Dawnflight (22 page)

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the jumble of conflicting emotions clawing at her heart, a brambly thicket the sharpest sword couldn’t part. Arthur was so Ròmanach, it was hard to imagine him as part of any clan, as though he belonged to none—and all. The afternoon memory sprang up of the ruby-headed sword, the milk-white stallion, the scarlet-cloaked warlord. And at dinner, arrayed in that spectacular uniform…her throat went dry.

Gyan swallowed thickly and tried to adopt a candid tone. “He’s stronger, militarily, beyond question. Argyll would gain a lot from our union.”

“And you’re falling in love with him. Nay, don’t deny it, Gyan. It’s etched as plain on your face as those tattoos on your arms.”

“The tattoos.” She chafed the betrothal-mark on her left wrist. It galled like a slave collar. “Cynda, I don’t know what to do. I want Arthur as my consort. But I am afraid.”

“Of breaking the treaty?”

“No.” She shrugged. “It’s Arthur’s treaty. He could grant an exception if he wanted to. If—if he wants me.”

“Ach, what kind of talk is this? You have wealth, beauty, intelligence, strength. How could he not be honored to be your consort?”

“I couldn’t read him,” she confessed. “His smile was…” His smile was so indefinable, she had trouble finding words for it. So she opted for a different angle. “It was nothing like Urien’s. It wasn’t proud or arrogant or triumphant.” Or, she realized with a sigh, affectionate. “Arthur could have simply been acting polite toward me.”

Cynda grinned. “Dear Gyan, I suspect there’s a lot more happening with this Arthur than you might think.”

“Oh, Cynda, I hope you’re right.”

Cynda’s eyes narrowed. “But there’s something else troubling you, I can tell. What is it? Come on, Gyan, my dove. Tell your old Cynda.”

A host of nightmarish visions sprang to life. Central to each was the scion of Clan Móran.

“Urien,” she said at last. “If I break our betrothal, it’s not just what he might do to me or Argyll that worries me. There seems to be some friction between him and Arthur already. If I choose Arthur, and Urien turns against him, then Arthur would lose the Isle of Maun. As we discussed at dinner this evening, control of Maun is vital. A civil war with Urien and Dailriata would be disastrous.” Her voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Cuchullain and his Scáthinaich would move in and make beds from our bones.”

Gyan stared blindly at the floor tiles. All too vividly, she could imagine the death screams, the rivers of blood, the acrid stink of destruction. And afterward, the inconsolable tears of the innocents: for food, for shelter, for their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons…

No! She could not bring such evil upon her people. Or upon the man who had sparked the embers of her love. The most logical course would be for Arthur to defeat Urien in the dubh-lann, but, to be legal and fair, the challenge had to be issued without overt counsel by the àrd-banoigin herself. In his treaty, Arthur had demonstrated some knowledge of Caledonach law, but his education surely could not have covered this obscure clause. And there was the very real danger that Arthur could be killed, a thought she couldn’t bear. There had to be another way. But it refused to reveal itself.

She shivered, but not from cold. Cynda sat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Gyan did not lift her gaze from the floor.

GYAN KNEW every detail of her battle-gear was perfect, from her helmet down to her knee-high boots. Cynda had done a fine job of braiding and pinning her hair, and her sword and shield were in top condition. Her blunted practice sword also swung from her belt. She had even taken care to eat only a light meal of bread and tea.

Then why, she asked herself as she strode toward the training ring in the brisk, clean-scented morning, did her stomach feel as though it were trying to turn somersaults?

Arthur the Pendragon.

She banished the nervousness with a toss of her head. The object of this morning’s match, as far as she was concerned, was to show off her fighting skills to their best advantage, which would never happen if she couldn’t detach herself from her budding feelings toward this man. And if she didn’t beat him to the practice area to give herself a few minutes alone to prepare, her task would be that much more difficult. She quickened her pace.

In contrast to the previous evening, the thoroughfare was bustling with traffic: wagons and carts of every description, marching units and mounted squads, herders driving their livestock, couriers, merchants, and soldiers walking alone or in small groups. There wasn’t one Caledonach in the lot, which, though a bit disappointing, didn’t come as a surprise. She supposed they were too busy learning their new duties. No one paid her any heed; everyone seemed bent on his own mission. She’d wondered whether her duel with the army’s war-chieftain would attract attention, but now it didn’t seem likely.

The enclosure came into view. To her relief, it was empty. She presumed it was used primarily for equestrian training, since it contained no freestanding practice posts. For what she had in mind, a section of the fence would have to suffice.

Gyan left her battle sword sheathed and gripped the hilt of the practice sword. Closing her eyes, she focused on the balance of the sword and the weight of the shield. When she flicked her eyes open, the sights and sounds of the drilling troops and rumbling wagons, the prickle of the breeze on her bare forearms, and the scent of dew-dampened dirt retreated into a corner of her consciousness. And the dance began: slashes and spins and kicks and thrusts, to the rhythm of her sword and shield and boots thumping the wood.

Finally, she stopped, panting, and leaned her shield and practice sword against the fence. She dashed the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. The clamminess of her linen undertunic she would have to live with. While in the grip of this drill, the passage of time lost meaning, and she hoped she hadn’t overtired herself for the challenge to come.

The sound of a pair of hands clapping caught her attention. She turned to behold the Pendragon striding toward her, helmet tucked under one arm, looking every inch as handsome in his bronze and boiled-leather battle-gear as in the ceremonial uniform he’d worn the night before. The ruby of his sword’s pommel sparkled above the sheath as he moved. It was the only weapon he had brought. To her surprise, he carried no shield.

Her stomach began its gymnastic routine anew. She ignored it.

“A marvelous display, Chieftainess.” He offered his sword hand. As she gripped his forearm, a tingle rushed from her arm beneath his fingertips, straight to her heart. He let go to point at the section of fence bearing the scars of her practice session. Some of them, she realized with a flush of embarrassment, were quite deep. He arched an eyebrow. “But if you insist on chopping down one of my fences, I think you’ll have better luck if you use an ax next time.” As their laughter faded, his gaze intensified. “Joking aside, Chieftainess, I would like to know: was that drill something you developed yourself? Is it the same each time you practice it, or do you change it? Do all warriors of your clan use some variant—”

Grinning, she held up both hands in mock surrender. “To answer your first question, no. It’s a drill my father taught me, that he learned from his mother, and so on. Originally, there was only one form of the routine, but over time most clans have developed variants to incorporate moves to symbolize the clan’s creature.” She chewed her lip as she cast about for an appropriate example. “Clan Alban’s routine, for instance, contains a stylized leap, to represent their lion.”

“And Argyll’s variant?”

“None, actually. But since our symbol is the dove, we strive to perfect the grace and speed of the moves.”

“I could tell.” His smile was but an echo of what he had displayed the night before. By the time he donned his helmet and drew his sword, the smile was gone. She wondered if she’d seen it at all. “Ready?”

Her brow creased. “Don’t you need to prepare first?” Arthur had seen at least part of her exercise and doubtless had noted some of her strengths and weaknesses. She was glad she hadn’t made any mistakes in the routine this morning, but she had hoped to have a similar opportunity to observe him.

Shaking his head, he raised the flat of the blade before his face in salute.

So be it. She imitated his gesture. Swords at the ready, they began stalking each other. Gyan had lost count of how often Ogryvan had preached what to do at this point in the fight: evaluate the adversary. And that is exactly what Arthur became to her, not a potential consort but a potentially dangerous adversary, as the litany of her father’s lessons marched through her mind.

The first thing to note was the body armor, style and material, and the apparent vulnerable places. Since this was practice, to end when one warrior knocked the other down, finding the spots where the deathblow could be struck was not the object. But drawing first blood was a vital first step toward victory, and locating unprotected areas increased chances dramatically.

His torso and shoulders were covered with a muscled bronze breastplate and backplate. A fringe of thick, metal-studded leather protected his groin and thighs. The gold-tipped scarlet horsehair crest of his helmet shimmered in the sunlight. It all added up to formidable protection, even without a shield. To draw first blood, she would have to get past his guard to nick a forearm or strike with a low lunge to the legs.

Of equal importance was the shield: how much of the body it could protect and how the opponent held it. A skilled warrior used it for offense as well as defense. Arthur was not using his shield, Gyan reasoned, because his sword was probably easier to control with both hands. In battle, she never would have forgone the protection her shield could offer. But she suspected she’d have the advantage of speed and agility with her lighter weapon, so she let the shield stay beside the fence.

The final and most important part of the evaluation involved the body itself: the stance, the gait, the limbs, and the face.

In a solid stance, the warrior’s balance was centered perfectly, front to back and side to side. Fighting on the balls of the feet was a grave weakness. Those who fell prey to this habit often found themselves struggling to regain balance after taking a hard blow, if they were lucky enough to maintain footing at all. Another weakness was stiff joints—knees, shoulders, elbows, wrists—all easily exploited by an aggressive attack.

Arthur’s stance was as good as that of any warrior Gyan had ever seen.

Body movements usually betrayed how much tension the opponent was feeling. A certain amount was to be expected. Too much could be fatal. Hunched shoulders, a too-tight grip on the sword, and an uneven gait were more weaknesses to shorten the fight.

Many swordsmen swore the key to victory lay in watching the enemy’s eyes. Sparring with Ogryvan had made Gyan adept at keeping others from reading her actions in this manner. He had taught her to focus on the opponent’s chest and the elbow of the sword arm, and to let her peripheral vision absorb what the shield and feet were doing.

Eyes could deceive. The true secret was the elbow. The elbow controlled the sword’s basic movement, modified to a lesser extent by the wrist. By watching the elbow, an experienced swordsman could accurately anticipate the enemy’s moves. Gyan had often seen Ogryvan unnerve opponents by seeming to know their next move even before they did. Caledonaich called this skill “blade-cunning,” and it was won only through years of relentless practice. She was a long way from becoming a lann-seolta master; today, her limited experience would have to suffice.

They circled for what felt like half an eon. He appeared to be inviting her to attack first. She noticed him favoring his left leg a wee bit, as though troubled by an old wound. Bearing full weight seemed to be a problem reflected not only in his gait but occasionally in his eyes too. A clever warrior might feign such a weakness to trick his opponent into doing something foolish.

There was only one way to find out.

She lunged toward that side. He parried the blow with ease and answered with a counterattack so forceful, it was all she could do to block the bone-jarring blows. Injury or no, the Pendragon knew his craft. And she was half dismayed yet half pleased to recognize that, unlike in her matches with Urien, Arthur was holding nothing back. As the ache in her arms and shoulders mounted, she knew she had to devise some other tactic, or this would become the shortest bout on record.

After parrying one of his lighter blows, she spun away to disengage, catch her breath, and collect her thoughts. Sword cocked, she resumed circling him, relieved that he didn’t seem anxious to reengage. Briefly, she noticed a crowd forming along the rail; soldiers, mostly, gesturing and shouting words she couldn’t understand, nor did she wish to. She blotted them out to open all her senses to her opponent, even down to the huskiness of his breathing and the tangy odor of his sweat, trying to think of anything that might work to tip the balance in her favor.

An image flashed to mind of a bout with her father, fought on the eve of Urien’s arrival at Arbroch. Inspired by the outcome of that fight, she swiftly formed a plan. It carried high risk and no guarantee of success. She never would have attempted such a move in combat. Here, the only danger if she lost would be to her pride. But if she won…she bit her lower lip to keep her face from betraying her intent.