A hush fell across the hall, warning them of Dallan mac Dalriada's appearance. He strolled easily into the room, nodding to the lords and ladies of the nobility, some of whom had evidently journeyed here from other towns, as Lailoken had not seen them before—a sign which boded well for Medraut's hopes and dreams. Somehow, Lailoken could not imagine Dallan summoning the nobility of Dalriada to the fortress, simply to have the Britons imprisoned or enslaved. No, the mood tonight was one of celebration. Medraut's breath caught at the sight of Keelin, strolling with her hand on her father's arm. She wore the silk gown, with her hair netted in jewels, a radiant creature with happiness sparkling in her eyes. She was a girl who saw herself soon to be wed and crowned queen of Galwyddel, or Lailoken was no judge of character.
When the king held up his hand, instantaneous silence fell, even the musicians laying aside their harps and flutes and drums. Dallan mac Dalriada gestured for Medraut and Lailoken to join him at the front of the hall, where he stood with his daughter. Medraut's knees were trembling as they set out, but King Dallan was smiling and Keelin's look of welcome was breathtaking. When they had joined him, bowing slightly to both king and princess, who returned the gesture in kind, Riona Damhnait appeared at Medraut's elbow, to translate as Dallan spoke to the assembly.
"Welcome this night to Dunadd, capital of Dalriada, to join in a celebration of our present joy. You have heard that Britons have come among us, in a gesture of friendship, to offer alliance. We have listened to their offer and considered it most carefully. We are honored by the offer brought to our shores by Prince Medraut, soon to be King of Galwyddel." A buzz ran through the room, since the Dalriadan Irish had learned a very stern lesson about the fighting strength of Galwyddellian Britons. King Dallan mac Dalriada smiled, clearly pleased by that reaction. It was no shabby alliance the Britons offered; Irish fighting men valued the strength of arms in those against whom they had fought and lost. Medraut's offer would give the Irish all of Galwyddel, without another drop of Irish blood spilled. Or so they thought.
"For the past seven-day, we have hosted our Briton guests and have found them courteous, generous, and pleasing in every way. They are, after all, Celts as we are, however different may be our private customs. And they bring word of serious threat to Irish interests, from the shores of Saxony. Even in Dalriada, we have heard the tales of Saxons marauding the eastern and southern shores of our neighbors, the Britons, even harrying our enemies the Picts, to the east of our borders, driving bands of the painted barbarians westward into our farms and forests. The Britons have warned us, very fairly, of Saxon treachery and greedy Saxon eyes looking toward Irish shores and Irish shipping. They think us easy conquest, by comparison to the Britons with their Roman military might and skills at weapons-making."
The buzz that ran through the great hall this time was shocked and angry. It was an excellent tactic, Lailoken nodded approvingly, hitting the Irish nobility with an insult to their honor. Riona's eyes glittered as the Druidess caught his look and agreed with it.
"The Britons, well aware of the dangers these Saxons pose, have offered alliance against our enemies, both Saxon and Pict. With Britons as allies, we can smash the painted peoples and take the whole of the Highlands, not just the Lowlands we have already wrested from them, and with Britons as allies, our brothers and cousins in Eire will certainly join us when we urge them to make our shores inhospitable to the Saxon scourge.
"It is no meager alliance they offer. Prince Medraut is nephew to Queen Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, lands we have never defeated in war, and she is, herself, sister to the Dux Bellorum, as they call their high king, who conducts their battles and trains their warriors. Morgana's brother is a shrewd man, of whom we have heard much since coming to these shores. All the kings of the Britons send soldiers to him and he leads the Britons to victory after victory.
"Should such a man be our enemy, when he and his sister offer alliance of marriage? They honor us with sending their nephew to us, heir to Galwyddel. I say the time is ripe for bridging the differences with our neighbors to the south. Prince Medraut seeks the hand of Princess Keelin in honorable marriage. I, King Dallan mac Dalriada, the Scotti, do formally give my daughter and heiress to Galwyddel's future king, as betrothed bride."
A shout went up, shock and delight and the shrill congratulations of the women. Medraut clasped Dallan's arm in the greeting of equals. Lailoken stepped forward and bowed, saying, "We have heard much of the customs of Dalriada and offer this token of our esteem, in honor of your traditions." He produced the shoe, holding it high for the crowd to see, then carefully poured it full of dirt from the shores of Galwyddel. "If I may be so bold, might it not be fitting to join to this, the earth of Galwyddel, the earth of Dalriada, that you each might set foot upon the commingled lands?"
Another shout went up as Riona translated, although the mere gesture of producing shoe and dirt had signaled exactly what Lailoken intended. Dallan mac Dalriada beamed at them, ordering another shoe to be brought. They carried the shoes of earth to the throne of Dalriada, which sat on the curiously carved flagstone of which Banning had spoken. On it were carvings of a boar, the hollowed-out shape of a human footprint, and lines of Irish ogham script.
Riona and Lailoken handed the earth-filled shoes to Medraut and Keelin, who smiled foolishly at one another, then moved as one to sprinkle dirt into the footprint. First she, then he, placed foot upon the mixed earth, then the king did likewise, joining his daughter's hand with Medraut's. The shout that went up this time rattled the groaning tables, with their load of nuptial feast. It was lovely symbolism, worthy of a bard's saga. Two kingdoms, one land, one people.
Until Artorius found out.
And Lailoken's poison took effect.
He smiled and smiled, and no one but Banning knew why.
The Lochmaben Stones were eerie by moonlight.
Only one of the stones still stood in the twenty-first century, a ten-ton giant famous throughout modern Galloway. In the sixth century, the entire circle was still complete, eleven massive standing stones, shadows in a moon-bright ring of light. The storms of the previous week had left Morgana worried, having sent her nephew into double danger, but the weather had cleared and this was the first night of the full moon, full of hope and promise and dread. Would they come this night? Had the Irish butchered the lad and his minstrel companion, who might or might not be the Orange terrorist Banning? Would the Irish land in force on the shore below the standing stones and murder her, as well, or carry her into slavery, or sweep across Galwyddel like a scythe?
Was she an utter fool, to have set this in motion?
She had not come alone to the clearing, having ridden out of Caer-Birrenswark in the late afternoon accompanied by Father Auliffe, abbot of Caer-Birrenswark, and his young assistant, the abbey's most capable scribe, telling them only that an important messenger was to come to Lochmaben this night and she might well need their services, did all go according to plan. She had sent them down to the beach to wait, preferring to be alone with her thoughts and worries. One of the few pleasing thoughts that had come to her during the long afternoon and evening was that the harvest had been safely gotten in before the storms descended. A few days sooner with the rains, and Galwyddel would have faced the same disaster striking the south, with crops rotting in the sodden fields. She shivered absently and folded her cloak more firmly about her shoulders, walking the perimeter of the stones to keep herself warm.