For King & Country (54 page)

"Slowly," she murmured, dribbling the liquid into his mouth.

He grimaced and tightened his grip around poor Keelin's fingers until her hand turned purple, but he kept the bitter stuff down.

"More, now," Morgana soothed. "You need the whole bowlful, brother, and time is critical." She got all of it down him, praised him for holding it in his belly, then added more water to the leaves at the bottom of the bowl, determined to wring as much from each precious batch as possible. While they steeped, longer this time, she gave him an infusion of foxglove to strengthen his heart and calm his pulse, which was thready beneath her seeking fingertips. She watched him so closely that sight and sound of everything else faded away. His color, a ghastly shade of grey, gradually lightened to an ash-white pallor. Violent shudders began to rock through him as she poured the second bowl of Devil's Bane down him. He gulped, shuddered, groaned and got more of it down.

"What—?" Artorius began, voice shockingly weak.

Morgana placed gentle fingertips across his lips. "Hush, brother, you must save all your strength to fight the poison, to give the medicine its best chance to work." She dredged up a smile from somewhere down near her feet, she had to reach down so deeply to find it, and tried—with Brenna McEgan's help—to answer his unvoiced question, to explain what was happening inside his body. "The poison paralyzes, attacking the body's way of communicating with itself. The muscles don't know how to respond to commands from the brain, commands which come down tiny, threadlike fibres all through the body. The brain uses these threads to give commands to the rest of the body. It's these threads the poison attacks, making it impossible to move."

As Brenna spoke, Morgana began to realize this was a subject of far greater complexity than even she, a master healer, understood. Yet Brenna McEgan made it comprehensible, not only to her, but to Artorius. Morgana's step-brother understood exactly what paralysis of an army's communications network meant on the field of battle.
Well done,
Morgana thanked her unseen guest with tears in her eyes.
You've given him something he can focus on, something he can understand, to fight against.

He fought to whisper out one question, anyway. "Is it an antidote?"

She bit one lip, hating the look that came into his eyes, seeing her hesitate. "It's the best I can offer. The best anyone can offer. 'Tis a miracle she had the herb, at all, and I know of nothing else that
could
help, considering what she's given you. What I don't know is how much she's used, how strong it was, how long it's had to work in your system. Here, get another cupful down, stepbrother, and all the water you can drink, to flush the toxins."

Keelin, kneeling beside him to wipe sweat from his face every few moments, whispered, "What can I do to help?"

"You already have helped, child, more than you know." Not just in her care of Artorius, or her quickness to fetch back the charcoal, or even her tenderness with his illness, but she had helped the alliance, as well. She had shown Briton royalty, crowded around the doorway to wait for news, that the alliance really did have a chance. No one watching the girl's concerned care of the Dux Bellorum could continue harboring suspicion against her. There simply wasn't an ounce of guile anywhere in her. The quiet look of pride in Medraut's eyes as he watched his bride brought more tears to Morgana's eyes.

Morgana gave the girl a brief smile. "You can join me in vigil, as well. We must sit with him through the night. Ancelotis, lift him into bed. Help him, Medraut. And someone needs to remove that carrion from my stepbrother's room." She gestured toward Covianna Nim's body, refusing even to look at the remains of a woman who had taken in Marguase's hatred, her craving for power, and used it to destroy, just as Marguase had done so long ago.

She also never slackened her grip on Artorius' pulse, which beat weakly, but with more strength than before, as they shifted him. Despite his efforts to help, the paralysis was horrifyingly apparent, causing Morgana's breath to catch in her throat.
Oh, stepbrother,
she moaned silently, her heart breaking within her breast,
years, it will take, trying to restore your strength, if God wills that you remain with us in this world.
As they lifted and carried him to bed, Keelin snatched aside the blankets on his sleeping cot and Medraut tugged off Artorius' boots, easing his feet beneath the covers. They settled him carefully, slipping off his vomit-stained tunic and trousers, then Morgana pulled blankets and furs up, seating herself beside him and holding his wrist lightly, one finger on the pulse point at all times.

Men arrived to lift Covianna's body, yanking loose Artorius' sword first, wiping it on the dead woman's skirts before carrying her out. Ganhumara arrived as Covianna was dragged outside, staring wide-eyed at the bloodied remains of a woman she had called friend. She then stood slim and proud in the doorway, her hair a copper waterfall around her shoulders, her eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze across her husband.

"Will he live?" she asked coolly.

Morgana flicked a glance upward into her eyes. "How is it that Medraut and Keelin arrived well before you? Artorius is your husband. At least have the decency to act the part of his wife when he lies ill and helpless."

Fire stung the younger woman's cheeks. "
How dare you speak to me that way?
"

Morgana strode across the room and cracked a hand across her face, hard. "
How dare you behave that way?
"

Ganhumara clutched her cheek, eyes wide in shock and pain.

Morgana clenched her fists to stop herself from tearing the other woman's hair out by the roots. "My stepbrother would have done better had he married a common
whore
! Get out. Your presence is neither needed nor desired."

Ganhumara stared into Morgana's eyes, disbelief warring with utter astonishment; then she sent a pleading look toward Medraut, holding out one slender hand.

His mouth twisted in contempt. "I was a fool ever to think you desirable. Take your wiles and your scheming ways out of my sight. And pray to God your husband lives, for if he does not, the victory won today will be erased as though it had never taken place. Think
hard
on how well it would please you to lie in a Saxon's bed. Or bear a Saxon's bastard in your sweet little belly."

Tears flooded Ganhumara's eyes. She uttered a single sob, then turned and fled into the darkness. Morgana watched her go, then hurried back to Artorius. He fumbled weakly for her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered, gripping his fingers tightly and wishing she could unsay everything that had just been said. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

He shook his head slowly, fighting to move his head against the weakness. "She is young," he breathed out sadly, "young and foolish. As we all once were. And she has been as... disappointed in our marriage as I." A sigh shuddered loose. "Don't trouble your heart over her, Morgana. She is my problem. If God permits me to live."

Tears stung Morgana's eyes. "I will stay by your side and
fight
for your life, as long as it takes. Rest now, save your strength. We'll sit with you, I vow it."

He tightened his fingers around hers, then closed his eyes and lay quietly. The night was endless, stretching out cold and bitter toward the small hours of morning. Morgana fed Artorius more of the medicine, praying each time she did so that the poison would do no further damage. Dallan mac Dalriada and Riona Damhnait came to the doorway for a few moments, murmuring in low voices to Keelin, who whispered the news to them, tears streaming down her cheeks. They left quietly, leaving her to sit vigil beside Morgana.

Very few people in the hill fort slept that night. Bonfires were built high and messengers were sent round every hour with word of Artorius' condition. Artorius was one of the few who
did
sleep, resting quietly and lying so still he scarcely seemed to be breathing. With painful slowness, his pulse gradually strengthened beneath Morgana's fingertips. His color improved. The waxen grey tint slowly left his skin, which flushed with a rosier, healthier hue. By dawn, Morgana was certain.

"He's past the crisis," she murmured, leaning against Ancelotis. "He will live."

Word raced through the hill fort, through the camps below, on the plain, where a great shout went up from the assembled armies of Britain. Morgana sent Medraut and Keelin away to bed, reeling on their feet. When they'd gone, Ancelotis murmured, "You're exhausted as well, Morgana. You must get some rest."

"Bring another bed then, and place it beside his. I will not leave him. Not even for a moment."

Ancelotis hesitated. "Tell me truly, Morgana. Will he
recover
?"

She met his eyes, bit one lip. "I don't know. The poison paralyzes, weakens the muscles. It will take time, perhaps a great deal of time, to rebuild his strength, to teach him to use those damaged muscles again."

"How long? How long will you and I need to stay by his side? To... protect these people?"

She could see the worry burning in his eyes, knew that it was Stirling, as much as Ancelotis, who was asking. She phrased the answer in English. "It may take years. I—" She hesitated. "I'm afraid I don't know Arthurian lore very well, never mind the history behind it. Do
you
know how many years were supposed to pass between this battle and Artorius' last one, the battle he was to be killed in?"

Stirling replied, also in English. "From Badon Hill to Camlann? Thirty-five, maybe forty years. And, Brenna, it isn't just the Saxons we need to worry about, getting ready for Camlann. There's more than just the loss of their war leader that led to the Britons' destruction. There's this ruddy volcano that's going to erupt. I read about it on the train, on the way up from London. You've heard about the explosion of Krakatoa in the 1800s, I'm sure? Well, it blew apart in AD 536 or so, as well. So violently, it caused weather disruption like nuclear winter for ten
years.
The crops will fail, Brenna, worldwide. And when that happens, the Briton kingdoms will fall, weakened by starvation and plague."

Brenna's eyes widened. "My God. The
wasteland...
"

He nodded gravely. "If I am still here, thirty-six years from now, I will do everything in my power to make sure they're ready for it." He managed a smile. "They say Lancelot became a wandering hermit, preaching Christianity everywhere he went. I think Ancelotis and I may take up that challenge, when Gwalchmai is old enough to take his throne. And there's much we can do before then, as well. I'd like to spread the word about Joseph and the seven fat and lean cows, that lovely parable about being prepared for famine. I may not have the holy grail to heal the king and bring the land back to life, but I can at least urge these people to build granaries in every town, every village, every hill fort."

She touched his cheek, wonderingly. "You will, too, won't you?" She found herself swallowing hard. "You can't know how very sorry I am, that I didn't meet you a long time ago, Trevor Stirling."

Very, very gently, he kissed her lips. "And you can't know how very glad I am, that I met you when I did. Even if I did spend several weeks thinking you were the enemy."

He waited for the smile that touched her eyes, happy to see it displace some of the terrible bleakness. He sighed then and glanced toward Artorius. "Where will you take him for his rehabilitation?"

"Ynys Manaw. The Nine Ladies who taught me the healing arts will help me care for him." She chuckled. "You know, we Irish call the Isle of Man the 'Apple Isle' in Gaelic."

Very softly, Trevor Stirling began to laugh.

It was the most joyous sound Brenna McEgan had ever heard.

In a laboratory tucked away in the Lowlands of Scotland, an aging, white-haired man stepped out of his car and crossed the graveled car park to a heavy steel door. He slid a card through the reader, pulled the door open, stepped inside. He had not been back to this place in many, many years, but the sight which waited for him beyond the bustle of technicians, the scientists and scholars working under close military supervision, brought painful memories rushing back.

There had once been three bodies lying in the quiet little transfer room, hooked into the computers that had sent their minds plunging back through the centuries. Cedric Banning was dead, long since. He had died within weeks of his departure, in fact, suffering a massive coronary and stroke that killed him almost instantly. Ogilvie had not mourned Banning's death. The information they had dug up on his background had turned Ogilvie grey with cold horror. No, he would never mourn that one's death.

But Brenna McEgan and Trevor Stirling...

When Colonel Ogilvie stepped into the transfer room, saw them lying there, still as death, their hair greyed, their faces wrinkled with age, muscles wasted from nearly four decades of coma, tears came to his eyes. They had not come home. Not even when the computers had finally been shut down, a year after their departure. Time had fractured, so the scientists had told him forty years previously, spawning a new timeline in which they were trapped, leaving their bodies in this timeline, to slowly age without them.

Ogilvie stood silent for a long time, just looking at them. The uniform Stirling's body still wore had been decorated, long ago, with a Victoria Cross, an honor Ogilvie himself had placed with trembling hands. Another Victoria Cross shone beneath Brenna McEgan's long, greying hair, awarded by special act of Parliament at the request of His Majesty. No woman, no man could have risked more for king, for country.

Very slowly, with tears in his eyes, Ogilvie saluted them.

Then he turned to leave, his last mission before retirement finally completed.

Wherever they were, he wished them well.

Document ID: 22c5258a-3cde-4bac-8a71-0a8bcf3cceca

Document version: 1

Document creation date: 30.05.2008

Created using: ConvertLIT, Lit2FB2 software

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