For King & Country (41 page)

Worse, yet, was the damage Banning could still do. Using botulism, the man could literally poison every Irish town and farmhold from Londonderry to County Kerry and further south, to Cork. All he'd need was a cover story—and what better cover than a traveling minstrel, bringing news of a marriage of alliance between Dalriada and Galwyddel? He wouldn't even have to mention it had ended in treachery, since no one in his wake would survive long enough to find out differently.

Stirling had to shut his eyes against the vision of all Ireland dying, leaving the island wide open for Saxon invasion. Banning was an Orangeman and the Orangemen were descended from pure Anglo-Saxon stock. An Orangeman could take no better revenge than to utterly annihilate the entire Irish population, while simultaneously stirring up war between Dalriada and Galwyddel—at a time when his Saxon ancestors were laying waste to the entire south of England. Divide British attention between war at both ends of the island and the Saxons would conquer it all, the entire British Isles, in one fell swoop. Frosting on the cake would be a few bottles of death emptied into the wells of strategically important Briton strongholds.

The question was, which way had Lailoken and his unseen guest bolted? West, to Ireland? To spread the word of alliance and treachery, while quietly leaving mass murder in his wake? Or south, to join his Saxon kinfolk and take to Aelle and Cutha the secret of biological warfare contained in these monstrous little bottles?

In low, terse tones, Stirling told Artorius as much as he could, without compromising Ancelotis' status as his host. Artorius listened in black silence, then spat to one side.

"We'll have to split our forces, meager as they are. Two riders west, toward the coast, two east, in case he's bolted for Dewyr, as Cutha did. The rest of us will ride south, toward Caer-Badonicus. And pray God we catch him before he reaches his paymasters."

Staring utter disaster in the face, whichever way Lailoken had bolted, they mounted their war-horses in silence and set out in grim pursuit.

Dawn's first hint of oyster light had touched the eastern sky when one of the sailors who'd climbed the mast to act as lookout spotted sails dead ahead.

"I see them!" he shouted, pointing. "He's landward of us, rounding the tip of Kintyre!"

Morgana's heart lurched into her throat and Brenna gripped the gunwale, fingers turning white in the crepuscular light. At her side, Keelin clutched Medraut's hand and braced herself against the wild pitching of the boat as the captain turned the tiller, sending them on a tack that would take them on a shorter and faster route, seaward of the longer, looping journey Dallan mac Dalriada's crew had chosen, keeping closer to land. The Irish king's sails rose up out of the sea as they narrowed the gap, plowing deep into the troughs while the sails rattled and snapped taut again on the new course.

Brenna wished mightily for a pair of radios or even a signal cannon to flag the other ship's attention and was too distraught to try and explain to Morgana what either device was, much less how they worked. As they drew steadily closer, Brenna realized the only thing that had allowed them to catch up was the lighter, smaller boat they rode in, much faster across the water than Dallan mac Dalriada's larger and heavier warship. Like the Greeks at Salamis, whose smaller, faster boats had wrecked the massive Persian navy, the Briton fishing sloop rapidly overtook the Irish ship, finally drawing within shouting distance as they both rounded the tip of the Kintyre Peninsula.

Riona Damhnait had already taught the sloop's captain the words to shout, as deeper male voices carried farther across water than women's voices ever could. The captain bellowed out the message, which drew startled reactions from the Irish crew. A moment later, they had dropped a sea anchor overboard, slowing their speed enough to match pace with the slower Irish ship. Dallan mac Dalriada appeared at the ship's rail, shouting a question across. Riona answered, shouting as loudly as she could, while the sailors of both craft flung ropes across, snugging the ships together and running burlap bags filled with sand over the sides to act as bumpers, so the hulls didn't grind one another to splinters.

"Help me across, Medraut," Morgana said, swallowing down nausea that had very little to do with the wild pitching of the deck under their feet. "And help your bride and Riona, as well."

A moment later, all four stood on Dallan mac Dalriada's deck, while Keelin flung herself into her father's arms and sobbed out their awful news. The Irish king washed white with shock, holding his daughter tightly while he flung questions at his Druidess. Riona spoke rapidly, urgently, hands sketching gestures in the cold, wet dawnlight as she relayed the message which had come by way of the young Briton slave. His face clouded over with black rage as he listened. When he snarled some order, sending his men toward the Britons, weapons drawn, Keelin flung herself into Medraut's arms and spoke shrilly, nearly hysterical in her effort to stop whatever her father had just ordered. Given the black looks the crew sent their way, neither Morgana nor Brenna McEgan had any illusions as to the nature of that command.

Keelin braced herself at bay, arms thrown wide to protect Morgana and Medraut, like a wild vixen run to earth and snarling at the hounds who snapped at her helpless kits. Even Riona stared in surprise at the violence of the girl's response to Medraut's abrupt danger. What Medraut did next sent Morgana's heart plunging straight into the sea. He unslung his sword and dropped it onto the wet deck, took Keelin gently by the shoulders, and lifted her aside. He then stepped forward and faced the wild-eyed king straight on. Without turning his gaze away from Dallan mac Dalriada's for so much as a half-second, he said to Riona Damhnait, "Please tell my father-in-law that I will gladly die by his hand, if it is his will. But my death will accomplish nothing, not even vengeance, if he attacks Britain and allows the true culprits, the Saxons, to escape unscathed, laughing in their beards at blind Irish rage."

Brenna was absolutely convinced that she and Medraut were about to die.

She could do nothing but whimper in the back of her shared throat when Morgana stepped to Medraut's side and said, "Please tell King Dallan that I, Morgana of Ynys Manaw, have placed myself and all that I love in his hands, risking everything to bring this warning. Has he or any man aboard this ship drunk from Lailoken's wine cask?"

Dallan's eyes widened. "Wine cask?"

The words were pure Gael, but—unmistakably—he had said, "Wine cask?"

The translation came when Riona sagged in relief so profound, she nearly slid to the decks, braced at the last instant by an alert sailor who caught her from a nasty fall. "Your God has looked upon us, Morgana," the Druidess whispered, staggering back to her feet, "for no one has yet tasted the gift."

Keelin was speaking urgently now, so urgently, her father could not get in a single word of protest or negation. Judging by the expressions and gestures, she was telling her father that Medraut and Morgana had themselves insisted upon accompanying Keelin on this voyage, knowing full well they might be executed for it, that she had come to love Medraut for the honorable and courageous young man he was, that Medraut would fight to the death whole armies of Saxons, to protect his new Dalriadan Irish kinfolk, those the Saxon treachery had left alive. And judging by the tears sparkling in the dawnlight on her cheeks and the thunderous black look on her father's face, those kinfolk were very few in number now, and therefore doubly precious.

The king's reply, when it came, needed no translation.
I ought to have my head examined,
that look said. He gestured and two of the sailors bound Medraut's wrists behind him, and Morgana's as well, while Irish sailors spilled over into the British fishing sloop and tied the hands of every man aboard her. But they had not been gutted on sight, which was more than Morgana, at least, had expected.

"Ask the king if he has a dog aboard this ship," Morgana said, turning her gaze to meet the Druidess' unhappy gaze. "Or better still, a rat. Feed the creature some of the wine from Lailoken's cask. If it contains the botulism toxins, the animal will be dead within twelve to twenty hours. And he will have enough proof to hang whomever he considers guilty for the atrocity at Dunadd."

Dallan mac Dalriada snarled out a reply. Keelin shrieked, "Nay!" and threw herself in front of Medraut again. Impasse. One that did not last long. At a bellow from her father, two burly sailors dragged the girl away, fighting and clawing, even biting them in her desperation to escape and prevent Medraut's untimely slaughter. That he had won not only the girl's heart, but her unswerving loyalty, was not lost on Dallan mac Dalriada. It was equally clear that the Irish king had no idea what to do about it, a hurt and bewildered and angry parent doing his best to protect his child while his entire world crashed down about his ears.

When he finally gave a curt order that sent Medraut and Morgana below the deck, dragged down into the cramped cargo space—cold and damp and unutterably wretched with dirt and foul smells of dead fish and live rats—Keelin broke free, striking her father with both fists in a paroxysm of raging emotion, then collapsed in Riona's arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

A heavy wooden hatch slammed down across the only exit from their watery prison, robbing them of further sight of Keelin's wild grief, which was just as well, for Medraut's sake. The boy trembled where they lay crammed together between ship's hull and a heavy case of something that thumped and rattled like shifting crowbars. Ingots of iron, no doubt, ferried north to be forged into weapons.

Battered and bruised, Morgana lay still, the ropes hurting her wrists, and tried to catch the sound of Irish voices arguing in Gael. It was, like the German spoken by the men of Saxony, a language one ought to understand, if one simply listened hard enough to catch the similarities of phrase and slightly odd pronunciation of familiar words.

Medraut whispered, "I've learnt enough Gael to know a little of what's being said. Dallan mac Dalriada is ordering rats brought to him, along with Lailoken's wine cask. He's going to try it, Aunt."

"Pray God he believes Keelin and his Druidess, for Riona Damhnait is no fool and it's clear he knows that. He's also turning for home," Morgana muttered as the ship wallowed and rolled and took up a new tack, but without turning around to sail back south. "He'll go straight to Dunadd to verify the deaths himself. God pity us when we arrive, Medraut, for I very much doubt that Dallan mac Dalriada will."

"I'm sorry," Medraut choked out, his whisper a badly shaken child's apology for creating an unwanted mess.

"No, never be sorry, Medraut, for doing the right and honorable thing."

"No," he countered her at once, "I'm not sorry for coming. I'm sorry for allowing you to come along, as well. For that, I am twice the fool and will regret it as long as the Irish allow us to live."

She wished there were some comforting thing, anything, she might say to the boy.

There was not a single, useful word in her weary and battered brain.

So she laid her head against a pile of coiled rope and waited for the rats—and doubtless soon thereafter, the prisoners—to die. The day passed in agonizing slowness, the most physically miserable day of Morgana's life, not as painful as childbirth, but bone-jarring as the ship plowed through heavy seas, rolling and bashing them against one another and the contents of the cramped space below deck. Nausea tore her throat, occasionally leaving her helpless in the throes of uncontrollable heaves. Medraut tried to brace her at such times, using his shoulder to help lift her over his own body, as their hands were bound tightly behind them.

Brenna McEgan, unused to travel by water, suffered in silence. She had never taken up the sport of sailing and preferred air travel for the short hop between Dublin and London or Dublin and Edinburgh. While Morgana
had
made the sea journey from Ynys Manaw to the mainland many times, she had never traveled locked in a tiny, dark space unable to see sky and waves. Medraut, too, was messily ill several times, mumbling abject apologies as they took turns trying to assist one another. They were given no food, which was probably a mercy, and no water, either, which was an added cruelty. Not that Morgana could have swallowed any without disastrous consequences, but she would've dearly loved to rinse the sour taste from her mouth.

What felt like an entire lifetime later, night descended, robbing them of the few meager cracks of light that found their way between boards and joins. The total darkness was suffocating. When the ship wallowed heavily, coming around on a new heading, Medraut murmured, "We must be entering Dunadd Harbor. It feels like the right amount of time to've reached it."

"I wonder," Morgana said bitterly, unable to keep the sound out of her voice, "if the rats have died yet."

"At least they haven't forced us to drink from the cask. I've halfway expected him to order it."

Morgana shivered. "He may yet."

A distantly heard splash reached their ears and the ship pitched and yawed and came to a rocking standstill, tethered by her anchor line. They could hear voices overhead, shouting in Gaelic, and other voices replying faintly. "They must have brought the fishing sloop along," Medraut said in a faintly surprised tone.

Morgana forced a chuckle. "What, fail to secure a free ship and several new slaves for himself? Your father-in-law is no fool, nephew. He will," she added darkly, "have need of a few slaves, to replace the men and women Lailoken murdered. Winter is nearly upon them and this blow bids fair to destroy his whole colony."

Overhead, the hatch cover was lifted clear, allowing torchlight to spill into their eyes. As Morgana squinted against the light, a sailor slid down and lifted her into the hands of another man who hauled her up onto the deck. Medraut was hoisted out, in turn, while a third sailor busied himself untying her wrists. She rubbed the chafed skin and bruises gingerly, wincing and trying to keep her balance, more weakened by thirst, battering, and fear than she'd realized.