Dawnflight (32 page)

“There’s a mistake in this manuscript. You said to report mistakes as quickly as possible, so they can be fixed.”

“It can wait, Morghe. Please set it in my workroom.”

Gyan saw the sparks gathering in that violet glare of hers. “Brother Stefan, you’ve shown me enough. I’m ready to begin my lessons.”

“I don’t need your help, Chieftainess,” Morghe hissed. She clamped her arm over the scroll and stalked toward the stairs.

As the sounds of her slapping sandals echoed into silence, Brother Stefan shook his head. “That Morghe. Quite a handful, she is. The man she marries will need divine help to keep her under control, I fear.”

Silently, Gyan offered a quick prayer for him, whoever he might be.

Chapter 18

A
NGUSEL FLIPPED THE dripping currach belly-up onto the stack, stowed the paddle, and clambered up the rock-lined path to the fort. His head was throbbing. Images whirled in frenetic confusion: circles and triangles and squares and angles and weird symbols he only halfway understood. To escape, he sought his favorite refuge.

Sweet hay and the richness of oiled leather mingled with the pervasive scent of the horses to concoct an aura of welcome that embraced him like an old friend. The resident mouser, a huge ginger tom, lounged in a patch of sun. He acknowledged Angusel’s presence by opening one golden eye the merest fraction. The striped tail thumped once. As Angusel stooped to stroke the cat’s head, he was rewarded with a loud purr.

Straightening, he gazed down the line of stalls.

Most of the horses were gone. Since the afternoon sky carried no hint of rain, the horsemen of the Second Manx Turma were out drilling with their mounts. The draft animals were toiling in the fields. Too late for planting and too early for haymaking, their work at this time of year involved hauling logs and rocks for the construction of buildings and fences. The drayhorses, including Dafydd’s, were out on errands with their masters. Even Morghe’s black-footed white mare was absent, probably at Dhoo-Glass, since that’s where Morghe seemed to be spending much of her free time lately. Only two horses dozed in their stalls.

One was Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s Brin. Angusel half expected to find her in Brin’s stall, brushing the big gelding’s coat until it gleamed like polished jet. Other than the horse, though, the stall was empty, and it made him think. Aye, his lessons had finished early. What a mercy that had been.

He reached in to stroke the glossy neck. “She’ll be here soon, Brin.” Snorting, the horse tossed his head as though in agreement.

Several stalls away, a dappled gray nose thrust into the straw-strewn walkway. With a final pat to Brin’s cheek, Angusel grabbed a boar-bristle brush from a nearby ledge and hurried to join his horse.

Hefting the brush, he lifted the latch and stepped into the stall. Stonn greeted him with an enthusiastic nicker and began his customary quest for treats.

“Sorry, boy.” Angusel set down the brush to display empty hands. “No carrots today.”

Stonn answered with a loud
whuff
that sounded very much like a sigh. Ears back, he swung around to tug wisps from his hay crib.

“I said I was sorry,” he muttered as he began applying the brush to the stallion’s flank.

Stonn was an unusual Highland horse. Even at a distance, his black-accented gray coat marked him as a breed apart. He stood taller than his kin by at least two handbreadths. The birthing of the leggy colt, two springs before, had nearly killed his dam. Angusel wondered whether his mother regretted giving Stonn to him, since Clan Alban’s breedmasters were denied the stallion’s valuable stud services.

He was beginning to wonder why she had given him the horse at all. A guilt offering, maybe? Because she wouldn’t let him fight in the Abar-Gleann campaign?

A memory threatened to destroy his mood. He pushed it away.

Stonn was all that mattered. As he drew the stiff bristles over Stonn’s coat, he imagined the fine muscles working between his thighs.

Angusel sighed. For though Stonn was his in name, other men knew the feel of those muscles. Usually, one of the Caledonach horse-warriors took the stallion out for his daily exercise. Angusel had never been on Stonn’s back, and no one at the fort knew.

Sustaining the fiction was easy enough. Tanroc’s Breatanach inhabitants didn’t concern themselves with the comings and goings of a foreigner. Angusel used the excuse that his studies kept him too busy so he could prevail upon someone to exercise Stonn. The only person who might have noticed that things weren’t quite as they seemed was the chieftainess, but she usually stayed later at the monastery. He was confident that his secret was safe. But that didn’t make it any easier to live with.

Today would be different! It was early. The stable hands sat at their midday meal. Chieftainess Gyanhumara was not due for some time yet.

He left the stall, replaced the brush, and headed into the tack room. Lifting Stonn’s bridle off its peg, he briefly considered taking the saddle, but that would only complicate things.

Stonn perked his ears forward as Angusel approached, bridle in hand. Putting it on posed no problem, since he’d seen it done often enough. His hands trembled with excitement as he gathered the reins to lead his horse into the shimmering afternoon.

The stables were situated well away from the living areas. Behind the stables, butting up against the southwestern palisade wall, was a small training enclosure. It was seldom used, since most riders preferred to exercise their mounts across the hills and valleys beyond Tanroc’s gates. For Angusel’s purposes, it would be perfect.

He was leading Stonn around the end of the building when a shout drew his attention. His heart plummeted.

“Angusel!” Smiling brightly, the chieftainess strode toward him, clad in her riding leathers. Evidently, her lessons had also finished early. “I’m taking Brin out too. I wouldn’t mind the company, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

His brain raced through a list of excuses while she fixed her steady sea-green gaze upon him. Even before reaching the end of the list, he knew he was trapped. “Nay, my lady, I don’t mind.” He tried his best to sound more cheerful than he felt. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Good.” She glanced at Stonn. “Bareback riding today?”

“Aye, my lady. I—” He broke into a crooked grin. “I’ve never tried it before.”

“It’s a bit different. Your backside may be complaining tomorrow.”

No doubt about that, whether he used a saddle or not, but he put on what he hoped was a brave face. “I was going to take Stonn to the ring to get used to the feel of it.”

“Good idea. I’ll meet you there when I’m ready.”

As she disappeared into the stables, Angusel hurried Stonn over to the training ring. With any luck, they’d have several minutes to themselves.

He stopped his stallion next to the rail fence and climbed it. Having grown up around horsemen, he knew the proper way to mount, but it seemed best to go slowly at first.

Stonn stood amazingly still as Angusel eased onto his back from the fence. Heart hammering, he wanted to shout for pure joy.

Imitating a motion he’d seen every other rider use, he touched the stallion’s sides with his heels. As Stonn obediently stepped forward, Angusel straightened. The reins went taut. The horse stopped. Then Angusel remembered what pulling back meant.

“All right, Stonn,” he whispered into one black-edged gray ear. “Let’s try again. I think I’ve got the way of it.”

He kicked Stonn into a walk. After a couple of turns around the ring, getting used to controlling the horse’s direction, he dared a trot and immediately regretted it. Never mind the jolts to his backside. He thought his teeth would bounce out of his head. Worse yet, his knees were losing their grip. Wrestling to maintain balance, he accidentally touched Stonn’s sides with his heels. The stallion leaped into a canter. With a startled cry, Angusel fell.

As he rolled onto his back, Stonn walked over and nuzzled his face. Nothing really hurt except his pride. He put up a hand to caress the soft nose.

A chuckle greeted him. He scrambled to his feet. Outside the dusty enclosure near the gate stood Brin. Chieftainess Gyanhumara straddled his back with a casual, confident, and thoroughly enviable grace.

“Angusel mac Alayna! Where on earth did you learn to ride like that?” Her tone carried more surprise than reproach.

He gathered Stonn’s reins and shuffled toward the gate, trying to give himself enough time to think, but there was no way around the question except the truth.

“I taught myself, my lady.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “Today.”

“You mean you’ve never—but your mother—” She drew a breath. “Clan Alban has some of the finest horse-warriors of the Confederacy. Why did no one teach you? By your age, I was already a good rider, and learning to break and train horses.”

It was true about his clan’s horsemen. Caledonaich were born in the saddle. They lived and fought and died in the saddle, and Clan Alban boasted the best. Angusel shrugged.

“Abar-Gleann campaign preparations, my lady. Everyone was too busy training and making weapons and armor and gathering supplies. No one had time to spare for someone who wouldn’t be fighting.” He studied the hoofprints around his feet as the memory invaded. The argument he’d had with his mother about going to battle rang as loudly in his mind now as it had the first time. She had even refused to let him participate in the defense of Senaudon; not that another spear would have made a difference…

“Not even the clan’s exalted heir?” she asked softly.

Still staring at the ground, he shook his head. “And afterward, when I was sent here, there wasn’t anyone I wanted to ask to teach me.” He looked up. “Except you.”

“Me? Oh, no, Angusel. You want someone with combat experience. Urien, perhaps.”

“I need the basics, first,” he argued. “You could teach me that. Please, my lady?”

She looked at him for a long, stern moment. Finally, she smiled. “Let’s find someplace outside the fort where we can practice without being disturbed.” She held up a hand to cut off any reply he might have made. “But first, let’s make an agreement: no more of this ‘my lady’ nonsense. My friends call me Gyan.”

He beamed. “And mine call me Angus.”

THUS BEGAN a custom that continued as spring blossomed into the crystal days that heralded the advent of summer. Gyan was immensely pleased with her decision to help Angusel learn to ride. Those afternoons afforded excellent opportunities to explore the Isle of Maun, with its sparkling beaches, stark cliffs, rolling pastures, warm lowlands, and apple-shaded river valleys. And over all loomed the gray-green Mount Snaefell. That such diversity existed on so small an island was a constant source of delight.

In truth, Maun offered Gyan everything she could possibly ever want, except her father and brother, her clan, her home—and Arthur.

“GYAN, IT’S market day at Dhoo-Glass,” announced Angusel one day as they saddled their mounts. “Can we go there this afternoon? Please?”

“What do you need?”

“Need? I just want to look!” He smacked fist to palm. “I’m tired of all this practice, practice, practice!”

“Boy, it’s practice that will make you into a better warrior. Not gawking at the merchants’ stalls.” She chuckled at his tragic face. “Very well. I could use a new sword belt. You can practice jumping obstacles with Stonn on the way.”