Whoever he was, he'd twisted iron-grey hair into long and intricate braids, reminding Stirling more of Vikings than Dark Age Britons. The man had counted at least fifty years, at a guess, and the robes he wore would have been monkish had they not been bleached the same snowy white as Covianna's and cut in exactly the same style, with the same long hood folded back over the shoulders. He wore no ornamentation, not even a cross, which Stirling certainly would have expected of a Christian priest.
"Emrys Myrddin," Artorius greeted the man drolly, "one day your wife will toss you into the nearest loch and where will the people of the dragon be then, eh?"
"Bad news travels swiftly, Artorius," the grey-haired man said coolly, ignoring the jibe, "and you have left it late, this time. Morgana, Clinoch, I grieve for your loss. Meirchion, summon the high council of Rheged and send messengers to all the kings of the Britons, north and south. Tell them to send their sons to vote their pleasure, if they cannot tear themselves away to meet in high council by week's end. Artorius, you did well to order the ancient hill forts of the south strengthened and refortified, where the old walls had crumbled to dust. With the deaths of two kings of the north, the Saxons will abandon guile and attack as soon as they hear the news. Ancelotis," he said with an abrupt shift of attention, "you are not well. Sit you down, before your knees collapse."The concern in his tone surprised Stirling, who was still trying blearily to follow the lightning-swift observations and predictions.
Stirling wiped cold sweat from his brow and stared, surprised, at his damp fingers. "Sorry," he mumbled, stumbling to the nearest wooden bench, where he sat down a trifle too heavily. Queen Thaney frowned and spoke sharply to the servants. They brought him another brimming mugful of the same alcoholic beverage he'd just drunk, which he decided must be mead as he gulped the stuff down like medicine. A joint of roasted meat arrived—he had no idea what kind—and hot soup rich with meat stock, vegetables, and barley. A few mouthfuls later, he started feeling almost human again. Myrddin sounded his pulse while the others tore into their own meals.
As Stirling downed a third mugful of mead—probably a mistake in his exhausted condition—Morgana sat down across the table from him and consumed her own meal with the determined look of a soldier who is too keyed up to feel hunger, but knows he must eat, to retain his strength. Standing near the end of their table, Covianna told Myrddin succinctly everything she knew about Ancelotis' collapse, finishing with a description of the treatment Morgana had rendered that first night.
"Well thought," the older man nodded approvingly toward Morgana, who nodded back in appreciation, leaving Covianna's eyes glittering and her fingers curling into talons where she crushed the long skirt of her robes beneath her angry grip. By the time Emrys Myrddin glanced back at her, Covianna had herself under control again and presented him with a sweet smile.
"I would count it a great honor, Emrys Myrddin, if you could find just a few moments to teach me a bit more. I would have been all but helpless to assist Ancelotis, had Morgana not been present to see to his care. And with the Saxons massing on Glastenning's border, I would count it a great favor to learn all I can of healing, should the swine overrun Glastenning Tor and attack my kinsmen and the priests of the abbey."
Emrys Myrddin missed the piercing look Morgana shot his way, because he was gazing at Covianna Nim with such pleased infatuation, sharply at odds with his earlier, surgically precise manner, even Stirling felt a serious twinge of alarm. "My dear Covianna, I would be honored to continue your instruction." He lifted a hand to brush a wisp of honey-colored hair back from her brow, where it had escaped her long, single braid. She smiled radiantly and murmured, "I am all gratitude."
Emrys Myrddin gave her cheek a final caress, then dragged his attention back to the business at hand. "Ancelotis, you must be fit to meet those Saxon swine when they ride into Caerleul and you have a hollow, dazed look about you that I mislike."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Stirling mumbled around a mouthful. "And on time."
Myrddin favored him with a thin smile. "Indeed. And if you fall flat on the ground in front of Cutha, you might as well have stayed in Gododdin."
The barb struck home, mostly because it was true. Not that Stirling could have prevented the collapse, given the immense shock of transition through time. "I won't fall down in front of Cutha or anybody else," he muttered, washing down the mouthful of roast. "I'm fine. Or I will be, after I've had more sleep." He couldn't stifle the jaw-cracking yawn.
"We'll all fare better for some sleep," Artorius agreed, shoving back his empty bowl, scraped clean of every speck of stew. "Ganhumara." He rose, holding one hand out to his wife. "Morgana, Clinoch, Ancelotis, we'll speak again at first light." Artorius gave them a strangely formal salute, Roman-style, then took his leave.
The company was breaking up, servants scurrying to clear away wooden trenchers and mugs, Medraut escorting his aunt away while Thaney and Meirchion departed, and Covianna and Myrddin, still comparing notes on how best to treat Ancelotis' "ailment," abandoned him without a further glance. Sage and disciple, more interested in the intellectual puzzle than the patient—or perhaps merely self-absorbed in one another. If Emrys Myrddin had a wife, as Artorius had mentioned, Stirling wondered how she would feel about Covianna's presence. Clearly, Emrys Myrddin wasn't terribly concerned with a wife's opinion, as publicly besotted as he appeared to be over the hypnotically attractive Covianna Nim.
Whatever the case, Stirling wanted nothing more than to hit the nearest bed and sleep for about a year. Stirling staggered to his feet, then paused. He had no idea where Ancelotis was supposed to sleep, when in garrison. The king of Gododdin had no such difficulty, however, and steered a mostly steady path through the tables toward the doorway where everyone but the servants had already departed.
The narrow corridor in which Stirling found himself had the look of a covered portico which had later been closed in, the now-solid stone wall keeping out cold and rain and snow. Bricks, carefully mortared, filled in the spaces between heavy stone columns. These were not the fancier Roman variety—most of which were not solid marble, in any case, constructed rather of a thin facing of fluted marble over a rougher stone for interior support—but were simple, massive pillars of rough-dressed red sandstone, much like the stone used to build Carlisle's great castle and cathedral in later centuries.
It was entirely possible that the ancient Roman fortress had been dismantled to build that castle and cathedral, pre-dressed stone being easier to cannibalize from existing structures than undressed stone could be quarried raw from the earth and moved into place. And if Stirling's memory of his last visit to modern Carlisle was accurate, the castle and cathedral sat on the very site occupied by this stronghold.
Stirling stumbled into a little room Ancelotis had evidently used before, barked his shins on a wooden bed frame, and collapsed onto another fur-covered bag stuffed full of straw. He was asleep before he could even fumble his way out of his clothes.