The moment he noticed the animal's illness, he made his apologies to Medraut, hinted that he wished to spend a bit of time with an Irish lass he'd met, and slipped away into the forest that crowded the edge of town, carrying the dog with him. It took the beast several hours to die, in agony. Lailoken watched in rising delight, amazed at the potency of Banning's bottled poison. 'Tis wondrous powerful! he crowed. Banning chuckled. Tonight, we'll drop one bottle down each well in town and press Dallan mac Dalriada for his answer. If he and Keelin come with us, grand. They'll return from Lochmaben to a town filled with death. If they decline the offer, I fear our lovely little princess will not have much time to enjoy her silks.
It was almost a pity to destroy a creature so lovely and innocent.
Almost.
His wife had been just as lovely, and the Irish had gutted her without mercy.
Once the dog had finally died, Lailoken kicked the corpse into a fast-flowing stream, washed his hands in the icy water, and made his way back into town, whistling merrily despite the continuing squalls of rain and wind. As he emerged near the harbor, he caught a glimpse of blue sky far to the west. The storm was breaking up. Better and better. They would leave on the morrow's dawn, whatever answer Dallan mac Dalriada made. He hunted up the captain of the fishing sloop, which still rode proudly at anchor where the water shoaled, and suggested that this would probably be their last night in town, given the break in the weather.
"Aye," the captain nodded, tankard of Irish ale in one hand, a hunk of black Irish bread in the other, "I'd noticed it myself. We'll be ready, come the dawn."
Well pleased, Lailoken made his way up the wind-swept road to the fortress, where he found Medraut fairly dancing with impatience. The boy rushed forward to greet him.
"You've been gone for hours!"
"That I have," Lailoken nodded, winking. "What is it, lad? You're fairly trembling."
"King Dallan has said he will give us his decision tonight! Lailoken, she's lovely! Sweet and intelligent and full of laughter and curiosity."
"Does she like you, lad?"
His eyes shone. "She does. She whispered to me not three hours ago, she'll tell her father so, before the feast tonight. Riona Damhnait supports her in this, I'm sure she does!"
"Well, then, your worries are over, are they not? You're a fine catch for any maiden."
Medraut sighed happily, then exclaimed, "Oh, whatever am I to wear? My best things are wrinkled and musty!" He clapped a hand to his forehead, then plunged away through the fortress gates, hurrying to repair the damage to his wardrobe before appearing in front of the girl's father. Lailoken chuckled aloud, then headed for his own rooms. He had preparations to make as well.
The sun was sinking into the western sea, an immense ball of orange flame balanced on the water, when Lailoken entered the grand hall, where great trestle tables had been set up for the night's feast. As well fed as they'd been on previous nights, this evening's banquet outdid the rest of the week's feasts combined. Lailoken couldn't even put names to most of the dishes offered, with costly sweetmeats vying for space with venison roasts and great haunches of ham from wild boars, roasted ducklings, pastries of mouth-watering variety, and an abundance of ale. So much food, Dallan mac Dalriada must have emptied the fortress larders.
He smiled. The townsfolk wouldn't live long enough to miss the food consumed here tonight. The king's table had been set with shining silver cups and finely carved wooden trenchers. Fresh rushes on the floor added a tang of salt air to the mouth-watering scents rising from the tables. Irish musicians had already begun to play, down in one corner of the hall, since the fortress had no minstrels' gallery—an architectural feature that Banning had halfway expected to find and one that Lailoken had never even heard of, although the notion intrigued him.
Medraut appeared, nervous and resplendent in his finest—and freshly pressed—woolen tunics, plaid trousers, and golden torque of rank, the one given him by Ancelotis to wear while that worthy served as regent king of Gododdin. "Is she here yet?" he asked anxiously, peering through the crowd of Irish nobles which had begun to gather.
"Nay, lad, I've not yet seen her. But then, the king her father isn't here, either, so hold your patience and wait."
He nodded, tugging absently at the hem of his tunic, fidgeting with his belt, fingering the hilt of his sword, worn ceremonially in a silver-inlaid scabbard. He was every inch the wealthy and cultured Briton princeling, about to inherit a kingdom and help himself to a wealthy wife. It amused Lailoken that Medraut had evidently forgotten Ganhumara even existed. Lailoken smiled, toying absently with the strap of the satchel he carried over one shoulder, a satchel carefully filled with ordinary dirt taken from the shore of Galwyddel. Banning had warned him that should the Dalriadan king agree to this alliance, he would be likely to insist upon a certain ceremony for which the Dalriadan kings had become famous. That being so, Lailoken had carefully scooped up the dirt before their departure from Galwyddel's western shore, and carried with it a well-made Briton shoe, to be used at the right moment.
A hush fell across the hall, warning them of Dallan mac Dalriada's appearance. He strolled easily into the room, nodding to the lords and ladies of the nobility, some of whom had evidently journeyed here from other towns, as Lailoken had not seen them before—a sign which boded well for Medraut's hopes and dreams. Somehow, Lailoken could not imagine Dallan summoning the nobility of Dalriada to the fortress, simply to have the Britons imprisoned or enslaved. No, the mood tonight was one of celebration. Medraut's breath caught at the sight of Keelin, strolling with her hand on her father's arm. She wore the silk gown, with her hair netted in jewels, a radiant creature with happiness sparkling in her eyes. She was a girl who saw herself soon to be wed and crowned queen of Galwyddel, or Lailoken was no judge of character.
When the king held up his hand, instantaneous silence fell, even the musicians laying aside their harps and flutes and drums. Dallan mac Dalriada gestured for Medraut and Lailoken to join him at the front of the hall, where he stood with his daughter. Medraut's knees were trembling as they set out, but King Dallan was smiling and Keelin's look of welcome was breathtaking. When they had joined him, bowing slightly to both king and princess, who returned the gesture in kind, Riona Damhnait appeared at Medraut's elbow, to translate as Dallan spoke to the assembly.
"Welcome this night to Dunadd, capital of Dalriada, to join in a celebration of our present joy. You have heard that Britons have come among us, in a gesture of friendship, to offer alliance. We have listened to their offer and considered it most carefully. We are honored by the offer brought to our shores by Prince Medraut, soon to be King of Galwyddel." A buzz ran through the room, since the Dalriadan Irish had learned a very stern lesson about the fighting strength of Galwyddellian Britons. King Dallan mac Dalriada smiled, clearly pleased by that reaction. It was no shabby alliance the Britons offered; Irish fighting men valued the strength of arms in those against whom they had fought and lost. Medraut's offer would give the Irish all of Galwyddel, without another drop of Irish blood spilled. Or so they thought.
"For the past seven-day, we have hosted our Briton guests and have found them courteous, generous, and pleasing in every way. They are, after all, Celts as we are, however different may be our private customs. And they bring word of serious threat to Irish interests, from the shores of Saxony. Even in Dalriada, we have heard the tales of Saxons marauding the eastern and southern shores of our neighbors, the Britons, even harrying our enemies the Picts, to the east of our borders, driving bands of the painted barbarians westward into our farms and forests. The Britons have warned us, very fairly, of Saxon treachery and greedy Saxon eyes looking toward Irish shores and Irish shipping. They think us easy conquest, by comparison to the Britons with their Roman military might and skills at weapons-making."