Morning's Journey (19 page)

Talya and Gwydion, he learned to his horror as he gently turned his wife over, had perished, throats slashed.

Forgive me, dearest ones!

Dwras struggled to his feet, swiping at furious tears and fighting acrid nausea as his senses reported the surrounding carnage. All thoughts of burying his wife and son fled. If his wound didn’t kill him, the first raider to find him lingering here surely would.

Chieftain Loth had to be told! If Loth would give him a spear, he, Dwras map Gwyn, gladly would use it to spit these murderers over a slow fire—though that fate seemed far too kind. For Talya and Gwydion and the others, vengeance remained the only burial gift he could bestow.

Clutching his useless arm to his chest, breaths birthing gray ghosts, he lurched toward the dun hills.

Chapter 11

T
HOUGH THE SUN hadn’t appeared, Gyan lay awake, and she didn’t relish the idea of leaving the bed. She closed her eyes, fighting the uneasy feeling that it would only make matters worse.

Beside her, Arthur sat up. He leaned over and brushed her cheek with his lips. She released a small sigh designed to convince him that she was still asleep. Apparently, it worked. He eased out of bed and straightened the covers around her. She would have appreciated his thoughtfulness had she not been feeling so miserable.

Amazing the number of sounds he made as he prepared to face the day. Slower footfalls proved how hard he tried to be quiet, making her notice the long, metallic hiss against the privy pot, the swish of water in the wash basin, the rustling of linen, the muted slap of sandal leather on tile, the clink of metal.

Fervently, she wished for the sound of the door shutting behind him. As bodiless fingers clawed at her bowels, she didn’t know how much longer she could hold out.

After what seemed like an eternity, he departed.

Rolling onto her back, she sucked in a few deep breaths, but they didn’t help. She flung off the covers, bolted out of bed, and raced across the room.

Hunched in wretched misery over the basin, she succumbed to the attacks of the raging beast that dared to call itself her stomach. Heaves wracked her body until nothing remained. She braced against the washstand, panting. Sweat chilled her brow and matted her hair.

At least Arthur hadn’t witnessed her deplorable weakness.

The door opened. A pair of soft-shod feet pattered behind her. The comforting warmth of wool settled about her shoulders, put there by hands that lingered after the cloak was in place.

“Gyan? Are you all right?”

“What do you think, Cynda? Do I look all right?” Her vehemence startled her. She straightened and turned to Cynda. “I mean, I—”

“Fret not, my dove. I understand.” Displaying one of those infuriatingly knowing smiles, she guided Gyan back to the bed. “Rest here a moment, while I clean up.”

“But, Cynda—”

“Ach now, my dove, first things first!”

Basin under one arm and privy pot under the other, Cynda marched from the room.

Gyan shook her head with a short laugh. Cynda had been growing more depressed in the weeks following Gyan’s return to Caer Lugubalion, and it wasn’t hard to guess why. At Arbroch, Cynda had overseen domestic duties such as obtaining and preparing food, cutting wood, cleaning, weaving, and sewing. At Arthur’s garrison, other folk minded those tasks, leaving not even so much as a fireplace to tend. The heated floors robbed Cynda of that chore.

Yet she seemed much more like herself this morning. While fingering her mantle’s folds, Gyan tried to solve the puzzle, but the answer remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Cynda bustled into the chamber bearing a pewter tray laden with oat bannocks and a steaming mug. Unwilling to trust her stomach with solid food, Gyan bypassed the bannocks in favor of the tea. She took a sip and recognized chamomile by its apple-like taste. Though masked with honey, the tea held a faint bitterness she couldn’t identify.

“What’s in this?” She gestured with the mug.

“Chamomile and lady’s mantle. Drink it up, my dove. It’s good for you.” Cynda’s grin widened. “And your bairn.”

“My
what
?” Gyan fumbled the cup, sloshing hot liquid onto her fingers. Wincing, she sucked on them for a few moments. “No. No, you must be mistaken. I—I just have a bit of the flux.”

“Oh, aye, Gyan, and I flew in here on Nemetona’s chariot.” She sat beside Gyan on the bed and patted her leg. “Think. When was the last time you had your courses?”

Gyan groaned. “September. A fortnight before Dafydd’s installation as Abbot of St. Padraic’s.” Before those three idyllic days when Arthur had made love to her more often than she could remember. She railed at herself for being caught off guard, until another thought chilled her. “Cynda, my fall, and the fever—do you think…?” She couldn’t bear to voice the rest of it.

Cynda firmly pressed on Gyan’s belly in several places. “Did that hurt?” When Gyan shook her head, Cynda smiled. “You’re young and strong, and so is your bairn. There’s naught to fear.” She regarded Gyan with a cocked eyebrow. “Why so glum, my dove? You’ll have your bairn the moon past Belteine. Think what good fortune that will bring the clan!”

Children born near the fertility festival were greeted as heralds of prosperity. For the àrd-banoigin to bear a healthy child, especially a girl, was deemed the greatest blessing of all.

Arthur no doubt would be pleased, too. She’d given him the very excuse he sought to keep her off the battlefield forever.

No, he wouldn’t do that to her. Would he?

Queasiness gripped her belly that had naught to do with the bairn.

As she gazed at the table upon which her sword and sword belt lay, depression cloaked her heart. Was the task for which she’d so diligently trained her body doomed to such a short duration?

“Gyan?”

“Yes, Cynda. It will be a boon.” She managed a slim smile. “For the clan.”

ARTHUR DREADED winter’s mind-numbing boredom.

Yet this winter—coming on the heels of an enemy invasion, a close brush with civil war, a wedding, and an accident that could have claimed the life of his bride—he welcomed. Time now to mend weapons, heal wounds, gather supplies and information on enemies, rest and regroup, and plan the upcoming campaign.

Except there would be no campaign this spring.

In one sense, this gladdened him. A year without the threat of war would imply he’d journeyed that much closer to his goal of establishing a lasting peace for his countrymen and their allies.

Peace came with a price, however, that he wasn’t sure he could afford.

He pushed away from the table and stalked to the window. Hands clasped behind his back, he studied the frost-laden pines.

“What’s this? Tired of reviewing scouting reports?”

Arthur pivoted to find Merlin regarding him from the doorway, arms folded and amusement playing across his craggy face.

“No,” he replied quietly, returning to the frozen scene.

In the courtyard, a wagon pulled up to deliver supplies. Because of the cold, the praetorium guards helped the driver unload the crates and carry them inside. Though in the strictest sense this represented dereliction of duty, Arthur approved their initiative. These men and thousands more soon might be officially charged with such mundane tasks.

Merlin’s footsteps echoed off the tiles as he joined Arthur at the window and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“What is it, lad?”

Arthur sighed. “There won’t be a campaign next season.”

“Ah.” The hand withdrew. “This is not good?” Merlin’s question bordered on a rebuke, for he had drilled into Arthur the concept that peace was to be prized above all else.

“Of course it is.” Merlin had played the role of Arthur’s conscience too many times for Arthur to begrudge him that privilege now. “It would give me more time to build and train my forces. Fortify positions. Collect information on enemy defenses and activities.” He faced Merlin, feeling a half-smile form. “And heaven knows the common folk wouldn’t mind if the men devoted more time to road repair.”

A smile flickered across Merlin’s face. “And the drawbacks?”

Arthur couldn’t dispel the impression of being a pupil again as he replied, “Boredom among the troops, for one.” Ditch digging and drills couldn’t begin to compete with battle for excitement and profit. In peacetime, lust for action often expressed itself in brawling, which only profited the winning gamblers—if they didn’t get caught.

Whether Merlin agreed or not, Arthur had no idea, for he’d turned back to the window. The outrageously expensive thick-paned glass let in the sunlight while blocking much of the cold. Nor did it obscure the view, although little existed beyond the endless stretches of white. The sense of being trapped began to clutch at his heart.

“What concerns me more, Merlin, is how the council will react.”

Like his uncle and Merlin’s father, Ambrosius, the first council-ratified Dux Britanniarum, Arthur possessed free rein to command the legion in Brydein’s defense but had to seek council permission to initiate any offensive action.

Ambrosius’s private writings revealed that he’d had to continually shore up the chieftains’ supply agreements by means ranging from the currying of favor to intimidation and blackmail. Such a situation hadn’t befallen Arthur…yet. But he held no illusions that it wouldn’t.

His position remained secure only as long as enemy threats continued to exist, and as long as he kept winning. He despised the fact that the Council of Chieftains had him by the ballocks. Idle talk surfaced from time to time about abolishing the Pendragonship and disbanding the legion. Such words had a nasty habit of becoming reality, especially with adversaries like Urien of Dalriada, once he became Chieftain of Clan Moray, to champion the cause.

Disbanding the standing army would be a suicidal move even if peace promised to stretch into years, but Arthur couldn’t tell the chieftains this. If the council so willed it, there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do.

He glanced at his cousin, mentor, and friend. Merlin raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, Arthur’s aide burst into the room.

“Lord Pendragon, a messenger has arrived. From Chieftain Loth.”

“Loth?” The husband of his eldest half sister was the last man Arthur had expected to hear from. What could Loth possibly want, unless…“Send him in.”

Marcus ushered the man into the workroom. The messenger’s skin had grayed from fatigue, hunger, and cold. Shadows circled his eyes. Muddy streaks marred his leggings, tunic, and cloak, even his hair. Arthur guessed he’d made the four-day ride in two.

“My lord, five Lothian villages have fallen to Angli raiders. More attacks are feared.” The steadiness of the messenger’s voice sharply contrasted his apparent physical discomfort. “Chieftain Loth requests your assistance to defend the remaining villages.”

Angli raiders: Colgrim’s men, no doubt. The man behind the taking of Dun Eidyn and the death of Arthur’s father had stirred at last, just as Gyan had predicted half a year ago.

Conflicting emotions warred for control of Arthur’s heart as he ground his knuckles into the opposite palm. A thirst for revenge flared. Because that thirst had lain dormant while he regrouped from the devastating loss at Dun Eidyn to rebuild his forces, now it smote him with vehement intensity.

Revenge was never a valid motive for military action, however, and he fought hard to suppress it.

Besides, to rouse even a few of his men from their much-deserved winter rest…yet the fiercely proud and self-sufficient Loth had asked for help, shouting volumes about the situation’s direness. Arthur couldn’t let this latest Angli outrage go unpunished.

To Marcus, Arthur said, “Get this man cleaned up and fed. Give him a bed for tonight and a fresh horse for tomorrow.” Recalling the cavalry games after the wedding, he asked, “How many of Sixth Ala are in residence?”

Marcus’s eyebrows lowered, and his eyes seemed to focus on a point beyond Arthur’s shoulder momentarily. “Three turmae, sir.”

About forty men had chosen to return to their homelands for the winter, Arthur mused, stroking his chin. No surprise there. “Assign two turmae to the Sixth to fill it out, and order the ala to pack their gear.” As Marcus nodded and began to turn, Arthur briefly held up his index finger. “One of the assignees is to be infantryman Gawain map Loth.”