Lips compressed in white fury, she crowned him with the traditional wreath, which was made of oak leaves. The moment the victor's wreath touched his wet hair, a fresh roar rose from the celebrating crowd who could not, happily for most of them, hear what she'd said. Artorius gave him a wink that said, She'll get over it, man, and it was worth the risk to see that lout put in his place!

Unsure which reaction was the correct—or safest—one, Stirling simply bowed, refused the traditional money pouch, tossing the coins into the ecstatic crowd instead, and descended the steps to mount his horse. He made one victory lap around the arena, accompanied by the tumult of celebration, then exited through the stone starting boxes. He had only one desire, now that the bout was behind him. Stirling wanted that very long, very hot soak in the deepest Roman bath available.

Ancelotis agreed wholeheartedly.

Chapter Ten

Brenna was thoroughly chilled by the time she and Morgana made their way from the rain-swept sandstone arena back to the fortress where Morgana and the other visiting royalty of Britain had been staying. The largest building inside Caerleul's fortress walls, the great hall possessed no fewer than twenty rooms along its outer corridors, where high-ranking guests could be accommodated for lengthy visits. "Medraut," she said, turning to her nephew, "take the boys into the baths and warm them up, they're half frozen from that rain."

Still grinning, Medraut hooked a gesture at the boys, who ran excitedly at his heels, yipping in their delight at the Saxon prince's defeat. Morgana watched silently, heart aching, for her sons simply didn't understand, yet, the price the Britons would doubtless pay for Cutha's comeuppance. Brenna McEgan said firmly, Take a hot bath yourself, Morgana. We'll both feel better for it. So they made a hasty trip to the baths and within half an hour, warmed up by the steaming water of the calderium—which had grown crowded as more women returned from the arena, chilled and in need of the heated water—Morgana dressed her sons in their best and sent them on with Medraut, then donned the finest linen chemise and woolen gown from her trunk, a rich crimson with a long, trailing skirt, neckline and sleeves edged with ermine fur and caught at the waist with a golden-link girdle. Brenna delighted in the feel of the long, heavy skirts and luxurious fur trim, guiltily pleased there would be no crazed Green environmentalists lurking anywhere about to toss paint across the dead animal skins. She slipped on heavy gold jewelry and warm, fur-lined shoes and caught her hair back with carved ivory combs, then swept out into the main hall, where the kings and queens of Britain were gathering.

Emrys Myrddin and Artorius were there already and young King Clinoch of Strathclyde stood near the central hearth, where a blazing fire warmed the room. Morgana's sons raced to her side, eyes wide at the glittering array of Britain's gathered royal houses. A fine drift of mist occasionally fell through the opening immediately above, where the rainstorm had finally abated outside, dwindling away to an occasional drift of dampness. A cover had been tilted over the opening, anyway, channeling the rain away from the open roof while allowing the smoke to escape. A few windblown droplets hissed against the coals every now and again. The light slanting through the opening in the ceiling fell at a long oblique as the sun westered down the lower quarter of the sky overhead.

Clinoch was trying valiantly to look nonchalant and succeeded only in underscoring his youth and inexperience as he swallowed nervously and warmed his hands like a cold child. Morgana noticed Gwalchmai staring at the young king of Strathclyde, eyes dark and pensive, and squeezed her son's hand. The boy leaned against her leg, sighing and holding tight to her fingers. Voices hushed in worried tones washed across the room, while a group of minstrels gathering in one corner produced harps and flutes and began to play softly, dulling the worst edge of tension in the room. Lailoken was among them, glancing boldly into Morgana's eyes and smiling at their planned assignation on the road to Caer-Gretna at this council's end.

Twelve massive tables had been drawn into a rough circle surrounding the central hearth, an arrangement Emrys Myrddin was overseeing, directing servants to place the tables end to end with cushioned benches for the royal gathering. Other servants were laying out cups and wine flasks and pitchers filled with mead, while still others hung an immense oxhide against one wall, onto which had been drawn the outlines of every kingdom in Britain.

Brenna stared in fascination at the familiar coastline, drawn with surprising accuracy, and gazed intently at the unfamiliar shapes and names of the kingdoms, a few of which she could decipher as later English regions. Several bore names which had survived right into the twenty-first century as "counties" in modern Wales, even the spellings having been retained intact through the centuries. Brenna had actually visited Powys as a girl, on holiday with her mother, a wonderful walking tour of the region. Areas overrun by Saxons had been colored a lurid red. Brenna was still studying the map when Emrys Myrddin, who must have been paying close attention to arrivals, or perhaps to a Roman-style water clock in one corner, murmured something to Artorius, who nodded and rang a bronze bell for attention.

"The High Council is now commenced!" Artorius called out strongly. "Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses of the Britons, take your places at the Tables of Council."

Morgana stepped to her place in the general shuffle and sorting out, leading her sons with her. An expectant hush fell across the room as a priest raised one hand in a benediction, his dark robes and simple wooden cross marking him as a member of the ancient Briton Church. "Our Father, we pray Thy guidance for this great council of kings, that Britain may defend herself and defend Thy faith against the incursions of the pagan hordes. Amen."

The murmured response ran around the room, then the priest retired and Artorius, who stood between the kings of Gododdin and Strathclyde, said formally, "We will read the roster of the Britons. I, Artorius, was elected by you to serve as Dux Bellorum in this time of trouble, a post I have gladly served for these ten years past. I speak for the greater good of all the tribes and cities of the Britons." He seated himself and Emrys Myrddin inclined his head next. "I, Emrys Myrddin, speak as advisor to the Dux Bellorum."

After Emrys Myrddin, the roll call ran sunwise around the collection of tables. Brenna was quite startled when she realized they had sorted themselves out into alphabetical order, without the need to consult any master seating chart.

"I, King Rigenew ap Rhein, speak for the Kingdom of Brycheiniog."

A very old man beside Rigenew spoke next. "I, King Gorbanian, speak for the Kingdom of Bryneich."

As the white-haired king took his seat on the long, cushioned bench, the next speaker, a young man not yet twenty, who had a narrow weasel's face and eyes like glittering blades of obsidian, met Artorius' gaze with an insolent stare. "I, King Idnerth ap Briagad ap Pasgen ap Vortigern, speak for the Kingdoms of Buelt and Gwerthrynion."

Morgana bristled silently. When Brenna wondered why, Morgana said, He claims descent from Vortigern with pride, when the dog brought the Saxons among us during his tenure as Dux Bellorum. Vortigern's own sons turned against him and supported Uthyr Pendragon and Ambrosius Aurelianus, but the spawn of Vortigern would be high kings, if they could manage it.