"No, no, it isn't that, it's Artorius!"
Ancelotis went deadly still. "What news of Artorius?"
"Come inside, please, I don't wish the whole town to hear."
Dreading what he would hear, Ancelotis followed his niece into the royal villa, to a private little room off the atrium and closed the door. She stilled shaking hands against her skirts and said, "He's gone. Rode out of Caerleul in the worst rage I have ever seen come over him. Didn't even take the cataphracti with him."
"But—" Ancelotis protested, then shut up at the look in his niece's eyes. "Tell me the rest."
"It isn't Ganhumara, I know that much. She was as mystified as Meirchion and I when he went tearing out of the city. She's gone home to Caer-Guendoleu to raise troops for Caer-Badonicus. I..." She bit her lip, hesitating, then plunged on. "I asked the servants to tell me anything that might explain what had happened, and one of the serving women said a minstrel had been seen giving him a letter. When I questioned the minstrel, he said he didn't know what was in the letter, only that Covianna Nim had charged him to hold it until the next full moon, then deliver it to Artorius, which he did.
"He said Artorius went white as ice when he read it, then strode away shouting for his horse. The minstrel left Caerleul immediately after, riding south. I am sure he's taking some horrid message to Covianna Nim; I can't prove it, but I know it, I feel it here." She touched her heart.
"Which direction did Artorius ride?" Ancelotis asked quietly, already dreading the answer.
"Toward Caer-Birrenswark," Thaney whispered. "Ancelotis, Covianna Nim hates Morgana! I've seen it in her eyes when she thought no one was watching her. I don't know what she's told Artorius with her dirty little letter, but I don't trust that witch from Glastenning Tor, I never have. Artorius trusts you, Uncle, can't you ride after him and do something? I owe Morgana my life! I can't—won't—believe evil or treachery of her!" Tears were rolling down her cheeks and her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs.
Ancelotis gathered his niece into his arms and let her weep against his shoulder, stroking her hair soothingly. His mind, however, was racing, and so was Stirling's. What could Morgana possibly have done, to upset Artorius so greatly? At the High Council of Kings, she had spoken strongly in favor of alliance with the Irish at Dalriada, as a way to buy time and secure at least one border while Briton forces raced south to meet the Saxon threat. It was entirely possible that Morgana, strong-willed and shrewd as she was, could have engineered an alliance on her own, without informing Artorius.
And if Brenna McEgan were involved, if she were, in fact, a guest in Morgana's mind, an alliance with the Irish would be the first thing she considered, possibly talking Morgana into it with glib Irish persuasion. Certainly, it would be the simplest way to open the northern border to Irish armies the moment Artorius went south with the combined military strength of the northern kingdoms. It was a perfect opportunity for an IRA terrorist to smash the British kingdoms and change history in favor of the Irish. Where his potential ally, Banning, might be, Stirling had not an inkling, but he was very much afraid he'd just located Brenna McEgan. How, he wondered, would Morgana arrange such an alliance? What could she offer that would interest Dalriada?
"Where," Ancelotis asked abruptly, "is Medraut?"
Thaney looked up, startled. "Medraut? Why, he's with Morgana, of course. They rode together for Caer-Birrenswark."
"Alone?"
"No, they rode with armed retainers, of course. Her sons rode with her, but I heard her telling their guards that she would turn west for Caer-Birrenswark while her sons would ride north and turn east for Trapain Law and home." She frowned slightly. "And one of the minstrels went with her. Lailoken, I think he's called. Spent a lot of money buying jewelry and gowns and wine and pack animals to carry them."
If Morgana were sending her sons home to Trapain Law, chances were good she was up to something she didn't want the children embroiled in, which deepened the cold in his belly. It was just possible he'd found Banning, as well. Lailoken had been in the environs of Caer-Iudeu, after all, and so was a good candidate for hosting someone's mind, and he couldn't think of any other reason a simple minstrel would buy up a lot of trade goods with money he hadn't possessed two weeks previously. He must be involved, somehow, in Morgana's plan to arrange an Irish alliance. If Banning were a guest in Lailoken's mind, he might be well placed to foil McEgan's schemes. Stirling couldn't bank on it, however. There was only one response possible. Ride after them and do whatever was necessary to stop McEgan from changing history.
It was a measure of how greatly he had changed, these past few days, that the thought of harming Morgana sickened him, and the desire to protect her, to protect Artorius, to keep these people from being destroyed by Saxons or Irish or even by one another, burned fiercely in his heart. He had found more to admire and respect in the sixth century than he had in the twenty-first, which he was sworn to protect. His duty was to king and country. The trouble was, he was no longer entirely sure which king commanded his loyalty.
Or which country.
He had not yet found an answer to that dilemma when he mounted his horse again and headed grimly north, to try and stop disaster.
The storm lasted a full week, howling across the distant shores of Jora Island to smash into Fortress Dunadd, perched stolidly above its grey-water harbor. It was a merry week, considering. King Dallan was a congenial host, delighted by the gift of fine Roman wine and eager to show his own kingdom's wealth to best advantage. Princess Keelin was a vision in the lavender silk gown, distracting everything male within viewing distance of her. She and Medraut spent carefully chaperoned afternoons playing silly games and talking of everything from inconsequentials to privately held dreams for the future.
Lailoken watched and listened, nodded and smiled to himself, assigned the role of male chaperone, just as Riona Damhnait had been given the role of female chaperone: part companion, part tutor, part servant. Only in Riona's case, the servant was a royal Druid and a very shrewd judge of character. Lailoken was exceedingly careful in her presence, lest he betray his own and Banning's seething hatred of everything Irish.
The young potential couple, aided by Keelin's grasp of the Brythonic language, got on famously, boding well for the future of the alliance. At least, it would have if alliance had also been on Lailoken's agenda. He made it a point to become friendly with the soldiers who patrolled the fortress walls and village streets at night, playing his harp and flute and plying them with good Roman wine and more ordinary Celtic mead and ale, which solved many a problem of translation—alcohol, music, and laughter being universals of human expression. He got to know the soldiers well and, more importantly, got to know the timing of their rounds, down to the minute. He located the wells which supplied the fortress and the town, noted their positions and when the patrols of the soldiers took them close to those wells and when they didn't.
And every night, Lailoken broke open one of his foul bottles, mouth and nose carefully masked, hands carefully gloved, and poured a bit of the filth from it over a bit of fish or boiled beef, which he gave to one of the many dogs that roamed the fortress and the town, always a different dog, to be certain that he wasn't witnessing the effects of cumulative poisoning, but rather the effects of accumulating potency. It took the full week they spent in Dunadd before he got the results he had been waiting so patiently to witness. A brindle bitch he had singled out some twelve hours previously died near noon their seventh day in the town, vomiting, wracked with convulsions, and progressively paralyzed.