For King & Country (52 page)

"That," he said through clenched teeth, "is for the murders of Princess Iona's entire family at Ynys Weith! Dear friends of mine, married to my own beloved cousins. I leave your fate to
her
discretion, for among us, none is so grievously wronged by your greed than she."

Iona rose with slow dignity, grey eyes as haunted by grief and horror as Queen Keelin's. She stood gazing down at Cerdic for a long time, her face like cut marble, her lips thin and hard. Keelin, at least, still had her father. Iona had lost everyone. Everything. Except herself. Her eyes were chilly as the winter Atlantic, stormy seas clashing and rolling behind those eyes, behind that long, utterly silent gaze. Cerdic flushed, ran icy pale, began to tremble. When she finally spoke, her voice was scarcely a whisper, yet as clear and strange as warped faerie bells in the twisted midnight glen.

"Show him the courtesy he showed to me. Send him naked into the winter marshes to hunt for his survival with nothing but his ragged nails and teeth. Let him eat fish raw from the bones while his hands bleed from the brambles he's pulled up to make a hand-knotted net to trap his wet and scaly dinner in, without so much as a knife to cut the thorny stems. Let him sleep in rotten rushes with the crabs and the mice to nibble at his frozen toes. And send him thus, exiled from human civilization, of which he knows
nothing,
lawfully deprived of all he holds dearest."

Cerdic had begun to tremble.

"Let his daughters and the infant grandchildren playing in his grand hall be taken as hostages. Let him trade places with me for the year I cowered and crawled in those self-same marshes. But grant his loved ones the mercy he failed to grant mine, for I will never demand that his kinsmen be slaughtered without pity, as mine were. Let the kings and queens of Britain decide how they will gift his family, should he
ever
try to leave those marshes. I wash my hands of the House of Cerdic and pray God has yet some mercy to spare in His rage over what you have done."

It was, Stirling realized slowly, while harsh in its demand for justice, still the most humane punishment yet suggested. All the more surprising, given what Iona had so grievously lost. As though reading his mind, Brenna McEgan murmured in a low English whisper, "Good for her. She's refusing to sink to their level. That child has more courage and more compassion than any five men in this room."

He shot her a startled glance, then nodded. She was right. More than right. It was a hopeful sign, one he almost dared believe would prevail. Artorius put the matter to a vote and within moments, Cerdic's fate had been sealed—along with his family's. Cadorius, commander of the besieged defenders at Badon Hill and highest-ranking monarch of the southern kingdoms, gave pronouncement on Cerdic's head.

Staring coldly down at the defeated Briton traitor who had crowned himself king with Saxon gold and treachery, Cadorius said, "You will be stripped of land, rank, title, and possessions. You will be sent into the salt marshes of Dumnonia's Irish-facing coast, away from your people, away from anyone who might give you pity or shelter, to live there by your wits, or die as God wills. If you so choose, you may take your son with you, once this council has carried out his sentence. He may share your exile, to remind you of the blind folly in your own dark hearts. Your children and grandchildren will be brought to Dumnonia, where they will remain my guests. So long as neither of you sets foot outside those marshes again, they will be treated with courtesy and respect. More than this, the kings and queens of Britain will not grant. Unlike God, our mercy has reached its limits. Do not ask for more."

The Saxons were taken away, heads bowed in utter defeat.

Artorius called for mulled wine to be passed round, symbolically washing the bitter taste of vengeance from their mouths before moving to the next item of business. Tension ebbed away and a low murmur of voices broke out as people rose and stretched their legs, strolled in conversation, sipped at the heated wine servants brought in clay pitchers. Covianna Nim brought a goblet of the steaming, spiced beverage to Artorius, smiling as she spoke in a low voice. He chuckled softly and drank with evident thirst. Morgana was frowning at the younger woman, a mixture of worry and hostility in that long, narrow-eyed stare. Ancelotis, alert to the fact that Covianna Nim had been the one to betray Morgana's intention to Artorius, decided to join her conversation with the Dux Bellorum.

"Have you received any word of Emrys Myrddin's whereabouts?" Ancelotis asked as he strolled up, while watching Covianna closely.

Lovely eyes widened slightly. "No, I haven't. I can't understand what's happened to him. He was so eager to return to Caer-Badonicus when he left the Tor, to oversee final preparations here. I fear bandits may have overpowered him. Or Saxon scouting parties."

Ancelotis narrowed his eyes. The likelihood of Saxons sending a reconnaissance party as far as Glastenning Tor was almost nonexistent, given its distance west and north of Caer-Badonicus. And Badon Hill was—so far as anyone had been able to determine—the farthest west and north any Saxon force had penetrated. "Bandits, more likely," he said coolly. "We'll have to scour the countryside for them, burn them out."

She lowered long, ash-blonde lashes, sipping at her own cup of wine. "Yes, we will. A dreadful business."

Something about her, something Stirling couldn't put a finger on any more than Ancelotis could, was raising his hackles, for no reason he could fathom. Perhaps it was only that she had given Artorius that letter, accusing Morgana of treason. Which was, Ancelotis thought darkly, gut tightening down in dread, the next order of business on the council's agenda. And there was almost nothing he could do to protect her—or Brenna McEgan—if this council decided Morgana was also guilty of treason to Britain. Smuggle her out, perhaps, to live with the Irish...

The council reconvened with a shuffling of feet and a refilling of goblets as servants hurried around with more pitchers of wine. When everyone had returned to their seats, Artorius spoke again. "We have among us guests from the north and west, from Dalriada and Belfast, guests who have been as greatly wronged by the Saxons as we have, here in Britain. At our last high council, we debated the wisdom of making contact with the Irish of Dalriada and found ourselves divided on the matter." A brief smile came and went on the Dux Bellorum's deeply gullied face. Listening in surprise, Ancelotis dared to hope for the first time that Artorius might possibly support Morgana in this.

Artorius gestured to the Irish delegation. "Kings and Queens of the Briton High Council, I formally present to you Dallan mac Dalriada, King of the Irish
Scotti
clan, and Queen Keelin, daughter and heiress to Dallan mac Dalriada and bride of Medraut, newly crowned King of Galwyddel."

A stir of surprise ran round the room, as the wild rumors were formally confirmed.

"Riona Damhnait, Druidess to King Dallan mac Dalriada, will translate his greeting."

The Druidess rose gracefully, hair caught back in a jeweled net that scattered light in bright sparkles. "I speak for Dallan mac Dalriada, King of the
Scotri
of Dalriada. Greetings to you, my neighbors and now my kinsmen. The history of our respective peoples has been a violent one, with warfare between us for many generations. Yet we are more like one another than any of us realized, until the coming of the Saxons. This threat touches our hearts deeply, for Saxon treachery has destroyed the capital of Dalriada, four thousand souls murdered by poison poured into the town's wells.

"This creature," she gestured contemptuously toward Lailoken, huddled now along one edge of the room, between his guards, "wormed his way into the confidence of Briton queens and kings, offered himself as go-between in the matter of alliance between Briton Galwyddel and Irish Dalriada. I embraced this alliance with joy, seeing the good it would do all our peoples, Briton and Irish alike, for we all face a rising threat from the Jutland Danes, the Saxons, the Angles from Denmark's Angeln Peninsula, and their cousins of Frisia. I gave my only child, my greatest treasure, in marriage to the king of Galwyddel, to forge an alliance I believed necessary for the safety of both our peoples.

"When this foul poisoner fled," Lailoken withered beneath her cold contempt, trying to cower down through the floor, "betraying Briton and Irish alike, Queen Morgana and King Medraut risked death to warn us of the treachery he had committed. They could have remained silent, could have allowed me to drink from a final, poisoned gift, but rushed to prevent yet more deaths and the senseless blaming of innocents that would surely have occurred, had not their honor driven them to act with greater courage than any I have ever witnessed."

A stir ran through the room, at that, surprise at the candor and the compliments.

The Druidess let the buzz of hushed reaction die down, then continued gravely. "My king, Dallan mac Dalriada says, the murder of four thousand Dalriadan Irish only strengthened my resolve to destroy this Saxon threat to both our peoples. I raised an army from the countryside around Dunadd, sailed for the town of Belfast, where kinsmen joined us to meet these Saxons in battle. And when Artorius' charge scattered the Saxons ahead of him on the plain, we were waiting; Artorius' hammer crushing them against our Irish anvil, preventing their escape. Together, Briton and Irish soldiers kept these Saxons from regrouping elsewhere with a fighting force still capable of waging war."

That point, at least, could not be argued. Stirling had seen it almost at once, so had Ancelotis. Given the look in Artorius' eyes, he could see the truth in it, as well. Without the Irish "anvil" stopping their headlong retreat, the Saxons might well have escaped to regroup elsewhere—making another battle and another after that, for months or years, painfully necessary. Together, they had accomplished something profound.

Riona Damhnait gazed at each of the tables in turn, each of the kings and queens and princes, each of the princesses and royal advisors seated beside and behind them. "We ask only two things of this council. Give this alliance a chance. Honor the pledge these young people have made to one another and to peace between our peoples. Give us a chance to exchange artisans and craftsmen, to send home any Britons who were taken from their homelands while we were enemies, with compensation for them and their families. Give us a chance to marry Irish widows to Briton landsmen, to knit up the damage wrought by war, give us all the chance to build something better in its place. And give us the traitor, Lailoken. I, Dallan mac Dalriada, King of the
Scotti
clan of Dalriada, thank you for the chance to ask these things, and for the hospitality and honor you have shown us."

The Druidess returned to her seat.

For a moment, absolute silence reigned.

The explosion of voices rattled dust from the rafters. Artorius was on his feet, banging the hilt of his sword against the table, shouting for silence. "
Is this the way Britons greet guests and allies?
" he snarled into the babble of angry words. "You shame us, shame the good names of your royal families and clans!"

Mutters finally died away into silence once again. Artorius glared around the room, pinning each and every one of them with an icy stare. Cadorius had the good grace to look troubled. But young Clinoch of Strathclyde was on his feet, literally shaking with rage.

"
Ally ourselves with the butchers of Dalriada?
" the boy spat. "We've fought them across our borders longer than I have been alive! They killed my grandfather's brothers, they've taken our people into slavery, plundered our fishing and trading fleets, and you would ask me to break bread with them? To call them allies?
Kinsmen?
"

Before anyone could answer the boy's vitriolic burst of hatred, Keelin rose to face him, pale to her very lips. She promptly astonished everyone in the room by speaking fluent Brythonic.

"Honored Clinoch, King of Strathclyde, our nearest Briton neighbor, I beg you to remember that I, too, have lost kinsmen in the wars between Strathclyde and Dalriada. My uncles, my grandfathers, both of my own beloved brothers were killed in the fighting. And our fleets have been attacked by Strathclyde's, as well, sometimes with cause, in retribution for raids, but sometimes not. There has been wrong on
both
sides of this war. Yet when Medraut of Galwyddel came to Dunadd and offered alliance, I put aside the grief for my own much-loved brothers. I recognized the great courage it took for him to sail into Dunadd Harbor, to ask for this alliance. I married Medraut, with all the anguish of the past between us, because I believed it was the best, the
only
way, to ensure that no one else from his people or mine
ever
grieves the loss of loved ones in a war that we have the power to stop, now and forever."

Tears were running openly down her cheeks. Medraut, visibly stricken, drew her close, his tenderness and care so open and honest, a low hum ran through the assembly, softening expressions and defusing much of the tension that had tightened so dangerously through the room. Clinoch of Strathclyde stood silently for long moments, jaw clenched as he, too, fought powerful emotion.
Children,
Stirling realized with a pang,
these three passionate souls deciding the fate of all Britain, are mere children.
Clinoch was barely fifteen, Medraut and Keelin no more than sixteen and seventeen. It was, perhaps, only fitting that the future of Britain rested in the grief and pride and courage of her children.

In a gesture that surprised everyone, perhaps except Stirling, Princess Iona of Ynys Weith rose with outstretched hands, clasping Keelin's trembling fingers in her own. "I know the grief you feel, know it to the depth of my heart. The Saxons have wounded us deeply. I, Princess Iona of Ynys Weith, formally greet you as sister."

She embraced the trembling Irishwoman, kissed her cheek, then turned and faced Clinoch of Strathclyde. "Your father is but a few weeks in the ground, Clinoch, but remember that it was not Dalriada who murdered him."