Raging Sea Read online

  While Willa retrieved Ironwort’s pack frame and empty baskets and strode down the beach, Angusel tried to stand but sank to his knees. He swatted away Niniane’s attempts to examine his wounds, though she ascertained that they weren’t life-threatening.

  His spirits, however, required drastic therapy.

  Niniane hitched up her skirts and waded through the chilly late-September surf to the sword. It took several twists and tugs to free it, as if the sand and water were too greedy to surrender their treasure.

  She approached him. He had managed to stand, and the rising tide was licking his booted feet. Holding the sword by the pommel, point down, she stretched her arm toward him. “Yours?”

  “Not anymore.” An ocean of anguish resounded in those two whispered words.

  Her arm aching from having spent too many hours, too recently, tending too many wounded soldiers, she lowered the sword’s point to the sand and leaned on the pommel, as old Sister Octavia would use her cane. She prayed for the right words. None came except, “What will you do?”

  “What I must.” He raised his head, clenched his fists, brushed past her, and strode into the water.

  “Angusel, no—wait!”

  Surf breaking around his knees, he stopped and turned. “I am Aonar a Dubh Loch.” She must have looked as puzzled as she felt, for he added, “Alone from the Black Lake.”

  “Black Lake?” The Isle of Maun had a Black River, called the Dhoo in the Manx variant of the Brytoni tongue, one of two rivers that gave Port Dhoo-Glass its name, where together they fed the Hibernian Sea. But Maun had no natural lakes of any great size, black or otherwise. She followed the line of his gaze and felt her eyes widen. “You don’t mean—”

  He nodded once. “I must return to it.”

  The force of his despair smote her.

  “You are not alone, Angusel! I am with you.” She drew a breath. “So is God.”

  “Faugh!” Twisting toward her, he made a chopping and sweeping motion. “Keep your god, Prioress, and I will keep mine.” He faced the sea, his shoulders shifting in a sigh. “For all the good they do me.”

  “Killing yourself is not the answer.”

  A sneer marred his lips. “What do you, a dweller in the shadow of cloistered walls, know of answers?”

  She thrust out her chin. “I know that wherever there is life, there should be hope. Where there is hope, courage. And where there is courage, strength.” She lifted the sword in both fists and leveled it at him. “What I hear from you, Angusel of Caledonia, is that you lack the strength to take this weapon and improve your life.” Shrugging, she lowered the sword. “Perhaps killing yourself will be better.” She stalked toward the dunes. “For everyone.”

  A noise between a gasp and a sob floated above the waves’ lull. The splashing told her he was following, but she didn’t stop. They won free of the water, and he dropped to his knees in the damp sand, head bowed, at her feet.

  “I cannot deny your wisdom.” The golden-brown eyes that met hers glistened with unshed tears. “Please forgive me, my lady.”

  “I will, Angusel, on two conditions.” His upraised eyebrow inquired them of her. “Stop calling yourself Aonar.”

  “But I—”

  “But you will never see that you’re not alone until you forgive yourself. That is my second condition.”

  “Forgive myself?” Confusion and hope warred across his face. “How?”

  How, indeed? No two people trudged the same road. Helping Chieftainess Gyanhumara to confront her grief over Loholt’s loss had proved to be Niniane’s key to forgiving herself for her ineffectual role in the tragedy, but she’d had to discover it for herself, as would Angusel.

  Lord willing, she could guide him onto the best path.

  For the present, however, his path needed to divert him as far from Gyanhumara as possible. Ironwort wandered over to nuzzle Niniane’s arm. She grabbed his lead rope. “Return to the priory with me.”

  “What?” Surprise forced Angusel to rise. “How will that help?”

  She gave the warrior a frank appraisal. “First, those wounds need tending.”

  “These?” He gazed at the bloody bandages bulging through the rends in his battle-tunic and shrugged. “These will mend.”

  “Yes, with proper care and rest,” she insisted. “Quiet contemplation too. It has wrought many a miracle.”

  “I am a warrior, not a priest.” Angusel thumbed the unadorned iron dragon pinned to his short scarlet cloak. “Arthur’s warrior.”

  “And Gyanhumara’s,” she reminded him. His eyelids twitched. “So you shall remain while your body and spirit heal in my care.” Tendering a smile, she arched an eyebrow. “Physician’s orders. I shall inform them.”

  “No!” He sighed. “I’m sorry, my lady. Please tell only the Pendragon.”

  “As you wish.”

  He looked at the sword she held, then at her face, bewilderment dominating his expression. “Your god is not mine. What shall I do at the priory?”

  “Those who aspire to greatness must first learn servanthood.” Her gaze captured his. “No matter which god one follows, much good can result when one focuses upon serving others.”

  A flock of curlews caught his attention, and his head seemed to track them as they scurried to pace the ebb and flow of each wavelet, poking their long, curved beaks into the brackish mud. “I thought I knew the meaning of service,” he whispered. Something startled the birds, and they rose in a feathered cloud to skim the wave crests. He regarded her. “If there is aught you might teach me, I am willing to learn.”

  She pressed the sword’s hilt into his palm. “One day, you shall forge your anger and guilt and pain into something far better.” This she had Seen often: Angusel as an older man in battle, felling foes like deadwood. She might be bereft of the Sight, but the only way to erase past visions was their collision with present reality. “Something,” she said, confidence strengthening her smile, “the likes of which the world has never known.”

  His fingers convulsed around the hilt, and he took the weapon from her. He regarded it for a long time before lifting it to his face in salute.

  The set of his jaw and fierce glitter in his eyes promised that this prophecy would come to fruition.

  Chapter 2

  ADIM AL-ISKANDAR PUFFED along behind the pair of guards as they escorted him to the audience hall. More guards followed him, bearing the chests containing his most expensive wares. He tried not to think about the sealed gilt trunk made of fragrant pine, the contents of which he dared not guess.

  His Saxon escorts halted at the huge double doors to utter the watchwords to the soldiers on duty. Palm pressed to his silk-wrapped head, he took several deep breaths. The guardsmen swung open the oaken doors. Giving a final tug to his best green-and-red brocaded honey-gold robe and crafting his most genial smile, Adim Al-Iskandar of Constantinopolis entered the presence of the overlord of the West Saxons.

  In his travels, from Alexandria to Tarabrogh, Al-Iskandar had seen few sights to compare to this throne room.

  Light cascaded into the vaulted chamber from clusters of burnished gold lamps suspended on thick chains fastened to the ceiling. Dozens bracketed to the walls washed the white limestone in a golden glow.

  Though he was no stranger to Wintaceaster Palace, his breath caught as he took in the pairs of tall, fluted, snowy marble columns that marched the length of the hall. Their heads and feet bore the intricate art of a master stonemason, and from each column hung the banners of the lesser kings, princes, and nobles owing fealty to the hall’s builder.

  Arched recesses interrupted the two longest walls at regular intervals. Within each recess stood a soldier of the royal guard in an iron-linked hauberk and purple surcoat displaying the crowned White Horse. Each man had a seax and longsword hanging from his belt and gripped a spear. Al-Iskandar had sold their liege the shields, ash ovals with pointed iron bosses, three years earlier.

  A magnificent tapestry smothered the wall between
each guard post. Here was the crossing of the first Saxons from the Continent to the Isle of Brydein at the invitation of the Brytoni King Vortigern, half a century earlier. Over there was a bloody scene from Liberation Night—which the Brytons had dubbed Night of the Long Knives—when the Saxons had rebelled against Brytoni authority by killing scores of nobles during a feast.

  Al-Iskandar rubbed his arm where a gold torc pinched, reminding himself to have the bauble lengthened. His benefactress had made this journey quite worth his while.

  Several tapestries portrayed hunts whose quarries ran the gamut of the factual to the fantastic. The fleet stag raced beside the elusive unicorn; the quail covey fluttered toward the soaring phoenix; the fierce boar charged the ravening dragon.

  Overcoming the temptation to admire these priceless treasures at greater length, he continued striding across the polished cream-and-jet marble floor crowded with Saxon nobility, dancing attendance upon their king. The men, tall and blond and robust, swaggered about attired in surcoats that matched the columns’ banners. Their ladies were blushing flowers of womanhood, lavishly perfumed, gracefully gowned, and bejeweled to earn the envy of Queen Cleopatra. Feeling the lightheadedness return, he pressed fingertips to the silks covering his temple.

  At the far end of the audience chamber, on a raised white marble platform, stood the gilt throne. Overhead, the crowned White Horse pranced across a deep purple field. Behind and to either side of the platform stood a dozen royal guards. The mountain-size warrior standing to the throne’s left had to be their new captain. His predecessor had fallen in battle through no fault of Al-Iskandar’s wares.

  King Cissa sat his throne in gold-crowned, ermine-robed, amethyst-sceptered majesty.

  As Al-Iskandar jostled through the throng, he squinted to discern the identity of the middle-aged man and the younger warrior-woman chatting with the king. They reclined on oaken chairs to either side of the throne, flanked by retainers whose black surcoats bore the Gold Hammer and Fist of the South Saxon king, Ælle.

  Like Cissa, Ælle was crowned and robed in ermine. It stood to reason that the woman must be Ælle’s daughter, Princess Camilla. She wore a hauberk of exquisite silver links; ceremonial, Al-Iskandar recognized, since unalloyed silver was too soft to deflect the bite of iron and steel. The scabbard strapped to her right hip was made of garnet-studded silver. A pity that the scabbard was empty, in deference to her host, for Al-Iskandar would have traded half his possessions for a glimpse of the weapon housed by such sumptuous furnishings. A slim silver circlet bound the princess’s long golden hair.

  This had to be a state visit, then, perhaps to discuss trade agreements. He congratulated himself on his timing.

  As gracefully as his bulk would permit, he went to one knee before the dais. “Your Majesties,” he greeted the monarchs in fluent Saxon, bowing and tapping fingers to chest and head. He repeated the gesture to the princess. “Your Highness.”

  “Well met, Master Adim Al-Iskandar.” Beaming, Cissa rubbed his bejeweled hands together. “What fine weapons and armor have you to show us today?”

  As news of the merchant’s wares flew from mouth to mouth, most noblemen approached for a closer look.

  Instinct warned him to transact his regular business first. While he displayed his costliest swords, daggers, greaves, belts, breastplates, and helmets, the gilt chest remained sealed. He politely but firmly sidestepped queries about its contents.

  Upon stowing the transactions’ jewelry and gold in the pouch slung across his chest, Al-Iskandar cleared his throat and called for the last chest to be brought forward.

  “King Cissa, I present to you a gift from”—the guttural Saxon tongue lacked certain sounds for the proper pronunciation of the Picti name, forcing Al-Iskandar to improvise—“Queen Guenevara of Caledonia.” As for making Chieftainess Gyanhumara appear as if she ruled her entire nation, well. At the rate she was slashing through her enemies, aided by the man the Saxons and Eingels had dubbed the “Dragon King,” she would earn the title soon enough.

  He bid a guard to sever the thick wax seals. Grunting, Al-Iskandar struggled to lift the massive lid. He was not unprepared for the sight within, or the pungent burst of preserving spices, but it made him blanch.

  Camilla gasped, wide-eyed as her left hand clutched her ivory throat. The men nearest the chest, including the two kings, fought to suppress similar reactions. Those who found their view blocked pressed forward.

  Inside lay the body of a warrior dressed for battle. The bronze-linked hauberk was not torn anywhere that Al-Iskandar could discern and bore not a single fleck of blood. The green-and-gold surcoat likewise appeared intact and clean. A garnet-inlaid gold buckle gleamed from the sword belt. The fingers of the right hand were frozen around the hilt of a naked seax. The left arm was bent, hand to chest. In the elbow’s crook nestled a bronze helmet. The griffin perched on its peak glared through baleful emerald eyes.

  The part of the body the helmet had been designed to protect was gone.

  King Cissa stared at the corpse, his jaw tightening, though whether from grief or anger, Al-Iskandar couldn’t discern. “Merchant, who is this Queen Guenevara of Caledonia? And what,” he demanded, his eyebrows lowering, “happened to my brother’s son?”

  Wringing his hands and trembling in what he hoped was a convincing show of fear, Al-Iskandar related what he’d heard about the land and naval battles that had occurred on and around the Isle of Maun and of the demon-fierce woman warrior who had defeated Prince Ælferd. He remained alert on this precarious ground. An ill-chosen word could get him killed.

  Worse, he’d have his gold and jewelry confiscated and be thrown out to beg his way home.

  During his tale, a hush blanketed the hall. Al-Iskandar’s words trailed away to make the silence complete.

  King Cissa beckoned to the guard captain and whispered into the man’s ear. The captain bowed and strode to one of the closer columns. All eyes watched him tear down the Green Griffin, face about, and march to the dais. On bended knee, he offered the banner to his king.

  The king rose, accepted the proffered standard, and laid it over the mutilated body of his nephew. Princess Camilla walked to the coffin, kissed her palm, and pressed it to Prince Ælferd’s chest, tears streaking her cheeks. After she withdrew, King Cissa yanked the lid down. He kept his palm upon the lid while its dull thump echoed around the chamber and died.

  “Merchant, I have a message for Queen Guenevara of Caledonia. Tell her she shall answer to me.” Grief twisted Princess Camilla’s lovely face. After she dashed away the tears, her gray eyes glittered with diamond-hard hatred. “I shall not rest until I have taken her life.”

  “As you will, Your Highness.” Al-Iskandar summoned his sincerest smile and rendered the traditional bow of his people.

  Upon receiving King Cissa’s assent, he quit the throne room as fast as decorum permitted. His every step became a silent prayer thanking Al-Ilyah for his good fortune.

  Never mind that the princess had tendered no payment for the service. Were he to deliver such a message to the mercurial Chieftainess Gyanhumara, he would need the protection of Al-Ilyah’s three hundred fifty-nine companion deities too.

  GAWAIN MAP Loth, former heir to the chieftainship of Clan Lothian of Brydein—a destiny he’d raced to abandon for enlistment in Uncle Arthur’s army—stood in the Tanroc garrison formation, watching Aunt Gyan award members of the Port Dhoo-Glass garrison accolades earned during the “Second Battle of Port Dhoo-Glass, on Ninth Calends October, in the Year of Our Lord 492.”

  Commander Gyan, Gawain corrected himself with an inward grin, the military title she preferred to the standard—and Roman—prefect. Under either designation, she was the Dragon Legion officer in command of the forces assigned to the Isle of Maun, which included the smaller units stationed at Ayr Point and Caer Rushen. Caer Rushen couldn’t mobilize because there had been no way to summon them without alerting the Saxons, and the Ayr Point men had to keep guarding that fort’s sign
al beacon. Both units had lent assistance in the thwarted invasion’s aftermath at Port Dhoo-Glass as well as at the Saxons’ beachhead near Caer Rushen; necessary duties, if not glorious ones.

  His aunt looked magnificent dressed in Caledonian ebony leather armor and boots, in contrast to Arthur’s gold-and-white Roman parade uniform, the sword riding her left hip second to the famous Caleberyllus in length and to Gawain’s father’s sword, Llafnyrarth, in breadth. Her short-cropped hair, whipped by the stiff sea breeze, framed her head like tongues of flame.

  The reason for its shortness revived Gawain’s hatred for Angusel. But this was a time to celebrate the honors being bestowed upon Gawain’s brothers-in-arms. He banished that fatherless whelp from his mind.

  “Centurion Peredur mac Hymar, front and center!” Gyan ordered.

  This is it! Her brother, commander of Gawain’s unit, strode onto the platform and saluted Gyan and Arthur. Tanroc’s citations are next! Gawain counted it an honor to have fought in the battle; he had drawn guard duty the night of September twenty-third, “ninth calends October” on the Roman calendar.

  Aunt Gyan presented to Uncle Peredur the unit award, a large gold disc embossed with the three-legged symbol of the Manx Cohort, to be affixed to the shaft beneath the award won last year, after the First Battle of Port Dhoo-Glass. While Tanroc soldiers were called forward to receive smaller bronze versions to be worn on their parade harness, Gawain relived the most recent battle in its confusing, exhilarating, painful, terrifying detail. He felt the ache in spirit as well as foot of the midnight march across the island, culminating in a postmidnight sprint to arrive as the Dhoo-Glass line crumbled under the ferocious blond Saxon onslaught, the shock of seeing Gyan unhorsed by the Saxons’ leader, and the gut-churning determination to fight his way to her side. Gawain had saved Angusel’s life in the process, though that was unintentional. Rumor had it the whore-spawn had taken a spear to the chest later in the battle. If there existed justice in this life, that wound would prove to be Angusel’s last.