Raging Sea Read online

  The gaze of every officer on the platform seemed to impale Gawain, and he squelched his hatred for the young man whose failure had inflicted fathomless sorrow upon Gawain’s family.

  “Soldier Gawain map Loth,” Gyan said, her lips twitching into the barest of smiles, “front and center!”

  He squared his shoulders, puffed his chest, lifted his chin, and obeyed.

  As with the earlier award recipients, Arthur’s aide, Centurion Marcus, passed the ornament to Gyan while Centurion Rhys, Gyan’s clansman and aide, read the citation aloud in his lilting Caledonian accent:

  “Soldier Gawain map Loth of Clan Lothian, Gododdin, Brydein is hereby awarded the Phalera Draconis for conspicuous bravery in battle to save the lives of Prefect Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Clan Argyll, Caledonia, and Optio Aonar, Third Turma, Manx Cohort. Without regard for his own safety, Soldier Gawain led a charge to engage a squad of Saxon royal bodyguards. His actions as a warrior and leader bought time for Optio Aonar to reenter the fray, and for Prefect Gyanhumara to kill Prince Ælferd, the Saxons’ leader, thus reversing the tide of battle.”

  “You have my everlasting gratitude, nephew,” Gyan murmured beneath the troops’ cheers as she pinned the bronze, dragon-embossed disc to the center strap of his harness. One of the highest decorations in the army… he swallowed hard.

  “I had help,” he whispered. Angusel—Optio Aonar’s—well-timed leap had prevented Prince Ælferd’s seax from gouging Gyan’s throat. Gawain had only kept a horrible situation from getting worse.

  Sadness eclipsed her face. “I know.”

  “I don’t deserve this.” Gawain tugged at the disc.

  She stilled his hand. “Arthur and I disagree with you. And I do hope to bestow that other phalera someday. Perhaps you might assist me?” She must have seen an expression brewing on his face that she didn’t like, for her gaze sharpened to a glare. “We shall discuss this another time.”

  Her glare schooled into a neutral expression, and she looked past him toward the assembly. “Soldier Gawain map Loth’s exemplary battle performance has earned him a promotion to the rank of decurion”—Centurion Marcus passed her a folded scarlet officer’s cloak upon which gleamed a dragon-shaped iron brooch with an amber chip for its eye—“as well as his choice of postings.”

  Gawain’s eyes widened as he accepted the symbols of his new rank. The brooch’s ring bore no enamel, indicating his freedom to stay in the infantry, transfer to the navy, or return to the cavalry. He thumped fist to chest. “It matters not where I’m posted, so long as I may serve you, Commander Gyan!”

  She answered his salute in the Caledonian way: upraised right hand clenched, splayed, and clenched. “Well spoken, Decurion, but I urge caution in considering your decision. Such postings have not ended well for some.” Her steady gaze swept the assembly. “I refer, of course, to our honored dead, whose sacrifices we shall glorify with each bow shot, spear cast, and sword thrust for the rest of our lives!”

  The cheers, shouts of agreement, and pounding of spear butts on the market square’s cobblestones continued as Gawain saluted. He spun about, quit the platform, and rejoined his unit. As he faced forward, he was heartened to see Uncle Arthur regard his wife with undisguised admiration.

  Uncle Peredur prepared to take his leave, but Arthur ordered his brother-by-marriage to wait.

  “Your commander has finished presenting her awards,” Arthur said, using battlefield timbre, “and a most impressive array it was. I speak for all Brydein and Caledonia in commending you for your bravery and skill, your loyalty and selflessness. I am proud of you, whether you have earned the privilege of wearing an ornament during parades or not.”

  Arthur glanced at Centurion Marcus, who withdrew an object from his sack. It couldn’t be a phalera, Gawain realized, because the centurion hid it in his fist.

  “I have two well-deserved promotions to bestow,” Arthur announced. “Centurion Peredur mac Hymar of Clan Argyll of Caledonia is recalled to legion headquarters, effective immediately, to begin duty as Tribune Peredur, Praefectus Cohortis Equitum.”

  Gawain blew a relieved sigh to see Peredur accept the red-ringed bronze dragon with the sapphire eye to replace his red-and-green-ringed copper one. Gawain’s uncle-by-marriage had given up command of the Horse Cohort to accompany Gyan to Maun after Loholt’s death. Gawain hoped this was a sign that Peredur, at least, had moved past the tragedy. The tribune’s Caledonian salute seemed to radiate pride and promise.

  At Arthur’s signal, Centurion Marcus passed him another small object. Arthur held it aloft: a sapphire-eyed gold dragon encircled by a braided band of green, red, and blue. Gawain’s mouth fell open as recognition dawned. He closed it, but not before Arthur noticed and gave him a short nod.

  “I presented this brooch to my bride on our wedding day last year,” began the Dux Britanniarum of the Dragon Legion of Brydein, “with the implication that she would stand at my side as honorary second-in-command. Her leadership of the Manx Cohort, on the battlefield as well as off, has proven to me that she deserves far more than an honorary position.

  “Therefore, on this the second calends October in the year of Our Lord 492, I revive the Roman office of Comes Britanniarum, second in military authority to the Dux Britanniarum, and bestow that office, with all its duties and responsibilities, upon Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll of Caledonia.” He removed Gyan’s bronze dragon brooch. While she kept her cloak from slipping, he pinned the gold brooch in place. “Comitissa Gyan shall appoint officers to the posts of Tanroc Garrison Commander and Manx Cohort Prefect, and she is recalled to legion headquarters, effective immediately.”

  Gyan gave Arthur a sharp Caledonian salute, and he answered, fist to heart, with a Roman one. She faced the assembly and brandished a Caledonian salute for the troops.

  “It has been my highest honor and privilege to serve with you, Brytoni and Caledonian alike. If but half of you feel a tenth as much for me, then I count myself blessed. I shall miss you until next we may serve together. May your gods strengthen you for that day.” A sudden grin split her face. “But regardless of what he says”—she jerked a nod over her shoulder at Arthur, who beamed at her—“it will always be ‘Commander Gyan’ to you. Consider that a standing order!”

  “Aye, Commander Gyan!” came the thunderous reply. Gawain hoped his shout rang loudest.

  Chapter 3

  THE BEGGAR SAT in the dust, his back propped against the rough-planked wall and a dry flagon in his grip as the tavern’s patrons swaggered into and staggered out of the nearby door. Now and then, someone would toss a mite his way. The kinder men aimed for his cup. Most coin fragments landed paces beyond reach, forcing him to use his crutch like an oar to pull his maimed body to them, driven by his desperate need and his benefactors’ guffaws.

  His tremors caused the mites inside the flagon to jump and jingle. A half dozen more and he could drag himself inside for a draught, perhaps even a crust of bread and a rasher of bacon, if the tavernkeeper’s profits had been good.

  He squinted toward the setting sun and sighed. It would take till near closing to collect that many coins. Business had slowed to a crawl since the Pendragon’s reinforcements had departed Maun—when? A week ago? A fortnight, a month?

  So much for that crust and rasher.

  Grief over his lost vocation crippled his soul as he knuckled his grumbling gut and shook his head with another sigh. Days had become meaningless.

  God, how his head ached.

  That pain he could drown in ale. Nothing could erase the phantom agony shooting through his body from his missing leg.

  Grinding his teeth, he screwed his eyes shut and braced his head on the wall.

  “I ken ye need a draught, auld boar.”

  He opened his eyes to find himself staring into the hazel gaze of a man he knew as Gull. Though Gull kept to himself, he bought him a drink no matter how many coins the beggar had managed to collect.

  His smile felt thin as he lifted his flagon before his face to parody a salute. “Many thanks, friend.”

  Gull took the cup, emptied the coins into his fist, and stashed them in a fur pouch chained to his belt. The beggar’s hand closed over the black leather forearm guard that covered Gull’s right arm from wrist to elbow. Gull gave a reciprocal squeeze and disappeared into the tavern.

  He massaged his stump, wondering about the exchange that had repeated so often, in words as well as gestures, that it had become almost ritualistic.

  Mayhap Gull recognized a kindred spirit. He and Gull were of an age, with the gray hair and sun-weathered faces to show for it. Like him, Gull had the broad back, deep chest, powerful arms, and callused, scarred hands of a warrior—though Gull could get about on two legs, damn him.

  Bitterness rose like bile in his throat, and he drew a long breath. Gull’s accented Brytonic marked him as a Pict, but he was the lone soul on Maun who cared about the beggar’s plight, and he hated himself for thinking ill of the man.

  He shut his eyes and settled in for the wait, serenaded by the off-key singing and raucous laughter and vulgar jests emanating from the tavern.

  “Centurion.”

  He opened his eyes, heart thrashing. The Dhoo-Glass commander, here? Impossible; he’d overheard talk about her promotion, and that she’d assigned one of her clansmen to lead the Manx Cohort in her stead.

  The new prefect disdained beggars, regardless of their former station, and probably had sent a female subordinate to roust him. Picti warrior-women had to be common enough, if their two most powerful chieftainesses were any example. He grabbed his crutch for the arduous process of levering himself to stand on his remaining leg, praying Gull would return soon.

  He didn’t see anyone of command rank in the alley, just a trio of enlistees leanin
g upon each other, weaving and giggling toward the main thoroughfare. Mayhap he’d dreamed the soft, pleasant, female voice. He could use that draught.

  As he concentrated on establishing his balance, he heard the swish of robes and glanced up to see the prioress of Rushen Priory standing before him, a serene expression upon her face in spite of the crude surroundings. She had no escort, though she seemed so ethereal and untouchable that perhaps God’s angels warded her steps.

  She extended a hand. “May I assist you, Centurion Elian?”

  He grunted. “There’s a title I’ve not heard in more than a year.”

  “It’s yours again, by the Pendragon’s command, with full pay and privileges.”

  Surprise made him recoil, and he almost fell. She hurried forward to support his right side. Shame scorching his cheeks, he shrugged her arm off and hopped backward to lean on the tavern’s wall. “Look at me, Prioress. Take a good, hard look.” He didn’t bleed the self-loathing from his tone. Rag-padded crutch wedged under his armpit, he folded his arms. “How can I be of use to anyone, to say nothing of the Pendragon himself?”

  “There is a warrior he wishes you to train.” A smile bent her lips.

  He pursed his lips and blew out his disdain. “My training days are done. Arthur knows this. I could no sooner train the sea to lap at my feet—foot.” He glared at his remaining limb and laughed.

  “Ye belittle yourself overmuch, lad.”

  Elian glanced over his left shoulder to see Gull exiting the tavern. Gull thrust Elian’s flagon toward him. He thanked the Pict and downed half of it in one pull.

  After using his knuckles to wipe foam from his lips, he asked, “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough.” Gull faced the prioress. “Who be this warrior, my lady?”

  “He says that in his own tongue, his name means ‘Raging Sea.’”

  Elian had never heard the phrase. Gull stroked his close-cropped, gray-streaked black beard.

  “Why would the Pendragon send you to deliver this order, Prioress? Why not one of his own men?” Elian asked. “And why appoint me to the task, of all people?” Why me and not someone who isn’t half a man?

  “Because I requested it—and you.” From a pocket of her robe she withdrew a parchment leaf. “If you doubt your reinstatement, Centurion, here is the Pendragon’s writ.”

  Not that the hen-scratching would have meant anything to Elian, but the Scarlet Dragon seal and Arthur’s mark inside appeared real. He’d seen both, often, when he’d served as Tanroc’s garrison commander on the other side of Maun. On the other side of his life.

  He thrust the parchment at her. Beggars had no need for such things. She shrugged and tucked it into her pocket.

  “This is madness. Warriors need sparring partners.” He slapped his stump. “I would have better success hobbling to the moon.” Her benign expression seemed to challenge the truth of his assessment. Exasperation mounting, he looked to his friend. “Explain it to her, Gull.”

  “I shall be his legs, Prioress.”

  “What? You?” Elian’s eyebrows shot up. He lowered them notch by notch as he voiced each key issue: “You’re not a Bryton. You might have been a warrior, but you owe no allegiance to the Pendragon or to anyone else, as far as I know. Why should you deign to involve yourself in this matter? What do you gain by it?”

  “This warrior named Raging Sea intrigues me.”

  The prioress chewed her lip. “Two men at the priory, I was prepared to accept. Not three.”

  “The priory?” Elian asked. “Not the fort?”

  She shook her head. “Your student still recovers under my care.”

  “My student.” Elian worked up a mouthful of spittle, recalled his manners, and swallowed it.

  “Still recovers?” Concern clouded Gull’s face.

  “His story is his to share.” She drew a slow breath, fingering the delicate silver cross at her bosom. “I must refuse your kind offer to help Centurion Elian. Our guesthouse barely has room for two people.” Her expression turned frank. “The centurion and his student are well known to me. You, good sir, are not. I intend no offense, but I cannot put my sisters at risk from a stranger.”

  “Aye, for sooth. ’Tis a fair wise lady ye are.” He swept her a deep bow. “I call myself Gull, and Elian has the right of it: I was a warrior and lann-seolta master.”

  Lann-seolta, Elian recalled, was a Picti term that meant “blade-cunning.” His eyebrows hitched upward as Gull continued. “Now I earn my bed and board wielding mallet and saw. With your leave, Prioress, we shall build our own wee house for to live in whilst we train Ainchis Sàl.”

  The prioress gave Gull a questioning look.

  “‘We?’ Who is this ‘we’ you speak of so glibly, man?”

  Gull’s was the merriest—and soberest—laugh Elian had heard in many a moon. “I might teach yon prickly auld boar a thing or two, as well.” He laid his hand upon his heart. “If ye be willing to accept me, I shall not disturb you or the other womenfolk. Ye have my word. And if your word be nay, my lady, then ye shall hear naught else from me.”

  She regarded Gull for a long time. What she saw in his gaze Elian couldn’t begin to guess. “I believe you, Gull,” she said. Her smile shaded to enigmatic. “Raging Sea will benefit from your teachings as well as Elian’s.”

  “Come, auld boar.” Gull grabbed Elian’s arm, stooped to adjust it across his shoulders, and stood to bear the weight of Elian’s legless, useless side. “We have a warrior to train.”

  “Again with the ‘we,’” Elian grumbled. He drained the flagon and tucked it into his belt. Who was he to disobey the Pendragon, no matter how mad the command? “So be it, then. Let us go to this man called Raging Sea and see what sort of warrior we can make of him.”

  The prioress led them toward a donkey-drawn cart positioned in the intersecting street, but before they had taken a dozen steps, Elian halted. “What did you call him, Gull? Ainchis Sàl?” When Gull nodded, Elian asked the prioress, “Do you mean Angusel?”

  “You knew him by that name,” said the renowned healer of bodies and souls. “What he calls himself today is a measure of how much he has healed—and of how much healing he must endure.”

  ANGUSEL A Dubh Loch sweated and grunted under the weight of the timber he’d been ordered to carry from the dwindling pile. Since the arrival of Centurion Elian and the Caledonach called Gull, and Prioress Niniane’s pronouncement that Angusel’s shoulder and head were healed, the autumn days had become a blur of backbreaking effort: cutting wood, toting water, and performing other heavy chores for the nuns each morning and toiling over this cottage in the afternoon. The tasks were punctuated by brief periods to care for and exercise his warhorse, Stonn, drink, eat, and rest. In that order.

  The work blessed him with dreamless nights and by day kept him from dwelling upon… her. Upon how he had failed her, how often she had rejected him, and how, as impossible as it seemed, he might earn her forgiveness.

  The beam teetering on his sword-side shoulder, he trudged past Stonn’s corral and the accompanying whicker to the building site, where Elian sat astride a stool, hammering treenails into the lower portion of the wall. The centurion preferred to leave his new wooden leg off while he performed stationary tasks. It still unnerved Angusel to see the linen-wrapped stump twitch as if the rest of the flesh weren’t missing. The crutch and leather-capped oaken leg leaned at the table that held an ale skin and bucket of treenails, close enough for Elian to press either walking tool into service.

  Gull stood perched on a ladder, working on framing the roof. At Angusel’s approach, Gull climbed down to help him. Hoisting the beam between them, they ascended separate ladders and wrestled it into the notches. Then they drew out their mallets and treenails to secure it to the supports.

  Angusel dashed sweat from his eyes and glanced over to find Gull regarding him. The Caledonach seemed familiar. Surely he’d have recalled a man who wore black leather bracers up to the elbow on both forearms even though the elder’s days of waging war had to be long since done.