Morning's Journey (42 page)

Ground?

His fingers dug into what should have been his bed and pulled up a fistful of dirt and musty leaves.

He sat up, instantly awake. A circle of oaks towered overhead, their intertwined branches forming a thick canopy lost in the tendrils of mist. The forest stretched in every direction.

Which forest? And why?

He snorted at his slow wits. His deuchainn na fala, of course.

Someone must have drugged his wine at the feast. His last recollection ended after Seannachaidh Reuel had begun to sing.

He scratched his chest and glanced at his loincloth. A quick check nearby turned up his sheathed dagger, a water skin, and a sack containing a day’s ration of dried beef, bread, and cheese, exactly as prescribed by law. Everything else he needed to survive his hike to Arbroch he’d have to find, hunt, or fashion himself.

The trial had to take at least three days or the candidate suffered allegations of having received help. Whether true or not, such warriors bore the stigma of cowardice and were never accepted into the clan’s war-band. The law prohibited overly mourning youths who never returned.

Angusel shinned up the nearest tree and peered through the branches. If he could determine his location and close some of the distance, it would be a simple matter to camp, hidden, near Arbroch until enough time had passed for his trial to be declared valid. The sun warmed his skin, but he could only tell that he was in a hollow. No wisps of smoke curled above the trees or beyond the ridge crests. Just as well, since even speaking to other people was forbidden.

After climbing down, he kicked through the deadfall for a stout and nearly straight branch. He unsheathed his dagger and sat on the cool ground beneath the tree. With the branch balanced on his lap, he made quick work of stripping off the twigs and set to work sharpening the narrow end.

By law, he’d been left a day’s walk from Arbroch, but in which direction? He could make a guess and walk for half a day. If nothing started to look familiar, he could return to this spot by nightfall and pick another direction on the morrow…and on and on until he finally stumbled on the right way. That presumed he could recognize the land within a half-day’s walk of Arbroch. Or he could improve his chances by reason.

A day’s walk east would put him close to the coast, but this place bore none of the usual signs: no gulls, no trees stunted by a diet of salt spray, no fishy or tarry tang in the air, no restless murmur of the waves.

He could rule out being south of Arbroch, because that would have left him near the northern bank of the mighty Ab Fhorchu, within shouting distance of Senaudon. He’d climbed every rock and explored every deer path surrounding his birthplace. This wasn’t Senaudon.

Since candidates had to travel in one of the four primary directions—the deuchainn na fala was designed to be challenging, not impossible—this left north and west. Due west of Arbroch lay the border of the Breatanach Clan Móran; going north would thrust him deeper into Clan Argyll territory.

Both seemed equally likely.

He preferred to do things the hard way
, his mother had said of his dead father.
And look where it got him.
Angusel rubbed his chin, questioning the wisdom of his choice to conduct the deuchainn na fala here rather than at Senaudon.

Too late now.

He sheathed the dagger. Upon testing the spear’s point with his thumb, he deemed it serviceable and far better to have on hand in case trouble attacked him in the shape of a wild cat, bear, or boar.

As he gazed southward, instinct made its suggestion. Failing this test would bring shame not only upon Clan Alban but upon Gyan and Clan Argyll, which, gods help him, he’d never willingly do.

He stowed the dagger with the rations, shouldered the sack and water skin, and gripped the spear as a walking staff. Upon turning to put the rising sun over his left shoulder, he began his trek.

“GET DOWN. Now!” A sword glints in the man’s hand.

Beyond the brush stands a wagon drawn by a lathered horse. Three figures sit in the wagon, two in front. The person sitting in the rear holds a bundle in both arms. A riderless horse stands nearby, foam-flecked sides heaving. Shadows obscure the faces.

A scream rings out, followed by a piercing cry. The scream belongs to a woman; the cry, an infant.

One by one, the people abandon the wagon. The figure holding the sword moves slowly, inexorably toward the others…

Niniane gasped. The vision vanished.

Worse than Seeing someone’s imminent death came the certainty that these visions described an attempt to abduct Loholt. Illness had kept her confined to her chambers for most of the past fortnight. She’d been too ill to even send a message.

Not that a written warning would have helped. Niniane found it best to speak privately to the parties involved. Besides, too many things could happen to the message or its bearer, even if the courier were one of Arthur’s most trusted soldiers.

Illness be hanged, she’d have to make the journey herself.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her balance failed, and her flailing arms knocked the pitcher from the washstand. It hit the tiled floor and shattered with a resounding crash. Groaning, Niniane slumped back onto the bed. She didn’t need the Sight to forewarn her of what would happen next.

As if on cue, the door banged open, and an older woman rushed in, tongue clucking and head wagging. Sister Dorcas picked up the shards and set them on the side table. She planted her fists on her ample hips and surveyed Niniane with a scowl.

“Prioress! What are you doing out of bed? You are not well enough—”

“I must try, Dorcas.” Niniane massaged her temple, willing away the pain. The visions she could do nothing about. They wouldn’t leave her mind until the events had passed. “Lives may depend on it.” With Dorcas’s help, she tried her legs again.

While Niniane steadied herself, Dorcas retrieved Niniane’s robe from the back of a chair. “Lives? Whose lives? What in heaven’s name are you prattling on about?”

Niniane sighed and ran her fingers through her unbound hair. She didn’t know Sister Dorcas well, but the woman seemed forthright and hardworking, if her zealous nursing was any indication.

Again, pain speared her head. To even contemplate a journey to Arbroch, she’d need help.

“The son of Arthur and Gyanhumara is in danger.” As Niniane watched Dorcas’s face transform into an expression of horror, she added, “Perhaps others are, too.”

Niniane lifted her arms, and Dorcas slipped the robe over her head. As the prioress moved toward the door, Dorcas stepped in front of her, arms crossed. “You could have had a fever dream.”

“My fever is gone. Feel for yourself.” Dorcas pressed her hand to Niniane’s forehead but didn’t look convinced. “I can’t tell you how I know. I just do. Please, Sister, I must hurry. I don’t know how much time is left.”

Dorcas’s sternness evaporated. “You mean ‘we,’ Prioress.”

“What?”

Dorcas stabbed a gnarled finger at her breast. “I will go with you. We will need an armed escort, too.”

Niniane couldn’t deny it. Sitting down, fingering her cross’s chain, she considered her options. She could prevail upon her brethren in the clergy, but they would never provide enough protection if the party encountered brigands or wild animals. Not to mention the risk of them asking questions about her mission that she had no desire to answer. The last thing she—or Arthur or Gyanhumara or Loholt, for that matter—needed was for the wrong person to find out about her gift of foreknowledge.

She looked up into Dorcas’s questioning gaze. “Sister, how fare General Cai’s troops? Have they recovered from the pox yet?”

“Why send to Camboglanna? Why not ask for an escort here?”

“Bishop Dubricius wouldn’t refuse my request, but isn’t he at Senaudon?” Niniane asked, and Dorcas nodded. “I don’t know his replacement.” Fever stunted her recollection of the man’s name. She shook off that disturbing thought with a toss of her head and reached for the wimple lying on the bedside table. She said, “I’ve known Cai for many years. How are his men? Has their quarantine been lifted yet?” Camboglanna lay less than a mile distant, and Niniane hoped that Dorcas hadn’t been too busy to hear the latest reports.

“A few cases are still recovering.” Dorcas stroked her chin. “They opened the gates yestermorn, so it’s likely safe enough.”

Niniane offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving, fixed the wimple in place, and stood. “Sister Dorcas, would you please take my request to General Cai while I pack?” As Dorcas drew a breath for what Niniane suspected would be a protest, she held up an open-palmed hand. “Fret not, I won’t tire myself.” Not too much.

“Very well, Prioress.” Dorcas sighed. “Will there be a letter?”

“No need. Tell him you represent me, and that we’d like some guards for a journey to Arbroch and Senaudon. If he asks about the nature of my business, please make arrangements for he and I to discuss it privately.” Niniane prayed Cai would grant her request without pressing for answers. Half a legion she didn’t need.

Yet that was exactly what she’d get if Cai learned that the son of his foster brother might be in danger.

Chapter 23

M
ORGHE SURVEYED THE trio of maidservants standing before her. “See that you get a good price for everything,” she admonished. Though not particularly intelligent, they could be relied upon to carry out explicit instructions. She adopted a tolerant smile. “Once the wagons are loaded, you are all dismissed to enjoy the festival for the remainder of the day.”

The women lifted their heads, a puzzled expression furrowing each brow, and for good reason: Morghe rarely bestowed free time. Today, however, she needed to conduct her business without a gaggle of servants asking questions she didn’t care to answer.

Her smile deepened. “Yes, you heard me. Now, off with you!” She made a shooing motion with her hands.

After a flurry of curtseys and thank-yous, the maidservants scurried from the room. She noted their excited responses. Perhaps generosity wouldn’t be such a bad habit to cultivate. Within reason, of course.

Alone at last in the anteroom of her guest chambers, she hugged her arms to her chest, reviewing her plans.

At last night’s feast, Gyanhumara had revealed that she’d have a busy day at the festival today, judging races and livestock. Morghe had suggested that Cynda join Gyanhumara. Cynda would have refused, but to Morghe’s secret delight, Gyanhumara seemed enchanted by the idea and convinced Cynda to enjoy a respite from nursery duty. The powdered valerian root Morghe had slipped into the wet nurse’s customary evening brew would, in theory, also make Loholt drowsier and easier to handle.

Morghe hoped.

The fact that she didn’t have a choice rankled her, but as much as she disliked her brother and his wife, she simply couldn’t idly watch Urien succeed with her innocent nephew’s murder. Nor could she risk her life or her relationship with Urien by informing Loholt’s parents. She possessed no guarantee of her plan’s success, but no other solution stood a better chance of ensuring the child’s safety as well as her own while keeping her primary goals intact.

The question of when—or whether—to reunite Loholt with his parents, she hadn’t given much thought except to recognize the potential benefits inherent in both options. With the baby safely hidden, there’d be time aplenty to reach that decision later. Perhaps even years later. She grinned at the irony that Arthur’s son also would be reared in ignorance of his illustrious parentage.

The grin died as she envisioned the consequences of her failure.

Footsteps and muted talking in the corridor shattered her musings. A knock on the door made her flinch.

She flung her cloak about her shoulders, holding the edges closed across her chest and attempting to don a serene expression completely at odds with her swelling panic. “Enter.”

A familiar figure shuffled into the antechamber.

“Lughann!” His name shot from her lips like the snap of a branch. More calmly, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Begging your pardon, me lady, but last night you told me to stop by this morning.” He ducked his head as if expecting a blow.