For King & Country (34 page)

"Why should Morgana send these enemies of Galwyddel north to make war on a people who are, after all, as Celtic as we Britons, sharing in common many things, while the Saxons are alien in their ways, Germanic and barbaric? When their bid to force entrance into Rheged's high council failed, Prince Cutha of Sussex left the royal villa in a state of rage and burned the farmholds and villages for a terrible swath of miles, butchering every man, woman, and infant in his path. To have seen little children"—he glanced at a girl of perhaps five seated cross-legged near the princess' feet—"literally cut into pieces and flung about the kitchen yard like so much spoiled meat for the hogs..."

He shuddered, quite convincingly. "When we Britons drive these bastards into the sea, they will come at Irish coasts, butcher Irish girls and lads barely old enough to toddle across a floor. This, too, Queen Morgana refuses to allow. Should Britain sit back on its laurels and do nothing when Saxons rip apart the Irish coastal villages and farmholds? Should Britain do nothing at all when Saxons strike Dalriada, stirring up so much trouble with the Picts that Irish men-at-arms will find themselves struggling to survive on two fronts, against Saxons and Pictish insurrection?

"Alliance will give Galwyddel and Dalriada strong partners to keep the Saxons out of northern Britain and
Scotti
-land. Alliance will give Dalriada access to much more than mutual protection from this new enemy. We have brought gifts, tokens of the trade Dalriada may secure for herself with the far-flung lands of the Roman Empire. British crews can teach Irish captains the trading routes and the languages in which to do the bargaining. Here," he had one of the sailors open the heavy chest, "are tokens of what treasures may be found in the ports British ships enter every year."

He took out a section of elephant tusk, raw ivory cut from an African beast's jaws, and several items fashioned from another length of that same tusk: delicately carved bracelets and boxes with pierced-work patterns in Celtic scrollwork design, combs for a lady's hair, amber from the far north, raw pieces and a necklace of matched amber beads wrapped round with gold wire. Black sable furs caught and cured by trappers deep in the land that Banning said would one day be called Russia, the rich pelts sewn into supple, beautiful cloaks and muffs to warm the hands, with sable hoods lined in ermine, the stark white trim offsetting the black beautifully.

Deeper in the chest, he lifted out a ladies' gown in a delicate, porcelain-thin shade of lavender and ornamented with Celtic embroidery, with tiny freshwater seed pearls sewn to the embroidered bodice. Well worthy of adorning the wealthiest of queens, the gown had been commissioned by Ganhumara, the seamstress had explained, but it had ended up in Morgana's basket, with the donation of a very heavy purse and the suggestion that Ganhumara be told the gown had been ruined during the sewing.

When Medraut's new Irish queen appeared wearing it, there would be trouble, all right, trouble that Morgana, at least, seemed quite able to take in stride. If Lailoken had read the situation correctly, the purloined gown was Morgana's way of saying, "Interfere in my nephew's life and my business again and I shall gladly see you ruined, as easily I plucked this bauble out of your grasp."

Lailoken thought the joke enormously funny.

So did Banning.

The princess, forgetting the formal protocols of court business, came around her father's throne like a bow shot, exclaiming over the gown, its iridescent sheen of color, its texture and the soft, sensual feel of the silk under her fingers. "What
is
it?" she asked in an awed voice, her Brythonic as fluent as Riona's. "I have never seen its like!"

The other women had gathered to feel the softness and exclaim over it.

Medraut rose gallantly to the occasion. "It is called silk. The people of a country far, far to the east spin it, they say, from the cocoons of special caterpillars. We traded for the silk from Constantinople, which trades with lands as far as can be imagined. The master seamstress of Caerleul, who sews the gowns for Queen Thaney of Rheged and Queen Ganhumara of Caer-Guendoleu, turns raw silk into artwork for the finest ladies to wear."

The girl was enchanted with the gown, holding it up to herself and swirling about to see how it moved, eyes sparkling like liquid sunlight at the result. The pale lavender hue had been a fortuitous choice, complementing the girl's coloring divinely. And Ganhumara and the Irish heiress were of close enough size that the gown should fit strikingly well. Even her father unbent enough to smile a little at her open delight. Lailoken decided the moment was auspicious to complete Morgana's message.

"These gifts are yours, whatever you decide in the matter of alliance, but Queen Morgana hopes they will serve as a token of the bride fortune Galwyddel offers for the Dalriadan heiress' marriage to Medraut. Queen Morgana has proposed that she meet the King of Dalriada and his lovely daughter in person, along the shore of Galwyddel, at the standing stone circle of Lochmaben, on the next full moon night. The king is invited to bring his councillors and armed retainers, if that is his pleasure, but for her part, Queen Morgana has faith in the open-handed offer she has made and will wait at the Lochmaben Stones without resorting to armed escort at her back.

"She trusts, as well, that you will understand any mischief which might befall her would be repaid by her brother, Artorius, the Dux Bellorum of all the Britons, who has led British armies to victory in eleven battles against the Saxons. This is the double message she sends, offerings of gentle alliance, backed with the might of Briton military strength, a strength which can assist allies as readily as it can threaten enemies. Thus speaks Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, to her brother king of Dalriada and his lovely heiress."

He gave them a formal bow, then waited.

Riona Damhnait translated the long speech, speaking with great care to choose the correct nuances of meaning, that much was obvious in both her expression and the lovely princess', as well, since she, too, had understood every word Lailoken had uttered. He wondered briefly why the girl had learned Brythonic, but her father had not. Ah, well, who could explain the oddities of Irish custom?

King Dallan mac Dalriada listened with hooded eyes, although the occasional quirk of brow or lips betrayed surprise. When the translation ended, he glanced curiously at Medraut and Lailoken, then gave a lengthy response. Riona Damhnait gave them both a smile and said, "King Dallan will consider very carefully your offer of alliance and thanks you for the honor to his royal house and to his heiress. He offers his hospitality in return for the duration of this storm and suggests that you must be cold and miserable in your wet clothing. Servants will take you to guest quarters, where you may change into warm and dry garments and unpack your things from your wet baggage.

"King Dallan will order a great feast tonight, to honor your presence and your generous offer. The sailors will be shown every courtesy, as well, in the servants' quarters, with dry clothing, a warm fire, and plenty to eat. If the others from the ship wish to warm themselves, as well, they are welcome at the fortress or at any cottage in the village." Her lips quirked briefly. "King Dallan understands that yon captain may be wary of leaving his boat unmanned in an Irish harbor, reluctant to place his entire crew in reach of Irish prisons, so he offers a trade in hostages, if that would please your captain?"

She gestured to the young girl sitting at the princess' feet. "Princess Keelin's little cousin, Fineena, is much beloved by King Dallan, and would enjoy, I think, a chance to see a Briton boat, for she loves the sea already and delights in the little boat she and Keelin keep at the harbor."

The beautiful Keelin's eyes widened in alarm, but she made no sound, clearly not wishing to frighten her cousin with a display of her own fear. It was an effective offer, the safety of the child for the safety of the crew. Lailoken bowed. "I am sure the captain would be delighted to show Princess Fineena his beautiful fishing sloop. After all, should this alliance be cemented in marriage, the child would be welcome on any boat in British waters, at her disposal to visit her cousin in Galwyddel's lovely capital."

Keelin relaxed a trifle, darting glances at Medraut, who was smiling down at the little girl in a friendly fashion. Fineena, aware of the sudden interest in her, toddled to her feet and slipped her hand into Keelin's, clutching a little doll to her chest with the other. She glanced up at her cousin, who murmured reassuringly in Gael, evidently translating the offer, since Fineena brightened at once and replied in a clear little voice, obviously excited. The child, all innocence, had no inkling of her abrupt new status as hostage. Lailoken sent the child a smile, as well, but the smile behind his eyes was for the image of little Fineena lying in a puddle of blood, a gift to repay the Dalriadans for Lailoken's own little girl, butchered by Irish bastards off a Dalriadan ship.

He was still smiling as servants escorted them out of the grand hall.

Trevor Stirling and King Ancelotis were exhausted by the time Caerleul's great sandstone walls appeared on the road in front of them. Both guest and host looked forward to a long, hot soak in the Roman baths, a good hot meal, and undisturbed sleep in a soft bed. But the moment they entered the town, they discovered something badly amiss. The townspeople were frightened, deeply agitated, and sent unreadable looks after them.

I mislike this,
Ancelotis muttered silently to his guest.

Bloody right,
Stirling agreed, deeply uneasy over the mood of these people.

The moment they approached the royal villa, Queen Thaney rushed out to greet them.

"Ancelotis!" she cried, flinging herself into her uncle's arms. "Oh, thank God you've come!"

"What is it?" Ancelotis asked urgently, drying tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks. "Meirchion isn't..." he began, sudden dread striking him.

"No, no, it isn't that, it's Artorius!"

Ancelotis went deadly still. "What news of Artorius?"

"Come inside, please, I don't wish the whole town to hear."

Dreading what he would hear, Ancelotis followed his niece into the royal villa, to a private little room off the atrium and closed the door. She stilled shaking hands against her skirts and said, "He's gone. Rode out of Caerleul in the worst rage I have ever seen come over him. Didn't even take the
cataphracti
with him."

"But—" Ancelotis protested, then shut up at the look in his niece's eyes. "Tell me the rest."

"It isn't Ganhumara, I know that much. She was as mystified as Meirchion and I when he went tearing out of the city. She's gone home to Caer-Guendoleu to raise troops for Caer-Badonicus. I..." She bit her lip, hesitating, then plunged on. "I asked the servants to tell me anything that might explain what had happened, and one of the serving women said a minstrel had been seen giving him a letter. When I questioned the minstrel, he said he didn't know what was in the letter, only that Covianna Nim had charged him to hold it until the next full moon, then deliver it to Artorius, which he did.

"He said Artorius went white as ice when he read it, then strode away shouting for his horse. The minstrel left Caerleul immediately after, riding south. I am sure he's taking some horrid message to Covianna Nim; I can't prove it, but I
know
it, I feel it here
.
" She touched her heart.

"Which direction did Artorius ride?" Ancelotis asked quietly, already dreading the answer.

"Toward Caer-Birrenswark," Thaney whispered. "Ancelotis, Covianna Nim hates Morgana! I've seen it in her eyes when she thought no one was watching her. I don't know what she's told Artorius with her dirty little letter, but I don't trust that witch from Glastenning Tor, I never have. Artorius trusts you, Uncle, can't you ride after him and
do
something? I owe Morgana my life! I can't—
won't
—believe evil or treachery of her!" Tears were rolling down her cheeks and her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs.

Ancelotis gathered his niece into his arms and let her weep against his shoulder, stroking her hair soothingly. His mind, however, was racing, and so was Stirling's. What could Morgana possibly have done, to upset Artorius so greatly? At the High Council of Kings, she had spoken strongly in favor of alliance with the Irish at Dalriada, as a way to buy time and secure at least one border while Briton forces raced south to meet the Saxon threat. It was entirely possible that Morgana, strong-willed and shrewd as she was, could have engineered an alliance on her own, without informing Artorius.

And if Brenna McEgan were involved, if she were, in fact, a guest in Morgana's mind, an alliance with the Irish would be the first thing she considered, possibly talking Morgana into it with glib Irish persuasion. Certainly, it would be the simplest way to open the northern border to Irish armies the moment Artorius went south with the combined military strength of the northern kingdoms. It was a perfect opportunity for an IRA terrorist to smash the British kingdoms and change history in favor of the Irish. Where his potential ally, Banning, might be, Stirling had not an inkling, but he was very much afraid he'd just located Brenna McEgan. How, he wondered, would Morgana arrange such an alliance? What could she offer that would interest Dalriada?

"Where," Ancelotis asked abruptly, "is Medraut?"

Thaney looked up, startled. "Medraut? Why, he's with Morgana, of course. They rode together for Caer-Birrenswark."

"Alone?"

"No, they rode with armed retainers, of course. Her sons rode with her, but I heard her telling their guards that she would turn west for Caer-Birrenswark while her sons would ride north and turn east for Trapain Law and home." She frowned slightly. "And one of the minstrels went with her. Lailoken, I think he's called. Spent a lot of money buying jewelry and gowns and wine and pack animals to carry them."

If Morgana were sending her sons home to Trapain Law, chances were good she was up to something she didn't want the children embroiled in, which deepened the cold in his belly. It was just possible he'd found Banning, as well. Lailoken had been in the environs of Caer-Iudeu, after all, and so was a good candidate for hosting someone's mind, and he couldn't think of any other reason a simple minstrel would buy up a lot of trade goods with money he hadn't possessed two weeks previously. He must be involved, somehow, in Morgana's plan to arrange an Irish alliance. If Banning were a guest in Lailoken's mind, he might be well placed to foil McEgan's schemes. Stirling couldn't bank on it, however. There was only one response possible. Ride after them and do whatever was necessary to stop McEgan from changing history.

It was a measure of how greatly he had changed, these past few days, that the thought of harming Morgana sickened him, and the desire to protect her, to protect Artorius, to keep these people from being destroyed by Saxons or Irish or even by one another, burned fiercely in his heart. He had found more to admire and respect in the sixth century than he had in the twenty-first, which he was sworn to protect. His duty was to king and country. The trouble was, he was no longer entirely sure
which
king commanded his loyalty.

Or which country.

He had not yet found an answer to that dilemma when he mounted his horse again and headed grimly north, to try and stop disaster.

The storm lasted a full week, howling across the distant shores of Jora Island to smash into Fortress Dunadd, perched stolidly above its grey-water harbor. It was a merry week, considering. King Dallan was a congenial host, delighted by the gift of fine Roman wine and eager to show his own kingdom's wealth to best advantage. Princess Keelin was a vision in the lavender silk gown, distracting everything male within viewing distance of her. She and Medraut spent carefully chaperoned afternoons playing silly games and talking of everything from inconsequentials to privately held dreams for the future.

Lailoken watched and listened, nodded and smiled to himself, assigned the role of male chaperone, just as Riona Damhnait had been given the role of female chaperone: part companion, part tutor, part servant. Only in Riona's case, the servant was a royal Druid and a very shrewd judge of character. Lailoken was exceedingly careful in her presence, lest he betray his own and Banning's seething hatred of everything Irish.

The young potential couple, aided by Keelin's grasp of the Brythonic language, got on famously, boding well for the future of the alliance. At least, it would have if alliance had also been on Lailoken's agenda. He made it a point to become friendly with the soldiers who patrolled the fortress walls and village streets at night, playing his harp and flute and plying them with good Roman wine and more ordinary Celtic mead and ale, which solved many a problem of translation—alcohol, music, and laughter being universals of human expression. He got to know the soldiers well and, more importantly, got to know the timing of their rounds, down to the minute. He located the wells which supplied the fortress and the town, noted their positions and when the patrols of the soldiers took them close to those wells and when they didn't.

And every night, Lailoken broke open one of his foul bottles, mouth and nose carefully masked, hands carefully gloved, and poured a bit of the filth from it over a bit of fish or boiled beef, which he gave to one of the many dogs that roamed the fortress and the town, always a different dog, to be certain that he wasn't witnessing the effects of cumulative poisoning, but rather the effects of accumulating potency. It took the full week they spent in Dunadd before he got the results he had been waiting so patiently to witness. A brindle bitch he had singled out some twelve hours previously died near noon their seventh day in the town, vomiting, wracked with convulsions, and progressively paralyzed.

The moment he noticed the animal's illness, he made his apologies to Medraut, hinted that he wished to spend a bit of time with an Irish lass he'd met, and slipped away into the forest that crowded the edge of town, carrying the dog with him. It took the beast several hours to die, in agony. Lailoken watched in rising delight, amazed at the potency of Banning's bottled poison. '
Tis wondrous powerful!
he crowed. Banning chuckled.
Tonight, we'll drop one bottle down each well in town and press Dallan mac Dalriada for his answer. If he and Keelin come with us, grand. They'll return from Lochmaben to a town filled with death. If they decline the offer, I fear our lovely little princess will not have much time to enjoy her silks.

It was almost a pity to destroy a creature so lovely and innocent.

Almost.

His wife had been just as lovely, and the Irish had gutted her without mercy.

Once the dog had finally died, Lailoken kicked the corpse into a fast-flowing stream, washed his hands in the icy water, and made his way back into town, whistling merrily despite the continuing squalls of rain and wind. As he emerged near the harbor, he caught a glimpse of blue sky far to the west. The storm was breaking up. Better and better. They would leave on the morrow's dawn, whatever answer Dallan mac Dalriada made. He hunted up the captain of the fishing sloop, which still rode proudly at anchor where the water shoaled, and suggested that this would probably be their last night in town, given the break in the weather.

"Aye," the captain nodded, tankard of Irish ale in one hand, a hunk of black Irish bread in the other, "I'd noticed it myself. We'll be ready, come the dawn."

Well pleased, Lailoken made his way up the wind-swept road to the fortress, where he found Medraut fairly dancing with impatience. The boy rushed forward to greet him.

"You've been gone for hours!"

"That I have," Lailoken nodded, winking. "What is it, lad? You're fairly trembling."

"King Dallan has said he will give us his decision tonight! Lailoken, she's lovely! Sweet and intelligent and full of laughter and curiosity."

"Does she like you, lad?"

His eyes shone. "She does. She whispered to me not three hours ago, she'll tell her father so, before the feast tonight. Riona Damhnait supports her in this, I'm sure she does!"

"Well, then, your worries are over, are they not? You're a fine catch for any maiden."

Medraut sighed happily, then exclaimed, "Oh, whatever am I to wear? My best things are wrinkled and musty!" He clapped a hand to his forehead, then plunged away through the fortress gates, hurrying to repair the damage to his wardrobe before appearing in front of the girl's father. Lailoken chuckled aloud, then headed for his own rooms. He had preparations to make as well.

The sun was sinking into the western sea, an immense ball of orange flame balanced on the water, when Lailoken entered the grand hall, where great trestle tables had been set up for the night's feast. As well fed as they'd been on previous nights, this evening's banquet outdid the rest of the week's feasts combined. Lailoken couldn't even put names to most of the dishes offered, with costly sweetmeats vying for space with venison roasts and great haunches of ham from wild boars, roasted ducklings, pastries of mouth-watering variety, and an abundance of ale. So much food, Dallan mac Dalriada must have emptied the fortress larders.

He smiled. The townsfolk wouldn't live long enough to miss the food consumed here tonight. The king's table had been set with shining silver cups and finely carved wooden trenchers. Fresh rushes on the floor added a tang of salt air to the mouth-watering scents rising from the tables. Irish musicians had already begun to play, down in one corner of the hall, since the fortress had no minstrels' gallery—an architectural feature that Banning had halfway expected to find and one that Lailoken had never even heard of, although the notion intrigued him.

Medraut appeared, nervous and resplendent in his finest—and freshly pressed—woolen tunics, plaid trousers, and golden torque of rank, the one given him by Ancelotis to wear while that worthy served as regent king of Gododdin. "Is she here yet?" he asked anxiously, peering through the crowd of Irish nobles which had begun to gather.

"Nay, lad, I've not yet seen her. But then, the king her father isn't here, either, so hold your patience and wait."

He nodded, tugging absently at the hem of his tunic, fidgeting with his belt, fingering the hilt of his sword, worn ceremonially in a silver-inlaid scabbard. He was every inch the wealthy and cultured Briton princeling, about to inherit a kingdom and help himself to a wealthy wife. It amused Lailoken that Medraut had evidently forgotten Ganhumara even existed. Lailoken smiled, toying absently with the strap of the satchel he carried over one shoulder, a satchel carefully filled with ordinary dirt taken from the shore of Galwyddel. Banning had warned him that should the Dalriadan king agree to this alliance, he would be likely to insist upon a certain ceremony for which the Dalriadan kings had become famous. That being so, Lailoken had carefully scooped up the dirt before their departure from Galwyddel's western shore, and carried with it a well-made Briton shoe, to be used at the right moment.