Morgana, calm and practical, said, Tell me more of this soldier, Brenna McEgan.
How to explain the British SAS? She took a deep, metaphorical breath. He and many like him were sent to my homeland to keep the peace. It didn't work, she added bitterly, for the Irish have memories that stretch back centuries and we never forgive or forget a wrong. From what little I've seen of this man, he is honorable, intelligent, dedicated to his mission. He's an officer, used to command, a formidable ally and dangerous enemy.
Morgana gave a slight nod, startling Brenna with the sensation of having someone else move her body without her conscious volition. How is he called, this man we must ensure becomes our ally?
Brenna's lips twitched into a fleeting smile, encouraged by the cool competence of that response. Trevor Stirling, Captain in the SAS. Ah, Special Air Service is what that means. When Morgana evinced an understandable confusion over the meaning of that name, she added, They are an elite group of men with advanced training in the art of warfare.
Ah. That is precisely what we shall need.
Brenna found herself grinning, despite the seriousness of her predicament. Then, curious about her surroundings—for the room was as black as the inside of a Paisleyite's heart—she tried to sit up, which took her three shaken attempts. A mass of long, unbound hair cascaded down her back, heavy and luxuriant, puddling like rainwater around her hips. She wore what felt like linen robes. A heavy band of cold metal circled her neck, the ends meeting in the hollow of her throat. She could see neither the outlines of windows nor the thin thread of light from a doorway. Brenna gulped hard. Was her hostess blind? A chuckle from Morgana rumbled through their shared mind, then a powerful urge to grope with both hands took control and sent her fingertips seeking across what must have been a low table. She found two small, hard objects, which her hands—clearly under Morgana's direction—picked up on their own.
She struck them together rapidly, with a scraping motion. Sparks danced in the blackness and momentary giddiness swept through her. She was not, at least, blind. She struck more sparks and, this time, some landed in a dry substance which crackled and briefly flared into brilliance. She blew gently and the flames took hold, revealing a small mound of dried moss in a pottery bowl, a sort of archaic tinderbox arrangement. She spotted an oil lamp of very ancient design, made of rough-fired ceramics and looking like it had recently been dug from the nearest archaeological treasure hunt. Brenna carefully lifted the burning moss and used the flame to catch the lamp's wick alight.
She then blew out the blazing moss to conserve it for another night and sat for long moments, just gazing at that disturbingly antiquated clay lamp, which cast a soft light into the room. Other disturbing details impinged upon her awareness. The room was small, with plastered walls which had been decorated with distinctive frescoes. The style was utterly and convincingly Roman—birds and gardens and architectural forms, mysterious female figures performing some religious ritual which involved wine and birds and dancing. She could almost hear the music from the painted pipes and lyres, while wisps of smoke rose from painted braziers decorated with garlands of flowers. The floor was a beautifully worked mosaic with a mythological theme, Ceres and Proserpine, it looked like. An incongruous and jarring note was struck when she glimpsed a small crucifix mounted on the wall amidst the riot of pagan celebration.
"Where am I?" she whispered aloud.
The whisper of an answer floated up from Morgana's portion of their shared mind. Caer-Iudeu, of course...
She was still puzzling it out when the door flew open and a young man flung himself into the room. "Aunt Morgana! Please, you must come at once!" The boy's voice was ragged with distress. "It's Artorius and Uncle Ancelotis—they've come with dreadful tidings. Lot Luwddoc is dead from fighting Picts just across the border and Ancelotis has collapsed, riding into Caer-Iudeu!"
Blood drained from Morgana's face in a disastrous, icy flood. "No..." The sound came out strangled, a cry of protest and fear as Morgana swayed, dizzy and nearly collapsing from shock. Brenna realized with a flood of pity and sudden shared grief that Lot Luwddoc was Morgana's husband. To give the boy credit, Morgana's nephew splashed wine into a cup from an earthenware jug beside the oil lamp, and held it gently to her lips. Morgana leaned against the boy, fingers clenched around his arm, breath coming in shallow gasps that were not quite sobs, while she fought for control. She sipped at the wine, eyes streaming and hands trembling. Her next words astonished Brenna.
"The Saxons will take advantage of our disarray; dear God, Medraut, there could be no worse time to lose your uncle. We can afford to show no weakness to the Saxons, or they will strike like jackals in the night, grinding us between the hammer of their swords and the anvil of invading Picts."
To think first of her people, at a time like this...
Yet the pain of her loss burned in their shared heart, brought into even sharper focus by the helpless clench of her fingers around her nephew's arm. And somewhere farther down the worn stones of the road she and Medraut had been traveling—a Roman road, Brenna realized, cutting across the Scottish hills—Morgana had a son who would be king. Her fear for the young boy's safety, his and his younger brother's, burned nearly as brightly as the grief and twice as hot. Brenna's heart went out to her, along with a large dollop of respect for the grieving queen.
"Aunt," Medraut said quietly, but with a note of urgency, "Ancelotis is ill. He collapsed on the road into Caer-Iudeu, trying to bring the king's body home for burial. By luck, Covianna Nim is in the fortress—"
"Covianna Nim?" Morgana echoed, so shocked, she momentarily forgot the rest of the dire news. "What in Brigantia's name is Covianna Nim doing in Gododdin? Her home is Glastenning Tor, closer to Caer-Lundein than we are to the Firth of Forth! It must be well above four hundred miles from Caer-Iudeu to Glastenning Tor!"
Medraut nodded, still ash-pale in the light from the oil lamp. "Prince Creoda of Wessex asked the abbot of Glastenning Abbey to send a message to Artorius, bidding him meet Creoda and Prince Cutha of Sussex at Caerleul, to discuss matters critical to Britain's future. That's why Artorius rode for Gododdin a day ahead of us, trying to reach Lot and Ancelotis before Cutha and Creoda can arrive in Rheged. He's calling for a council of the kings of the north. Covianna Nim rode north to give Artorius the message. And she insisted on coming to Gododdin, as well. So," he added with a flush rising to his cheeks, "did Queen Ganhumara. They're both here."
And like to be scratching one another blind, I wouldn't wonder, Morgana snorted silently, apparently not wanting to share that opinion with her young nephew. "So, it's Covianna Nim's thought to treat Ancelotis' wounds?"
Medraut nodded. "She has studied, Aunt, at Glastenning Tor, even if she hasn't the training you had from the Nine Ladies of Ynys Manaw."
Morgana had swung her feet out of bed, was hunting for soft leather shoes. "A rat may train with the Nine Ladies of Ynys Manaw, dear nephew, but if it speaks not a human tongue in its little rat's mouth nor hears a human's sense with its little rat's ears, then its training consists of nine years of gibberish spouted in its presence and at the end of those nine long years, all you've to show for it is a very greatly talked-at, white-bearded, old and useless rat."
Medraut widened his eyes, gulped, and wisely, Brenna thought, considering her hostess' current mood, held his opinions to himself. Morgana drew on her outer robes against the frosty chill of the air. "Do not mistake me, lad. And fetch my satchel, please, Medraut, from the baggage there." She nodded toward a pile of cloth satchels and leather cases Brenna hadn't noticed before. "I do not hate the girl, nor even seriously dislike her, for all that she's copied the serpents themselves for the skill of weaving words with their tongues. It is only that the hour is late and the shock very dreadful, and the work that must be done this night may be worse, yet. I'll not sleep the night, as it is, and Covianna Nim simply hasn't the skills I do. She may pull the occasional splinter from some monk's holy backside—"