Morning's Journey (27 page)

Gereint found the Pendragon and a score of his men—Picts, to judge by their armor—standing just beyond the feast hall’s tall oaken doors. They concentrated on the stately progress of Chieftainess Gyanhumara as she passed the many-tiered niches containing skulls and embalmed heads representing generations of vanquished foes. Without sparing a glance for her surroundings, Gyanhumara marched to the dais, where the Chieftainess of Clan Alban reclined in languid anticipation.

Alayna looked absurd, her raven hair wound in elaborate braids atop her head, plaited with strands of silvery thread that sparkled in the torchlight. Gereint would have wagered a wagonload of heather beer that she was wearing too much face-paint, as usual. The gold lions of her torc snarled at each other across the hollow of her throat. Her bosom threatened to burst free of the scarlet gown.

Squelching his amusement, Gereint turned to his commander, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat. “Lord Pendragon, I have conducted a thorough—”

“Everything I’ve seen so far looks excellent, Gereint. I will hear your full report later.” The Pendragon directed his attention toward the far end of the hall.

Gyanhumara reached the dais, and her sapphire-pommeled sword hissed free of its bronze scabbard. She stooped to lay it on the flagstones and took a step backward. Alayna nodded once. Gyanhumara raised her right hand, fingers knotted into a fist. From his angle, Gereint could see blue wing tips of one bird and the tail feathers of another. The older woman responded with a similar gesture, displaying a rearing, roaring, grayish-blue lion.

“Argyll is well come to the Seat of Alban.” Alayna spoke Pictish, which Gereint and his men had learned to facilitate their duties.

“Alban is most gracious,” Gyanhumara replied, lowering the arm.

Alayna’s lips pursed. “Identify Argyll’s àrd-ceoigin.”

Gereint gave his head a slight shake; he’d never heard that term during the past eighteen months and had no clue what to make of it.

Gyanhumara raised her other arm. The spread wing tips and lashing tail of this creature were decidedly draconic.

Alayna leaned forward in her chair, animosity—but not surprise—etched into every line of her face. “State his name and titles.”

“Ròmanach Artyr mac Ygrayna”—
Roman Arthur son of Ygraine
, Gereint mentally translated—“Càrnhuileanach Rhioghachd agus Àrd-Ceann Teine-Beathach Mór”—
Man of Clan Cwrnwyll of Rheged and…High-Chief Great Fire-Beast?
—“Bhreatein.”
Of Brydein.
He had never heard anyone render “Pendragon” in Pictish; they always uttered the word with their quaint accent. After listening to that mouthful, he understood why.

The Chieftainess of Clan Alban shifted her gaze past Gyanhumara. “Let him approach.”

Gereint had witnessed plenty of bizarre behavior at Senaudon, but Alayna’s treating her conqueror like a piece of property vaulted to the top of the list.

Yet Arthur looked as unperturbed as ever. At his wife’s nod, he signaled a young Picti warrior, who strode with him to Gyanhumara’s side. Arthur made no move to disarm, though the Picti lad did.

Alayna scrutinized the trio. “This man does not wear the Doves of Argyll. By what sign can you prove that he is your consort?”

“Artyr mac Ygrayna wears the fealty-mark,” declared Gyanhumara, “sworn unto Argyll and sanctified in the rite of bonding the moon before Lugnasadh.”

Arthur unwound and removed the short white stole that served as neck padding. With his fingers, he shifted his armor and undertunic toward his left shoulder far enough to reveal a thin red scar at the base of his neck. Gereint couldn’t fully suppress a shudder.

Alayna’s eyebrows lowered. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, have you not instructed your consort in our ways?”

Gyanhumara and Arthur exchanged a nod. Arthur grasped the Picti warrior’s shoulder and urged him forward.

“Chieftainess Alayna, I am advised that I may display a different sign of friendship. To that end, I restore your son, Angusel mac Alayna, to you.” In Brytonic, that commanding voice rang throughout the feast hall. “His courage and loyalty have proven to me that the honor of Alban need not be enforced by retaining him as a hostage.”

Gyanhumara rendered his remarks in Pictish. Smiling, Alayna extended an open hand. Angusel mounted the dais, clasped her hand, knelt, and bowed until his forehead touched her hand.

“Well come, Àrd-Oighre h’Albainaich.” Another term Gereint had never heard, but it was much easier to grasp:
Exalted Heir of Clan Alban
. The fingertips of Alayna’s other hand brushed Angusel’s shoulder bandage. “What did they do to you, son?”

“Not them, Mother,” Angusel said with a nod toward Arthur and Gyanhumara. “Angalaranach warriors.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Gereint pursed his lips to restrain a laugh, wondering at what point during their history the Picts had started calling the Angli “the Diseased People.”

Alayna accepted Angusel’s news with a thoughtful nod. Abruptly, her face clouded with a scowl. “Angusel, which clan has claimed your fealty?”

“Argyll!”

“Argyll.” Alayna extracted her hand from her son’s. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, I hope you appreciate the treasure you have won from me.”

“Indeed I do. Angusel mac Alayna has saved my life and the future of Clan Argyll. He is a credit to his clan.” Pride rang from each syllable. “And mine.”

ANGUSEL SAT on a bench near the round stone firepit in the center of Alayna’s private reception chamber, her sleek black cat Eala curled in his lap. If he’d ever worried about how his mother fared since Abar-Gleann, one glance around the room served to allay those fears. True to her name, which meant “splendid,” she never had been one to scorn luxury, but Angusel could have sworn that her pillows, furs, tapestries, and furnishings had doubled. He ran his fingertips over the nubby, brocaded cover of the bench’s cushion.

“Argyll.” On his mother’s lips, it sounded like a curse. “Must I lose everything to Argyll?”

Bronze mirror in hand, Alayna perched on an ornately carved stool while a maid finished unwinding her braids, extracted the silver threads, and wrapped them around a stubby pine spool. The woad Lion of Alban prowled along one lean forearm. Wings splayed and beak split in a screech and talons flexed for the kill, the Falcon of Tarsuinn swept across the other. Her shoulders, swathed in her clan mantle, trembled with barely leashed fury.

“First the Pendragon and now you! What will Gyanhumara steal from me next?” The girl made a careless movement with the jeweled comb, catching an ebony tangle and making his mother wince. “One more slip, and it’s back to kitchen drudge duty for you.” She cut off the maid’s stuttering apology with an impatient wave of the mirror.

Angusel held his peace. It didn’t matter that the Pendragon never had been Alayna’s to begin with or that Angusel’s decision to swear allegiance to Argyll had been his alone. Once she latched onto an idea, she never let go.

As he stroked the silken fur, Eala began purring. When his hand stilled, she butted it imperiously. Smiling, Angusel resumed his duty.

“What if this new loyalty conflicts with the good of Alban? What will you do then, my buck?”

“I—I don’t know, Mother. I hadn’t really thought—”

“I suggest you give it some attention.”

He stared at her in astonishment. Caledonach warriors had been swearing fealty to the leaders of other clans for generations. While hostilities flared occasionally between member-clans, the Confederacy prided itself in the strength of its unity—unlike the ever-feuding Breatanach clans. He failed to recall any stories of a Caledonach trapped in a clash of loyalties.

Yet this didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

Why was she so concerned about his reactions? Did she suspect neighboring Argyll of planning to snatch Alban lands? Or was she hatching a similar plan? For revenge, perhaps, because Gyan had won the Pendragon’s affections? Angusel fervently hoped not. Gyan and her consort had trouble aplenty from enemies like Urien and Colgrim without Alayna tainting the mix.

On the other hand, what if desperate need drove a move against Argyll, say, during a plague or famine? What would he do then? Under whose banner would he fight?

His gut clenched as the desire to stay home challenged his oath.

“And look at you, Angusel,” she said, switching topics as blithely as a butterfly flits from thistle to clover. “Fighting in battles, and not even a proper man yet.” Cocking her head to survey herself from a different angle, she fingered a lock that framed her face. “When will you take care of that little detail, hmmm? Once you complete the trial, I can petition the elders to name you chieftain. Your combat experience will make ratification quick and easy.”

He scratched the wound left by the Angalaranach arrow.

Becoming a man by Caledonach law meant passing the deuchainn na fala, a test of courage, stamina, and wits. Not even battle was considered a substitute for the “trial of blood” prescribed by law for the warrior-born.

While a hostage and later, after the Pendragon had granted his freedom, there’d been neither the time nor the place to conduct the trial. The Isle of Maun offered many wonders, but a forest wild enough for the test didn’t number among them.

There was, however, an overriding issue.

Eala stood, stretched, mewed, and touched her nose to his face. “Gods, I don’t want to be chieftain,” he whispered into the twitching ear. She settled into his lap as if in agreement.

“What was that, son?”

“This summer, Mother. Mayhap before Lugnasadh.” With luck, the delay would give him time to figure out how to avoid the destiny she had chosen for him.

“At Arbroch, I suppose?”

“Makes sense. I know our lands too well.”

“Just like your father. He preferred to do things the hard way.” Her lips thinned into a grim line. “Look where it got him.”

In his first battle, Guilbach mac Leanag of Clan Tarsuinn had earned the Breatanach title
Gwalchafed
, “Summer Hawk,” the name he bore proudly for the rest of his life. Gwalchafed died in a border skirmish against Uther’s troops when Angusel was four.

He tried to summon his father’s face, but it remained blurred, colorless. The only detail he could recall with any clarity was the Alban Lion tattoo roaring across Gwalchafed’s shield arm. Angusel had loved to touch that tattoo; it always seemed as if he were petting a real lion. His mother wore the same pattern, of course, but it had never felt the same—physically or emotionally.

Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked them away. Had he been alone, he wouldn’t have bothered.

The keening over Gwalchafed’s body, his mother’s as well as his own, he never would forget. He suspected revenge had driven her attack on Abar-Gleann. With Uther’s son untried as a leader of men…

How wrong she had been.

“Mother, I just—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “I want to make you proud of me.”

After thrusting the mirror into the maid’s hand, Alayna turned, smiling, and stretched her arms toward him. Gently, he dislodged Eala from his lap. She bore the treatment with casual feline indifference as she leaped onto the cushions of a nearby couch to begin grooming her hinter parts. Angusel rose and stepped into his mother’s embrace.

“I know, son.” Her sigh warmed his neck. “Whatever happens, you always will.”

Chapter 15

M
ORGHE SAT ON the curved, backless gilt Roman curule chair beside her mother, looking down upon their clansmen and doing her best to appear at ease. The judgment session had stretched into hours, and Morghe needed to take a walk, preferably toward the midden. She rapped her nails on the chair.

Ygraine cocked an eyebrow. “Patience, daughter.” She gave Morghe a slim smile reminiscent of Arthur’s. “Above all, a lady must cultivate patience.”

The next case involved a pair of farmers and a dead cow. Fingertips tented, Ygraine listened to both accounts. Owen claimed Liam had stolen the cow from him and planned to butcher it before he could discover his loss, which Liam protested vehemently. According to Liam’s story, the unfortunate animal had died near the shared border of their pastures, and Owen had dragged the carcass through a gap in the wall to make it appear as if Liam had stolen it. Owen, of course, denied Liam’s accusation.