their second response was much more to his liking. This was not the time for youthful bloodlust. Only cool heads and steady hearts would see a successful conclusion to the first attempt in clan memory at a peaceful meeting between former enemies on Argyll land.

He raised his fist to signal the troop’s departure. As he set heels to the flanks of his roan stallion, Easgan, he glanced back at Gyan. The rain had calmed to a drizzle, and she had taken a step from beneath the stable roof’s thatched overhang. With sword arm outstretched, she clenched and splayed her fingers in the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Fierce pride surged through every line of her stance, making Gyan look more than ever like her mother. And before much longer, he would be losing her too.

At least this separation would not be final. He hoped.

Ogryvan returned the salute. He settled the hood over his head, thankful for the rain that hid the mist rising in his eyes. To drive away the sorrow, he focused upon the matter at hand. But the image of his daughter did not fade. For that, he was also thankful.

The regular patrol split from the honor guard to take up positions behind the outermost earthen embankment. Quickly, Ogryvan inspected his men to ensure that every warrior was concealed, javelin at the ready.

Trust was earned through worthy deeds, not bought by a fistful of scribbling on sheepskin. If the Dailriatanaich were unwise enough to display naked steel during this meeting, the Ogre was prepared to see that none lived to tell the story.

As the honor guard drew rein below the embankment, he watched the translator, mounted behind Per. Like the others, Dafydd was cloaked and hooded against the relentless October rain. The iron slave collar had been removed. Dafydd was slowly stroking his neck where the collar would have been, as though unable to believe his good fortune.

Neither cloak nor tunic hid the angry red welts tattooed by eight long years under the band.

To use this man today was a calculated risk. If the Breatanaich took offense at the sight of one of their own enslaved, collared or not, then so be it. The swords strapped to the saddlebows of Ogryvan and his men had not been crafted for mock combat.

Easgan snorted and tossed his head. Ogryvan stared at the spot where the trail arrowed from the forest to cross the wide, autumn-dead meadow. Moments later, he heard the thudding hoofbeats and jingling harnesses of the approaching party. As they emerged from the pines, the travelers lifted their heads in recognition of the end of their journey.

The Argyll honor guard cantered forward to meet the Chieftain of Clan Móran. The two bands halted a dozen paces apart and fanned out into the meadow to either side of the cart track. Twenty-four pairs of Breatanach eyes glared at the Argyll honor guard. Most of those eyes widened as Ogryvan nudged Easgan a few steps ahead of the Argyll line. He often had seen this reaction from men who had doubted the tales of his height.

Ogryvan recognized two Dailriatanaich from the Battle of Abar-Gleann: Chieftain Dumarec and his son, Urien.

At Ogryvan’s nod, Dafydd slid from the back of Per’s bay gelding and walked into the neutral area. Ogryvan watched the Breatanaich closely as they studied Dafydd, who stood stoically between both bands, waiting for Ogryvan to speak.

“Hail, Dumarec, Chieftain of Clan Móran of Dailriata,” intoned Ogryvan through Dafydd. “In peace I bid you welcome to the Seat of Argyll and extend the greetings of my daughter, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.” He gestured toward his stepson. “This is Lord Peredur, Gyanhumara’s half brother.”

“Well met, Chieftain Ogryvan, Lord Peredur,” replied Dumarec. “And you, of course, remember my son.” The ebony-and-gold-cloaked chieftain glanced at the powerfully built man on his right, the only warrior wearing Ròmanach battle-gear. “Urien.”

Dafydd relayed Dumarec’s words, which Ogryvan answered with a curt nod.

How could he forget the leader of the Breatanach horsemen, whose demon-swift charge at the dike had sealed the defeat of the Caledonach host? Urien’s tactic had stolen victory from the clans, and now he had come to steal Gyan’s heart. Nay, not steal it. By the terms of the treaty, she all but belonged to him already. All Urien lacked was her consent, which would be extremely difficult to obtain in his present condition.

“Lord Urien, I advise that you change clothing before meeting my daughter. She is none too fond of anything Ròmanach.”

When they heard the translation, Dumarec and Urien leaned over to exchange a few private words. At first, Urien seemed to be arguing with his father, but he soon fell silent.

Dumarec straightened. He instructed Dafydd to convey their agreement to Ogryvan’s request, adding, “Shall we take cover, Chieftain Ogryvan?” He surveyed the dripping sky. “Your weather is most inhospitable.”

When Dafydd hesitated, Ogryvan prompted, “Remember, your reward is your family’s too.”

With a deep breath, Dafydd rendered into Caledonaiche Dumarec’s unritualistic comment about the weather.

Ogryvan grinned. He’d noticed the hint of humor in Dumarec’s voice. Gladness at being so near to shelter was plain enough on the craggy face.

“Aye! Let us make haste, Chieftain Dumarec, to where the fire burns hot under the mutton joints and the spiced wine mulls in the hearthpot.”

After hearing the Breatanaiche version of Ogryvan’s suggestion, the Chieftain of Clan Móran nodded his assent. Dafydd climbed back onto Rukh. Settled behind Per, Dafydd gave Ogryvan a glance of pure relief. Ogryvan returned a brief smile, mouthing the words, “Well done.”

URIEN SAT with his father at the high table of Arbroch’s feast hall. The host and hostess had not yet arrived, and boredom was sitting down to feast upon his mind.

Absently, he stroked the red-enameled bronze brooch that was the badge of his rank, catching a fingertip on the dragon’s jet eye. In deference to the chieftainess, Urien had exchanged his cavalry uniform for traditional Dalriadan dress. He was glad of the woolen tunic and trews that let him be warm and dry for the first time since leaving Dunadd. Yet he refused to go without his insignia. A brooch was, after all, a brooch. And no other tribune in the army of Brydein had one quite like it. In honor of his status as heir of Clan Moray, it bore the clan’s gemstone.

But with only his meat knife at hand, he felt decidedly naked.

He squelched that thought. Showing fear without cause would likely destroy his chance to win a wife.

Urien’s gaze darted around the hall as he pondered Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s aversion to Romans and everyone who had adopted their ways. From what he’d been told about the woman, it would be a challenge to persuade her to set aside this emotion for his sake. His blood raced. Challenges were his meat and drink. And no challenge yet had defeated him—save one, and he shoved it out of his mind.

Briefly, he wondered how Gyanhumara felt about living in a fortress that had been built by the Romans. Then he remembered what Dafydd had said about her ancestors, who had driven the Romans out. The fortress of Ardoca had become Arbroch in the Picti tongue, and the victors had razed the original timber buildings to erect their own structures within the massive granite walls. Gyanhumara probably considered the former Roman fortress to be nothing more than spoils of war.

Urien glanced at his father. Dumarec seemed at ease. With Dafydd’s help, he was talking to Gyanhumara’s brother about Arthur’s plans for the new cavalry cohort. Urien studied the broad shoulders and sinewy arms of this man, Peredur, wondering how good an opponent he would make. Perhaps a friendly swordfight might be in order later, after the matter of Gyanhumara—and the acquisition of her lands—was settled.

Many Dalriadans had joined a game of dice: one of the few activities, other than fighting and sex, which needed no translator. By the shouts erupting from that corner of the hall, Urien judged his clansmen to be well entertained by their Picti counterparts. The eleven warriors who were not part of the crowd around the dice game were scattered in groups of two or three about the hall. He noted with approval that they kept watchful eyes upon the dais. One could never be too careful when feasting under the roof of another, even in the hall of a supposed ally. Treachery never slumbered.

His survey of the vaulted chamber brought his gaze to the rows of niches encircling the hall. This was not Roman architecture. Each arched recess contained a skull or embalmed head. From years of border skirmishes, before becoming the legion’s ranking cavalry officer, Urien knew that the Picts took heads, though he could not fathom why. Every so often, a Pict would glance up and point at a certain niche, as though reliving a personal encounter for the benefit of his friends.

Even if Gyanhumara brought half her clansmen to Dunadd as a personal retinue, that barbaric head-collecting custom would never be tolerated at the Seat of Moray.

The tall doors swung inward. The boom as timber struck stone raced unchecked through the abruptly silent hall. All eyes fastened upon the man and woman on the threshold. The crowd, Argyll and Moray alike, parted respectfully to let the couple pass.

No number of meetings with the huge, dark Argyll chieftain could have prepared Urien for the equally striking appearance of Ogryvan’s daughter. Gyanhumara stood taller than her father’s shoulder, matching Ogryvan stride for stride with apparent ease as they marched toward the head table. Her copper hair cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back in carefully combed waves. The lips framing her smile were red and full. As she drew closer, Urien noticed the eyes under the long lashes were gray green, like the sea. She bore herself with a poise that radiated confidence and power.

His heart sang.

He barely heard the introduction, so deep was his intoxication with her exquisite beauty. Then Gyanhumara thrust out her right arm. From wrist to elbow spread an elaborate blue tattoo: a pair of birds in flight. Urien froze.

“Greet her, son.” An elbow found Urien’s ribs, none too gently. He shot his father a scathing glance. Dumarec paid no heed. “The warrior’s way.”

Urien’s mind reeled. Acknowledge this woman—this barbarian woman—as an equal? Lunacy! “But—”

“Do it.” Though only a rasping whisper, the command carried the full measure of Dumarec’s authority.

Reluctantly, Urien obeyed. As he reached for Gyanhumara’s forearm, he expected the flesh to be rough. It was not. Her skin was as smooth and supple as that of any lady he had known.

Gowns could be fashioned to hide that bizarre design. Besides, to display bare arms beyond the bedchamber door was a scandalous breach of the rules of modesty, though not among her people, it would seem. But if everything went according to plan, she wouldn’t be living with these other Picts much longer.

Her grip was surprisingly strong. With a smile, he imagined the private wrestling matches they would share. And he tried to picture what the rest of her looked like under the bright yellow gown.