"Covianna Nim!"
She allowed him to kiss her fingertips.
"Bricriu, I would have you deliver this note to Artorius after I have gone. But do not take it straight to him. I must try and verify the matters written herein. If I do not contact you by the next full moon, then the matter is true and Artorius must know of it."
She handed the small, folded vellum over—and with it a coin glittering golden in the late and slanting light of afternoon. A gold aureus of Rome, it bore the portrait of the last emperor of the west, Romulus Augustulus. Twenty-five years after their last minting, the golden Augustulus coins still circulated amongst the peoples of the vanishing empire, even as far afield as Britain, which still managed a lively trade with her former imperial masters despite unrest, civil war, and invasion that seemed to sweeping across the entire known world.
Covianna, brought up in a tribe of artisans who were also shrewd traders, had learned the value of such coins almost before she could walk. She had acquired a goodly collection of the aureus coins over the years, which she made excellent use of from time to time. When she held up the glittering golden disc, worth a hundred silver sestertii and twice the value of Constantine the Great's gold solidus, and caught the answering glint in the minstrel's eye, she knew she had him.
"Agree to follow my instructions to the letter," she purred, "and this will be yours immediately. Breathe not one single word of this to anyone, not even to your fellow minstrels or bedmate, but give it straight into Artorius' hand, and I will provide others. Multiple others. Once you have given it to Artorius, bring his response to me at Glastenning Tor—and ride like wildfire, for time will be critical by then." As she spoke, Covianna turned the coin over and over in her fingers, toying with it, watching in amusement the way the minstrel's eyes followed the glitter of light. She flipped it to him without warning.
He caught it with a snatch like a starving dog, turning it over and staring at it while babbling, "I swear by Afallach and Christ, I will put your letter into the Dux Bellorum's own hand and no other's, even if I must ride to Avalonis across the waves and back again." He slipped the coin into his belt pouch, then held out his hand for the note. "Provided I have not heard otherwise from you, come the full moon, the task will be done."
Satisfied, Covianna slipped the letter into his palm and it vanished up his sleeve. "Do this for me quietly and you will be rewarded accordingly."
"Your servant," he bowed.
Covianna left him whistling merrily and retrieved her satchels, carrying them across the road and giving them to a stable hand to pack behind her saddle. Emrys Myrddin appeared in the doorway as she was making her way back to the street.
"Covianna," Myrddin smiled, eyes brightening when his gaze rested on her. "Where will you go, in all this turmoil and confusion? Back to Gododdin?"
"No," she said in a low voice, giving him a look of grave concern. "With war brewing in the south and my kinsmen at Glastenning Tor considered one of the most lucrative targets on the Saxons' list, I will be needed there far more than at Gododdin."
"You need not risk yourself," he protested, twisting a strand of her golden hair around his fingertips.
"I don't fear death, Emrys Myrddin, any more than you. You must understand, surely, that my place is working at the forges with my kinsmen? Making swords and doing what I can to doctor injuries."
He frowned. "Do you think so little of our chances that you must be on hand to treat the wounded if the Saxons break through and lay siege to the Tor?"
Covianna laughed softly. "Oh, no, you mistake me entirely. I have every confidence in our fighting strength. But when kings demand hundreds of new weapons in a very short time, to prepare for war, smiths must make many more blades, spearpoints, and pilum heads in one month than they might ordinarily make in half a year. Such a heavy demand means long hours at the forge, with little time for food or even sleep.
"Even the apprentices are run into exhaustion, keeping the forge fires hotly stoked and the bellows in good working order, turning out simpler pieces on their own anvils, or heating the iron bars the master smiths and journeymen will forge into weapons. Work done at that pace causes fatigue and accidents—and if the work goes on long enough at that pace, exhaustion can cause crippling injuries, even death. Master healers are desperately needed when the forges are kept running day and night before battle."
Myrddin blinked in surprise, much to her delight. It wasn't often anyone was able to startle the aging Druid. Then he gave her a rueful smile.
"Forgive me, my dear, for being so obtuse. At least"—he caressed her cheek fondly—"I will have the pleasure of your company on the road south."
Covianna let her gaze smoulder. "I cannot think of anyone I would rather travel with, Myrddin."
He cupped her chin, lifting her face to meet his lips. He then breathed against her ear, "It is, alas, a long journey in the company of others."
Covianna whispered back, "Even an overcrowded taverna has a stable, and stables have hay lofts and not even the stableboys stand guard on a dark and empty hay loft."
He laughed aloud. "I haven't been in a hay loft in..." he paused to consider "... it must be twenty years, if it's a day. It wasn't until after I'd tumbled her that I decided to marry her."
Covianna, who disliked—intensely—any reference to Emrys Myrddin's wife, swatted him in seemingly mock ferocity. In truth, Covianna hated Myrddin's wife, who was not only alive and likely to outlive God himself, but was an intensely suspicious bitch, nosing around in Covianna's affairs whenever both women happened to be in the same city. Which was as infrequently as possible, making it difficult to find time to pump Emrys Myrddin for everything he could teach her—including how to apply one's own ambition and make it look like another's idea, or how to salve the affronted intellect of the British kings who were, in Covianna's opinion, among the dullest, stupidest men on the earth.
Myrddin grimaced. "My apologies, Covianna, I will forget and mention her. I will make it up to you on the road south to Caer-Badonicus."
You'd better believe you will! Covianna snarled under her breath, while smiling with the fondness of a mildly irritated mistress. Men, even those with Druidic training or Emrys Myrddin's keenly incisive mind, were by and large a stupid lot, driven by their gonads more than their brains. Aloud, she murmured, "I must go and see that my medicines are properly packed and stored."
"We will meet, then, on the road out of Caerleul."
Covianna slipped back into the great hall and spotted Artorius deep in conversation with a group of grey-haired kings and their younger sons. The Dux Bellorum had removed his sword and sheath, neither of which were in evidence. A swift search of the hall found no trace of the weapon, so she slipped away to the room Artorius and Ganhumara had shared.
The young queen was not in the room, although an appalling amount of clothing and jewelry was scattered carelessly like peacock feathers thrown down in the barnyard mud. From beneath one of Ganhumara's exquisite silk gowns Covianna spotted the tip of Artorius' scabbard. Covianna slipped the lovingly forged blade from the scabbard, letting Caliburn itself drop to the bed again amidst the riot of silks, furs, and kashmir wool imported from far Constantinople.