"Aye," Lailoken nodded, "but there are more storms than those which fly above men's heads on the wind and more ways than one of meeting them."
"Speak your meaning, then, and plainly, for I do not know your tongue well enough to translate niceties of phrase."
Medraut, foolishly in Lailoken's opinion, blurted out, "Where did you learn Brythonic so well?"
She measured him with a glance that seemed to find him well-intentioned, if not overly tactful or bright. She favored him with a slight smile. "Britons have visited Irish towns and royal courts a time or two, lengthy visits, for the most part, and often ending unhappily for at least one of the parties involved. It pleased me to learn their language, for one never knows when knowledge of an enemy may help create a friend in time of critical need."
Medraut brightened, since that was precisely what his aunt was hoping to accomplish with Irish alliance, even as Lailoken's stomached knotted painfully. Slaves... Poor British bastards taken off their fishing sloops, dragged from coastal villages and put to work in Irish fields, in Irish workshops as millers and coopers and smiths, all the trades it was cheaper to steal a slave to perform than to pay wages to a craftmaster to produce the same work.
"So," she smiled to remove the worst of the threat from her reminder that they were on very shaky ground, indeed, "what brings you to Dunadd?"
He cleared his throat, summoning his best official voice. "I, Lailoken the Minstrel, bard to the Queen and King of Rheged, bard to the Queen of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, come bearing a private message for the King of Dalriada." He produced Morgana's signet. "I bear the seal of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, given me from the hand of Queen Morgana herself, whose sons will rule Ynys Manaw and Gododdin and whose nephew will soon, if things work out as may be hoped, rule Galwyddel." He turned to the boy and introduced him. "Medraut, nephew of Morgana, Queen of Ynys Manaw, Queen of Galwyddel, who has come to Dalriada seeking alliance."
Despite what must have been excellent training in political affairs, Riona's brows rose in astonishment. "Alliance?" she repeated blankly. "What sort of alliance?"
"Ah," Lailoken smiled, "that is for the king of Dalriada to hear. I am certain he would be pleased to have you translate our generous offer. We bring gifts, as well." He gestured to the fishing sloop. "With permission, they can be brought ashore."
Riona turned to her companions, clearly the Irish equivalent of the Britons' councils of advisors, and spoke rapidly, voice low to prevent it carrying to the curious crowd. A ripple of surprise washed across their faces, then they answered in brief. Riona turned back to Lailoken and Medraut. "We would be pleased to see your gifts and hear your message."
Lailoken turned to call across the water, "Captain, have your men bring the gifts ashore! And our baggage as well, I think?" A swift glance at Riona gave him the hoped-for nod of welcome, since the storm showed no sign of letting up and night was not many minutes away.
A few moments later, several dripping sailors had wrestled ashore a heavy chest, a hogshead of fine wine imported from Rome, a variety of misshapen leather bags containing Medraut's personal effects and gifts for his prospective bride, and a heavy trunk that was Lailoken's personal baggage, in which several bottles of death were layered beneath clothing and a generous amount of ordinary hay, to keep the bottles from shifting or breaking in the rough seas. Banning smiled secretly as the sailors staggered across the beach with their fine gifts, following Riona Damhnait and her retinue across the stony beach and up the access road to Fortress Dunadd.
The fortification had been solidly built, with respectably thick stone walls, although it was nothing compared to the fine Roman forts like Caerleul—doubtless, Banning supposed, the reason the Scotti would never manage to invade further south than Hadrian's Wall. The interior was gloomy, damp, and cold, the walls hung with furs and the floors strewn with rushes cut from the coastal marshlands. Light filtered in from narrow, archer-slit windows and flickered from torches set into brackets, long tapers of wood wrapped with more of the marsh-cut rushes, soaked in oil to burn longer.
The place smelled of cold, damp stone, marsh grass, and rancid fat. An immense hearth along one wall sent heat pouring into one end of the room, supplied by what must have been half a tree blazing cheerfully away. It was near this hearth that a large chair had been placed, hewn from stone and lined with cushions and furs. Beneath the occupant's feet was a curiously carved flagstone in which Lailoken made out the hollowed-out shape of a human footprint.
Ah, he smiled to himself, having been told by Banning—who had, as a young man, visited the ruins of Fortress Dunadd—what he would find beneath the king of Dalriada's foot. The Stone of Destiny, as you called it. The king was gazing at them in considerable curiosity, understandable given their bedraggled, sea-soaked appearance and the sailors at their heels, sweating under their burdens.
Riona Damhnait gave the king a small bow and began to speak. Lailoken composed himself to recall Morgana's offer word for word. King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, listened in attentive silence. Medraut's attention wandered between King Dallan and the girl who stood a little way behind the throne. It was clear that she was Dallan mac Dalriada's daughter, for the likeness was striking—and so was she.
Perhaps sixteen, with an air of innocence about her, oddly paired with an expression in her eyes that spoke of steely strength of will, she was a slender and comely girl, her hair falling in long, chestnut ringlets and waves, most of it caught back in the same kind of jeweled netting Riona Damhnait wore; the ends of the girl's hair swept her knees, while her skin was a fine, clear shade of cream with the faintest blush of roses beneath the surface. Her eyes sparkled like sun-struck water. Medraut couldn't stop staring at her, utterly entranced. Even Lailoken felt the magnetic pull of her beauty.
The king made his answer and Riona turned back to Lailoken and Medraut.
"King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, would hear the message you bear from Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw."
Formalities thus successfully launched, Lailoken began his rendition of Morgana's message. "From Queen Morgana to her brother king of Dalriada," he began as Riona's eyes widened over that startling, opening phrase, "I send offers of alliance, of mutually beneficial trade, of protection from common enemies, of joining our two peoples as one through an alliance of marriage between the heiress of Dalriada and the heir of Galwyddel, my nephew Medraut, son of Marguase, Princess of Galwyddel, now deceased. Galwyddel is my sovereign right to rule or to give to an heir of my choice. I have two sons by Lot Luwddoc of Gododdin, who will inherit Gododdin and Ynys Manaw. Medraut, who has been more son than nephew, I will give Galwyddel to rule as sovereign king, should the treaty of alliance be fairly met by both our councils and serve both kingdoms as greatly as I believe it will."
"This is a custom amongst Britons? To hand kingdoms to whomever they please?" Riona asked, interjecting the question before he could finish reciting the message. It was, he supposed, a fair question to have answered, but he disliked losing the rhythm, once well begun on a recitation. He was a fair minstrel, with his gift of comic bawdiness, but he was not in the same league as this Irish Druidess Riona Damhnait or the greatest Briton Druid ever to live, Artorius' own Emrys Myrddin. He needed all the assistance he could muster, dealing with alliances at this level, and fervently hoped his knees were not shaking.