Raging Sea, page 14
part #3 of Dragon's Dove Chronicles Series
The woman dipped her head. “We were expecting you, my lady.” She strode toward the inner chamber.
Expecting me?
Eileann swallowed and hurried after her.
The heart of the broch was a chamber well known to her, but its dizzying array of pelts, feathers, beads, herbs, dried meats, wax-sealed jars containing the gods alone knew what manner of salves, potions, and simples, and every cooking, cutting, pounding, serving, and stirring implement imaginable provided a constant source of wonder.
The biggest wonder: how the women could find anything in the clutter.
Fioruisge set the taper in a wall sconce and placed Eileann’s offering on a sideboard.
Sgeir, whose alias meant “Rock in the Sea,” the oldest of the three after the passing of Fioruisge’s predecessor, Fairge, stood at a table near the hearth, kneading bread dough, her cane propped close. Sian, living up to her namesake “Wind Storm,” bustled from shelf to shelf, examining jars and vials, and now and then removing one to join the growing collection on an adjacent table.
Sian’s grouping—items that included pungent juniper and fragments of cones from the rare Ròmanach stone pine trees that grew outside an arena far in the south of Breatein—comprised what was needful for preparing a body for burial.
Sgeir was making a loaf to sustain the soul on its journey into the Otherworld.
Eileann felt her eyes stretch wide. “Who has died?”
A lump grew inside her that had naught to do with her primary reason for this visit. Her husband and father were leading the war-band to investigate reports of an Angalaranach incursion onto Tarsuinnach lands. Her sister, eager to be blooded in combat, had gone too.
Sgeir laid a cloth on the dough and left it to rest, snatched her cane, and tottered to Eileann. “Time aplenty for that, my lady.” She probed Eileann’s belly and glanced at her companions. “The exalted heir-bearer indeed be with child.” That the crone had divined the purpose of Eileann’s visit came as no surprise, but her elation withered before Sgeir’s stern but sad countenance. “Lady Eileann, we must talk.”
Her bony fingers gripped Eileann’s elbow to steer her to the nearest willow chair. Eileann sat. Sgeir pointed a look at Fioruisge and thence to the kettle steaming from the hearth pole. The young woman retrieved cups from a shelf and poured a round of the aromatic, pale green brew.
In serving Eileann, Fioruisge caught her foot against a stool and stumbled. Boiling tisane slopped onto Eileann’s arm. She yelped and jumped to her feet, sucking the burn. Fioruisge stammered a mortified apology. Sian rushed over with a salve pot and pried Eileann’s arm from her mouth.
Her clan-mark, the Tarsuinnach Falcon, signifying her status as àrd-banoigin, had flushed a livid shade of red.
Sian slathered on the salve and rubbed it in. The pain abated, but the redness worsened.
The three wise-women exchanged looks that were not encouraging.
“What does this mean?” Eileann tried not to sound as panicked as she felt but wasn’t sure how well she succeeded. “Please—I know you view the tiniest broken twig as significant. Tell me, please!” A painful twinge flared in her belly but receded.
Sgeir heaved a sigh.
A stone-muffled commotion seeped into the chamber. Eileann took it to mean the clan was welcoming the war-band home. Of a sudden, she had never wanted to see her father and sister and husband so acutely.
Over the women’s protests, Eileann dashed from the chamber. When Fioruisge gripped her wrist, she yanked free and surged out the door.
In the corridor, the shouts grew louder and transformed into lamentations.
Eileann burst out of the broch and into the worst hell she could imagine.
The war-band had returned, to the last man.
Not half were alive.
Horses bore their fallen riders lashed to their backs, led by the survivors.
Fist to mouth, Eileann hitched her skirts in her other hand and sprinted toward the wave of mothers and wives and sisters searching for their menfolk. Some reunions were punctuated by relieved whoops. Others ended in a flood of tears.
Eileann found her father in the midst of the bedraggled troop, sitting as tall in the saddle as his wounds would allow. They did not appear life-threatening, thanks be to Nemetona. Her sister, Rionnag, rode beside him, her armor bloody but not breached, as near as Eileann could tell.
Rionnach was leading Iomar’s horse. Iomar’s throat had been slashed.
Eileann’s gut twisted.
Her father halted the band, and he ordered the warriors to dismount. Dynann raced over to throw herself into Rionnach’s arms.
While Rionnag held the reins, Eileann dropped to her knees beside Iomar’s horse, her face level with her husband’s. Her fingers trembled as she reached for his face. She tried to summon thankfulness that the enemy had left her this mercy. Pain knifed her gut. Willing it gone, she forced herself to trace the eyelids that would never open, the lips that would never kiss hers…
Pain ripped through her like the sword wielded by a ro h’uamhasach, that most terrible of battle-frenzied warriors who stabs and slashes and hacks at his foes until nothing remains but a mass of bloody flesh.
“Eileann!”
Who had spoken? Her mother? Her sister? One of the wise-women? Eileann couldn’t tell through the merciless pain.
She threw back her head and uttered a great keening howl, powerless to stop it, even to inhale, until she collapsed, sobbing, in the dirt.
GULL AND a leather merchant were haggling the price of a new pair of plain but tough bracers—constant wear obliged Gull to replace them faster than a warrior ought—when stern shouts, gleeful squeals, and frightened yowls distracted him. Across the square, a woman chased her wee son, who had dashed after a cat.
The lad’s hair was a familiar carrot hue.
While keeping the family in sight, Gull concluded his business, paying mayhap a bit more coin than he should have. He set off across the market square, buckling his new bracers in place as he walked, his pace and heading designed to appear purposeful without betraying his intentions.
The child’s furry target raced between the wheels of a stationary handcart. The lad tried to dive after the cat but misjudged the cart’s height and cracked his head on the sideboard. The cart shifted. Its rare glass vials and bottles tinkled as if trying to decide among themselves whether to fall and break.
Dazed, he reeled backward, palm to head and chin quivering.
The handcart’s owner looked nigh as stunned as the child. The gods alone knew what that glassware housed, but in his travels Gull had seen perfumes and expensive salves come in such pretty containers.
The merchant kicked a pebble after the fleeing cat and then started fingering his handcart’s contents. Gull stooped to examine the child. A knot had begun to form in about the same spot as before, if Gull’s memory proved sound, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.
Loholt—Eoghann, Gull corrected himself; he dared not risk making a slip to alert anyone that he knew the truth—waited until his “mother” had arrived, panting and gasping and fuming, before throwing back his head and wailing as if tomorrow would never come.
“Hush, now,” Gull crooned in Breatanaiche. “’Tis nae as bad as all that, mo laochan.”
Eoghann, sniffling, wiped his face on his tunic sleeve and cocked his head toward Gull, who offered him an encouraging smile.
“Thank’ee, good sir,” the woman said to Gull, looming over them both. “This one’s a hellion, and no mistake.” She gripped Eoghann’s wrist and wrenched the lad away from him.
Gull stood and laid a hand on the woman’s. “He’s a good lad.” He gave that hand, which was holding the boy’s wrist, a strategic pinch, suppressing his satisfaction when her fingers loosened and Eoghann’s lip stopped quivering. “He just needs a boatload of love, and two boatloads of patience.”
The woman snorted. “And how many children have you raised, then?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “One son.” He nodded at the boy. “So verra like him in temperament.”
She dipped her head in a parody of respect and stalked toward the street that angled through Port Dhoo-Glass’s inland gates.
Eoghann twisted around to wave at Gull. “Good lad, good sir,” the boy crooned as the widening distance made each word softer than the last.
As Gull gave an answering wave, he vowed to help this child however he could.
He directed his attention to the handcart, examining a few vials and asking the vendor about the perfumes’ scents, while keeping the woman and the lad in his peripheral vision until he judged the time right to follow them.
FOR THE first time in a year and a half, Angusel was returning home.
To his birthplace, he corrected himself. “Home” had become a barracks chamber.
He marveled that Stonn seemed to remember the lands surrounding Senaudon, tugging at the bit and prancing higher by the league. It took Angusel’s last mote of skill to keep his stallion from bolting down the path ahead of the Pendragon and Centurion Cato.
And why shouldn’t Stonn be eager? He had the comforts of a familiar stable awaiting him, not scorn.
Angusel straightened in the saddle, submerging his resentment. Whatever might happen, he would comport himself as one of Arthur’s soldiers, stoic and reserved.
That plan worked until the troop rode to within hailing distance of Senaudon’s gate tower.
His mother chanced to be standing on the battlements, talking to Saigarmor, the guard captain. As Centurion Cato identified the troop, Alayna’s face clouded. She had to resent the Breatanach occupation force—swelled tenfold for the second time in as many years by the soldiers being staged for Angalaranach action—but it seemed to Angusel that her scowl deepened when she made eye contact with him.
Angusel squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead as he’d been drilled countless times to do, thankful for the military protocol to mask the wound rending his heart.
Peripheral vision told him that Alayna had departed the battlements, leaving Saigarmor to act on her behalf in completing the welcome.
Arthur dispatched a soldier to find the Comitissa Britanniam and ordered First Ala to dismount and lead their horses to the staging area’s picket lines while he wheeled Macsen about to join his family’s litter.
The cavalry troop hadn’t advanced a score of paces when Alayna appeared, mounted, from through the gate and cantered straight up to the Pendragon.
“What is he doing here?” Angusel had never heard her sound so furious, and the pit in his gut confirmed that he was the he she had meant. He kept his gaze trained forward as he clenched Stonn’s reins, mindful not to drag on them and hurt his horse’s mouth. The heat in his cheeks and the sweat coursing down his back he did his best to ignore. “What gives you the right to violate Caledonach customs with such blatant disregard?” she demanded in Caledonaiche.
Arthur gave her a long, cool appraisal. “My soldiers are here upon my orders,” he answered her, wielding an improved Caledonaiche accent. “All of them. If you have a quarrel, it is with me and no one else. Not even my wife. We can settle this quarrel, you and me, in the nearest combat ring and to the death, if that is your wish.”
“My wish? You don’t give a bloody damn about what I wish. I’ll wager you can’t guess what I wish!”
“That you had never underestimated me in the Battle of Abar-Gleann?”
Angusel heard the undercurrent of humor in the Pendragon’s voice and pursed his lips to contain the smirk.
Alayna uttered a frustrated growl. As she reined her horse about, her frustration yielded to pity. Angusel risked a glance in that direction. Arthur’s sister and her children were peering out from between the curtains of their litter, and the traveling had heightened the worry and sadness on their faces.
“Your kin?” Alayna asked Arthur.
He confirmed her guess. “Their home is under siege. They shall be staying in the encampment with Gyan and me until it’s safe for them to return. We’ll not trouble you any further than we must.”
“Rubbish.” That won her a surprised look from Arthur. Angusel’s eyebrows raised too, but he flattened them before she could notice. “As you say, my quarrel is with you alone. If you take your kin to war, they will need a troop to guard them—soldiers who would be of greater use in stopping the Angalaranach threat.” The pity dominating her face softened into compassion. “They look as if they could stand a spot of comfort, poor dears. They may shelter inside my fortress for as long as is needful.”
Arthur regarded Angusel’s mother long enough to have made her son squirm. Alayna stood resolute.
“Thank you, Chieftainess Alayna,” said the Pendragon. “I shall not forget your kindness.”
“I shall not permit you to, Artyr.”
Angusel feared she might embarrass him by flirting harder than the coy grin she slid Arthur while uttering the Caledonach form of his name, but she took her leave and nudged her mount over to introduce herself to Lady Annamar and her children. After a brief exchange, which ended with Annamar expressing profuse thanks, Alayna instructed the litter’s driver to follow her through the gates.
Alayna’s son felt his chest swell because of her choices.
Before First Ala could resume course toward the picket lines, a figure emerged from the maze of tents and storage structures.
“Gyan? What has happened?” Arthur asked in Breatanaiche when she had walked close enough that he could keep his voice low.
Angusel studied Stonn’s black mane, waving off the occasional fly, but he was too close to avoid hearing their conversation.
“Colgrim sent a force to attack a ferry port village belonging to Clan Tarsuinn,” she said, also in Breatanaiche.
“A raid?” asked the Pendragon.
“Far bigger, though exact numbers are unknown. The clan”—she sucked in a long breath—“Chieftain Rionnach and his men repelled them, and most of the Angalaranach survivors escaped, but…”
Angusel dared to glance up. Her pursed lips couldn’t conquer the quiver of her chin, and the Pendragon had leaned his face close to hers.
“Mo laochag,” Arthur whispered, “let’s finish this in private.”
She blinked and touched her consort’s cheek guard. “My headquarters tent, mo laochan.”
Their innocent intimacy tore Angusel’s heart. Keeping Stonn’s reins slack, he clenched them till his fists cramped. The pain restored a dollop of reason. He forced his hands to relax, berating himself.
The Pendragon watched his wife’s departure before redirecting his attention toward First Ala. He moved his head in a slow sweep. “Soldier Gawain,” he said, “front and center.”
Gawain led Arddwyn out of formation to approach his uncle and war-chieftain, whom he saluted.
“Change of plans, men,” Arthur said primarily to Centurion Cato, though in a tone that carried to the ala. “I need a squad to scout ahead of the legion. Cato, select fifteen to twenty men from the First who are the most adept at fighting on foot. Your horses will not be crossing the Fiorth. Begin the mission by riding to Chieftain Rionnach’s stronghold to learn what he knows about the Angli and to seek his assistance in moving the infantry cohorts across Clan Tarsuinn territory. I designate you as my emissary. Optio Ainchis Sàl can serve as your translator. I shall dispatch further orders depending upon your report of Rionnach’s response. You depart at dawn.” Arthur glanced at the men, appearing to make eye contact with several of them. “The rest of First Ala shall remain here with the Horse Cohort under the direct command of Prefect Peredur.”
Angusel’s disappointment surged as he noted that the Pendragon expected the scouts to leave their horses on the firth’s north bank for the most perilous part of their mission—as well as Arthur’s implication that he intended to leave the cavalry in reserve at Senaudon—but he knew better than to openly disagree with the army’s war-chieftain.
And he knew better than to hope that Centurion Cato would select Drustanus as one of the advance scouts. He offered a swift, silent prayer that his friend would survive whatever the gods had in store for the First.
Centurion Cato saluted and made as if to reply, but the Pendragon raised a finger and shifted his gaze toward his sister’s son. “Soldier Gawain, since of all men in First Ala you know Dunpeldyr’s lands best, I promote you to the rank of optio and charge you with walking point to keep the scout squad clear of Angli patrols. Choose between one and three men to accompany you.”
“Ainchis Sàl.” Gawain grinned at Angusel. “He can be as annoying as that itch you can’t ever reach, but his stout heart and clear eyes and strong arms are all the help I’ll need.”
“The unit’s Caledonian translator?” Arthur knit his eyebrows. “It could put the mission at risk should he get injured or killed.”
While Angusel mulled whether he could get away with speaking in his own defense, Gawain solved that problem for him. “When does an itch ever go away at the first scratch?” Gawain’s grin yielded to absolute seriousness. “Ainchis Sàl can handle himself, sir, and his parade gear displays the phalera to prove it.” He saluted Angusel. “Same as mine.”
Angusel couldn’t decide what astonished him more: Gawain’s declaration, or the fact that it had made Arthur smile.
Chapter 15
ARTHUR WAS PLEASED that Gyan’s tactic to force Gawain and Angusel to make amends had borne fruit, but the apparent mental state of the plan’s author made his smile dim.
“Cato, arrange for the First to get remounts.” Arthur saw the protests forming on Gawain’s and Angusel’s faces and added, “For those who want them. And see to the care of our mounts, then form the remainder of your scouting team. Optios, with me.”
The three left their horses with soldiers, and they followed the path Gyan had taken, the widest avenue that had been established between tent rows in the staging area.
