Dawnflight (26 page)

“I could get accustomed to this,” Per murmured as they passed the set of saluting guardsmen at the building’s entrance.

She surmised that he was referring to the much stricter form of discipline enforced in the Pendragon’s army, which seemed to manifest in an almost godlike veneration of the officer corps. “They don’t know you from Lugh, Per.” Since they were speaking in Caledonaiche, she saw no need to keep her voice low. “They’re saluting your badge.”

He snorted. “That’s my sister,” he said to a guard, who probably didn’t comprehend a word and kept his gaze focused on a point across the corridor. “She really knows how to cheer a lad.”

The Ròmanach formality of the surroundings restrained her to a verbal retort. “You wouldn’t like me to lie to you, would you?”

Per’s expression was frank. “I don’t like partial truths, either.”

“Point taken.” She raised a hand to forestall further comment as they neared the closed doors of the dining chamber. As before, the escorts opened the doors, stepped inside to announce the visitors, and retreated to their posts. “Prepare yourself, Per,” she said with a smile, “for the way Ròmanaich like to—”

A gasp caught in her throat. The strange Ròmanach dining furniture was gone. Instead, the room was filled with long trestle tables and backless benches that might have graced any Caledonach feast hall. Even the sculptures had been removed. Only the floor mosaic reminded Gyan that she hadn’t been magically transported back to Arbroch.

But the feeling was so eerily strong, she half expected to see Ogryvan in the group that had risen from their seats upon the announcement of her arrival. He wasn’t, of course; Arbroch was days away even with a daily change of mounts. That didn’t stop her from wishing for her father’s presence, for more reasons than simply having another staunch ally beside her.

She didn’t recognize most of the men, including the two Caledonach warriors who had been chosen to command the cavalry squads Arthur was sending to Maun. Like Per, they had replaced their clan brooches with the Pendragon’s badge, though theirs were iron. Only by their cloak patterns could she identify one man as being of Clan Tarsuinn and the other Clan Rioghail. Even so, they greeted her with looks of unfettered admiration and fists upraised in the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Evidently, the results of her match with Arthur had spread faster than she’d expected. Perhaps if she, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, had led the Caledonach host at Abar-Gleann, she wouldn’t be faced with an unwanted marriage while having to bid farewell to…

No. Such a fantasy was worse than useless. What was done was done. An ocean of wishes could never change it.

And there he stood too, the invader of her heart, flanked by Merlin and a soldier she didn’t know—apparently a high-ranking one, if the silver of his badge was any sign. Conspicuous by his absence was Urien, which Gyan found odd.

Every man in the room seemed to be watching her, Arthur more intensely than the others, as though expecting her to make the first move. So she obliged them: she returned the Chaledonaich salutes with a flourish, brandishing her bandaged arm like a mark of honor. Perhaps, in a sense, it was. She doubted whether anyone could survive an encounter with Arthur the Pendragon unscathed…or unchanged.

As she lowered her arm, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from locking to Arthur’s. A tingling rush flooded her body. If her cheeks were as red as they felt, she hoped he wouldn’t notice—and in the same breath realized it was likely a vain wish. While she struggled to maintain a neutral demeanor, regret and longing assailed her heart with redoubled force.

Arthur grasped a goblet from the table before him and raised it level with his eyes. “Well met, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.” The sound of his voice speaking her name made her throat so dry, all she could do was incline her head in response. “Men, I present to you the first person in a long time to outmaneuver me in single combat.”

“Foolery is what I heard,” muttered the soldier beside him.

The glare Arthur turned on the man could have melted a snowdrift. “It was a fair fight, Cai.” Arthur regarded Gyan, that maddeningly enigmatic smile bending his lips. “An excellent fight.” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to something behind her, and she battled the impulse to turn and look. “I challenge any man to say otherwise.” He gestured at Gyan with the goblet, lifted it to his lips, and drank.

“What did he say?” whispered Per, in Caledonaiche.

“A commendation for my fighting skills.”

The question uppermost in her mind, though, was not what Arthur said but what he meant. Did he seriously think that a little flattery would send her flying into his arms? She was a chieftainess! With people and lands to consider, not just the whims of her heart, no matter how alluring those whims might be. If only her choices could be so simple. But Argyll could lose everything if she chose Arthur over Urien, and Urien chose to retaliate. Arthur too could lose much, and so could everyone who looked to him for protection. Didn’t he recognize that? Or even care?

Apparently not. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him.

“Lord Pendragon, I do thank you for this unique reception.” Her gesture indicated the room and its contents. “But it appears you’ve neglected to invite someone.”

“No, he didn’t.”

Hand to hilt, Per spun. Gyan didn’t bother; she knew that voice all too well. Flashing her a sheepish grin, Per relaxed and faced forward as Urien claimed his place on her other side.

Urien rendered the customary, if somewhat less than enthusiastic, salute, which Arthur acknowledged with a terse nod. “Forgive my delay, Lord Pendragon. I stopped at the mansio to escort Gyanhumara over here, but—” Disappointment reigned on his face as he glanced at her. “You’d already left, my dear. Escorted by your brother.”

She thought she heard a note of jealousy but chose to ignore it, instead expressing her appreciation for Urien’s thoughtfulness. On impulse she reached up to pull his face to hers and closed her eyes. From somewhere in the room came a muffled “alleluia.”

But as their lips met, she couldn’t purge Arthur from her mind…or her heart.

ARTHUR STARED into the dregs of his goblet—not that he was looking for anything in particular, and he certainly knew not to hunt for solutions there. But it was better than being ignored by the one person in the room he had hoped, with his special dinner arrangements, to please.

“Arthur?” He felt an elbow jab his side. “You awake?” The look Cai was giving him was not unlike the mouse that had stolen past the napping cat to feast upon fallen crumbs. Arthur arched an eyebrow. “I asked if you had anything to add to the training drills for the Manx Cohort.”

He shook his head in answer to Cai—and in disbelief of what he, Arthur, had done by ordering Urien to command that unit. At the time, it had seemed an eminently sensible decision. Militarily, it remained a sensible decision. But for Arthur personally, it had become a disaster.

Again, he played out the likeliest scenario in his mind. Gyanhumara, who seemed to be sinking further under Urien’s influence each time Arthur saw her, would irrevocably come to love her betrothed while with him on Maun. Urien might be too ambitious for his own good and rash on occasion, but he was no imbecile. The heir of Clan Moray had repeatedly demonstrated the cunning necessary to achieve an objective on the battlefield. As Arthur watched Urien and Gyanhumara converse—he was too far away to hear the words, but he saw her laugh lightly at something Urien said—it became apparent that Urien knew how to achieve objectives off the battlefield, as well. And once they stepped onto that vessel in the morning, there would be nothing Arthur could do to stop him. He couldn’t even accompany them to Maun. As tempting as the idea was, four thousand men depended upon him, not just the eight hundred of the Manx Cohort. Forget the eyebrows it would raise on Merlin and Cai and Urien and everyone else if Arthur were to announce the relocation of headquarters to Maun. Effectively commanding the legion from that tiny island would be so bloody difficult, it wasn’t a viable option.

Merlin leaned over to whisper, “What’s wrong, Arthur?”

Arthur followed the line of Merlin’s gaze down to his own hand, which was curled so tightly around the goblet’s bowl that the silver had begun to distort. He gave a short laugh. “Nothing.” In confessional, he might concede the truth. He set the goblet down. “I think it’s time to put an end to this”—inwardly, he grimaced at his choice of the next word and the double meaning it engendered—“mess. If you would do the honors?”

Nodding, Merlin rose and bade everyone else to do the same. As the bishop intoned the benediction, Arthur stole a final glance, past all the bowed heads, at the woman who had enslaved his heart. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her expression a jumble of emotions he couldn’t begin to fathom. But when he offered her a smile, he saw in her eyes a brief but unmistakable flash of love. Hope rekindled. Another time, another place, he would have crossed the gap in an instant to crush her body to his, to revel in the feel of her sensuous lips, and the devil take anyone who disagreed with his choice of actions. And yet, despite the inappropriateness of the setting, his battle for self-restraint had never been harder fought.

The officers began taking their leave. Gyanhumara lagged behind, flanked by her brother and, naturally, Urien. She seemed to be having trouble with the clasp of her brooch but refused all offers of assistance. As the last Manx Cohort centurion left the room, she got it fastened to her liking and looked up. She seemed hesitant, as though unwilling to leave.

“Are you ready, my dear?” Urien asked her. “I’ll be happy to escort you back to the mansio.”

She glanced at her brother and then, imploringly, at Arthur. That she didn’t want Urien for company was obvious; the question was why.

Arthur had a guess. “I’m sure you would be, Tribune,” he said dryly. “But I suspect the chieftainess would like to spend some time with her brother before she departs for Maun. Am I right, Chieftainess?”

For a moment, she looked as though she might say something else. Finally, she nodded.

Urien said, “But Centurion Peredur is—”

“Her escort for the rest of the evening.” He said to Gyanhumara, “You will relay this to him, Chieftainess?”

“Of course, Lord Pendragon.” Despite the formality of her tone, Arthur thought he detected gratitude.

As she translated the order, Peredur grinned at her. He did his best to adopt the expected somber expression as he saluted Arthur. He didn’t entirely succeed, but he looked so much like his sister that it was impossible for Arthur not to like him anyway.

It was also impossible for Arthur not to feel jealousy as Urien kissed Gyanhumara and bade her a pleasant evening. She murmured a similar sentiment. Apparently satisfied by her answer, Urien saluted Arthur and left the room. After giving Arthur one of his I’ll-talk-to-you-later grins, Cai followed Urien. Only Merlin and Peredur remained, which was still too big of an audience, with no good way to change that. So be it.

With her brother a pace behind her, Gyanhumara approached Arthur. “Lord Pendragon, I truly appreciate the trouble you went through tonight. All of it. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better dinner guest.” She looked down; at what, Arthur couldn’t be sure. When she gazed at him, her intense longing smote his heart. “I—Arthur, I’m sorry for—for everything.”

He was sorry too: sorry that she was leaving so soon, sorry that he’d run out of chances to see her, sorry that he had ordered her betrothed to be posted to Maun with her, sorry for writing that bloody marriage clause into the treaty at all. And supremely sorry that he couldn’t tell her any of this. Or change it.

She extended her right hand. Instead of clasping her wounded forearm—the wound he had given her, something else he was sorry for—he took her hand, raised it to his lips, and released it quickly, before Merlin or Peredur could even think of voicing an objection. Her soft intake of breath, the slight flush in her cheeks, and her sad but gentle smile provided the only clues to how she felt. Yet they were enough, and he was grateful for them.

“God be with you, Gyanhumara.” As Arthur took a step backward in preparation for the salute, he felt the tightness in his chest that signaled a surge of love for this remarkable woman. His fist hit his chest over the source of that feeling, but it didn’t abate. He was grateful for that too.

Slowly, she nodded. “And you, Arthur.”

She murmured something to her brother, and together they turned and left the chamber.

“Our Father,” whispered Arthur, “which art in heaven…”

Arthur heard a chuckle. “Thy will be done.” Merlin’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Indeed.”

Arthur cast him a sidelong glance. “God’s will? Or mine?”

“God’s, of course.” Merlin clapped Arthur’s shoulder before removing his hand. “But for your sake, lad, I hope it will be both.”

So did Arthur, to the core of his soul.