Dawnflight (44 page)

“No need. I trust your judgment. Stay with her until the battle is over and it’s clear to move her.” He jerked a thumb toward the tent opening. “I must get back out there before the men start to wonder what’s happened to me.”

“Of course, Arthur.” It was far better to be in the tent with only one corpse—even a headless one—than outside with hundreds.

He unpinned the ruby-eyed dragon and knelt to drape his cloak over Gyanhumara’s still form. Before rising, he bent lower and gently kissed her lips.

Morghe watched in astonished silence as the key to winning Urien’s favor—and, if the Fates were kind, perhaps even retribution against her brother—tumbled into her lap.

WHEN GYAN woke later that evening, the first thing she noticed was that the canvas of the general’s tent had hardened into stone and timber. She was lying on a bed. Someone had removed her boots and battle-gear, and unbraided her hair. Wool-lined furs caressed her bare arms. Then the aches began their screaming chorus. The loudest notes came from her head and her sword arm, though every corner of her body seemed determined not to be left out. Even breathing hurt.

She shut her eyes against the pain and tried to will it away, to no avail. A weak moan escaped her parched lips.

“Gyanhumara?” The voice was gentle, full of concern.

Arthur grasped the hand not attached to her wounded arm. Gazing into his sapphire eyes, she drew strength from their steadiness.

“Th-thirsty,” she croaked, trying to sit up.

“Easy, now.”

He disengaged his hand from hers and carefully pushed her down onto the pillows and furs. Since sitting up hurt worse than lying down, she didn’t resist. He reached for the cup and pitcher on the nearby table and poured a measure. Cradling her head, he held the cup to help her drink.

The watered wine was a cool miracle to her burning throat. She drained the cup and let the pillows embrace her head.

“ARE YOU hungry?” Arthur asked, praying for a sign that Gyanhumara was indeed going to be all right.

He got no answer, for she had surrendered again to sleep.

Arthur brushed her lips with his. Her mouth curved into a faint smile. He knew then that she was truly on the mend and permitted himself the luxury of a relieved sigh.

Yet when he rose to leave, he could not will his feet to take him from her side, so he yielded to their wisdom.

A field-hospital orderly had unbraided Gyanhumara’s hair and cleaned it of Scotti blood. Now, the combed copper tresses spilled over her shoulders and onto the furs. Her relaxed face still reflected power from the prominent cheekbones and aggressive chin. Arthur moistened a small towel in the water basin sitting atop the table and lightly swabbed her forehead and cheeks, grateful that she had lost the crimson flush that had marked her frenzy. Her eyes twitched behind their lids, and her smile deepened.

His lips mirrored a response as he wondered what she was seeing in her dreams.

Her right arm rested atop the furs. He didn’t have to raise it to know it hid the mark he had given her. Visible now was a pair of azure doves flying up and over the elbow, one in pursuit of the other. The bandage obscured the wing tips of the lead bird. The only tattoo on her left arm was a braided band, identical to the mark worn by Tribune Urien map Dumarec, and for the identical reason.

He wadded the towel and threw it across the room.

Gyanhumara’s action on the ridge before the battle had been no expression of mere gratitude. The sensual touch of her lips had announced that she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.

Yet what to do about Urien?

Arthur subdued the urge to pace, lest the clicking of his boots on the flagstones disturb her. Heartily, he wished for Merlin’s advice. In the next breath, he realized it was just as well that he had left his cousin to handle the legion’s affairs at Caer Lugubalion. Merlin probably would counsel restraint again. Arthur might confide in Bedwyr, if the man could be pried from his work on the captured warships. Cai, who took more women to his bed in a week than most men did in a month, would be no help at all.

The most obvious option would cause more problems than it would solve; Arthur could not risk losing Clan Moray’s support, and that support would die with Urien. As Moray went, so went the rest of Dalriada. Many of their vessels sailed in the fleet, and Dalriada held a vital line against the Scots. The events of the past two days were enough to sway the toughest skeptic, even Cai.

The alliance with Clan Moray of Dalriada had been based upon the friendship Dumarec had shared with Uther, now bestowed upon Uther’s son. But Dumarec wasn’t going to live forever. Even without Gyanhumara to complicate the matter, Arthur would need some other way of cementing that relationship.

Morghe.

Giving his youngest sister to Urien in marriage might be a viable option, if Arthur could somehow make Urien agree to the match.

He stalked to the window and slammed his fist against the stone wall. The pain had a steadying effect. He gazed at the woman who had become his heart’s captor. Gyanhumara slept on, peacefully oblivious to everything save her dreams.

Upon returning to her bedside, he kissed her left hand. She did not wake but murmured his name. His name—yet not his name, more like “Arteer.” The Caledonian equivalent, perhaps? No matter. Coming from her, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

As he left the room, he vowed to take whatever steps were necessary to keep Gyanhumara of Caledonia by his side.

ARTHUR’S EXIT from the chieftainess’s chambers did not go unnoticed.

In the shadow of another doorway, the corners of Morghe’s mouth twitched into a sly grin. After her brother’s footsteps echoed into silence, she scurried to the room he’d left and slipped inside.

BEDWYR MAP Bann strode the central corridor of the officers’ wing, mentally reviewing the details of his battle with the Scotti fleet. Eventually, Arthur would want a written report, of course, though the gods alone knew what he ever did with all that parchment. But Bedwyr had standing orders to give Arthur an oral summary as soon as possible. That is, if Arthur could be found, which seemed to be somewhat problematic this evening. After searching the captured Scotti encampment, the field hospital, and the Dhoo-Glass dignitaries’ inn and feast hall, Bedwyr had finally tracked his commander and best friend to this building.

His persistence was rewarded with the sight of Arthur emerging from an intersecting corridor. “There you are!” Grinning, Bedwyr quickened his pace.

Arthur glanced his way and pulled up short. A startled look crossed his face, but only long enough for a smile to take its place. “Bedwyr, well met!” When Bedwyr was close enough, Arthur added to his greeting a firm arm grip and a clap on the back. “Well met, indeed. I was just thinking about you.”

Arthur’s smile darkened into a more secretive look. And Bedwyr knew better than to try tugging those secrets from him. So, with his lips stretching even wider, he reverted to his usual rebuttal tactic. “Ah, you thought I’d drowned out there today?” His long hair whispered across the back of his battle-tunic as he shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. It’ll take more than a few hundred Scots to be rid of me.”

As they resumed course for the entrance nearest the feast hall, Arthur laughed. “Careful. More insubordination like that, and it’s to the port barber with you to get that tail of yours hacked off. In fact, I may save you the trip.” His hand groped reflexively for his sword hilt, but he wasn’t wearing Caleberyllus. That in itself wasn’t odd. That he had forgotten, though, was.

Bedwyr arched an eyebrow. “So this means I’m safe for now?”

“For now.” All trace of humor vanished. Eyes forward and pace brisk, Arthur ordered, “Report.”

After reciting his battle summary, Bedwyr pondered Arthur’s actions. Something was amiss, to make Arthur abandon their friendship behind a wall of military protocol to hide his embarrassment over being caught in an insignificant slip. He had tolerated a lot of quirky behavior from Arthur over the years, but he sensed something different about this situation, and that Arthur needed to talk about it. Since the corridor was deserted, with most of the building’s inhabitants doubtless partaking in the victory feast, here seemed as good a place as any. Hoping Arthur would take the cue, Bedwyr halted.

Arthur did not.

He cast around for a reason Arthur might have visited this wing. “One of the officers is wounded,” he offered into the widening gap. “How bad?”

Arthur gave a short jerk of his head. Ah, Bedwyr mused in silent triumph, a direct hit amidships. Lengthening stride, he asked himself who might produce such a reaction in the Pendragon, a leader who normally accepted the misfortunes of battle as well as anyone.

The name that came to mind made his stomach twist. He lunged at Arthur from behind, latched onto his arm and spun him around. Arthur glared. Bedwyr ignored him. A pox on the man’s precious privacy; he had to know. “Oh, gods, Arthur, is it Cai?”

Arthur sighed, and his glare dissolved. “Cai is fine. Our casualties were minimal.”

“But I’m right, don’t deny it. Who, then? Will he recover?”

Bedwyr bore Arthur’s inspection for what seemed like half an eternity, with no clue to what Arthur might be seeking. Finally, he replied, quietly, “She should.”

“She—Morghe?”

“Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”

Those two words made more sense to Bedwyr than anything he’d heard all evening.

Up sprang memories of his brief meeting with the vivacious Caledonian warrior woman. Recollection of his response when he discovered she’d feigned ignorance of the Brytoni tongue made his lips twitch in amusement. The incident had caused him to respect her intelligence and abilities all the more.

His smile faded in the face of his concern about her present condition. “What happened?”

“She fought the Scotti invasion commander. He opened a deep gash on her sword arm.” Arthur’s gaze seemed tinged with amazement. “And she relieved him of his head.” Bedwyr felt his eyebrows lift. Arthur nodded. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. But she lost a fair amount of blood, and the physicians decided she should recover here, where it’s more quiet and comfortable—and private—than in the field hospital.” The sapphire sparkle in his eyes transformed him into the Arthur Bedwyr knew best. “I was making sure they were right.”