For King and Country

Chapter Twelve

Trevor Stirling hadn't visited the Yorkshire Dales in years. He'd come with a school group long ago and remembered being deeply impressed by the broken country of towering limestone cliffs, deep and mysterious caverns, glacier-cut gorges, and rugged karst topography. When Stirling and the cataphracti following Cutha's trail thundered down into Ebrauc, he was deeply dismayed when the mud-churned trail led straight into the wild tangle of broken, eroding rock that comprised the roughest country to navigate by horseback anywhere in England. The stony soil did wonders for hiding the bastard's tracks—doubtless why he'd chosen the longer, more snaking route toward Dewyr. Every time they came to a feeder stream or intersecting gorge, they had to pause and waste valuable time searching for signs of Cutha's party—a muddy hoofprint on a streambank, horse dung, broken branches in the scrub.

In contrast to his earlier lightning assaults on villages and farmholds, Cutha's tracks now assiduously avoided what few settlements there were tucked away into the Dales, bypassing even tiny hamlets like Malham. He followed, instead, the Pennine Way down to the River Aire, which eventually burst out of the broken country in a froth of rain-swollen whitewater and spilled down into a gentler countryside that would one day see the cities of Halifax and Leeds rise to prominence. The river roared along, spilling over into wide water meadows where thousands of waterfowl clamored for food and mates.

The marshes bred mosquitoes and midges, as well, which plagued them by night, whether they stopped for an hour or two of sleep or pressed doggedly onward. What sounded like—and might well have been—several million frogs turned the marshes into a drum-roll chorus of territorial challenges and peeping, bellowing, bell-throated calls for females of their own particular kind. Stirling, unused to the countryside in any case and certainly unused to a countryside not yet denuded by pesticides, urban runoff, and heavy-metal pollutants, had never heard so many frogs in his entire life. It sounded at times like the night would crack wide open under the onslaught of so much raw, primeval sound.

After a race of nearly two hundred kilometers, they arrived at the mouth of the River Ouse, where it dumped flood-stage debris—swirling brown water, snags of deadwood, uprooted trees—into the Humber. They stopped on the muddy bank, staring in dismay at the barrier, for the river was clearly impassable without a ferry—and the ferry lines had been cut, from the far side. Cutha, reaching the far banks of the Ouse at least a day, perhaps two days, ahead of them, had left the ferry boat stranded on the eastern riverbank, along with what looked sickeningly like a dead ferryman sprawled in a puddle of black blood. Carrion crows were once again in abundant evidence, a sight which still had the power to turn Stirling's stomach.

Ancelotis cursed long and loud.

Young Clinoch muttered, "Surely we can cobble together another ferry?"

Before Ancelotis could answer, a Saxon patrol appeared on the far bank, marking the line where Ebrauc gave way to Saxon territory in Dewyr. The appearance of that patrol forced them to admit defeat. Cutha had outrun them. To attempt further chase would be to precipitate immediate war with the Saxons of Dewyr, which the Britons could not yet risk. The bitterness of it tasted like poison in the back of Ancelotis' throat. Clinoch snarled a few choice oaths himself, before turning back. "I've defenses to build," the boy said in a harsh, weary voice, "and men to send south with the Dux Bellorum."

"Aye." Ancelotis spat to one side. "We're both of us a long way from home. I'll take word to Artorius, myself, that Cutha reached Dewyr ahead of us." That decision, at least, brightened Stirling's mood considerably. Any number of fatal "accidents" could have befallen Artorius by now, with Brenna McEgan watching for the chance to complete her mission. And the chaos of preparing for war would present her with many excellent opportunities to strike, with Artorius distracted and not expecting treachery from a Briton. Stirling's sense of urgency had begun to affect Ancelotis.

"I'll ride by forced march back to Caerleul," he told the others, "traveling light and fast. Half my cataphracti I'll send home to Gododdin to strengthen the hill forts along the northern borders. The other half, I'll send on to Caer-Badonicus, for Cadorius and Melwas will need every sword arm and strong back they can beg or borrow. You can bet whatever you care to wager that Sussex will mobilize for invasion the instant Cutha arrives home, and it won't take him long, by sea. Spread the word northward, as you ride, that Cutha has made good his escape."

"That I will," Clinoch muttered. "Beginning with King Gergust of Ebrauc, should yon bastards"—he nodded toward the distant shore of Dewyr and its armed Saxon patrol—"decide to launch an attack across his border to distract us from the greater threat to the south."

Stirling, impressed by the lad's grasp of tactics, was immediately informed by Ancelotis—somewhat peevishly, since they were both tired—that Briton royalty learned such things from infancy. Princes and their heiress sisters study Greek histories of Alexander the Great and they read Julius Caesar, both the Gallic Commentaries and his Civil War, to learn the art of winning battles from warfare's greatest masters. How else do you suppose Artorius learned his trade as Dux Bellorum? Emrys Myrddin and Ambrosius Aurelianus spent years teaching Artorius, alongside my brother Lot Luwddoc and myself, drilling into us the tactics and strategies that lead to victory, even against greater numbers than your own.

I meant no insult, Stirling apologized, even as a fierce glow of pride in his ancestors had begun to suffuse itself through his conscious awareness. A dangerous glow of pride, as he found himself identifying ever more strongly with the Briton cause, his loyalties shifting like quicksand between the future he was trying to save and the past he was beginning to identify as something worth defending against all comers. He had joined the SAS from a sense of patriotic honor, after all, determined to defend "king and country" to the best of his ability. The longer he stayed in Artorius' Britain, the shakier his definition of "king and country" grew.

In the twenty-first century, such notions were diluted by other distractions, by larger loyalties as a subject of the British Empire and a member of a world community that had set itself in opposition to tribal violence and terrorism. In the sixth century, Stirling's larger loyalties were fading away, increasingly insubstantial, half-remembered dreams, while the raw immediacy of his new reality—where a man's honor and personal courage were often all that stood between loved ones and brutal death—tugged at him with almost irresistible strength.

As miserable as the trek from Carlisle to Humberside had been, the journey back was infinitely worse, with nothing but saddle galls and shaken loyalties and defeat to carry back with him.

Emrys Myrddin and the kings of the south sped rapidly along the dragon's spine, rousing the men to arms as they passed town, village, and farmhold. And as they rode, day by miserable, rain- swept day, Myrddin began to develop his plan for defending Caer-Badonicus. He had been to the hill fort only once, but his was an excellent memory and he had been watching men wage war for more than fifty years. He knew how leaders thought, had studied the histories, understood very well indeed, why Alexander of Macedonia and Julius Caesar had won victory after victory. By comparison, the Saxons they were soon to face were little more than yelling apes, baboons with swords and thrusting spears and no concept of strategy other than overwhelming an opponent with sheer numbers.

That, of course, was Britain's chief problem: the sheer number of the barbaric creatures. Still, Saxon ignorance was an advantage to be used and Myrddin had a fair idea how to go about exploiting it. Hard riding took them deep into the southlands, where unseasonal autumn rains were even heavier than they had been in the north, destroying crops and threatening the countryside with starvation over the winter. Little wonder King Cadorius and Sub-King Melwas were all but frantic, facing such a winter with such neighbors about to come calling at their borders.

Emrys Myrddin and the kings of the south skirted the eastern end of the Cotswold Hills to enter a countryside thick with ancient monuments, places like the monolithic barrow dubbed West Kennet, with its mass graves hidden deep within the mound, and the mysterious Silburis Hill, a man-made tower of white chalk blocks rising more than a hundred thirty feet into the air. By riding cross-country from one great monument to the next, a man could follow the ancient ley lines Myrddin's Druidic instructors had named the "dragon lines," conduits of energy that wound, braidlike, through the region, touching such places as Caer-Aveburis and Stonehenge, where immense circles of standing stones had sat since the beginning of time, erected by a people so ancient, not even the Druids could recall their names.

The dragon lines snaked through more than a dozen such ancient monuments left by the old ones. Emrys Myrddin might not know who had built these holy places, but he understood very well, indeed, their deep impact on the minds of those who lived near to them. He and Uthyr Pendragon and Ambrosius Aurelianus before him had used that awe to forge ties of alliance between widely scattered tribes of southern Britons. It had worked so well, Emrys Myrddin had spread the concept north and east and west, throughout the whole of Britain, literally creating one people united by a commonly held identity.

It was, Myrddin knew, his greatest legacy to the people of Britain. And now he must fight to save that legacy from foreign destruction.

There was no mistaking Caer-Badonicus for any other hill in Britain. Even Silburis Hill was a mere child's toy, compared with Caer-Badonicus. Its windswept summit, a broad, flat stretch of land fully eighteen acres in area, towered five hundred feet above the Salisbury Plain. Broodingly immense against the stormy grey rainclouds scudding past its flanks, Caer-Badonicus was a natural fortress, crowned with ancient and crumbling walls, an earthwork fortification so old, not even Emrys Myrddin had ever heard its original name. During the long centuries of peaceful Roman rule, hill forts like Badonicus had fallen into ruins, no longer necessary to safeguard the people of the surrounding plain. The wheel of time had turned, however, and walls were needed once again. Emrys Myrddin was here to ensure that the walls they built were the strongest, most protective walls ever built by Briton hands.

The future of an entire people depended upon it.

And upon him.

Keenly aware of the pain Atlas had felt of old, Myrddin squinted against the downpour to study the profile of the hill rising up from the flatlands. The wind whipped through the crowns of mature trees at the summit, lashing them with brutal fury. As they drew closer, he spotted several white-water cataracts where rainwater poured off the hillcrest, surging and spilling its way down the steep, bramble-covered slopes.

It gave him an idea.

"I want to get right to the top," he said over the sound of rain and wind.

King Cadorius of Dumnonia grimaced, while the younger Melwas of Glastenning, in whose territory Caer-Badonicus actually lay, turned to him in visible dismay. "Now? In this driving downpour?"

"Aye, now. We'll be fighting the Saxons up there in conditions just as bad."

Covianna Nim, as bedraggled and mud-splashed as the rest of them, frowned. "I doubt we'll get the horses up that, not in this muck. That's a good thirty- or forty-degree slope and if ever there was a road to the summit, it's long since grown over and vanished."

Myrddin chuckled, which startled Cadorius and Melwas into staring. Accustomed to the limitations of most men's minds—and particularly those of kings, several of whom he had tutored personally—he explained with the same patience a mother reserves for her child: "The fact that there is no road works in our favor, for the Saxons will have just as hard a time reaching the crest as we will. Even without the nasty surprises I have in mind."

They did, indeed, have to leave the horses behind. Slogging their way through mud, through freshets of runoff that cut eroding gullies into the hillside, past wild brambles and outcroppings of native bedrock that scraped the hands and left the footing slick and treacherous beneath their feet, they climbed steadily toward the storm-lashed clouds. Panting, pausing to rest now and again, they finally scaled the summit, standing beneath a towering oak for protection from the wind-whipped gusts of rain.

Clumps of mistletoe, the "Druids' weed," had shaken loose from the oak's boughs, littering the ground with dark green leaves and clusters of tiny white berries, along with larger limbs snapped off by the storm. Blocks of stone lay piled haphazardly where work had already begun on the refortification, work interrupted by the rain. That, alone, would have to change. They didn't have time to wait on niceties like cooperative weather.

The view from the summit was impressive. Myrddin squinted against the rain, shielding his eyes with one hand while absently pulling his sodden cloak tighter around his shivering frame. Pacing off the distances, he walked the ancient walls, surveying the entire hilltop, while the king of Dumnonia and Melwas trailed along in his wake. Covianna remained huddled beneath the oaks, shivering and trying to stay out of the wind.

"We'll want circumvallations," Myrddin said at length, "several layers of them, right around the summit." He pointed, then knelt to retrieve a small branch, sketching what he intended in the mud, using his cloak to protect the muddy drawing as best he could. "My suggestion is five walls, at a minimum, arrayed like this, and we'll need shelters for a good-sized armed force to hold out against siege. Barracks, arms rooms, privies, stables for horses and livestock, pens for chickens and goats, shelters for womenfolk and children, for they'll need shelter behind strong walls when the Saxons come marching from the southeast, else they'll repeat Penrith on a grander scale."

"We'll need to dig wells," Cadorius muttered, "to support that number of people."

"Aye, and cisterns for rainwater, as well."

"There won't be room for cisterns," Melwas protested, squatting beside Myrddin's mud map and using a finger to sketch in the outlines of the buildings Myrddin had just enumerated.

Myrddin chuckled. "Ah, you're thinking in terms only of the summit. There'll be plenty of room. It's why I want five walls, not just the one or two you generally find with hill forts like this one. Look you, now, we'll build the five circumvallations like the labyrinth of Glastenning Tor, a maze of walls, with stone-lined cisterns between and gutters cut across the entire eighteen acres of the summit, feeding the rainwater into them, so none is wasted."

Melwas gaped. "You can't be serious? No one could build such a complicated structure in the time we have!"

"Nonsense," Myrddin snorted. "Haven't you read your Gallic Commentaries? Caesar's legions could have done it in a week, if not less."

The young king of Glastenning tried to find his voice, mouth working like a fish drowning in air. "But—"

"He's right," Cadorius cut in. "Remember, we'll have more than the farmers of Glastenning to help with the quarrying and the digging. Half the fighting strength of Britain is on its way here, with a fair percentage of them close enough to Badonicus, we should have a sizeable work force by tomorrow's sunset. We may not have the equal of Roman engineers, but we've plenty of strong backs and this is a brilliant defense plan." He tapped the muddy sketch, which rainwater was spattering into oblivion. "We could hold this hill for weeks, if need be, provided we can lay in the foodstuffs as quickly as we lay in the walls and cisterns and put up the shelters."

Myrddin nodded. "That, too, will be critical. The cataphracti and infantry due to join us will be certain to bring their own baggage trains with them, as even the greenest commanding officer knows an army of the size needed here cannot scavenge off the surrounding countryside as their only source of victuals. They'll have a sizeable store of grain and smoked meats with them, never doubt that. It's our job to be sure we've places to store it before the Saxons reach us.

"It's certain as sunrise the Saxons will cut any supply lines to Caer-Badonicus, the moment they arrive. It's a holding action we'll be fighting, distracting and keeping the Saxons bottled up here, goading them into trying to take this fortress, while the armies of the midlands and the north rush southward to join us. Without that fighting strength of the north, we'll never drive them back, so we must take great care to hold out until they can reach us—and make damned sure the Saxons don't scatter and ravage the countryside the way Cutha ravaged Penrith."

Melwas was still frowning down at the disintegrating mud map. "Why so many cisterns, though? With eighteen acres to provide runoff, surely so many won't be necessary? That's a lot of wall you're talking about, a lot of water, thousands of hogsheads, I'd say."

Emrys Myrddin grinned. "Indeed, you show a fine grasp of the mathematics. It's fortunate for us that the season's been one of the rainiest in memory. Come, let me show you something," Myrddin said, leading them back to the edge of the hill, where workmen had begun repairs to the old fortress wall. They had to squint into the teeth of the wind and shelter their eyes with upraised hands against the slashing rain. "If you were going to besiege this hill, would you put your tents here?" he gestured at the steep, rain-slashed slope. "In the brunt of the wind and rain? Or"—he led them across the summit to the opposite slope, where the wind and rain pummeled their backs—"would you pitch your tents here, in the lee of the hill?"

The lee side of Caer-Badonicus still suffered the effects of wind and rain, but the storm did not rattle so fiercely through the scrub here, nor did the rain fall with such brutal, wind-flung force. Myrddin spoke above the howl of the wind at their backs. "With this kind of weather to contend with—and it shows no sign of clearing up—the Saxons will have to cope with the same conditions we're fighting right now. They'll throw up a ring of men all the way around Caer-Badonicus, don't mistake that, but for any lengthy siege, even a day or two's worth of attacks, they'll want the bulk of their army out of the wind, particularly their sleeping tents. And that slope is the only place they can get it." He pointed downward. "So we prepare a little surprise for them."

Cadorius shot him a startled look. "With the cisterns between the walls?"

Myrddin chuckled. "Indeed. I'll draw up detailed plans to work from tonight. Work can begin at dawn, with more men being added to the effort as they arrive from the other kingdoms."

"I almost pity the Saxons," Cadorius grinned. "Wherever did you come up with such a notion?"

Emrys Myrddin laughed, clapping him across the shoulder. "After you next visit Constantinople, come and ask me again. Now, let's get down off this godforsaken summit, get some hot food into our bellies, and get to work."

Lailoken discovered very quickly that the North Channel is a nightmare to sail across when October's gales sweep in off the North Atlantic with the scream of storm wind in the rigging. The sickening roll and pitch of the ship's hull twisting clear of the wave crests, only to smash down into the black-water troughs, leprous with grey foam, left Lailoken groaning in acute misery. Stinging white spray blasted his face every few moments. Lailoken's entire experience of boats totaled perhaps five or six rides on the occasional flat-bottomed scow of a river ferry, poled across a long, low, relatively shallow stretch of water under civil if not quite genteel conditions. The sailors manning the fishing sloop held very little sympathy for a man whose chief interest was lying in his hammock and wishing the world would hold still long enough for him to quietly die without throwing up his guts one last time.

The bad weather held for two solid days, all the way up the coast past the Mull of Kintyre, the longest peninsula in Scotland. It dogged their heels past Islay Island, where they turned inland to parallel the long Kintyre coast. Irish ships, at least, were nowhere in evidence, their captains and crews doubtless too intelligent to set sail in weather so rough. The way Lailoken felt, he would almost have welcomed the thrust of an honest Irish sword through his gut—at least it would end this Godforsaken, spinning nausea that turned his whole existence unbearable.

Banning was none too pleased about Lailoken's seasickness either, and his guest's scathing, angry disgust added to his utter misery. They lurched and rolled past Jora Island, that long, low strip of land lying opposite the great Irish fort of Dunadd, where the Scotti kings had crowned themselves lords over all the sub-kings of the Irish clans pouring into Dalriada.

Across the heaving, pitching deck of the fishing sloop, Morgana's nephew Medraut stood with wide-braced legs, eagerly watching the coastline slip past as they approached the harbor below Fortress Dunadd. Medraut, disgustingly, had not spent even five minutes seasick, to the hearty approval of the fishermen—who had been well paid with Morgana's gold to run the risk of sailing into Irish waters during bad weather.

"Speak you any Gael?" the captain asked, threading his way across the cluttered deck to Medraut's side.

The boy glanced around. "Nay, not a word, I'm afraid. I've been wondering since we left Galwyddel last night how I'm to communicate with them."

The captain grinned. "The very act of sailing into Dunadd Harbor is communication of a bold sort, lad. They'll respect you, if nothing else."

Aye, Lailoken thought uncharitably, they'll respect us all the way to the gallows. Or do the Irish lop off heads with an axe? Lailoken had very few words of Gael and when he'd asked Banning shortly after setting foot on the trawler, his guest had responded with outrage. Irish Gael? That barbaric tongue? I would sooner have my tongue ripped out and nailed to a wall than ever speak Irish Gael!

Lailoken hoped very fervently, indeed, that the Irish didn't grant Banning his wish.

The sail rattled and shook as the tillerman turned them inland toward the harbor entrance. The boat rolled broadside on to the heavy seas and Lailoken swallowed hard, managing to stuff the nausea back down before thoroughly humiliating himself again. He clutched the edges of the hammock—which the sailors had rigged so he wouldn't, at least, fall overboard while ill—and literally held on during the long, miserable stretch of time it took to round the headland and reach calmer, protected water.

The coastline here was rugged, with a slope of rocky beach above which rose an outcropping of rock. It was there the Irish had built an immense stone fortress, with a commanding view of the harbor and the sea beyond it. The town which huddled at the fortress' feet was a substantial settlement, housing several thousand people, at least, with smoke curling black as peat from the chimneys of low, solidly built cottages. Thatched roofs rustled in the wind, held down with nets of rope weighted in place with heavy rocks at the end of every single strand of rope netting. The heavy grey stones hung down nearly to the ground along the cottage walls, one for every twelve inches or so of roofline, swaying in the storm winds like beads on a rosary. It was a technique the Britons would do well to copy, Lailoken had to admit, earning a derisive snort from Banning.

By the time the fishing boat had crossed Dunadd Harbor, Lailoken managed to drag himself out of the hammock and reach the boat's rail, tottering but on his feet. Medraut glanced briefly his way, then turned his attention back to the shore, where a group of men had begun to gather, fisherfolk, from the look of them, curious about the foolhardy sailors out in the storm. Certainly they weren't armed soldiers, although movement on the road from the fortress suggested that someone had noticed theirs was not an Irish boat and was taking steps to determine just what the boat was and what its crew wanted. Lailoken was still too seasick to be overly alarmed and Medraut merely seemed excited by the whole grand adventure.

They dropped anchor where the water shoaled and when the sail came rattling down, wet and heavy and ponderous as a sow's belly, the sailors threw a rope ladder across the gunwale, down which Medraut skinned, landing in hip-deep water and holding the bottom of the ladder for Lailoken. He swallowed back nausea, muttered to the captain, "Send someone ashore with the gifts, eh?" and limbered himself awkwardly over the side. The seawater was cold, soaking him to the skin as he waded grimly for shore.

"You'd think they'd build a pier, at least," he growled under his breath, prompting a nervous chuckle from Medraut.

The knot of fishermen on the beach had grown to a lively crowd of curious men and boys. A few women had put in an appearance as well, but stayed back from the water's edge, watching from a safe distance. A babble of voices speaking incomprehensible Irish Gaelic deepened Lailoken's uneasiness, but no one had drawn weapons, which was a mercy, particularly since they'd been recognized for what they were. Several voices sent the word racing outward through the crowd: Britons!

A moment later, the crowd parted for new arrivals from the hill fort above the harbor. The newcomers were armed with long swords and shorter, wicked belt knives, but for the moment the blades remained sheathed, their owners more curious than threatened by a handful of Britons very far, indeed, from their home waters. The man in the lead, a stocky fellow with the characteristic blue-black hair and ice-blue eyes of the dark variety of Irishman, looked them up and down, then spat out a question in language that left Lailoken's tongue aching, just hearing it spoken.

Lailoken, as the designated messenger, spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension and said very slowly and clearly, "We speak no Gael. Have you anyone that speaks Brythonic?"

The man frowned, rubbed his heavy black beard thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to a lad at his elbow and issued some sort of instructions that sounded like a cat swallowing its tongue. The boy raced across the beach, pelting up the road toward the fortress. While they waited, everyone on edge and uncertain what would happen next, one of the women came down to the water's edge, handing them thick, dry cloaks to wrap around their sodden clothing. Medraut flashed her a smile of intense, crimson-cheeked thanks, which prompted giggles among the younger girls watching from behind their mothers' skirts.

"They're more like us than I'd ever believed possible," Medraut said in quiet astonishment. "I'd not expected them to make such an offer." The loan was deeply generous and very welcome, as the wind whipping across the harbor drew a foul bit of shivering from both of them.

"Aye," Lailoken was getting his stomach back under some reasonable semblance of control again, "it's rare that an offer to trade goes sour at the beginning. It's what you're offered for your goods—and what you think of their offer—that causes war to break out in little sheltered bays like this one. Pride is a fine thing, so long as it doesn't plunge a man into trouble by the refusal to bend his head. A trader's job is never an easy one."

"Nor a matchmaker's."

"Hah!" Lailoken wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and wished mightily for that drinking skin he'd sampled just before coming aboard. "That's the bloody truth."

Another delegation was descending from the hill fort, headed by a woman this time, who was surrounded by a group of older women and a few men with white in their beards. The younger woman's eyes were a soft blue-green shade, like deep waters of a steepy loch in summer's haze, eyes that were violently alive and intelligent. Her copper-flame hair, caught back in one long plait and held neatly in place by a tubular hair net that glinted with threads of gold, hung down her back like a thick and immensely expensive jeweled serpent from some pagan god's pleasure garden. As she approached, several of the fisherfolk whispered, "Riona the Damhnait!" passing the astonishment back amongst themselves.

Lailoken stared, having picked up just enough Gael at waterfront tavernas to comprehend that much of the conversation out of the general babble of speculating voices. Riona the Bard? The king's own councillor?

Lailoken studied her intently as she approached, wondering whether the king's own councillor might be a good omen, or a sign of trouble. She halted before them and saluted them with a gesture of greeting, which Lailoken and Medraut gave back again, taking care to mimic the formal flourish.

"You are Britons, I see," she said, studying them with long and slow curiosity.

Her Brythonic was not, perhaps, astonishing in its quality, for her command of the language was obviously strained. But it was astonishing, nonetheless, that she spoke it at all. "I am Riona the Damhnait, Druidess to King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, and tutor for Keelin, Dallan mac Dalriada's daughter and heiress, who will one day be queen of the Scots. Why have you come into Dunadd Harbor? Do you seek shelter from yon storm?" She lifted a graceful hand to indicate the low-scudding rainclouds and the squall line even now pouring its way across the long reach of the harbor. The wind picked up as she spoke, rattling sails and flapping cloaks and long-skirted gowns against their owners' knees.

"Aye," Lailoken nodded, "but there are more storms than those which fly above men's heads on the wind and more ways than one of meeting them."

"Speak your meaning, then, and plainly, for I do not know your tongue well enough to translate niceties of phrase."

Medraut, foolishly in Lailoken's opinion, blurted out, "Where did you learn Brythonic so well?"

She measured him with a glance that seemed to find him well-intentioned, if not overly tactful or bright. She favored him with a slight smile. "Britons have visited Irish towns and royal courts a time or two, lengthy visits, for the most part, and often ending unhappily for at least one of the parties involved. It pleased me to learn their language, for one never knows when knowledge of an enemy may help create a friend in time of critical need."

Medraut brightened, since that was precisely what his aunt was hoping to accomplish with Irish alliance, even as Lailoken's stomached knotted painfully. Slaves... Poor British bastards taken off their fishing sloops, dragged from coastal villages and put to work in Irish fields, in Irish workshops as millers and coopers and smiths, all the trades it was cheaper to steal a slave to perform than to pay wages to a craftmaster to produce the same work.

"So," she smiled to remove the worst of the threat from her reminder that they were on very shaky ground, indeed, "what brings you to Dunadd?"

He cleared his throat, summoning his best official voice. "I, Lailoken the Minstrel, bard to the Queen and King of Rheged, bard to the Queen of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, come bearing a private message for the King of Dalriada." He produced Morgana's signet. "I bear the seal of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, given me from the hand of Queen Morgana herself, whose sons will rule Ynys Manaw and Gododdin and whose nephew will soon, if things work out as may be hoped, rule Galwyddel." He turned to the boy and introduced him. "Medraut, nephew of Morgana, Queen of Ynys Manaw, Queen of Galwyddel, who has come to Dalriada seeking alliance."

Despite what must have been excellent training in political affairs, Riona's brows rose in astonishment. "Alliance?" she repeated blankly. "What sort of alliance?"

"Ah," Lailoken smiled, "that is for the king of Dalriada to hear. I am certain he would be pleased to have you translate our generous offer. We bring gifts, as well." He gestured to the fishing sloop. "With permission, they can be brought ashore."

Riona turned to her companions, clearly the Irish equivalent of the Britons' councils of advisors, and spoke rapidly, voice low to prevent it carrying to the curious crowd. A ripple of surprise washed across their faces, then they answered in brief. Riona turned back to Lailoken and Medraut. "We would be pleased to see your gifts and hear your message."

Lailoken turned to call across the water, "Captain, have your men bring the gifts ashore! And our baggage as well, I think?" A swift glance at Riona gave him the hoped-for nod of welcome, since the storm showed no sign of letting up and night was not many minutes away.

A few moments later, several dripping sailors had wrestled ashore a heavy chest, a hogshead of fine wine imported from Rome, a variety of misshapen leather bags containing Medraut's personal effects and gifts for his prospective bride, and a heavy trunk that was Lailoken's personal baggage, in which several bottles of death were layered beneath clothing and a generous amount of ordinary hay, to keep the bottles from shifting or breaking in the rough seas. Banning smiled secretly as the sailors staggered across the beach with their fine gifts, following Riona Damhnait and her retinue across the stony beach and up the access road to Fortress Dunadd.

The fortification had been solidly built, with respectably thick stone walls, although it was nothing compared to the fine Roman forts like Caerleul—doubtless, Banning supposed, the reason the Scotti would never manage to invade further south than Hadrian's Wall. The interior was gloomy, damp, and cold, the walls hung with furs and the floors strewn with rushes cut from the coastal marshlands. Light filtered in from narrow, archer-slit windows and flickered from torches set into brackets, long tapers of wood wrapped with more of the marsh-cut rushes, soaked in oil to burn longer.

The place smelled of cold, damp stone, marsh grass, and rancid fat. An immense hearth along one wall sent heat pouring into one end of the room, supplied by what must have been half a tree blazing cheerfully away. It was near this hearth that a large chair had been placed, hewn from stone and lined with cushions and furs. Beneath the occupant's feet was a curiously carved flagstone in which Lailoken made out the hollowed-out shape of a human footprint.

Ah, he smiled to himself, having been told by Banning—who had, as a young man, visited the ruins of Fortress Dunadd—what he would find beneath the king of Dalriada's foot. The Stone of Destiny, as you called it. The king was gazing at them in considerable curiosity, understandable given their bedraggled, sea-soaked appearance and the sailors at their heels, sweating under their burdens.

Riona Damhnait gave the king a small bow and began to speak. Lailoken composed himself to recall Morgana's offer word for word. King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, listened in attentive silence. Medraut's attention wandered between King Dallan and the girl who stood a little way behind the throne. It was clear that she was Dallan mac Dalriada's daughter, for the likeness was striking—and so was she.

Perhaps sixteen, with an air of innocence about her, oddly paired with an expression in her eyes that spoke of steely strength of will, she was a slender and comely girl, her hair falling in long, chestnut ringlets and waves, most of it caught back in the same kind of jeweled netting Riona Damhnait wore; the ends of the girl's hair swept her knees, while her skin was a fine, clear shade of cream with the faintest blush of roses beneath the surface. Her eyes sparkled like sun-struck water. Medraut couldn't stop staring at her, utterly entranced. Even Lailoken felt the magnetic pull of her beauty.

The king made his answer and Riona turned back to Lailoken and Medraut.

"King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, would hear the message you bear from Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw."

Formalities thus successfully launched, Lailoken began his rendition of Morgana's message. "From Queen Morgana to her brother king of Dalriada," he began as Riona's eyes widened over that startling, opening phrase, "I send offers of alliance, of mutually beneficial trade, of protection from common enemies, of joining our two peoples as one through an alliance of marriage between the heiress of Dalriada and the heir of Galwyddel, my nephew Medraut, son of Marguase, Princess of Galwyddel, now deceased. Galwyddel is my sovereign right to rule or to give to an heir of my choice. I have two sons by Lot Luwddoc of Gododdin, who will inherit Gododdin and Ynys Manaw. Medraut, who has been more son than nephew, I will give Galwyddel to rule as sovereign king, should the treaty of alliance be fairly met by both our councils and serve both kingdoms as greatly as I believe it will."

"This is a custom amongst Britons? To hand kingdoms to whomever they please?" Riona asked, interjecting the question before he could finish reciting the message. It was, he supposed, a fair question to have answered, but he disliked losing the rhythm, once well begun on a recitation. He was a fair minstrel, with his gift of comic bawdiness, but he was not in the same league as this Irish Druidess Riona Damhnait or the greatest Briton Druid ever to live, Artorius' own Emrys Myrddin. He needed all the assistance he could muster, dealing with alliances at this level, and fervently hoped his knees were not shaking.

He cleared his throat, looking longingly at a wine flask, so that the girl behind her father's throne spoke to a servant. Wine was poured and carried to them on a carved wooden platter, rough stuff in ordinary clay cups, but it served wonderfully well for all its metallic burr on the tongue, to wet his throat and warm his quaking innards.

"Aye, it's a grand custom that, keeps the peace in families with proud sons and nephews and daughters looking to be battle queens in their own right, as is Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw."

"You do not name her queen of Gododdin, yet her sons will rule there." Riona waited patiently for the explanation. Medraut started to answer, flushed, and glanced at Lailoken, the properly designated spokesman. He gestured at the lad to continue, for the alliance would sink or swim on how Medraut disported himself in this hall, not on any eloquence Lailoken might muster. If the king's daughter found him repulsive, if the king found him a doltish colt with no hope of ruling much of anything save a household of ill-mannered brats, nothing that Lailoken said would alter the reality—or King Dallan's decision. They'd best know straightaway what sort of lad they would be marrying their heiress to, the sooner the better.

Medraut, catching at least some of Lailoken's train of thought in his rapidly shifting expression, nodded and took a moment to compose himself.

"I, Medraut, nephew to Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, will explain, if it is permitted?" The boy's voice only quavered on a couple of the words. It was a gallant effort, one not lost on Dallan mac Dalriada's daughter, who smiled and blushed prettily in understanding, a smile so radiant Medraut blossomed under her approving regard. He bowed to her father and then to her, then launched into his portion of the explanation.

"My aunt is sovereign queen of two Briton lands, Ynys Manaw from her father Gorlois and Galwyddel from her mother. Her sister Morguase was my mother. When she died, Aunt Morgana raised me with gentle and loving concern for my education and my place in the royal affairs of my family. Morgana married the king of Gododdin and bore him two fine sons, my cousins Gwalchmai and Walgabedius. Gwalchmai is but six years of age and Walgabedius younger still.

"This is critical, for their father, Lot Luwddoc of Gododdin, was killed not yet a fortnight ago fighting Pictish raiders at the northern border with Fortriu. Gwalchmai and Walgabedius are too young to rule the kingdoms they have inherited. Lot Luwddoc's brother Ancelotis has been named king by Gododdin's council until Gwalchmai is of age to rule in his own right. The throne was offered to Morgana, as his widow and mother of his heirs, but she has strong responsibilities in Ynys Manaw and Galwyddel and these are uncertain times. So she has left her sons' inheritance in excellent and capable hands and has turned her attention to her borders on the western coast of Britain."

Riona nodded. "Where Dalriadan Irish have invaded through Galwyddel, albeit striking immediately north." She smiled to acknowledge the high price Irish fighting men had been made to pay at the hands of Briton military strength along that particular border. "I am told the Irish traders sailing the waters between fair Eireland and Dalriada are not above piracy. And the Picts are barbaric trouble for us all."

Medraut bowed. "You grasp our situation well."

Too well, perhaps, given the speculative look in her eyes. Lailoken hastened to interject his own spin on the situation and take the conversation back to Morgana's official offer. "It has occurred to Morgana that catching the Picts between two allied forces would help put an end to this particular blue-tattooed irritant. But there is much more to this offer of alliance, much that is of very great importance to both our peoples, of Britain and of Dalriada—and even of great importance to Eire, as well."

Riona translated all of this to King Dallan, who gazed at them for a long moment through narrowed eyes, then gestured for them to continue the tale they were spinning.

Here it goes, Lailoken took a deep breath, the most important bloody speech of your life... Then he launched once more into Morgana's message.

"You have perhaps heard that the Germanic barbarians of Saxony and Jutland are leaving the continent by the shipload, intent on carving out kingdoms for themselves? Younger sons who have no hope of inheriting a throne, not with the Germanic people's right of firstborn sons to inherit title, throne, land, and the wealth their peasants hand over to the king's keeping. Where, then, do younger sons look for wealth and land and throne? To others' borders.

"Britain's shores are both close and wealthy. With the Romans gone, they believed the Britons to be an easy conquest. Our war leader, Artorius the Dux Bellorum, has proven to them that Briton wolves still have fangs. We have kept them bottled up in the far southeastern corner of our large island. Morgana sees with very clear eyes where the Saxons of Sussex and Wessex will turn for easier plunder, when we next defeat them in war—and that war looms large on our horizon, a matter of only weeks, perhaps.

"When the Saxons are driven back—and we will drive them back, never mistake that outcome—where will these self-anointed Saxon kinglets turn their sword blades? To Eire, King Dallan mac Dalriada, to Eire and her young but already wealthy colony of Dalriada. Morgana would not have war between the Saxons and the Dalriadan Irish with her borders so dangerously close to the war zone, not when alliance between us now can stop such disasters before they have a chance to befall us.

"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.