A crowd had gathered at the harbor by the time Dallan mac Dalriada gave orders to drop the anchor stone overboard. He shouted across the water, greeting someone by name. A murmur of surprise ran through the onlookers as the Dalriadan king leaped over the gunwales into hip-deep water, wading ashore to clasp arms with a tall, stocky Irishman wearing a torque of high rank. Brenna listened closely as sailors ran a ladder over the side for the ladies to climb down into a coracle being rowed out to ferry them in.
"What brings you to Belfast?" the tall man was asking. "Trouble, by the look of it."
"Grim trouble indeed, cousin. All Dunadd is dead."
Shock washed white over the tall man's features. "Daghda help us, what's happened? Not plague?"
Dallan mac Dalriada shook his head. "Worse. Saxons."
The Belfast chieftain blinked. "Saxons?"
"Aye, Saxon dogs with treachery behind every false smile. But there is more news even, than Saxon plots against Irish interests." He turned to beckon Morgana, Medraut, and his daughter forward. "You'll remember my daughter?"
"Fondly." He embraced Keelin and kissed her cheek. "You've grown, child, lovelier every time I see you."
Keelin brushed a kiss across his whiskered cheek. "It is good to see you again, Bradaigh mac Art."
Brenna shot an intent glance in Bradaigh mac Art's direction. This was the Iron Age chieftain whose stronghold was still called MacArt's Fort in the twenty-first century? She had little time to ponder it, however, as Dallan mac Dalriada was beginning formal introductions.
"Cousin, my daughter has married this week past, in what may prove the most advantageous marriage in the history of our clan. It is my honor to present King Medraut of Galwyddel, husband to my child, and Queen Morgana of Ynys Manaw, sister to Medraut's late mother."
Bradaigh mac Art's eyes shot wide. He stared from Medraut to Morgana and back to Dallan mac Dalriada. "Have you taken leave of your senses, man?" he cried. "Married her off to a Briton?"
"I thank you for your gracious welcome," Brenna said icily, in near-flawless Gaelic. "I am so pleased that my nephew can lay claim to such well-mannered kinsmen."
A deathly silence fell across the Irish crowd. Bradaigh mac Art's jaw had dropped and even Dallan mac Dalriada started in surprise. Dawning delight shone in Keelin's eyes, then she swung back to face her father's cousin, firmly clasping her husband's hand.
"Your rudeness shames our clan," the girl said in a voice nearly as cold as Brenna's. "When you have recovered a civil tongue, I may be moved to sit beneath your roof!" She switched to Brythonic. "Come, husband, I will not stay on Belfast Beach and be insulted further by my own kinsmen."
She strode straight into the water and Medraut, glaring briefly at Bradaigh mac Art, followed, lifting her out of the waves and wading toward the ladder still hanging over the side of her father's ship. Morgana turned to follow, only to halt at Bradaigh's cry.
"Wait! Please forgive the insult to your honor, Queen Morgana, King Medraut. We have so long been enemies, the news took me by considerable shock."
Morgana swung back around to find the clan chieftain of Belfast holding out his open hand, cheeks stained red with embarrassment. After a moment's pause, Morgana stepped gravely forward to clasp the proffered hand. Calling upon Brenna's reacquired—if somewhat shaky—proficiency in Gaelic, she said, "It is my fondest hope, Bradaigh mac Art, that the sons and daughters of Ireland count Britons as kinsmen and allies from this day onward."
"Alliance does present intriguing possibilities," the tall clan chieftain nodded thoughtfully.
A moment later, Medraut had waded ashore and offered his open hand to Bradaigh. They clasped forearms in the greeting of equals and the Irishman offered apologies, one to Medraut and another to his young cousin Keelin, whose frosty gaze thawed somewhat at his obvious sincerity.
"Come up to the fortress, please, and tell me what's happened at Dunadd, that you've made alliance with Britons and speak of Saxon treachery."
Dallan mac Dalriada explained their grim news as they walked toward the great fortress rising up at the center of the town. Medraut glanced at Morgana and said in a low voice, "I didn't know you spoke Gaelic, Aunt."
Brenna twitched her lips as Morgana replied softly, "There is much you have yet to learn about me, nephew. Be thankful that our new kinsmen will never underestimate us again."
Bradaigh mac Art's hospitality, once stung into motion, proved cordial in every possible manner. The clan chieftain plied them with good Irish ale and steaming platters of roast boar, geese stuffed with apples, and fresh-baked bread, the dark Irish bread Brenna had grown up loving and had missed during the months in Beckett's lab in the Scottish Lowlands.
While they ate, Dallan mac Dalriada explained the monstrous act of destruction wrought by the Saxons' agent, Lailoken. "It is my intention, cousin, to sail with as many men-at-arms as I can raise by sunset tomorrow. All Britain marches to battle against these Saxon dogs. With Queen Morgana's help in securing safe conduct through Briton-held lands, I will lead an Irish army to strike the Saxons' southern flank. We'll take them by surprise and cut off their escape while Artorius and the Briton cataphracti smash them from the north."
Bradaigh tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Where think you this battle will occur?"
Morgana leaned forward to answer. "My brother, Artorius, plans to meet the Saxons at Caer-Badonicus, a fortified hill in the south of Britain. We have left more than enough troops to guard the northern and western borders," she added with a slight smile, "but Artorius will ride south with at least a thousand men under arms, or I very much misjudge Briton fighting strength. And there are many more already at Caer-Badonicus."
"More than a thousand men-at-arms?" Bradaigh echoed, visibly startled.
"Artorius," Morgana nodded, "is Dux Bellorum. Every king in Britain owes him allegiance, supporting my brother's battle plans with their finest troops. The Romans may be gone from Britain, but Britons are still finely organized under Roman structures of command. The Saxons will soon learn this at great cost."
Bradaigh tugged at his lower lip again. "And your request, cousin?" he asked Dallan mac Dalriada.
"Sword arms to increase the fighting strength of Dalriada. How many men can you send with me to drive these Saxons dogs into the sea and drown them?"
"By the son of Beli Mawr, I'll raise a hundred men to send with you by tomorrow night's tide, and fast ships to carry them. And I pledge upon my sacred honor," he added, glancing into Morgana's eyes, "no Irishman within fifty miles of Belfast will raise sword against any son of Britain nor raid British shores for plunder."
"I am glad to hear it. Medraut has already sent word through Galwyddel that the Irish of Dalriada are now their kinsmen and must be accorded the respect rightfully due a king's cousins."
Bradaigh mac Art raised his goblet, finely wrought from silver, in a toast. "To the alliance then, Ireland and Britain joined by blood and friendship—and victory over our mutual enemy, the dogs of Saxony."
The toast was drunk solemnly around the table.
Then Bradaigh mac Art called for runners to be sent out through the countryside, summoning every firstborn male householder to war. Brenna watched with a chill down her spine. It was now far too late to call back what she had set in motion. Then a rueful little smile twitched at her lips. It was, at the very least, a miracle of diplomacy. And a very good beginning.