Old men will be fools, Ancelotis snorted silently, observing the interchange between Myrddin and his much younger acolyte. And there's another trouble we could have done without, Ancelotis added sourly, watching Ganhumara insinuate herself into Clinoch's company. The matter of Clinoch's betrothal and marriage.Clan chieftains and kings from Dalriada to Cornwall will try to foist their awkward daughters on the lad. The Saxons and the Irish would both pay handsomely for the opportunity to marry into the royal house of Strathclyde and claim its throne legitimately. And Ganhumara will be even more trouble, for all that she's married to Artorius.
A young boy dressed as a servant burst through the doors from the peristyle garden, gasping, "They're here! The Saxons are here!"
Clinoch went another shade whiter, which Stirling wouldn't have believed possible, then the boy crossed the mosaics quickly to stand beside Rheged's queen. Morgana moved to Clinoch's side, giving Ganhumara a hard, cold look until the younger queen moved away, clearly piqued and not caring to instigate a public scene. Thaney seated herself in the throne farthest from the door as Stirling wondered silently, Where's Rheged's king? He was unsure where he should stand and opted to stay where he was, near the entryway from the garden.
Meirchion is doubtless up to his usual tricks, I should imagine, Ancelotis replied. Thaney picked a crafty one, when she defied Lot Luwddoc's will. Ancelotis didn't dispute Stirling's choice of vantage points near the door, either, although the king of Gododdin did wrap one hand around the pommel of his sword, a seemingly casual stance betrayed by the tension Stirling could feel in their shared grip. A moment later, the Saxons brushed arrogantly past the servants who held the doors leading from the colonnaded hall out to the peristyle garden.
It didn't take much guesswork to spot Cutha. He was younger than the men of his escort, a cocksure mid-twenties at most, heavy boned and taller than anyone save Emrys Myrddin. Young Clinoch looked like the child he was, by comparison. Long blond hair and a square-cut, Germanic face marked Cutha as the Teutonic prince he claimed to be. Cold blue eyes glittered like chips of ice. Muscles bunched along his jaw spoke of a certain level of discomfort. A barbarian's response, no doubt, to that long walk through rooms calculated to flaunt wealth and power, all the while under the watchful, hostile eyes of servants, courtiers, soldiers, even the Roman statues that stood like sentinels, glaring blindly in his direction. Stirling had felt the effect himself, and he was far less susceptible than an illiterate Saxon soldier would be. Particularly one whose father had won a throne at the point of a sword, rising from obscurity in a land where civilization was something other people possessed and penniless warriors longed to steal for themselves.
Cutha's dismissive glance at Ancelotis as the Saxon strode through the doorway into the throne room sent the hairs on the nape of Stirling's neck bristling. Aye, Ancelotis growled silently, a mannerless heathen, well schooled in testing a man's temper with calculated and subtle insults. The Saxons have made an art form of discourtesy.
Unlike the men of his bodyguard, who wore leather tunics to which iron rings or overlapping metal plates had been sewn, Cutha wore a heavy chain-mail shirt which fell just short of his waist. Cutha's conical helmet bore a rim of iron around the bottom edge, and two arches of iron met at the crown. The spaces in between sported thick horn plates. An iron boar covered with gold leaf had been welded at the top, strengthening the helmet as well as decorating it. An iron noseguard added to the young man's fierce appearance. Bindings made from linen sewn to leather wrapped his calves from ankle to knee, fairly useless as greaves, but effective at keeping the bottoms of his trousers from catching on things that might snag or trip him up.
In his wake came another young man, thickset and short and flushed from exertion or nerves or both. Like Cutha, he wore sword and ornately inlaid wooden scabbard through a slit in the side of a mail shirt. Unlike Cutha, who carried a war axe with a surprisingly narrow cutting surface, this second young man wore no other weaponry. The men of their bodyguard wore axes, but not swords, and carried long thrusting spears with ash-wood hafts a good five feet long. The spears ended in bristling iron points. Circular wooden shields with iron-bound rims and cone-shaped bosses at the center, brightly painted in pagan designs, made for a glittering, barbaric display. Cutha's guards were staring, goggle-eyed, at the display of wealth on every side.
Cutha stalked toward Thaney and the empty throne beside her, allowing a contemptuous glance to slide across Clinoch's beardless face without even acknowledging the boy's presence. Clinoch stiffened, but he did not say anything, neither in anger nor in nervous fear. He simply glared at his enemy with a look that promised blood. If Cutha noticed, he gave no outward sign.
"Queen Thaney," the Saxon said as he halted several paces short of the twin thrones. He sketched a perfunctory bow which was nearly as insulting as his tone. "I would speak with your husband on important matters that touch your kingdom."
Thaney, cool as a winter sky, didn't even bother to return the insulting bow, not even inclining her head in greeting. "You will speak your business with me, if you seek to discuss Rheged's business. Unlike your Saxon sows, Briton queens are fully capable of ruling. Particularly when mere Saxons come calling."
Cutha flushed a dull red against the blond hair which stirred in the cold breeze drifting in through the peristyle garden's open doors. Behind him, Prince Creoda of Wessex, a Briton traitor Ancelotis would have spat on were they in Gododdin, paled so disastrously, Stirling wondered that he didn't keel over on the spot.
Thaney, eyes cold and voice chilly, asked, "What is your business in our kingdom, Saxon? Why have you demanded a place in Rheged's council, as though you were Briton born, not an invader with pretensions to royal blood?" Her glance raked Creoda, tarring him with the same brush. The insult scored blood with Creoda, at least, whose face darkened in a flush of anger and embarrassment.
Cutha's mouth twitched in feigned—or perhaps real—amusement. "Alliance, Queen Thaney. Profitable alliance against mutual enemies."
What mutual enemies? Stirling wanted to ask.
Echoing Stirling's thoughts, a new voice asked in a slow, amused drawl, "What mutual enemies might those be, Saxon?"
Cutha slewed around and Prince Creoda actually stumbled in his haste to take himself out of Cutha's way. King Meirchion Gul had appeared from the garden, balanced lightly on the balls of both feet, eyes glittering as he swept a contemptuous glance across Cutha's men. Cutha regained his composure with difficulty as Meirchion Gul sauntered lazily forward, nodding toward Artorius as he took the high-backed throne next to his wife. "What enemies?" he repeated, crossing his legs at the ankles and giving Cutha a slow, infuriatingly dismissive smile.
The Saxon narrowed his eyes. "Angles," he spat out. "Angles from Frisia, and Jutland Danes. They land by the shipload between our Saxon kingdoms of Sussex, Kent, and Wessex, and your strongholds of the midlands and the north, challenging and harassing our power, laying waste to farms and villages alike, killing and plundering. If we do not act to crush these brigands, they will grow so bold, there will be no stopping them." Cutha's smile deepened nastily. "But alliance between the Saxon kings and the kings of the Britons would crush our enemies between two strong armies and give further raiders pause when looking to these shores for plunder."
And leave the Britons understrength, Stirling thought darkly. It would also put Saxon armies deep in the heart of Briton territory, able to strike at will in any direction, catching off guard any Britons fool enough to make alliance. It had almost worked for Hitler, making a pact with the Soviet Union long enough to rape Eastern Europe, then striking at the Russian heartland in a surprise betrayal.