I must consider this notion carefully, Brenna of the Irish. Very carefully.
There being nothing Brenna could do to stop her, and finding it utterly impossible to explain the danger inherent in trying to alter what would be Brenna's past and Morgana's future, she subsided unhappily and tried to recapture her enjoyment of the Roman bath. Morgana, however, atwitch with interest and restless to be dressed and waiting before Cutha arrived, stepped out of the bath, drying herself in a large linen bath sheet as other women arrived to bathe and ready themselves for the Saxons' visit. A few minutes later, gowned and jeweled, Morgana set out in search of her nephew.
It took her several minutes to locate Medraut, whom she expected to find haunting the street outside the royal villa of Strathclyde, which stood at a remove of several yards outside the fortress walls. A veritable horde of boys his age, sons of cataphracti officers and wheelwrights and stable boys, were waiting for first sight of Cutha's arrival, creating a colorful uproar in the village street. Medraut was not, however, anywhere in that street, nor was he inside the villa. A search of the command headquarters back inside the fortress walls also failed to yield him up.
She finally stepped out the back exit of the principium, where the portico led to the baths, and found him at last. Deep in conversation with Ganhumara, who clung to Medraut like a lover, clearly having met him on her way into the bathhouse. Icy rage blasted through Morgana, directed not so much at the lovesick boy as at Ganhumara. The girl used men for her own selfish purposes and discarded them when it suited her, a pattern Morgana had watched with narrow disapproval for several years, even prior to Ganhumara's marriage to Artorius.
"Medraut!"
They broke apart, startled and guilty at being caught. Ganhumara sent a look of utter venom at Morgana while Medraut's face alternately flushed and washed icy pale.
"Aunt?"
"Your place is in the royal villa, nephew, not trysting with"—she ran a wintry glance over Ganhumara—"other men's wives. You disappoint me severely. Go and prepare for Cutha's arrival at once."
He paused, torn between obedience and the desire to say a proper good-bye to Ganhumara. Morgana spat coldly, "Now, Medraut! Or would you prefer to tarry while Saxons butcher the whole of Britain?"
He bolted, visibly stricken. Morgana rounded on Artorius' young wife.
"Your manners and your morals are contemptible! Were your father alive, he would shorten your hair and disown you as a common slattern. Stay away from my nephew, Ganhumara. Seek for your royal heir elsewhere or know my full wrath."
Ganhumara's face washed white with shock. Not the shock of insult, but astonishment that her ploys had not only been correctly interpreted, they had been flung back into her face. Morgana left her gaping, with her fidelity and reputation in tatters, to wonder when the axe would fall on her neck in the form of full disclosure to Artorius. Morgana had no intention of handing her stepbrother such news, not now and perhaps not ever. She loved Artorius far too deeply to wound him with such tidings, particularly on the eve of war. Steps would have to be taken immediately to remove Medraut from further contact with Ganhumara and her wiles, else he would make a fool of himself and plunge them all into civil war with Artorius. The most logical course would be to marry the boy off at once, to a princess of royal blood as far from Ganhumara as could be arranged.
And without a kingdom to offer such a bride, not even a younger daughter with older sisters in line to marry kings would consent to marry the son of a woman executed as a poisoner, with no hope of ruling a kingdom of his own. Not while Morgana's younger son stood in line to inherit Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, just as her elder son would inherit Gododdin. The only answer she could see to that was to give Medraut a portion of Galwyddel or Ynys Manaw and name him king. This was, of course, well within her rights as sovereign queen, a solution other Briton monarchs resorted to with fair frequency, to stop brothers and cousins from feuding.
Unfortunately, to give Medraut a kingship, even a small one, would make him doubly attractive to Ganhumara, who wanted an heir with royal blood in its veins, which Artorius could not provide. Cousin to kings and stepbrother to queens, he was not, himself, of royal descent—a fact Ganhumara had resented from the moment her father had announced the betrothal two years previously. Morgana suspected that poor King Carmelide, beset by seas of difficulties, had married the vixen off at fourteen simply to stop her from ruining both their good names with her skirt-flipping, hot-blooded passions.
That girl was a disaster poised to strike like the headsman's axe.
"Queen Morgana?"
The voice startled her from the shadows of a room just off the corridor which led from the baths back toward the main hall. A man she vaguely recognized as one of the minstrels stepped forward, hat literally in hand as he approached.
"Yes?" she asked, brows furrowed slightly at the interruption.
"I'm that sorry, I am, to have overheard you just now, but I'm thinking I might be able to help."
Morgana's blood ran cold. "And just how might you do that?"
He twisted his Phrygian cap and said softly, "Well, 'tis obvious young Medraut must marry, and soon, to prevent trouble breaking out. I'm thinking it would solve two problems, to seek a marriage of alliance to the north."
Morgana frowned. "Strathclyde? Clinoch has sisters, yes. All younger than he and not yet of age to marry."
The minstrel shook his head. "You mistake my meaning, Queen Morgana. It was farther north, I had in mind. A princess of Dalriada would give us the alliance we must have to secure our northern border while we deal with the Saxons in the south. And marriage alliance with the Irish Scotti clan would be of such political significance, Medraut would think several times before risking war by trysting with Artorius' wife."
Morgana narrowed her eyes while Brenna held her breath. It was a disturbingly attractive solution, one Brenna did not dare influence; she'd done enough damage already, priming the pump that would doubtless make Morgana far more receptive to the minstrel's idea. "And what would you expect by way of reward, minstrel?"
A fleeting smile touched the man's lips. "You need not buy my silence, Queen Morgana, for I have the interest of the Britons at heart. But a man must eat and a queen must have minstrels for her court. I am weary of walking from Strathclyde to Cerniw and back again, playing at every tavern along the way to earn my bread. I have spent this week with the royal minstrels of Rheged and I think they have found no fault with my performances, if you worry on that account. I'll not disgrace your court."
Something about the glitter of the man's eyes sent a chill of warning down Brenna's spine, but Morgana understood only too well that this man's silence would have to be assured. If he remained satisfied with an appointment as royal minstrel of Galwyddel, that was well and good. If not... Morgana was not averse to acting decisively for the protection of Briton interests. Galwyddel possessed many a cliff from which a traitor could be hurled. "You propose to act as go-between?"
The man bowed. "Of course. Who else could travel to Dalriada without raising suspicion? A minstrel is always welcome and comes and goes as he pleases without provoking comment."
"Your name, minstrel?"
"Lailoken, Queen Morgana."
"You will have to put your memory to the test, for I will commit nothing to writing."
Again, he bowed. "Your wisdom is well known."
"Meet me, then, after Cutha's arrival. I will wait for you on the road to Caer-Gretna, half-an-hour's ride by horse beyond the walls of Caerleul, as soon as we have dealt with Cutha and summoned the kings of Britain to council. I'll have no witnesses to any such discussion."