For King & Country (27 page)

Ancelotis bowed formally to his fellow kings and queens. The Dux Bellorum was grinning fit to crack his face and Medraut's glance mirrored hero worship. Gwalchmai's eyes shone like lanterns as he danced in place, ignoring the icy downpour as he celebrated his uncle's victory. Little Walgabedius, confused and too young to understand, nevertheless looked excited as he gazed up at his uncle. Even the young king of Strathclyde wore a stunned and reverent expression. Emrys Myrddin, however, gave him a long, slow frown and Morgana's gaze was as icy as the rain pouring down his back.

She said coldly, "Congratulations on your victory, Ancelotis. It will doubtless speed Cutha on his way to planning vengeance, when we can ill afford invasion. Wear your crown with pride—it may be the last victory we win against the Saxons!"

Lips compressed in white fury, she crowned him with the traditional wreath, which
was
made of oak leaves. The moment the victor's wreath touched his wet hair, a fresh roar rose from the celebrating crowd who could not, happily for most of them, hear what she'd said. Artorius gave him a wink that said,
She'll get over it, man, and it was worth the risk to see that lout put in his place!

Unsure which reaction was the correct—or safest—one, Stirling simply bowed, refused the traditional money pouch, tossing the coins into the ecstatic crowd instead, and descended the steps to mount his horse. He made one victory lap around the arena, accompanied by the tumult of celebration, then exited through the stone starting boxes. He had only one desire, now that the bout was behind him. Stirling wanted that very long, very hot soak in the deepest Roman bath available.

Ancelotis agreed wholeheartedly.

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."