For King and Country

Chapter Ten

Brenna was thoroughly chilled by the time she and Morgana made their way from the rain-swept sandstone arena back to the fortress where Morgana and the other visiting royalty of Britain had been staying. The largest building inside Caerleul's fortress walls, the great hall possessed no fewer than twenty rooms along its outer corridors, where high-ranking guests could be accommodated for lengthy visits. "Medraut," she said, turning to her nephew, "take the boys into the baths and warm them up, they're half frozen from that rain."

Still grinning, Medraut hooked a gesture at the boys, who ran excitedly at his heels, yipping in their delight at the Saxon prince's defeat. Morgana watched silently, heart aching, for her sons simply didn't understand, yet, the price the Britons would doubtless pay for Cutha's comeuppance. Brenna McEgan said firmly, Take a hot bath yourself, Morgana. We'll both feel better for it. So they made a hasty trip to the baths and within half an hour, warmed up by the steaming water of the calderium—which had grown crowded as more women returned from the arena, chilled and in need of the heated water—Morgana dressed her sons in their best and sent them on with Medraut, then donned the finest linen chemise and woolen gown from her trunk, a rich crimson with a long, trailing skirt, neckline and sleeves edged with ermine fur and caught at the waist with a golden-link girdle. Brenna delighted in the feel of the long, heavy skirts and luxurious fur trim, guiltily pleased there would be no crazed Green environmentalists lurking anywhere about to toss paint across the dead animal skins. She slipped on heavy gold jewelry and warm, fur-lined shoes and caught her hair back with carved ivory combs, then swept out into the main hall, where the kings and queens of Britain were gathering.

Emrys Myrddin and Artorius were there already and young King Clinoch of Strathclyde stood near the central hearth, where a blazing fire warmed the room. Morgana's sons raced to her side, eyes wide at the glittering array of Britain's gathered royal houses. A fine drift of mist occasionally fell through the opening immediately above, where the rainstorm had finally abated outside, dwindling away to an occasional drift of dampness. A cover had been tilted over the opening, anyway, channeling the rain away from the open roof while allowing the smoke to escape. A few windblown droplets hissed against the coals every now and again. The light slanting through the opening in the ceiling fell at a long oblique as the sun westered down the lower quarter of the sky overhead.

Clinoch was trying valiantly to look nonchalant and succeeded only in underscoring his youth and inexperience as he swallowed nervously and warmed his hands like a cold child. Morgana noticed Gwalchmai staring at the young king of Strathclyde, eyes dark and pensive, and squeezed her son's hand. The boy leaned against her leg, sighing and holding tight to her fingers. Voices hushed in worried tones washed across the room, while a group of minstrels gathering in one corner produced harps and flutes and began to play softly, dulling the worst edge of tension in the room. Lailoken was among them, glancing boldly into Morgana's eyes and smiling at their planned assignation on the road to Caer-Gretna at this council's end.

Twelve massive tables had been drawn into a rough circle surrounding the central hearth, an arrangement Emrys Myrddin was overseeing, directing servants to place the tables end to end with cushioned benches for the royal gathering. Other servants were laying out cups and wine flasks and pitchers filled with mead, while still others hung an immense oxhide against one wall, onto which had been drawn the outlines of every kingdom in Britain.

Brenna stared in fascination at the familiar coastline, drawn with surprising accuracy, and gazed intently at the unfamiliar shapes and names of the kingdoms, a few of which she could decipher as later English regions. Several bore names which had survived right into the twenty-first century as "counties" in modern Wales, even the spellings having been retained intact through the centuries. Brenna had actually visited Powys as a girl, on holiday with her mother, a wonderful walking tour of the region. Areas overrun by Saxons had been colored a lurid red. Brenna was still studying the map when Emrys Myrddin, who must have been paying close attention to arrivals, or perhaps to a Roman-style water clock in one corner, murmured something to Artorius, who nodded and rang a bronze bell for attention.

"The High Council is now commenced!" Artorius called out strongly. "Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses of the Britons, take your places at the Tables of Council."

Morgana stepped to her place in the general shuffle and sorting out, leading her sons with her. An expectant hush fell across the room as a priest raised one hand in a benediction, his dark robes and simple wooden cross marking him as a member of the ancient Briton Church. "Our Father, we pray Thy guidance for this great council of kings, that Britain may defend herself and defend Thy faith against the incursions of the pagan hordes. Amen."

The murmured response ran around the room, then the priest retired and Artorius, who stood between the kings of Gododdin and Strathclyde, said formally, "We will read the roster of the Britons. I, Artorius, was elected by you to serve as Dux Bellorum in this time of trouble, a post I have gladly served for these ten years past. I speak for the greater good of all the tribes and cities of the Britons." He seated himself and Emrys Myrddin inclined his head next. "I, Emrys Myrddin, speak as advisor to the Dux Bellorum."

After Emrys Myrddin, the roll call ran sunwise around the collection of tables. Brenna was quite startled when she realized they had sorted themselves out into alphabetical order, without the need to consult any master seating chart.

"I, King Rigenew ap Rhein, speak for the Kingdom of Brycheiniog."

A very old man beside Rigenew spoke next. "I, King Gorbanian, speak for the Kingdom of Bryneich."

As the white-haired king took his seat on the long, cushioned bench, the next speaker, a young man not yet twenty, who had a narrow weasel's face and eyes like glittering blades of obsidian, met Artorius' gaze with an insolent stare. "I, King Idnerth ap Briagad ap Pasgen ap Vortigern, speak for the Kingdoms of Buelt and Gwerthrynion."

Morgana bristled silently. When Brenna wondered why, Morgana said, He claims descent from Vortigern with pride, when the dog brought the Saxons among us during his tenure as Dux Bellorum. Vortigern's own sons turned against him and supported Uthyr Pendragon and Ambrosius Aurelianus, but the spawn of Vortigern would be high kings, if they could manage it.

A man to be watched, then.

The king of Caer-Baddan had spoken already; King Einion of Caer-Celemion named himself next, adding, "Not a week passes that the Saxons and the dogs of Wessex do not test our borders. I have ordered every hill fort in Caer-Celemion to be refortified."

He was followed by King Cyndyddan of Caer-Ceri, the kings of Caer-Colun and Caer-Durnac and Caer-Gloui, all heavily threatened by Wessex and Sussex and all visibly worried as they took their seats. Brenna glanced at the great map on the wall as each man spoke, tracing out the borders and their relative positions to Saxon-held lands. These men were right to worry about the threat to their borders.

Brenna's attention was wrenched back as Artorius' young wife, hair shining like flame, spoke languidly. "I, Queen Ganhumara, heiress of King Carmelide and wife of the Dux Bellorum, speak for Caer-Guendoleu." Every male eye in the room locked on her, doomed moths drawn to her fire and shimmering beauty. A young man Morgana identified as Melwas of Glastenning stared at Ganhumara so longingly, even Brenna was disturbed. Ganhumara smiled sinfully into the poor young man's eyes as she flicked her long skirts aside and took her seat.

King Elafius, who ruled three kingdoms, Caer-Gwinntguic, Caer-Lundein, and Caer-Mincip, in the midlands, had to clear his throat before he could even speak clearly and the kings of Caer-Lerion, Caeston, and Calchfynedd had nearly as much difficulty tearing their gazes away. Artorius brooded silently, darting black looks at his wife from time to time.

"I, King Ceredig, speak for Ceredigion," the next man in line nodded to his peers, then introduced the young man beside him. "My son, Prince Sandde."

Brenna did not like the way Sandde looked at every woman within range; something about the young prince left her skin crawling, a sentiment Morgana shared. His reputation is a poor one. Ceredig is a fine man, but has shown too lax a hand in raising his son. That one will cause trouble. And trouble, we do not need.

The next man spoke slowly, with a deeply troubled air. "I, King Mar, son of Ceneu, King of Ebrauc, speak for the Kingdom of Dent." He stepped to the oxhide map and used a stick of charcoal to sketch out a chunk of land between modern Yorkshire and the Humber River. "When Vortigern was Dux Bellorum, he forced us to accept Saxon foederati. When the Saxons rose in the south, we of Ebrauc and Dent were forced to a compromise, to keep the Saxons from overrunning the entire countryside. This territory, all of Dewyr, we have been forced to give the Saxons to buy them off long enough to protect the rest of our kingdoms."

Exclamations of dismay rose like startled birds.

"My God," one man gasped, "with a toehold like that, they can strike Dunoting, Elmet, Lindsey, even the Pennines!"

The king of Lindsey growled out his agreement. "We have been forced to shift our heavy cavalry to our northern border, to keep the Saxons bottled up in Dewyr."

As the uproar died down, a stocky man who shared the same coloration as Artorius spoke out strongly. "I, Cadorius, King of Dumnonia and Earl of Cerniw," Brenna glanced at the map, locating Dumnonia and Cerniw as the modern Cornwall, "have news nearly as grave as this. Cousin," he spoke directly to Artorius, "Wessex looks to expand its borders through Caer-Durnac straight into Glastenning sometime in the next few months, which threatens not only Dumnonia and Glastenning, but the entire Briton southwest. As a sub-kingdom under Dumnonia, Glastenning is the strongest ally we have between us and the Saxons."

Cadorius turned to introduce a younger man with him. "At my request, Sub-King Melwas of Glastenning has undertaken the refortification of Caer-Badonicus at the border with Caer-Durnac, for if Wessex should take Caer-Badonicus, there is no force in all of Britain strong enough to dislodge them. Anyone who holds Caer-Badonicus would be able to field a fighting force that could ravage the countryside for miles around and provide a strong point to attack kingdoms further north and west. The work to strengthen the fortifications has begun, but will require more men than we can readily spare. The summit is a full eighteen acres of land, five hundred feet above the Salisbury Plain. This is too much land for Glastenning and Dumnonia working alone to fortify as quickly as the work must be done, not if we are to safeguard the gateway to the kingdoms of the southwest. I must ask for help from the other kings of Britain to refortify Caer-Badonicus."

King Idnerth, the weasel-faced descendant of Vortigern, asked in a tone just shy of insolence, "What other work have you undertaken, that men cannot be spared to repair Caer-Badonicus?"

Cadorius flushed. "Our crops are not yet safely in, for the season is more advanced here in the north than it is in the south, where the harvesting has just reached its peak. The weather is bad as well, unseasonably bad. The hay is already lost, rotting in wet fields, and the rye is thick with ergot from the rain, a total loss. If we don't salvage what we can from the wheat and barley fields and the orchards, the entire south will risk starvation this winter, leaving us weak and unable to defend ourselves at precisely the time the Saxons are threatening our borders. If we hope to keep our people at fighting strength, to hold the Saxons out over the long winter ahead, we must get what remains of the harvest in, leaving precious little in the way of manpower to work on fortifications. Even the toddling children are in the fields.

"My own brothers, Prince Justanus and Prince Solomanus, are strengthening every hill fort in Dumnonia, using women and half-grown lads where necessary to carry out the work, and Meliau, Prince of Cerniw, is rebuilding the walls of our coastal defenses from St. Michael's Mount north to Tintagel, where our cousin Artorius was born." He inclined his head to Artorius, who was frowning, deeply unhappy with the grim picture King Cadorius was painting. "Meliau has been charged with holding the Irish coast," he swept his hand across the oxhide map, indicating the entire western coast of Cornwall, "to prevent the Irish high kings from striking from the west while we are preoccupied with the Saxons to the east."

It was as good an arrangement as could be managed, under the circumstances. Even Idnerth could not find anything further to complain or needle Cadorius about and fell silent, darting dark and dangerous looks at his fellow kings and queens as King Dingad ap Einion of Dunoting named himself and his son, Prince Meuring ap Dingad, followed by King Aricol Lawhir and Prince Vortepor ap Aricol of Dyfed. The king of Ebrauc—modern York and, in several centuries to come, the heart of the Viking Danelaw—rose next.

"I, King Gergust Letlum ap Ceneu ap Coel Hen, and my son Prince Eliffer ap Gergust, will gladly field as large a force as Ebrauc can muster, for the Angles harry our seaports in growing numbers and already the Angles speak of alliance with King Aelle of Sussex, to strike in a pincer movement. Cutha may have mouthed pretty words about a Saxon-Briton alliance against the Angles, but that is all it ever was: pretty words.

"We have intercepted dispatches between them, giving us written proof of their planned cooperative ventures against Briton kingdoms of the eastern coast. Ebrauc will answer Dumnonia's plea for men to help with the fortification of Caer-Badonicus. And Ebrauc will send as many of its lads not yet old enough to fight as can be spared, to help bring in the southern harvest, our own being safely in the barns and granaries. Ebrauc will help and gladly, for if we fail to act together in this crisis, the Saxons and Angles and Jutland Danes will peck us to death like carrion crows, one at a time."

"I, King Masguic Clop ap Gergust of Elmet," the young man next to Gergust spoke up at once, "will also send men with those my father will raise from Ebrauc."

"As will I," the king of Ergyng agreed.

Every gaze in the room rested on Morgana. Brenna gulped nervously as Morgana composed herself to speak. "I, Morgana, daughter of King Gorlois, speak as sovereign queen of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw. My sons, Prince Gwalchmai ap Lot Luwddoc and Prince Walgabedius ap Lot Luwddoc. With the death of my husband and the election of Ancelotis to the throne of Gododdin until my son Gwalchmai is of age, my responsibility lies with Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw.

"There are serious threats besides the Saxons, which must be considered by this council. Ynys Manaw is an island, very small and vulnerable to Irish invasion. Galwyddel's coast is but twenty miles from the coast of Eire and only a narrow portion of Strathclyde lies between Galwyddel's border and the Irish kingdom of Dalriada, another land which will certainly seek to spread its influence before long.

"Already, Irish raiders have struck the entire western coast of Britain, emboldened by the Irish Scotti clan's successes in Pictish territory. The Picts driven south have killed two of our kings in one week. And now we have insulted Cutha of Sussex, perhaps without meaning such a profound insult," she inclined her head toward Ancelotis in apology, "but the insult will be avenged, do not doubt this for one moment.

"But in our rush to strengthen defenses in the south, we must not forget the threats from the north and the west, as well. If we do not seek alliances to buy time, we will find ourselves fighting all-out war on three fronts, against three enemies, not even counting the raiders from Jutland and Frisia. With that threat added to the others, we find ourselves facing war from every cardinal point on the compass, with battles for survival on all four sides of this great island. I offer apologies to Cadorius, but Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw cannot spare the manpower to fortify Caer-Badonicus, when our own towns are in gravest danger of destruction. Not without seeking treaties of alliance to delay open hostilities long enough to deal with the Saxon threat."

The man next to Morgana spoke with deep bitterness. "I, Meurig ap Caradog, King of Glywssing, know the folly of alliance with pagan outsiders more than most. I rule the kingdom that Vortigern and his son Vortimer after him once ruled, a kingdom they held so cheaply they treated with Saxon swine and called them foederati, rather than the bandits and killers they are. I, for one, will tolerate no talk of alliance with godless heathens who look to our borders with greedy and bloodthirsty eyes. Glywssing faces threats from the Irish harassing our coast and from the Saxons, trying to push past our neighbors to the south. Which devil does Morgana ask that I crawl into bed with, to form this insane alliance of which she speaks?"

A roar of angry mutters, many of them directed at Meurig for the crudity of his question, erupted around the tables, throwing the council into chaos. Morgana turned to glare at Meurig ap Caradog. "I would sooner crawl into bed with a godless Irishman than some Britons in this room!"

The angry mutters exploded into violent arguments, women's shrill voices battling men's deeper ones. The thud of fists on wooden tabletops rattled like thunder in a canyon. Gwalchmai and Walgabedius huddled fearfully against Morgana's skirts, the younger boy whimpering aloud before she pulled them close. Artorius surged to his feet, drawing his sword to pound the tabletop with its hilt and shouted down the lot of them. "Silence! By God, silence I say and silence I mean! I'll have the ears of the next man to say a bloody word!"

The shouts died away, replaced by a shuffling of feet as Artorius glared from one table to the next. He growled, "Queen Morgana's fears are justified. I say this not as her stepbrother but as the Dux Bellorum who had to bring word of her husband's murder at the hands of Pictish bandits! Think you it was easy for Morgana to look into her sons' eyes and tell them why their father died? And in this same room stands a lad barely a man, who watched his royal father hacked to death by another lot of heathenish Picts. If Cutha and Aelle of Sussex and their minions of Wessex were the only threat we face, I would not have called a council of all the kings and queens of Britain! Morgana is right to say we face war on four fronts—for that is exactly what we face. If we do not exercise extreme care in the judgments we make this evening, all of Britain could bleed for our folly."

A few hangdog expressions replaced anger and strident rebelliousness. Ganhumara, delighting in the turmoil, looked like a well-fed kitten savoring the cream on her whiskers. Two seats down, Morgana's brother-in-law spoke into the momentary silence.

"I, Ancelotis of Gododdin, king until Prince Gwalchmai reaches his majority, speak for the people of Gododdin. We know only too painfully how serious the threat is from Pictish and Irish invaders along our northern borders. It was not my intention to draw the ire of the Saxons so quickly, but I am not convinced that anything would have prevented them from finding insult from some one of us, an insult that would give them an excuse to strike openly. What remains is for us to find a way to defend all our borders against all comers, when we have but limited numbers of men to do the fighting and run the patrols, not to mention bringing in the southern harvest. It might be less onerous than it first appears, to at least open negotiations with one of our northern enemies. We could then use those negotiations to buy the time we need, allowing us to shift resources without actually promising full alliance, since invasion on four fronts must be avoided at all cost."

Artorius did not appear pleased by Ancelotis' speech, but spoke no word of anger. He merely inclined his head slightly and said, "The Dux Bellorum thanks Gododdin for its concern over the severity of the problem before us."

A white-haired man whose deeply lined face betrayed years of worry and struggle said quietly, "I, King Ynwyl Gwent, speak for the people of Gwent. My son, Prince Caradog Freichfras, joins my worry that any alliance or even talk of such would weaken us in the eyes of the men we seek alliance with, making invasion more certain, not less. The Irish raid and the Picts strike in war bands, but the Saxons move in great armies, under the concerted direction of one powerful king. Aelle of Sussex is the most dangerous man in Britain and Cerdic of Wessex is the instrument he will use to strike at us.

"If we are to preserve Britain, we must deal with the Saxons now, and worry about Picts and Irish pirates at some later date. For those kingdoms under direct assault from the north and the west, I would not expect men or arms to be diverted from current emergencies, but for those of us whose kingdoms are not yet seriously threatened, we must provide men-at-arms and the swords and armor they will require, to stop the Saxons before they can march any great distance. To this end, I pledge every third fighting man of Gwent."

"And I, King Cadwallon Longhand of Gwynedd," the man beside him spoke immediately, "pledge the same. My son, Prince Gwyddno Garahnhir, will guard the borders of Gwynedd and organize the refortification of the hill forts. How speak the sub-kings of Gwynedd?" He turned to the men seated beside his son.

"I, King Elnaw ap Dogfael pledge a third of Dogfeiling's fighting strength."

"As do I, King Gwrin Farfdwch ap Cadwaladr of Meirionydd."

The next man spoke quietly. "I, King Owein White Tooth and my son Prince Cuneglasus speak for the Sub-Kingdom of Rhos. We plead hardship, for illness has struck hard in Rhos this harvest season, spread, I fear, by the same damp and moldering rot that has destroyed the southern hay and rye fields. Too many deaths have left our defenses ragged. I will send Cuneglasus with what men Rhos can spare, but that will be fewer than would please me."

Artorius, who had sheathed his sword once more, gave Owein a nod of understanding. "I cannot ask more than any kingdom is able to give. Send what you can and we must all be content with the best we can manage."

"I, King Aidon ap Mor of Rhufonios, can send aid to my brother sub-king of Rhos. We have many younger sons eager for work and too little land to subdivide it further amongst the heirs, as is the custom. Whether you need hands for the harvesting or the building of stone walls round your heights, Rhufonios can assist and still send seasoned warriors to the Dux Bellorum."

Owein clasped his neighbor's hand in gratitude. "We have many an orphaned heiress who will welcome young men of Rhufonios to work the land and take them to wife. Both our kingdoms will benefit."

"Well spoken," Emrys Myrddin gave the agreement a Druidic nod of approval.

The king of Lindsey pledged a third of his men to the cause of strengthening the southern borders, as did King Arthwys ap Mor of the Pennines, offering to send his son Prince Pabius in command of the sizeable force. The next man to speak, whose grey hair and deeply lined face spoke of age and strain, shared the same narrow, weasel-eyed face as King Idnerth, great-grandson of Vortigern. "I, King Concennus ap Vortimer and my son Prince Brochfael Ysgythrog speak for Powys and the kingdoms of the midlands. Powys has no borders that are threatened and will not contribute young men needed for the harvesting and the fishing to drive invaders from someone else's land."

A shocked and angry roar erupted as the aging king and his buck-toothed son took their seats. King Meirchion of Rheged snarled, "I would expect no less than treason from a spawn of Vortigern!"

"Treason, is it?" Concennus shot back. "There's no treason in protecting one's own interests! Powys is not threatened. Why should Powys bleed and die for the errors in judgement committed by fools in Glastenning or Strathclyde?"

Young Clinoch went ice pale and gripped the hilt of his dagger. "You will not insult my father's memory within the same week as his death, Concennus! Meet me steel to steel, like a man, if you intend slander!"

Another thunderous round of shouting erupted. Artorius was slamming the hilt of his sword against the tabletop again, roaring for order. Clinoch, shaking with rage, stood glaring at Concennus, who measured him lazily with a dismissive eye, compounding the insult. His buck-toothed son grinned at the young king, while paring his nails with his own knife, insulting everyone in the council chamber. Emrys Myrddin strode between the tables, passing the central hearth in a billow of white robes, and slammed an immense oaken staff between Clinoch and Meirchion on one side and Concennus and Brochfael on the other. The young prince of Powys had the grace to jump in startlement at the crash.

"This is a council of kings," Myrddin hissed coldly, "not a brawl between milk-brats! Brochfael, you shame your father's name with your insolence. Put up that knife or leave this council under the geas of excommunication and end your days an outlaw cast out of Britain!"

The young prince glared at Myrddin, but quickly realized the threat was serious and that Myrddin would brook no refusal. He resheathed his knife with a sullen look.

"Concennus, you have the sovereign right to refuse succor to your brother kings. No one denies this. If you stand by that right, know that the geas will be laid upon you and all of Powys, as well. Expect no aid, no comfort, no assistance should any disaster befall you, whether it be famine, flood, plague, or invasion. A man who stands selfishly alone bleating of his rights when his brothers are dying can expect no aid when he, himself, is mortally wounded."

Concennus, older than Emrys Myrddin by at least twenty years, if not thirty, glared coldly at the Druidic councillor. "Powys is a large kingdom, advisor, and controls Caer-Gurican, Caer-Magnis, and Caer-Luit-Coyt as well, a stretch of land as great as Rheged. Famine or plague in one portion of the kingdom hardly threatens the whole. Your threats do not impress me."

Emrys Myrddin said softly, "Only a fool will permit wolves to ravage one flock simply because the other flocks are not yet threatened. Your kingship shames the Britons. Leave our meeting hall and do not darken Rheged's hospitality again with your reckless disregard of civilized manners and your failure to abide by prudent conduct in affairs touching the survival of every Briton man, woman, and squalling babe on this island!"

As Concennus jerked to his feet, anger crackling in his insolent and rheumy eyes, Clinoch muttered, "And may the Saxons rape you as you so richly deserve!"

Myrddin held out an imperious hand, forestalling further outbursts from the young king. Concennus had locked gazes with Myrddin, who stood immovable as a monolithic standing stone—and very nearly as tall—and gave back Concennus' curled lip of insolence as a withering, blue-eyed stare. At length, Concennus looked away and muttered, "Powys will send a hundred archers to the Dux Bellorum."

"Our thanks," Myrddin said scathingly, then retrieved his oaken staff and strode back to his place.

Brenna discovered that she was shaking. Even Morgana was shaken by the confrontation. Meirchion of Rheged straightened his tunic with a jerk and said, "Rheged sends half its fighting force south to the aid of Glastenning and Dumnonia."

Clinoch, whose turn was next, swallowed before he could find voice. "Strathclyde has troubles along its northern and western borders, beset as we are from the north by Picts and Irish from Dalriada and from the west by Irish pirates, across the Irish Sea. But Strathclyde is a large kingdom, greater in size even than Gododdin. Strathclyde will help Gododdin reinforce the northern boundary forts along the Antonine Wall and mount increased patrols along our borders with Dalriada. In addition to this, Strathclyde will send five hundred men-at-arms south, from the region bordering Galwyddel and Caer-Guendoleu and Bryneich, whose borders are secure, so there will be no danger to their farmholds and families if they are absent."

Brenna felt like cheering. The boy's concern for his people, in contrast to Concennus' utter disregard, was a well-deserved slap in the face which left Concennus flushed and angry. As Morgana had already spoken on behalf of Ynys Manaw, she did not rise to speak again. Artorius said quietly, "There is no one to speak for Ynys Weith, for the Saxons and their pawns of Wessex have overrun the island, murdering the entire royal family, and now control its harbors and its men.

"All the kingdoms of the Britons having been spoken for, I will now speak as Dux Bellorum. As you have heard, we face grave troubles from many directions and have lost two of our number to what most of us consider the least threat of all those facing us. With apologies to Strathclyde and Gododdin, who bear the brunt of Pictish hostilities, I must however agree that the greatest threat to the Britons as a whole people comes from King Aelle of Sussex and Cerdic of Wessex. Cutha came to us determined to provoke incident and succeeded. Meirchion, look well to your people, for I predict Cutha will take vengeance in blood on his return journey south."

King Meirchion of Rheged nodded, his expression grim. "I have sent men in every direction to warn the farmholds and towns, and pray that I am not already too late with the warning." Cutha had already been gone nearly two hours.

Artorius lifted a long, slim wand and used it as a pointer, stepping to the great map nailed to the wall. "The area of greatest danger lies here"—he pointed to the border where Glastenning and Caer-Durnac touched the border of Wessex—"north along the line of Caer-Baddan, Caer-Celemion, Caer-Mincip, and Caer-Lundein." The pointer swept from the Bristol Channel along a wide arc through Somerset, Dorset, and the Salisbury Plain, across through Wiltshire and Berkshire, and east to Surrey and the city of London.

"The so-called king of Wessex, Cerdic, sent his son Creoda with Cutha to demand a place in Rheged's council. If Creoda had been successful, the Saxons could have established a base of operations right here in Caerleul. From the borders of Rheged"—the pointer swept across an immense stretch of land beginning at the modern Scottish border and stretching all the way south to Wales and across to Yorkshire, fully half of the northern-midlands territory—"Saxons could have swept across in any direction they chose. This is the audacity we are faced with, the strength of Saxon greed."

Low murmurs buzzed like angry hornets. Even Concennus betrayed discomfort.

"The hill forts along this whole line must be refortified and quickly. Emrys Myrddin, I would ask you to ride south to Caer-Badonicus to oversee the defenses. The experience you garnered in Constantinople may well prove invaluable to us, erecting defenses at the summit of the hill."

"How can we be certain the Saxons will meet us there?" Concennus demanded.

Artorius favored him with more courtesy than Brenna would have shown under similar circumstances. "Because we will harry his flanks and slash his supply lines, forcing him to march west along his existing northern border, rather than north as he would prefer. We will shift northward as much of the grain and livestock as we can along the route of that march and torch what we cannot shift, to prevent Briton supplies from victualing Saxon invaders. The kingdoms of the north and the midlands must make up any shortfalls suffered by the areas put to the torch, to prevent suffering amongst those deprived of stock and food stores.

"By cutting their supply lines here and here"—the pointer flicked across the map—"we force the Saxons to scavenge off the land, and by moving and destroying supplies where they wish to go, we force them to scavenge in their own territory. And with all due apologies to Caer-Lundein," he added, "there simply isn't a great deal in Caer-Lundein to interest Aelle, not when Caer-Badonicus sits like a knife poised above Wessex, denying Cerdic the expansion he and his Saxon masters desire. They want the rich trading centers of Dumnonia and Cerniw. They want more than land, they want the ports that trade with Constantinople and Africa, they want Italian wines and silks from the east to cloak and gown their women."

Most of the men in the room glanced involuntarily toward Ganhumara, resplendent in her own silks. She smiled, preening under the attention. Artorius scowled and cleared his throat.

"Aye, the Saxons want silk, and they want amber and furs from the north, as well. They've already struck at ports along our eastern shores which can provide them control over that northern trade. They want the tin mines of Cerniw, to control the smelting of bronze which we sell as far away as Constantinople itself. And they will try with great desperation to take the iron mines of Rheged, Galwyddel, and Dunoting, which I am certain is the reason they tried to force our hand over Rheged's council. The Saxons need iron for weapons and the great iron mines of our northern kingdoms are rich plunder for them."

He glanced at Covianna Nim, who sat in one corner, not part of the high council, but present as representative of her own powerful clan. "I look also toward the safety of our master smiths, not only in the north, but especially those closer to Saxon-held lands. Glastenning Tor, whose smiths fashion fine Damascus steel such as my Caliburn, is a rich prize for men like Aelle." He drew his sword, letting the light glint off the sworls of Damascene pattern-welding in the blade. "Saxons have few swords at all and none so fine as those carried by the most common of British soldiers. Saxons give such blades as this mystical powers, having no smithies capable of producing such weapons and precious little gold with which to buy them."

He slid Caliburn home with a ring of steel.

"We know their strategic targets and why they must take them. What remains to be done is to bottle them up in the south and to do that, we must stop them at Caer-Badonicus. You have pledged your fighting strength, your sons, and yourselves. Return to your homes as quickly as you may ride and send your men to me. I will write out a plan of rendezvous and send it with each of you, that we may waste no time in forming up the march south. Emrys Myrddin, will you ride with the kings of Glastenning and Dumnonia to assist with construction of Caer-Badonicus' defenses?"

"Gladly."

"Then if there is no further business before this council, I suggest we move immediately to put our plans and resolutions into action. Cutha certainly will."

The priest who had opened the council hastily stepped forward to offer a final benediction, then the high council split into groups, neighboring kings meeting to discuss mutual assistance and movement of troops through their roads, while servants scurried like stirred-up ants to fetch baggage and alert the groomsmen that riding horses would be wanted within the hour.

Morgana remained seated, having made her own decisions about Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, and simply held her young sons close. Brenna watched in silence, torn by conflicting emotions as the Britons prepared for war.