"Perhaps," he gasped, "perhaps I will... and sooner than you guess."
She unfastened her bodice, drew his mouth down to her breast, reaching down to slow his frantic pace, then murmured between nibbling bites to his neck, "How so?"
"My aunt... she's... she's promised me Galwyddel... if I do her bidding. Unngh..."
The shaking began. Desperate to keep him talking, Covianna tightened down and hissed out, as though lost in the throes herself, "Dear God, lad, how shall this be?"
"D-Dal-Dalriada... alliance... God, oh, Christ..." He shuddered deeply, spending himself into her and collapsing on top, panting and trembling violently.
Covianna exulted, petting him and making him quiver until he slid out and off. She kissed him deeply and hard, bringing him to swift arousal again in order to exhaust him, so that he would be less likely to blurt out his indiscretion, later, in divulging Morgana's plans, then rode him to another frantic release. After which, he collapsed utterly, all but asleep. She left him lying in the ruin of his clothing, trousers disarranged around his knees, not even having bothered to remove them. Covianna pulled her bodice closed, flicked her skirts to order, and murmured, "Come south to Glastenning Tor as soon as you are able, Medraut. I have much, indeed, to teach you, before you wed your Irish princess."
She smiled all the way back to her room, where she retrieved a small packet from her satchel of medicines and brewed herself a cup of tea from the contents, ensuring that any seed Medraut had planted would not germinate in her womb. She had far more important fish to catch than the spewing of a milk-brat who would never be king of anything. Not after Artorius learned of the proposed treason he and his aunt had concocted between them.
During the next week, when the kings of all Britain would be summoned to High Council, to discuss the threat of Saxons in the south, Covianna would have ample time and opportunity to bring her plans to delightful fruition. And to renew her liaison with Emrys Myrddin, as well, who was a far more skillful lover than that little idiot Medraut could ever hope to be, and capable of bringing her even more of what she wanted most from life. She cleansed herself from her basin and laughed all the way to the royal villa of the kings of Rheged, just beyond the fortress walls, to wait for Cutha and his Saxon dogs.
Morning came too soon for Trevor Stirling.
With it came the Saxons.
Much to his surprise, Stirling met them in a sprawling villa situated just outside the fortress walls. He had been shaken awake well before first light by the manservant who had followed him all the way from Caer-Iudeu, serving as combination valet and batman. Stirling gulped down a steaming breakfast of oatmeal sweetened with honey and donned the finest clothing his servant had brought from Gododdin, heavily embroidered layered tunics of crimson and royal blue wool, soft leather trousers as supple as velvet, dyed a deep, pine green, and a hip-length black cloak trimmed with dazzling white ermine fur and held closed with an immense penannular cloak pin of heavy gold that must have weighed a quarter of a pound. He shoved his feet into thick leather boots, strapping them around the leather trousers, raked back damp hair, and pronounced himself as ready as he would ever be.
Outside, Ancelotis' horse waited patiently, chewing at the bit and blowing steam in the chill air of morning. The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Stirling laid his reins along the big grey stallion's neck, turning him with a touch, and jogged through the fortress' wide streets with a rattle of hooves on paving stones. He noted with approval the heavy guard mounted along walls and watchtowers. In the daylight, the immense fortress was even more impressive than it had been in total darkness. Red sandstone walls stood impenetrably thick, immune to virtually anything but artillery fire—and Europeans wouldn't discover the secrets of gunpowder for several more centuries. As Ancelotis clattered through the snaking turns of the fortress' main gates, Stirling stared in rapt fascination at the sixth-century town which spread out in every direction.
Seabirds drifted high above, crying their raucous and mournful loneliness to the wide horizons, while sunlight flashed in tones of pink and honey on the undersides of white wings and high grey clouds. The waters of Solway Firth glinted in the distance, where the tip of the bay narrowed down into a thin finger of water. That fingertip curved inland toward Carlisle like a giant, hooked claw, raking deep into the coastline's flank. Hadrian's Wall marched steadily westward out of town, paralleling that long claw of water for several miles, before finally dead-ending at the Atlantic Coast. A tall aqueduct completely unknown in the twenty-first century carried water to the fortress, while feeder lines supplied the whole town.
Despite the early hour, the town was already awake. Caerleul's inhabitants filled the morning with the ringing slam of blacksmiths' hammers on iron, the scrape of saws and rasps on wood, the deep lowing of cattle and the sharper protest of sheep and chickens being driven to market. Fresh-baked bread sent tendrils of deliciousness through the muddy lanes, while merchants threw back shutters on their shop windows. Stirling couldn't help staring at glass panes set into several shop-window frames, a sight that shocked him speechless.
He knew, of course, that the Romans had used glass extensively and that glazed windows had not been all that uncommon. Shards of glass from wide windows overlooking the sea had been discovered during excavations of Herculaneum's public baths, he remembered reading an article about that, but somehow Stirling hadn't expected to find glass windows in a shopkeeper's storefront at the extreme edge of Rome's one-time empire, a full century after the Roman pull-out from Britain. The merchants eyed him hopefully as he passed, calling their wares to any and all interested customers.
Stirling's first impression of the town was of calm and ordinary urban bustle, but closer inspection revealed strain and the shadows of uncertainty and fear. It didn't do his jitters much good when Ancelotis commented, Aye, they're afraid, and with good reason. Two kings newly slain and the Saxons knocking at their doors. Think you we Britons are immune to such emotions, for all that we're certain of the Afterlife? A man may accept a promissory note from a debtor to collect payment in the Afterlife, but that hardly means we welcome the transition with arms thrown wide.
Stirling couldn't find a single response to that astonishing piece of information and decided it was probably best if he didn't try. Their destination, a large villa which lay perhaps a dozen meters beyond the fortress and its multi-layered rings of defensive barriers, had doubtless served as residence for the commander of the Sixth Legion and his family, if not as the main residence of the client kings of Rheged. The inhabitants had probably evacuated to the fort for safety—along with the rest of the town—during times of trouble. Whether the villa had been kept up by the kings of Rheged or refurbished by Ambrosius Aurelianus and his protege Artorius was difficult to decide, just by looking at the outside.
For the most part, it was as plain and utilitarian as any other Roman house in the sprawling, once-great Roman empire, its coat of whitewash faded from exposure to years of Scottish weather. The sandstone roof had been maintained in excellent repair, greeting the strengthening light of morning with a rosy red glow, the cheeriest sight Stirling had yet seen. The entrance, invisible during the night, was its most stunning feature, with a triangular pediment resting on no fewer than six immense sandstone columns, fluted gracefully. The entrance lay at the end of a flagstone path bordered by statuary and formal flower beds, which separated the villa from the commonplace bustle and mud of the street.