Even Morgana was affected by the woman's aura of mysterious sensuality. Lessons learned at her mother's knee, Morgana supposed, the need for secrecy about family business spilling into secrecy about everything, and all of it contributing to that aura of allurement. Her unseen guest, puzzled, asked understandably enough, Who is this Covianna Nim, then? Is she someone we must watch?
Oh, aye, Morgana agreed, she'll bear watching, whether your madman or your soldier have anything to do with her business or not. Intrigue and secrecy are as necessary to her as feet are for me.
But what's the secrecy about? If she's untrustworthy...
Morgana almost laughed aloud, converted it to a cough and sipped her wine again. I should sooner trust the great Satan of the Christian church than trust Covianna Nim on any number of matters. But is she a traitor to the Britons? No.
What is she, then? Brenna McEgan wanted to know.
Covianna Nim's family is part of a clan of metallurgists. Smiths who've been hiding their secrets on island smithies in an unbroken line stretching back to the days when Rome had not yet found the means to conquer Britannia. They make the finest weapons in all of Europe, better than the finest swords of the Franks and far superior to the few swords the Saxon lords carry.
Indeed, Covianna Nim herself made the sword Artorius wields in battle. None better exists. She is both healer and swordsmith, of high status in her clan and trusted with the secrets of her family's trade as well as those of the abbot of Glastenning Tor. She and all others at Glastenning, priests and monks included, know how to keep their secrets most effectively. And they've acres of surrounding marshland and treacherous bogs to protect them, and the annual springtime floods that overflow the River Brue. 'Tis not so easy a thing, to enter Glastenning Tor, if its inhabitants don't bid you welcome.
Morgana's guest didn't hold a high opinion of relying on the marshes and tidal lakes, should open warfare break out with the southern Saxons. Is there any sort of army available to Glastenning?
Morgana sighed. None that would serve the purpose, no. The community, if one can call it that, has for centuries consisted of reclusive metallurgists and alchemists. They greeted Joseph of Arimethea sixty-three years after the Christ was born and helped him build his abbey, the first Christian church in Britain. And then quietly went about their business, paying open homage to the new God of the Abbey, while carrying on with the old ways at their iron forges, their goldsmithies and glassmakers' furnaces. They're a bit like my own family, in that regard, Morgana admitted, as we both hail from some of the greatest Druidic lines in Britain, craft masters and healers, poets and artists. Both our families started calling things by varying new names wherever and whenever expedient.
Her guest was impressed. As a survival strategy, it sounds fiendishly effective, Brenna murmured. So the local clergy and the metal smiths discourage casual visitors. Do Saxon merchants come under this heading?
Morgana frowned. Not as much as we should like. The Saxons have an eye to snapping up the finest items our British forges and glassworks and looms can provide, at the lowest possible cost—at the point of a sword, when artisans have refused insulting offers made for their wares.
There was no further opportunity for discussion, as Covianna Nim finished her rounds of the councillors and officers, and undulated in their direction.
"Ancelotis is resting quietly?" she asked, voice a low and sultry purr. It had not set well with her when Morgana had made it clear Covianna's help was neither necessary nor welcome.
"He is," Morgana nodded. "It was fortunate they were so near Caer-Iudeu when the illness struck."
"Indeed," she smiled. "And fortunate to have such skilled healers to look after him."
Morgana bristled silently, more at the tone and the glance from under hooded lashes than the actual words spoken. Covianna flicked the hem of her white robe aside and drew a chair up to the hearth, settling herself immovably into their conversation. She shrugged her long, blonde tresses over one shoulder and began plaiting them into a neat braid with nimble fingers. "I will, of course, journey with Ancelotis all the way to Trapain Law or Caerleul, whichever proves his destination," Covianna smiled, "to be sure he receives the best possible care."
Artorius stepped hurriedly into the conversation before Morgana could devise a rejoinder chilly enough to suit. "A gesture we all appreciate, Covianna Nim, and it looks to be Caerleul, rather than the capital of Gododdin. Your family is well?"
"They are, and thank you for the asking." She glanced briefly at Morgana. "I offer regrets for your sorrow on behalf of my entire family, Morgana. You will ride to Council at Caerleul?"
Morgana inclined her head. "I will. My sons will join me there."
Covianna nodded, apparently satisfied with the jibes she'd already delivered. "I regret your sorrow as well, and I am only too glad of other healers to look after Ancelotis on the journey." She added with a flash of gleaming white teeth, "As it happens, I have been longing for another opportunity to study with Emrys Myrddin, if he will have time for teaching me."
Considering the fool Emrys Myrddin had made of himself the last time Morgana had seen him in Covianna Nim's company, Morgana had no doubt that the Druidic councillor would find the time for such lessons, even if he had to forgo sleep to do so. Indeed, sleep was doubtless the last thing on a man's mind, in close and private company with Covianna Nim.
"I have not seen your nephew, Morgana," Covianna added, glancing around the hall where deadly serious conversations still held sway in every corner. "Is he not with you?"
"Medraut? Indeed, he is."
Artorius put in, "I sent him with instructions to the officers of the cataphracti, to send for Morgana's sons."
"And is the son of Marguase as well as the last time I saw him?"
Morgana stiffened, so utterly infuriated she could not even draw breath to answer.
Artorius had gone white to the lips. "We will not speak of that poisoner in my presence!"
Covianna's eyes widened in shocked alarm.
Artorius struggled visibly to control himself. "She was executed for good reason—and I am not a man given to speaking ill of kinfolk! I will not have her name uttered within my hearing, is that understood, Covianna Nim?"
Covianna returned his blistering gaze with a demure glance that hid more than it revealed. "Forgive me, Artorius," she purred with all the sweet civility of a Highlands wildcat with claws extended, "I intended neither insult nor challenge to your decrees as Dux Bellorum. Marguase was many things to many people. I meant only to ask after her son's health. The boy was young, the last time I saw him."
"He is young still," Morgana said coldly. "But not so young as you might imagine, nor half so arrogant as his mother. I will thank you never to speak to him of my unlamented half sister."
Covianna's blue eyes smoldered. "Of course not, Queen Morgana." She finished off the plait of thick, honey-bright hair and rose with a swirl of white robes. "I will take leave of you for the night. It is a long ride from Caer-Iudeu to Caerleul and we have all lost sleep we can ill afford."