Cutha's face washed grey with shock. He collapsed back against the wooden wall, shaking violently. The sword slid from unnerved fingers, splashing down beside his father's. His father had just repudiated him before everyone who was likely to matter in Cutha's life. To take back the sword, to be disgraced by its loss, by the loss of the rings of fealty, rings of reward for fine service—such humiliation overbalanced him, left his eyes wide and staring.
Shunned, Stirling warned Ancelotis silently, shunned and broken. He'll be deadlier than any wolverine when that shock wears off. Consumed with hatred, blaming everyone but himself. Watch that bastard closely in future—if the kings of Britain allow him to live.
Ancelotis grunted. If the king of Gododdin has any say in the matter, Cutha will be hanged for a murderer from the nearest oak.
The others—Creoda, his father Cerdic, their few surviving eoldormen and thegns—let their weapons fall in formal surrender. "Bind their hands with rope," Ancelotis said tersely. "Behind them, please. Drag them up to the fortress. We'll want to question them closely—" He broke off, startled, as movement out across the southeastern plain caught his attention. From his vantage point two hundred fifty feet up the hillside, he could see a long way across the open ground to the southeast.
Beyond Artorius and the cataphracti, beyond the straggling lines of the smashed Saxon supply train,beyond the running, panic-stricken Saxon infantry, a living carpet flowed across the plain. Horses at the full gallop. An army's worth of them. Headed straight for Caer-Badonicus. And Ancelotis could not for the life of him figure out whose army it might be. The Saxon kings, following his gaze, turned to peer across the plain.
"Your reinforcements?" Melwas demanded harshly.
King Aelle shook his head, obviously confused. "No. Would to Woden they were, but they are not men under my command. Nor under Cerdic's."
"Then who—?" Ancelotis realized in a lightning flash of utter horror who they must be. "Dear God. Take these men up to the fort and guard them. Archers, to horse, ride with me!"
He kicked his horse into a flat-out run, plunging wildly down the sodden, mud-churned slope. Out on the Salisbury Plain, the fleeing Saxon infantry had stumbled and stalled in their headlong flight from Artorius. The front ranks began to shift direction, running back toward the British lines, scattering to the sides, trying to escape two cavalry charges that rushed toward one another on a direct collision course.
Spurring madly, Stirling and his host caught up with Artorius—who had slowed in open puzzlement—just as the leading edge of Saxons, men who'd fled British steel just moments previously, crashed in amongst them, screaming for mercy, many of them flinging themselves to the ground, prostrate before Artorius' white stallion.
"Oh, dear God," Artorius breathed as Ancelotis reined to a halt beside him.
They could see the approaching army's battle flags. Ancelotis knew those flags, knew them as well as Artorius did. The bottom fell out of Stirling's gut, splashed into the mud at his horse's feet, and tried to crawl away with the wounded, exhausted Saxons. "Ireland!"
Artorius opened his mouth to give the shout to charge, when the Irish cavalcade drew abrupt rein and halted, hundreds of them, just out of javelin distance. For long moments, an eerie, unnerving hush fell across the field of death, with neither side moving. Then a small knot of riders detached themselves from the main body of Irish troops. A white scrap of cloth fluttered in the wet wind as they rode slowly forward, horses dancing sideways in the adrenaline rush of the foreshortened charge. After a tense moment, Stirling could make out five riders, three women and two men, it looked like. A moment longer and they were close enough to recognize faces.
"Morgana!" The word was wrung from Artorius.
He spurred forward, gesturing the cataphracti to wait. Ancelotis was right on his heels.
They met halfway between the two armies, with cowering Saxons lying prone in the mud all around them, desperate to avoid rousing fatal attention. Morgana rode like a woman carved of granite, face pale and haggard with exhaustion and strain. Medraut was with her. Ancelotis wondered at the glow in the boy's eyes, an inner fire he had never before seen in the boy. The other man with them wore Irish insignia of royal rank, as did one of the ladies, a girl barely Medraut's age. Father and daughter, Stirling realized abruptly, tracing similarity of features and proud carriage. The other woman was a quiet, sharp-eyed soul who had the look and demeanor of a highly placed court councillor.
"Greetings, stepbrother," Morgana said quietly, spine straight as a church steeple. "I bring allies of Britain." She gestured with one graceful hand. "King Dallan mac Dalriada. Riona Damhnait, a Druidess of his privy council. Keelin, daughter of Dallan mac Dalriada and wife to Medraut, King of Galwyddel by my lawfully recorded order. He has made the Princess of Dalriada a Queen of Galwyddel, binding our two peoples into one. Before you speak," she lifted a slim hand in a commanding gesture that closed Artorius' lips over the protest balanced there, "know that the Saxons have committed atrocity in Irish-held lands and attempted to shift blame for it onto Britons."
Lailoken...
Stirling found himself wondering where that bastard might be, along with his unseen guest.
Morgana, reiterating the story of poisoned wells at Fortress Dunadd, which he and Artorius already knew, added, "The Dalriadan Irish and their kin from Belfast seek alliance with any force strong enough to hurl Saxon swine into the sea. Dallan mac Dalriada begs the favor of joining their not inconsiderable force to ours to keep both our islands safe from Saxon ravages." Her eyes glowed with fiery pride and a defiance that left Artorius pale and silent. "It would," she murmured, "at the very least, secure much of our northern border and a very large portion of our western seacoast."
Artorius sat blinking for long moments. He finally brought himself sufficiently out of shock to say, "I cannot trust Irish treachery, Morgana."
"Brother," she said gently, "they have already given us the greatest hostage they possess: Keelin, of the royal house of the Scotti clan, last of her father's direct line. They have held Medraut and me in their power for more than a week now, could have killed us and launched an attack against Galwyddel, against Ynys Manaw and Strathclyde, against any Briton kingdom they chose, with our armies distracted by this Saxon menace to the south. They chose, instead, to seek alliance against a common enemy."
Ancelotis and Stirling, both of them deeply curious about Morgana's new allies, studied the face of the Irish king. They saw pride there, strength, and pain, but nothing of treachery. And Keelin—God help, queen of Galwyddel—had reached across to grip Medraut's hand. The look he gave her was so gentle, so protective, Ancelotis could not hold suspicion in his hands. He turned to Artorius.
"This is a matter for the kings and queens of Britain to discuss in council," he said quietly. "If I may suggest it, allow the Irish army to camp here, keeping the Saxons imprisoned between us, and hold a dialogue with King Dallan mac Dalriada and Queen Keelin in the meeting hall at Caer-Badonicus. Would to God Emrys Myrddin were not missing. We could use his guidance."
"Missing?" Artorius asked sharply.
Ancelotis explained.
"I mislike it," the Dux Bellorum muttered. "I mislike it intensely." Ancelotis wasn't entirely certain whether he spoke of Emrys Myrddin's disappearance or his new in-laws. Both, probably.
"Very well, let us see to these wretches' confinement, then seek the council chamber."
Chapter Twenty
Morgana was aware of narrow scrutiny from all sides as she rode through Caer-Badonicus' open gates with Irish kings and high-ranking noblemen at her back. Whispers and muted sounds of shock followed their progress. By the time she swung down from the saddle, she was weary enough that standing was an effort. King Cadorius greeted her with outstretched hands and a kiss on the cheek, a far more gracious welcome than she'd been expecting.
"I will not ask," he murmured, "until council has been convened. Please introduce me to your guests."
The introduction
s went round, formal and stiff and wary on all sides. Curious women and children clustered to stare while Briton soldiers manning the walls, still alert despite the resounding victory, stood ramrod stiff, studiously facing their duty posts; but she could tell just how intently they were listening. Cadorius welcomed the Irish king and his daughter with quiet respect, gesturing Medraut and his wife into the meeting hall. For a long moment, Morgana didn't even want to move. Then Ancelotis came up close behind her shoulder.
What he breathed softly into her ear, for her hearing alone, sent shock and terror skittering through her veins. "Brenna McEgan?"
She lurched around, heart pounding. The muddy ground slid and shook underfoot. The look in Ancelotis' eyes shocked her even more deeply than his words. He was trying to smile.
"Dr. McEgan," he said softly, in English, "I owe you the deepest apology it is possible to offer. Cedric Banning played me for a fool and fouled up both our lives rather spectacularly. Please believe me when I say SAS officers do not appreciate being manipulated into suspecting the wrong party."
Brenna's lips parted, trembling, but no sound emerged past the constriction in her throat.
"Will you answer one question?" he asked softly.
She nodded, still unable to find her voice.
"Were you Cumann Na Mbann?"
Her eyes stung with salt. She nodded, bit her lip. "I watched an Orange bomb blow up my sister, my niece. I was young, so full of rage and hurt... I left them, eventually, when I realized the hate was turning me into the same thing I was fighting. Left for Dublin and made a clean break. I'd no contact with the IRA for years. Until this." She blotted her eyes with shaking hands. "My grandmother was the one who convinced me I was the only one who could get close to him, close enough to find out what his plan was and stop him. I had the professional credentials to join the team.
"I'm convinced Banning engineered the motor crack-up that killed the team members he and I were hired to replace. I found out that he'd arrived just after the accident, chatted up Dr. Beckett, met him at the pub and convinced him to put Banning on the team. It was a good bit more difficult getting me in. I still don't know who pulled all the necessary strings, but the strangest part of it was, at least some of the people who made it possible were Belfast Protestants."
Stirling's brows shot up.
"Aye," she said softly, "it was a bit of a shock. The Orangemen had gone to the Provos to ask their help. Banning had gone wildcat on them, disappeared, vowing to destroy all Britain for what he saw as betrayal. London had vowed the election would take place as scheduled, even when it was clear there'd be a Catholic majority for the voting. He knew that majority would vote for reunification with the Irish Republic, destroying his country. He vowed to destroy Britain for it. He'd gone too far even for the Orange marching societies and paramilitaries and they wanted help finding him."
"Which the Provos did?"
She nodded. "They could have simply shot him or blown up his car, but when they realized what he was after, what the project was all about, both sides realized this was one job neither the Provos nor the Orange paramilitaries wanted publicized. And shooting or blowing up a research scientist in a remote little village in the Scottish Lowlands would've drawn publicity down on everybody's heads."
"So they sent you in to stop him? To kill him?"
She shook her head. "No. To identify him and determine what his plans might be. There was an IRA team waiting for my signal, to let them know I'd learned what I needed—whether or not the project was actually viable, whether or not he actually intended to sabotage it, to try and alter history. I was to signal them, so that if the danger was real they could arrange something that would seem accidental, damaging his car so he collided with a tree, lost his brakes, something that wouldn't be an obvious IRA hit."
The man Brenna had feared would kill her rubbed the back of his neck in a rueful gesture. "And he got the drop on both of us, instead." His eyes went dark, then, as Ancelotis' unseen guest sought to confirm the worst. "And he truly poisoned a whole town in Dalriada?"
Tears stung her eyes again. "I went there, Medraut and I did. With Dallan mac Dalriada and Medraut's bride. I saw with my own eyes what he'd done to Dunadd. He poisoned the wells with botulism toxin."
Stirling nodded. "We found Lailoken's packhorse, trying to track him, after we rode into Galwyddel and heard the news. There were several bottles in the panniers."
"You knew it was Lailoken?"
"Oh, yes. Artorius and I rode for Caer-Birrenswark to try and stop the wedding—"
"How did you know about that?"
Captain Stirling's borrowed lips quirked. "Thaney discovered that a minstrel had forwarded a letter from Covianna Nim to Artorius, a message betraying your plan. Artorius rode out of Caerleul at a dead gallop, without speaking a word. Thaney told me, or rather my host, what had happened. Begged us to stop Artorius, to protect you. Thaney thinks the world of Morgana, you know."
Her eyes misted.
"Anyway, we went tearing after Artorius. We ran slap into a party of soldiers trying to track Lailoken for the murders."
"And Covianna Nim betrayed us to Artorius? She must have heard us talking to Medraut, right after Morgana and I caught him in Ganhumara's arms."
Ancelotis—it was fascinating, watching the shift in the face shared by the king of Gododdin and his host, as one or the other personality came to the fore—just groaned. "Ganhumara?" he cried, adding in Brythonic, "A liaison between those two is the last thing we need!"
"That's been rather thoroughly squashed," Morgana said firmly, also in Brythonic. "Trust me for that much, at least."
One corner of Ancelotis' mouth twitched. "Morgana, you know I trust you implicitly. And I'm coming rapidly to trust you, as well, Dr. McEgan," Stirling added in English, with a twinkle in his eyes.
She smiled wanly. "I'm glad to hear it. Particularly as I could've done away with you ages ago, had I meant you harm."
Stirling groaned this time. "Oh, God, how inept was I?"
"No more so than I, just a bit more, ah, publicly."
"The challenge match with Cutha?"
She chuckled. "According to Morgana, the Britons have a number of highly effective close-combat techniques, but I've seen aikido. It's rather unmistakable."
"So it is."
"I don't suppose Lailoken's been found among the prisoners? The Irish want him rather badly."
"I'll just bet they do. And frankly, I can't imagine a more fitting application of the king's justice. We'll give the order to search the dead and the prisoners. Meanwhile, we've a council of kings and queens to convene." He offered his crooked arm.
Brenna McEgan, who never in her wildest imaginings had considered it possible for friendship to be offered her by an SAS officer, smiled in rueful amazement and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Perhaps—just perhaps—there was hope, after all? If not for their own future, the timeline of their mutual origin, perhaps for this one? She intended to try with all her heart. And for the first time in many, many years, she was no longer alone in the attempt.
* * *
They found Lailoken alive, huddled with the Saxon army in the remains of their washed-out camp. When he was dragged into the council chamber, struggling and covered with mud, the minstrel took one look at Dallan mac Dalriada and screamed, trying violently to free himself. The grim-faced soldiers who'd hauled him up the hill shoved him to his knees. Several princes arrived hard on his heels, out of breath from hurrying up from the battlefield. Artorius gestured them to seats, while studiously ignoring Ganhumara, who sat in stony silence to his left.
"Thank you for arriving so promptly for council," Artorius said quietly. "We have much to discuss. Royal princes, your fathers have deputized you as their official representatives for this battle. The council I have called is very much a part of that battle. What we decide here will affect Britain for the next hundred years."
Stirling glanced from one face to the next, seeing no dismay
, only grim resolution to do what was necessary to make the correct decisions. Even the queens and princesses, many of whom had seen battle firsthand and several of whom had led troops into battle, wore the cold, closed expressions of leaders on whom the lives of thousands of innocents depended. It was a sight Trevor Stirling had never seen before, one that sent chills up his borrowed spine: a room full of world-class leaders, tempered like fine steel by harsh reality, united in purpose, determined to safeguard the interests of their people, their way of life.
And, moreover, to do so through the power of the vote in lawful council. Lailoken's unseen guest, Cedric Banning—world-class terrorist fighting no less urgently to safeguard the interests of his culture—stood in vivid, revolting contrast, a man willing to subvert law, to murder not only thousands of civilians in an "enemy" city, but billions of innocents in the world whose future he had come here to destroy.
Banning's fate would be decided in this council chamber.
By rule of law.
Artorius spoke again. "The Saxons have been defeated. Utterly. Their kings have surrendered and are held prisoner in our custody. This council must decide the terms under which their kingdoms must be surrendered, as well. We have defeated two thousand of their men-at-arms, but thousands more Saxon settlers remain, from Ceint to Caer-Durnac. This council must draw up the terms of how these Saxons are to be ruled—or exiled, sent back to Saxony and Jutland where their grandfathers were born. This council also must decide the future of Briton relations with Ireland and Dalriada."
A low buzz went around the room. Word of the marriage of alliance had spread through the settlement like wildfire. Medraut sat very straight, very proud, with Keelin's hand clasped in his own, claiming her openly with just a touch of defiance in his stare. Keelin, too, sat with chin high, very young, very beautiful, but with a haunting look of grief in her eyes that nothing, not even time, could ever erase. She perhaps didn't realize it, but that wounded pain behind eyes that had seen more death and atrocity than any human being should ever have to witness firsthand, was the most powerful argument anyone could have presented in favor of the alliance she and Medraut were trying to forge.
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