Morning's Journey (36 page)

“Fair enough.” Delivering his second surprise of the day, Loth helped Arthur adjust the armor and buckled the other side. After they got it sitting comfortably enough across Arthur’s shoulders, Loth grinned at him. “Thank God you’re not a chieftain, or we’d all be in trouble.” He handed Arthur his helmet and retrieved Arthur’s scarlet cloak—to which Arthur had left his dragon badge attached—from the back of a chair.

Arthur chuckled as he settled the helmet into place. “You most especially, my brother. Please express to Anna my affection and thanks.” He hoisted on his sword belt, cinched it, and tucked his gloves into their usual spot. With his left hand, he picked up the sheathed Caleberyllus, which would be secured to his saddlebow for travel. Pursing his lips, he glanced at the sweaty riding gear and other items haste was forcing him to leave behind. “And my regrets.”

He accepted the cloak and badge from Loth. Through their firm armgrip, he felt Loth’s earnestness and sincerely hoped Loth could feel his.

AN HOUR from Senaudon, Arthur and his troop encountered the outer perimeter. Though the legion didn’t possess the manpower to establish a heavy presence this far out, it encouraged him to see soldiers stationed at the major roads leading into the staging area. Angli operatives would have to negotiate miles of dense forests and rugged hills. Only the River Fiorth provided easy access, and its surrounding land lay so unprotected that sheep could be counted from a mile away.

What he didn’t expect was to find Merlin waiting for him. The darkness of Merlin’s countenance boded ill.

Arthur ordered his men to halt and dismount for a ration break. His gut’s tightness warned him that whatever Merlin had to say would take at least that long.

He left Macsen with a sentry as the men began rummaging through their saddle packs for food and wine before leading their mounts off to graze. Merlin beckoned Arthur to follow him toward a stand of trees well removed from the picket area.

“Lord Peredur should join us too,” Merlin said.

Per heard and strove to catch them.

“What’s this about, Artyr?” His whisper carried anxiety. His resemblance to Gyan made Arthur’s heart ache anew, yet he welcomed that pain as a reminder of how much he loved her.

In answer to Per, Arthur shrugged. He expected the news to center on either the staging plans or Gyan. Because Merlin had requested Per’s presence, Arthur wagered on the latter, squelching speculations about what sort of news would involve Gyan and yet require this much urgency and secrecy.

“Well?” Arthur demanded of Merlin after the thick, leafy screen shielded them from view. “Is she all right?”

“She?” Merlin cocked an eyebrow. “Ah, Chieftainess Gyanhumara. I hear she is very near her time but hasn’t given birth yet. That’s not why I asked you here.”

Arthur tried to hide his relief but, judging from Merlin’s faintly amused smile, he didn’t succeed. “The staging preparations, then. What has gone wrong?” The invisible fist clenching his gut squeezed harder.

“Illness will prevent most of the troops from moving east this summer. A pox has struck Caer Lugubalion.”

“What!” Per verbalized Arthur’s reaction.

However, interruptions were neither appropriate nor appreciated. Arthur shot Per a stern glance and bade Merlin to continue.

“Not the killing pox, Lord Peredur.” Arthur silently shared Per’s relief. Merlin added, “This pox usually strikes children, but they’re well again in a week or so. Adults aren’t nearly as fortunate.”

“Are you certain we cannot launch the campaign?” Arthur asked Merlin. The supplies required to sustain men and mounts through the winter wouldn’t be cheap, even with help from Clan Argyll. Another damned contingency he didn’t need.

Merlin nodded. “It’s not as dangerous as its cousin, but we still cannot risk spreading this plague.”

“What about you, Merlin, and the men you brought? Aren’t you taking the chance of spreading it yourselves?” Arthur didn’t believe Merlin would have made such a foolhardy decision, but he’d have been a greater fool not to ask.

“Praise God, no. We left before the outbreak.”

Praise God, indeed. “How many have this pox?”

“A fifth of the legion, by last report, not counting townsfolk. That number may well double before summer’s end.” Merlin’s frown deepened. “And you no longer have a cavalry prefect.”

“Dumarec is dead?” Arthur asked bleakly.

“Not yet. But he’s not expected to last the month.”

“And Urien has taken all Clan Moray troops back to Dunadd.”
God’s holy, bloody wounds!

“That’s actually the good news, Arthur. He took only a score of cavalrymen. Handpicked, not all from a single turma. Moray foot and the rest of their cavalry contingent are here and healthy, since they’d reported straight from their homes.”

Arthur’s thankfulness died under the blade of a larger concern. “The Moray alliance?”

“No official word,” Merlin replied, “but Urien cannot change anything until he becomes chieftain.”

It wouldn’t surprise him if Urien dissolved the betrothal to Morghe as well as the alliance.

Glancing heavenward, he offered a quick prayer for Dumarec’s recovery. Sick troops at headquarters, a leaderless cavalry cohort at Senaudon, and a very pregnant wife at Arbroch gave him more than enough crises to juggle across the breadth of his world.

One crisis, however, he could resolve immediately.

He solemnly regarded his Caledonian brother-by-marriage, thankful that Per had proven to be someone he could trust and doubly thankful that he was not enmeshed in Brytoni politics. “Centurion Peredur mac Hymar, you are hereby promoted to the post of Praefectus Cohortis Equitum. As a nobleman, you may use the title of ‘tribune,’ if you wish. Or ‘commander’…” Per flashed a smile that reminded Arthur even more of Gyan than recalling her preferred method of address did. “But before we get you settled into your new command, you and I have other business awaiting us a day’s ride from here.”

Arthur faced Merlin. “I trust you can do without the Horse Cohort prefect for a few days?”

Merlin nodded.

“Good. Per, let’s pay a visit to your sister.”

Per grinned. “Take Angusel. He will nay forgive you if you left him here. Nor would Gyan.”

As Arthur voiced his agreement, a brief chill taunted his spine. He dismissed it as a reaction to all the news.

GYAN MOVED slowly along the line of swords inside the large timber building that served as Arbroch’s armory. Her ponderous bulk and the mounting daytime heat as summer marched toward its annual climax obligated her to do everything slowly these days. Here, she possessed an excuse beyond the obvious: inspecting the clan’s weapons hoard.

Warriors wealthy enough to commission special arms and armor kept those items in their quarters; the armory housed weapons and shields that were distributed in times of attack to arm a greater segment of the populace. Most of these items had been crafted more cheaply—no ornamentation, thinner and shorter blades, less attention to detail and quality—thus, it was essential to ensure their usefulness should the worst come to pass.

She waddled to the wall where the shields hung and stood sideways to better see any cracks lurking in the wood. This late in her term, she didn’t dare attempt to heft them, and handling the swords was out of the question. That was the condition to which she’d agreed in order to buy this blessed respite from the hovering-hen fussiness of Cynda and Ogryvan’s ever-escalating worry.

While pondering the inevitable conclusion that only the safe birthing of this bairn would deliver everyone from their fears—Gyan included—she felt a twinge in her belly and absently massaged the spot. Like its handful of predecessors, it barely deserved notice and was gone in moments. She pivoted and crossed to the rack of spears.

They looked adequate, as far as she could tell, standing upright around the rack’s curved central core made from a massive, knotty oak log that had defied all efforts to split it for firewood. The spears formed an orderly cone with the heads crossing at its apex. A warrior could grab one and stab his attacker in one fluid movement.
Except, perhaps, with…that one.
Gyan peered closer at a spearhead whose leather wrapping-thong appeared to have loosened.

She stretched to grasp the dangling tail—if the wrap felt secure, its repair could wait for another day—and regretted it. A pain more fierce than all its brethren combined hit her with startling force. She staggered back. Too late, she let go of the spear’s wrap, and the shaft shifted and collided with its neighbors, knocking down a dozen spears with a fearsome clatter.

Expecting half the clan to burst into the armory at any moment, she bent as much as her body would permit, hands to thighs and gritting her teeth to will away the pain. It obeyed. Panting softly, she lingered in that position to be certain it would stay banished.

“Cousin Gyan?”

Iomar mac Morra, Ogryvan’s much younger and as-yet-unmarried cousin, son of the Àrd-Banoigin of Clan Rioghail, must have entered through the armory door behind Gyan’s back. He and Morra were visiting Arbroch ostensibly to buy breeding stock…though the àrd-banoigin carrying the child of the Caledonach Confederacy’s conqueror had to be the prime topic of conversation at every clan seat across Caledon, making any news of her condition coveted information.

She grasped Iomar’s hands to let him help her straighten. “I am fine, Iomar, truly.” She grinned, lightly squeezing his hands. “My bairn has started his training early.”

Iomar bowed his forehead to her hands before releasing them. “I would expect nothing less of the son of the Warrior-Chieftainess of Clan Argyll and the Pendragon of Breatein.” Though he quickly stooped to retrieve the fallen spears, she detected the honest flash of envy in his eyes. He replaced all but the spear that had sparked the mishap. “You must have been examining this one.”

“Yes. Do you think it requires repair?”

Iomar yanked on the leather tail so hard his knuckles whitened. The wrapping remained secure. Bracing the spear against the wall, he used his dagger to trim the loose end. The offending piece fell to the floor for a servant to sweep away later. “It will do, for now.” He returned the spear to the collection.

“Thank you.” They moved at her pace to the rack of javelins. “Did you find what you needed for Rioghail’s breeders?”

“Aye. Mother and Cousin Ogryvan are working out the payment details. They only needed my eye for horseflesh.” He began pulling javelins one by one from the rack, testing each point carefully with his thumb and testing the shaft’s flexibility with both hands before replacing it—something Gyan would have done herself had she not made a mess of the spears. Before reaching for another javelin, Iomar gave her a sidelong glance. “You do realize that every exalted heir in Caledon cried to see you marry the Pendragon?”

Chuckling, she shook her head, not in answer but in self-deprecation. “Every exalted heir in Caledon should have far better things to do, or I will personally take them all to task. And they should be thankful that Artyr chose to ally with our people in such a”—her hand pressed the side of her belly, where another pain, brief and less intense, flourished—“meaningful way.”

She gauged his face for a reaction. If not for Arthur’s treaty, she might have entertained a suit from Iomar mac Morra, whose huge frame and darkly handsome looks reminded her uncannily of her father, even though Iomar’s relation to Ogryvan was a generation removed. Noble Caledonach cousins of differing clans sometimes married to strengthen alliances and consolidate wealth.

She felt a rush of wet warmth between her legs and watched Iomar’s grudging agreement transform into wide-eyed astonishment. Following the line of his gaze, she looked down. A puddle was oozing across the floorboards from beneath the hem of her robe. Another pain hit her, weakening her legs, and she clutched at Iomar for support, grateful for his ready strength. He carefully began ushering her from her world of swords and spears. The idea didn’t bother her as much as she’d expected it to.

It was time, she realized with calm, determined, and blessedly fear-free certainty, for an entirely different battle to commence.