Beyond the garden lay an open, airy chamber that clearly served the kings of Rheged as throne hall, given the presence of two immense chairs, beautifully carved from oak and decorated with writhing, animal-form Celtic knotwork. Silver and gold leaf on the carvings glittered in the sunlight, which fell like a golden river through the open doors leading from the peristyle garden to the throne room. It was here the leading citizens of Caerleul and most of the northern kings and queens had gathered to wait for Cutha and his Saxon escort. The Britons made a colorful splash of movement against the cool elegance of the Roman room.
Queen Morgana stepped into view from the shadows of an adjoining chamber, a slim and pale figure in black, her hair as glossy as a raven's wing, her eyes shadowed with grief and worry. Gold glinted at her throat and wrists, even her hips, where a delicate girdle of golden links circled her waist. She stood unmoving for a long moment, as icy and silent as a figure carved from basalt. Stirling wished he could find something comforting to say. Ancelotis cleared his throat, also feeling awkward in the face of her grief and the dire political disaster they all faced.
"You bear no ill will, Morgana?"
One corner of her lips twitched. "Ill will, brother of my husband? How should I, when I refused the throne outright when it was offered me? No, you are my first and best choice for Gododdin." She held out a slim hand and he crossed the mosaics quickly, taking the offered hand and kissing her cheek. "You slept well?" she asked worriedly, gazing into his eyes while her fingers sought the pulse at his wrist.
He quirked his own lips in a faint smile of response. "I did. Perhaps better than I should have done."
"Exhaustion," she agreed, "has a way of assisting in such matters."
A sound of voices reached them and Thaney swept into the room, greeting them both with genuine warmth. "Morgana, Ancelotis, there was so little time last night to greet you properly." She gave Morgana a hug that spoke eloquently of the younger woman's feelings. "Please forgive me if I cannot be overly distressed by my father's death," she added, peering anxiously into Morgana's eyes.
"Of course not, child," Morgana smiled, brushing a wisp of hair back from Thaney's brow. "Did you think I would not understand? He tried to murder you. Your son is well?"
Thaney broke into a radiant smile. "He is. And you will be so proud of him, Uncle," she added, turning her attention to Ancelotis. "He rides like the wind and has never taken a fall, although my heart bids fair to choke me when I see him set his mount at some obstacle he is determined to leap."
Ancelotis chuckled. "As I recall, a certain young girl used to do the same, terrifying the wits out of her uncle when she set her mind to something a strong man would have thought twice of attempting."
"Fond uncle," she laughed. "I have missed you."
"And your laughter has been too long absent from Trapain Law. You will be welcome there, as from now."
She touched his cheek with a gentle hand. "As from now, I accept the invitation. But first," and the smile died from her eyes, "we must deal with the Saxons. My husband has gone with Artorius to brief the officers they will dispatch as escort to bring the Saxons into town. They've commanded half-a-hundred cataphracti to greet them, to prevent any mischief Cutha might have planned for their arrival."
"A wise precaution." Morgana nodded gravely.
Artorius, wearing chain-mail armor over a fine tunic and gripping the hilt of his sword, strode into the throne room at that very moment, arriving from the peristyle gardens. His choice of armor, Stirling realized abruptly, was a calculated insult to the Saxons: Your visit is supremely unimportant, was the message that ordinary mail conveyed. So unimportant, I won't even bother to wear my cuirass and battle-dress armor. He paced restively across the mosaics, looking like he hadn't slept for even five minutes, and said tersely, "They're in sight at the edge of town. Meirchion will join us momentarily, for it would not do to give Cutha the impression that we will ride placatingly to meet him, like some trembling virgin bride awaiting her doom."
Ancelotis nodded agreement at the wisdom of that decision.
Young King Clinoch of Strathclyde, pale and silent in his finery, entered the hall, fingers white on the pommel of his own sword, which he gripped the way a younger child might have clutched at a stuffed toy. The boy wore the look of the exhaustion which comes from prolonged stress and chronic lack of sleep. Emrys Myrddin strode into view, querulous blue eyes raking the room with a narrow gaze. He stalked over to Clinoch, speaking to him in a low voice that did not carry. A group of minstrels drifted into the room, touching fingertips to harps and lips to flutes, playing a soft melody that helped soothe Stirling's on-edge nerves. Ancelotis frowned slightly, however, catching sight of one of them.
What? Stirling asked, puzzled.
That fellow in the corner there.
Stirling frowned until he'd spotted the man Ancelotis meant, an eerie experience as Ancelotis moved his eyeballs without Stirling's consenting volition, to center their shared gaze on the individual in question. What about him? Stirling asked.
I had not thought to see him in Caerleul. He was in Caer-Iudeu the day my brother died. He wandered into town a couple of weeks ago, made himself popular with the men of the cataphracti. He made excellent time, to arrive here at the same time as we did, moving by forced march.
Who is he? Stirling asked curiously.
Lailoken, he's called. A minstrel of modest fame, travels from kingdom to kingdom. Has rather a flair for the comical, although I dare say there's little enough to laugh at, these days, and even less, this past week. I wonder how long he's been in Caerleul?
Stirling frowned. If he was in Stirling—er, Caer-Iudeu—the day your brother died, he made damned good time on the road. He must have a fast horse.
If he does, Ancelotis replied, he won it gambling with the soldiers, for he came to Caer-Iudeu on foot. 'Tis the reason I was so surprised to see him here.
Before Stirling could respond, Ganhumara swept into the room. Arrayed in all her finery, which included a flame-colored silk overdress and a great deal of gold, she looked like a well-fed vixen, with her coppery tresses swept up into an elegant, patrician style full of ringlets and wispy tendrils. Her stunning beauty hit Stirling like a fist in the gut, but the opulence of her appearance on this particular morning jarred with a deep sense of impropriety. At the very least, her blazing finery betrayed a certain callous disregard of Morgana and Clinoch's grief.
Ganhumara darted occasional glances toward Morgana, secretive little glances Stirling couldn't interpret, but she looked more frequently toward the young king of Strathclyde. She and Clinoch were nearly matched in age. Doubtless she and the young men of Clinoch's generation shared more in common with one another than with anyone else in their immediate society or this room. Stirling found himself wondering whom Clinoch would marry. For that matter, he wondered whom Medraut would marry and fell to wondering where the lad was, surprised he had not yet put in an appearance. Covianna Nim slipped quietly into the room and swayed her way across the atrium floor to murmur something low in Emrys Myrddin's ear, laughing softly and slipping her arm through his.