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.
A hush fell across the hall, warning them of Dallan mac Dalriada's appearance. He strolled easily into the room, nodding to the lords and ladies of the nobility, some of whom had evidently journeyed here from other towns, as Lailoken had not seen them before—a sign which boded well for Medraut's hopes and dreams. Somehow, Lailoken could not imagine Dallan summoning the nobility of Dalriada to the fortress, simply to have the Britons imprisoned or enslaved. No, the mood tonight was one of celebration. Medraut's breath caught at the sight of Keelin, strolling with her hand on her father's arm. She wore the silk gown, with her hair netted in jewels, a radiant creature with happiness sparkling in her eyes. She was a girl who saw herself soon to be wed and crowned queen of Galwyddel, or Lailoken was no judge of character.
When the king held up his hand, instantaneous silence fell, even the musicians laying aside their harps and flutes and drums. Dallan mac Dalriada gestured for Medraut and Lailoken to join him at the front of the hall, where he stood with his daughter. Medraut's knees were trembling as they set out, but King Dallan was smiling and Keelin's look of welcome was breathtaking. When they had joined him, bowing slightly to both king and princess, who returned the gesture in kind, Riona Damhnait appeared at Medraut's elbow, to translate as Dallan spoke to the assembly.
"Welcome this night to Dunadd, capital of Dalriada, to join in a celebration of our present joy. You have heard that Britons have come among us, in a gesture of friendship, to offer alliance. We have listened to their offer and considered it most carefully. We are honored by the offer brought to our shores by Prince Medraut, soon to be King of Galwyddel." A buzz ran through the room, since the Dalriadan Irish had learned a very stern lesson about the fighting strength of Galwyddellian Britons. King Dallan mac Dalriada smiled, clearly pleased by that reaction. It was no shabby alliance the Britons offered; Irish fighting men valued the strength of arms in those against whom they had fought and lost. Medraut's offer would give the Irish all of Galwyddel, without another drop of Irish blood spilled. Or so they thought.
"For the past seven-day, we have hosted our Briton guests and have found them courteous, generous, and pleasing in every way. They are, after all, Celts as we are, however different may be our private customs. And they bring word of serious threat to Irish interests, from the
shores of Saxony. Even in Dalriada, we have heard the tales of Saxons marauding the eastern and southern shores of our neighbors, the Britons, even harrying our enemies the Picts, to the east of our borders, driving bands of the painted barbarians westward into our farms and forests. The Britons have warned us, very fairly, of Saxon treachery and greedy Saxon eyes looking toward Irish shores and Irish shipping. They think us easy conquest, by comparison to the Britons with their Roman military might and skills at weapons-making."
The buzz that ran through the great hall this time was shocked and angry. It was an excellent tactic, Lailoken nodded approvingly, hitting the Irish nobility with an insult to their honor. Riona's eyes glittered as the Druidess caught his look and agreed with it.
"The Britons, well aware of the dangers these Saxons pose, have offered alliance against our enemies, both Saxon and Pict. With Britons as allies, we can smash the painted peoples and take the whole of the Highlands, not just the Lowlands we have already wrested from them, and with Britons as allies, our brothers and cousins in Eire will certainly join us when we urge them to make our shores inhospitable to the Saxon scourge.
"It is no meager alliance they offer. Prince Medraut is nephew to Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, lands we have never defeated in war, and she is, herself, sister to the Dux Bellorum, as they call their high king, who conducts their battles and trains their warriors. Morgana's brother is a shrewd man, of whom we have heard much since coming to these shores. All the kings of the Britons send soldiers to him and he leads the Britons to victory after victory.
"Should such a man be our enemy, when he and his sister offer alliance of marriage? They honor us with sending their nephew to us, heir to Galwyddel. I say the time is ripe for bridging the differences with our neighbors to the south. Prince Medraut seeks the hand of Princess Keelin in honorable marriage. I, King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, do formally give my daughter and heiress to Galwyddel's future king, as betrothed bride."
A shout went up, shock and delight and the shrill congratulations of the women. Medraut clasped Dallan's arm in the greeting of equals. Lailoken stepped forward and bowed, saying, "We have heard much of the customs of Dalriada and offer this token of our esteem, in honor of your traditions." He produced the shoe, holding it high for the crowd to see, then carefully poured it full of dirt from the shores of Galwyddel. "If I may be so bold, might it not be fitting to join to this, the earth of Galwyddel, the earth of Dalriada, that you each might set foot upon the commingled lands?"
Another shout went up as Riona translated, although the mere gesture of producing shoe and dirt had signaled exactly what Lailoken intended. Dallan mac Dalriada beamed at them, ordering another shoe to be brought. They carried the shoes of earth to the throne of Dalriada, which sat on the curiously carved flagstone of which Banning had spoken. On it were carvings of a boar, the hollowed-out shape of a human footprint, and lines of Irish ogham script.
Riona and Lailoken handed the earth-filled shoes to Medraut and Keelin, who smiled foolishly at one another, then moved as one to sprinkle dirt into the footprint. First she, then he, placed foot upon the mixed earth, then the king did likewise, joining his daughter's hand with Medraut's. The shout that went up this time rattled the groaning tables, with their load of nuptial feast. It was lovely symbolism, worthy of a bard's saga. Two kingdoms, one land, one people.
Until Artorius found out.
And Lailoken's poison took effect.
He smiled and smiled, and no one but Banning knew why.
* * *
The Lochmaben Stones were eerie by moonlight.
Only one of the stones still stood in the twenty-first century, a ten-ton giant famous throughout modern Galloway. In the sixth century, the entire circle was still complete, eleven massive standing stones, shadows in a moon-bright ring of light. The storms of the previous week had left Morgana worried, having sent her nephew into double danger, but the weather had cleared and this was the first night of the full moon, full of hope and promise and dread. Would they come this night? Had the Irish butchered the lad and his minstrel companion, who might or might not be the Orange terrorist Banning? Would the Irish land in force on the shore below the standing stones and murder her, as well, or carry her into slavery, or sweep across Galwyddel like a scythe?
Was she an utter fool, to have set this in motion?
She had not come alone to the clearing, having ridden out of Caer-Birrenswark in the late afternoon accompanied by Father Auliffe, abbot of Caer-Birrenswark, and his young assistant, the abbey's most capable scribe, telling them only that an important messenger was to come to Lochmaben this night and she might well need their services, did all go according to plan. She had sent them down to the beach to wait, preferring to be alone with her thoughts and worries. One of the few pleasing thoughts that had come to her during the long afternoon and evening was that the harvest had been safely gotten in before the storms descended. A few days sooner with the rains, and Galwyddel would have faced the same disaster striking the south, with crops rotting in the sodden fields. She shivered absently and folded her cloak more firmly about her shoulders, walking the perimeter of the stones to keep herself warm.
An almost superstitious dread filled her as she moved among the ancient stones. Older than Rome, they were, older even than the Britons; they had been standing here beside the sea when her ancestors had first come to these shores. A place of power, this light-filled ring, where echoes of sacred rites eddied across the centuries, vibrating through her bones as she passed each hulking, ancient monolith. She laid a hand against one cold surface and snatched it back again as though burned, almost willing to swear she had felt the cold dead stone buzzing with eerie power beneath her palm.
Brenna McEgan, jittery and uncertain as well, did not argue the point.
It had felt like the stone was buzzing.
"What was this place used for?" Brenna whispered aloud, needing to hear a human voice in this deep well of silence and secure in the knowledge that her whisper would not carry down to the beach, as the wind was blowing steadily in the other direction.
Morgana's answer was also whispered aloud, for the queen shared her jitters. "It is said," she murmured, "that this was a place of worship for the god of youth. Marriages have been held here since Briton Celts first came to these shores, centuries before the Romans. It is also said in my family, all of us Druids in a long, unbroken line, that kings were made in this circle, border disputes settled, and queens betrothed, as well."
"Were you betrothed here?" Brenna asked.
A wave of grief ran through Morgana, prompting Brenna to offer an abject apology.
"Nay, there is no need. In my way, I loved Lot Luwddoc very well, but I am certain of his comfort in the Otherworld. He was a fine father, an excellent king, and an honorable husband. His temper was his greatest failing, but he could be gentle and kind, as well. Yes, I was betrothed to Lot Luwddoc in this circle of standing stones. I was very much younger, then," she added wistfully.
A deeper grief told Brenna that Morgana had borne the king of Gododdin several more children, besides the two sons still living, sons and daughters lost to the fevers and the childhood illnesses that had claimed the lives of as many as half the children born, before the advent of antibiotics and aspirin and other miraculous drugs taken for granted in Brenna's time. Marriage and motherhood had been difficult for Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw. Brenna, who had not yet married, grieved with her.
They had lost count of the number of turns they'd walked around the circle when a glint of moonlight on sail caught Morgana's attention. An instant later, the priest shouted up to her, "Queen Morgana! A ship is rounding the headland!" She picked up her skirts and ran toward the shore for a better look. Yes, it was a sail, the familiar sail of a Briton fishing sloop. And there was another ship with it, a low-slung Irish warship, with moonlight glittering on the shroud lines as they rounded the headland and made sail for the Lochmaben shore. Her heart had begun to pou
nd very hard and her palms were wet against the folds of her cloak. Dear God, she breathed silently, they've come, they've really come with him... But did they come in friendship? Or was Medraut a prisoner aboard the fishing sloop, perhaps forced by an Irish crew to lead them to this trysting place?
We'll know soon enough, Brenna retorted prosaically, even as the priest waiting on the shingle, the elderly abbot who had officiated at Morgana's own betrothal, stared in astonishment. "Queen Morgana, that's an Irish ship! What is the meaning of this?"
"The salvation of Britain, I fervently pray."
The old man's eyes widened and his acolyte's jaw dropped. The abbot sputtered, "You've—you've offered alliance? With the Irish?"
She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Think you there is a better way to guard our western and northern borders in this time of trouble? Yes, I have offered alliance with Dalriada. The alliance of marriage between the royal house of Dalriada and my nephew, to whom I will give Galwyddel. Father Auliffe, alliance now buys us time, precious time to meet the Saxon threat, and ensures that our borders will not be raided by those who are tied to us through the marriage bed. And what better way to send the word of Christ amongst them, than to convert their heiress and send priests north into Dalriada with the holy word of God?"
Abbot Auliffe stared at her a long moment more, then began to laugh, very quietly. "Oh, Morgana, you are ever the shrewd one. Your father would be that proud, he would. What Artorius will say, I shudder to think, but I feel you have the right of it, this time. What better way, indeed? Very well, I will perform the marriage, which is clearly why you asked me here, this night."
She smiled, in a wave of tremendous relief. With the church behind her decision, even Artorius would think twice, protesting it. "Thank you, Father Auliffe. We will have need of your wisdom and the skill of your scribe, for we must also arrange the details of alliance, no small matter."
For King and Country Page 31
