For King and Country

Chapter Twenty.One

Covianna Nim remained close by Artorius throughout the long celebration, plying him with plenty of spiced wine, smiling into his eyes and waiting for the signs to make themselves visible. When he began to grow sleepy, excusing himself for the evening, she smiled softly, making certain Ganhumara was well occupied with young men with whom to further shred her reputation. Covianna slipped out of the meeting hall to follow Artorius, who had begun staggering as though drunk on the way to his room in the building next door.

He wobbled his way toward the bed he and Ganhumara would eventually be sharing for the night, unsteady on his feet and wiping sweat from his face. She waited until he'd disappeared inside, waited until a lamp shone softly within, then hurried away to her own chamber, rescuing a long, slim package wrapped carefully in folds of wool. She slipped it under her cloak, reaching Artorius' room moments later. Looking carefully about to be sure no one observed, Covianna eased open Artorius' door and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind her.

The Dux Bellorum turned in slow surprise.

"Covianna?" He frowned, voice already slurring.

"You seemed unwell when you left the celebration," she murmured. "I wanted to be certain you were all right, as it's only too plain your wife neither cares nor troubles herself over your welfare."

Pain ran through his eyes, then he collapsed in slow motion onto the edge of his bed. "I thank you for caring. It's kind of you." He was blinking in confusion. "I've had too much wine, s'all. Need to sleep it off..."

"Of course." She smiled. "Let me tell you a story, to help you sleep." She crossed the room, brushed heavy hair back from his brow, hiding the package beneath her cloak. "It's an old story, Artorius. One you should appreciate." She trailed a fingertip down his face. "Many, many years ago, there was someone very special in my life. A teacher, a mentor, who taught me many ancient arts."

He was frowning up at her, eyes tracking with difficulty.

"I loved her as greatly as my own mother," Covianna whispered, nibbling his earlobe with her lips. "She taught me everything of worth in my life. The use of herbs, the use of power, of the ways to blind and bind a man." Covianna smiled down into Artorius' eyes. "Can you imagine, Artorius, what it was like when she died?"

He worked his mouth with difficulty, speech more slurred than ever. "Muss've been... painful..."

"Oh, yes. Most painful. Do you know how she died, Artorius?"

He was shaking his head, tried to scrub his face with one hand. When he was unable to lift it, he sat staring in rising dismay and dawning fright.

Covianna whispered intimately, "She was murdered, Artorius. Oh, it was done with all the pomp of law, but it was murder, cruel and cold, nonetheless." Covianna stepped back a pace, smiling down into his eyes. "You really should not have condemned Marguase, Artorius. She was worth ten of you. Twenty."

Shock detonated behind his eyes. "Marguase?" It came out a hoarse rasp. "But—how—"

"She came to Glastenning Tor, when I was but a child. I worshiped her. Learned every wondrous secret she had to share. She chose me—me—as her acolyte, out of all the girls she could have taken, instead. Oh, I have waited a long, long time for this night."

He was trying to rise, succeeded only in falling to the floor. She laughed softly at the look of naked horror on his face. When he dragged his sword free of its new scabbard, hunching along on elbows and shoulders, trying to put distance between them, she drew out the package hidden in her cloak. "Did you miss this when I stole it away?" she asked merrily. His eyes widened, recognizing it. "Have you never wondered why you have always been victorious? Why those who oppose your sword arm inevitably die? 'Tisn't the sword, Artorius, nor yet the skill of the arm behind it."

She tapped the sheath. "I made this, as I made Caliburn, and there is as much witchcraft in the scabbard as there is death in the sword. The lining, Artorius, that's the secret of your wondrous, invincible power." She laughed, derision in every droplet of sound falling from her lips. "Oh, you pitiful fool. I've been most careful to join each of the high councils that have voted on war. And before each battle those councils sanctioned, I renewed the 'magic' of Caliburn's sheath. Mistletoe, Artorius. Sap of the mistletoe, the Druids' weed, mixed with oil and soaked into the lining of the sheath. Do you know the secret of the Druids' weed?"

He shook his head, eyes wide with horror he could neither escape nor conceal.

"Coat a blade with mistletoe and you will never stop the bleeding from any cut it makes. Even the smallest nick will bleed for hours. That is the secret of your prowess, my dear and mighty Dux Bellorum!" She laughed again, delighting in the blow to his manhood, to his self-value as a warrior, a blow that left a sick and empty look in his eyes. "Oh, I learned many secrets from Marguase. And even more from Emrys Myrddin. It was Myrddin taught me the secret of Damascus. Do you know how Caliburn was quenched, to give it that wondrously fine temper?"

He was panting, trying in utter desperation to lift the sword.

"You must remember, surely, your poor little cousin who vanished? Taken by pirates, most people said? I entertained the little fool at my forge, Artorius, deep in the heart of Glastenning Tor. Down in the sacred caverns my grandmothers have used for centuries. Showed him the secret of Damascus steel, there. Fed him full of ale, then quenched the blade in his drunkard's belly."

His mouth worked, soundlessly, the look in his eyes ghastly beyond words. Delicious. A victory she would relish every moment of her life.

"The pieces of him lie scattered beneath the Tor, but don't fret on his account. He's not alone any longer. The advisor who persuaded you to denounce Marguase lies beside him. A pity, really. Emrys Myrddin was the only man I ever met who knew anything about pleasing a woman in bed. And I shall miss his conversation and wit, truly I shall. But he sealed his fate years ago, when he condemned the lovely Marguase to death by slow drowning. I returned the favor, deep in the Tor's sacred caverns, where by now he's rotting as he so richly deserves. And now, Artorius, you will join my dance of death. My revenge lies complete in your destruction. The poison paralyzes slowly, doesn't it? Utterly delightful, that look in your wounded little eyes."

He lay gasping, trying to lift the sword, barely able to draw breath now.

She stepped nearer. "The time has come, Artorius, to return Caliburn to my hand. You will not be needing it any longer."

She stooped to pluck the blade from his hands—

And he moved, convulsively. The sword lurched upward, too fast to avoid. "Take it back, then!" he hissed. "I return it freely!"

The shock of pain was so intense, she couldn't even draw breath to scream. The blade had rammed deep into her belly. She clutched at it. Tried to pluck it loose. He shoved hard, lunging in one final spasm of strength. The blade twisted inside her vitals. Her scream burst loose this time, smoking hot through her womb. Shouts and running footsteps reached her ears, but dimly, so dimly and far, far away...

He's killed me! The thought ran like icewater through her mind. The brainless little bastard's killed me...

Then the darkness closed down like the waters of an icy lake over her head, until all that remained was the feel of that smoking sword slipping from her dying hand.

Morgana was dancing, skirts whirling as Ancelotis laughingly drew her to join the merrymakers, when the meeting hall door crashed open.

"Morgana!" A wild-eyed soldier stood in the doorway. "Where's Queen Morgana?"

She whirled, fright shocking her heart into sudden stillness. "Here," she gasped. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Artorius! He's collapsed! Says he's been poisoned!"

Shock washed through her whole body. Then she was running, shouting for Medraut to fetch her satchel. Ancelotis ran with her, bellowing at the others to stay where they were, to give the healer a chance to work. The soldier led them to Artorius' room, where another stunning sight greeted them. Covianna Nim lay dead beside him, Caliburn buried in her gut. Artorius looked up, eyes dark with terror and grief.

"She was Marguase's... chosen pupil," he croaked, voice badly slurred. "No one knew it. Killed Emrys Myrddin... killed him at Glastenning Tor. Morgan... Can you help me? It's a poison that paralyzes, she said..."

"Search the bitch!" Morgana snapped at Ancelotis, over one shoulder. "See if she's still carrying the stuff. She must have dropped it into the wine. And fetch her potions and herbs, I must see what's there!" She didn't dare voice aloud the half wish, half prayer that Covianna might have brought with her an antidote to protect herself. Then Morgana was on her knees, testing his pulse, peering into his eyes. Medraut arrived in a skidding run, stood gasping, eyes wide with fright at what lay on the floor at his feet. Ancelotis, badly shaken, searched the dead woman, pulled something from a jeweled pouch at Covianna's waist, handed it over. Morgana unstoppered the small pottery vial, sniffed. "Fetch me a cup, a lamp, anything to hold liquid."

Medraut snatched up a wooden cup from Artorius' table and handed it over, while Ancelotis ran from the room, bellowing orders to fetch the poisoner's herb satchel. Morgana poured a bit of the stuff into the cup, tilted it to the light to see more clearly its color, how it smelled, how it clung to the sides of the cup. A feeling of utter dread turned her blood cold when she recognized it.

"Oh, dear God, yes, I know what this is. 'Tis rare. The bitch must have traded for it all the way to Constantinople. My satchel, Medraut."

She raked through the packets and bottles with shaking hands. "Bring me another cup and a stack of bowls. And a cauldron of boiling water. Burn that." She indicated the cup, now contaminated with Covianna's poison.

Ancelotis returned with Covianna's heavy satchel, which Morgana searched carefully as a soldier in the doorway sprinted away to do her bidding. While Morgana plucked at knotted twine to open packets and unstoppered clay vials to sniff at their contents, her unseen guest spoke urgently.

Have him eat crushed charcoal to absorb what's still in his stomach, then induce vomiting, so he'll bring up whatever's left of it with the charcoal. And force liquids, try to flush his blood and kidneys with water, to dilute the poison he's already absorbed.

Aye! Morgana gasped, then said aloud, "Ancelotis, send someone to fetch charcoal. Make him eat it, crushed finely. Then pour this," she handed over a bottle of wormwood from her own supplies, "down his throat until he vomits."

Someone ran from the room, feet slapping against the wet ground. Mere seconds later, a girl's voice, breathless from running, asked, "Is this enough?"

It was Keelin, eyes wide and distressed, face streaked with tears, carrying a basket piled high with charcoal and ash.

"Aye, crush the charcoal and get a good double handful down him."

Keelin tipped the basket onto the floor for Medraut to pulverize. Morgana left them to their work as she continued her search of Covianna's lethal little collection of herbal death. She was beginning to despair when she found it, a small packet of carefully dried leaves that she knew at once, although Brenna McEgan didn't recognize the plant.

What is it? Brenna asked as Morgana gave a glad cry.

Echoing her hidden guest, Ancelotis asked tersely, "What is it?"

"An herb as rare as the poison, itself. Devil's Bane, the Nine Ladies called it, for it undoes the devil's work when a man has swallowed poison of this kind. Covianna must have paid a king's ransom to obtain these leaves. No one has even seen this plant growing wild since my childhood. My teachers had a precious supply of them at Ynys Manaw, not many more leaves than in Covianna's packet, and the cost was dear, indeed." She peered at the doorway. "Where is that hot water?" she added urgently.

A soldier arrived with a heavy iron kettle. Steaming water slopped over the sides. He'd brought a silver goblet, as well, carried tucked under one arm, and had dropped several bowls into the kettle to carry them more easily.

"Set it there, quickly, man!"

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment, praying, then set to work. She scooped out the bowls, draining most of them, then carefully measured the water remaining in the last one. Morgana shook the precious leaves out into her palm, gauging the amount needed against available supply and Artorius' body weight and mass. There would be enough for three full-strength doses, and perhaps two second and third doses steeped from each of those three, but no more. It shook her to realize she might well hold the last supply of this wondrous drug anywhere in the world. She looked into Artorius' eyes, sunken in a face the color of the grey rainclouds overhead, and prayed it was enough.

"Give him the wormwood," she said tersely as she dropped the first batch of leaves into the steaming water. A sharp, aromatic fragrance rose from the bowl. Artorius made a choking, gagging sound as Ancelotis fed him the emetic, then forcible retching filled the room. Keelin hasily slid a bucket under his face and held his head gently while he vomited. Ancelotis poured more wormwood down him while the leaves bled their lifesaving medicine into the hot water, turning it dark. More vomiting ensued. Morgana checked Artorius' pulse again and carefully refrained from biting her lips.

Not good, Brenna muttered silently. Not good at all...

But better than it was before he swallowed the charcoal and wormwood, Morgana retorted. Aloud, she added, "That's good, that should be enough, I think." She checked the contents of the bucket and nodded sharply. "Calm his stomach with a few sips of water, now. He must, at all cost, hold down this medicine. Should he throw it up, again, all is lost."

It was Keelin who got the water down him, murmuring soothingly when Artorius choked and swallowed convulsively. It was Keelin who gripped his hand and wiped sweat and sour vomit from his face. Medraut hauled away the noxious bucket, while Ancelotis crouched to one side, waiting with pain etched into his face. The moment Morgana deemed it safe to try, she poured the medicine into the silver goblet and held it to Artorius' lips, herself.

"Slowly," she murmured, dribbling the liquid into his mouth.

He grimaced and tightened his grip around poor Keelin's fingers until her hand turned purple, but he kept the bitter stuff down.

"More, now," Morgana soothed. "You need the whole bowlful, brother, and time is critical." She got all of it down him, praised him for holding it in his belly, then added more water to the leaves at the bottom of the bowl, determined to wring as much from each precious batch as possible. While they steeped, longer this time, she gave him an infusion of foxglove to strengthen his heart and calm his pulse, which was thready beneath her seeking fingertips. She watched him so closely that sight and sound of everything else faded away. His color, a ghastly shade of grey, gradually lightened to an ash-white pallor. Violent shudders began to rock through him as she poured the second bowl of Devil's Bane down him. He gulped, shuddered, groaned and got more of it down.

"What—?" Artorius began, voice shockingly weak.

Morgana placed gentle fingertips across his lips. "Hush, brother, you must save all your strength to fight the poison, to give the medicine its best chance to work." She dredged up a smile from somewhere down near her feet, she had to reach down so deeply to find it, and tried—with Brenna McEgan's help—to answer his unvoiced question, to explain what was happening inside his body. "The poison paralyzes, attacking the body's way of communicating with itself. The muscles don't know how to respond to commands from the brain, commands which come down tiny, threadlike fibres all through the body. The brain uses these threads to give commands to the rest of the body. It's these threads the poison attacks, making it impossible to move."

As Brenna spoke, Morgana began to realize this was a subject of far greater complexity than even she, a master healer, understood. Yet Brenna McEgan made it comprehensible, not only to her, but to Artorius. Morgana's step-brother understood exactly what paralysis of an army's communications network meant on the field of battle. Well done, Morgana thanked her unseen guest with tears in her eyes. You've given him something he can focus on, something he can understand, to fight against.

He fought to whisper out one question, anyway. "Is it an antidote?"

She bit one lip, hating the look that came into his eyes, seeing her hesitate. "It's the best I can offer. The best anyone can offer. 'Tis a miracle she had the herb, at all, and I know of nothing else that could help, considering what she's given you. What I don't know is how much she's used, how strong it was, how long it's had to work in your system. Here, get another cupful down, stepbrother, and all the water you can drink, to flush the toxins."

Keelin, kneeling beside him to wipe sweat from his face every few moments, whispered, "What can I do to help?"

"You already have helped, child, more than you know." Not just in her care of Artorius, or her quickness to fetch back the charcoal, or even her tenderness with his illness, but she had helped the alliance, as well. She had shown Briton royalty, crowded around the doorway to wait for news, that the alliance really did have a chance. No one watching the girl's concerned care of the Dux Bellorum could continue harboring suspicion against her. There simply wasn't an ounce of guile anywhere in her. The quiet look of pride in Medraut's eyes as he watched his bride brought more tears to Morgana's eyes.

Morgana gave the girl a brief smile. "You can join me in vigil, as well. We must sit with him through the night. Ancelotis, lift him into bed. Help him, Medraut. And someone needs to remove that carrion from my stepbrother's room." She gestured toward Covianna Nim's body, refusing even to look at the remains of a woman who had taken in Marguase's hatred, her craving for power, and used it to destroy, just as Marguase had done so long ago.

She also never slackened her grip on Artorius' pulse, which beat weakly, but with more strength than before, as they shifted him. Despite his efforts to help, the paralysis was horrifyingly apparent, causing Morgana's breath to catch in her throat. Oh, stepbrother, she moaned silently, her heart breaking within her breast, years, it will take, trying to restore your strength, if God wills that you remain with us in this world. As they lifted and carried him to bed, Keelin snatched aside the blankets on his sleeping cot and Medraut tugged off Artorius' boots, easing his feet beneath the covers. They settled him carefully, slipping off his vomit-stained tunic and trousers, then Morgana pulled blankets and furs up, seating herself beside him and holding his wrist lightly, one finger on the pulse point at all times.

Men arrived to lift Covianna's body, yanking loose Artorius' sword first, wiping it on the dead woman's skirts before carrying her out. Ganhumara arrived as Covianna was dragged outside, staring wide-eyed at the bloodied remains of a woman she had called friend. She then stood slim and proud in the doorway, her hair a copper waterfall around her shoulders, her eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze across her husband.

"Will he live?" she asked coolly.

Morgana flicked a glance upward into her eyes. "How is it that Medraut and Keelin arrived well before you? Artorius is your husband. At least have the decency to act the part of his wife when he lies ill and helpless."

Fire stung the younger woman's cheeks. "How dare you speak to me that way?"

Morgana strode across the room and cracked a hand across her face, hard. "How dare you behave that way?"

Ganhumara clutched her cheek, eyes wide in shock and pain.

Morgana clenched her fists to stop herself from tearing the other woman's hair out by the roots. "My stepbrother would have done better had he married a common whore! Get out. Your presence is neither needed nor desired."

Ganhumara stared into Morgana's eyes, disbelief warring with utter astonishment; then she sent a pleading look toward Medraut, holding out one slender hand.

His mouth twisted in contempt. "I was a fool ever to think you desirable. Take your wiles and your scheming ways out of my sight. And pray to God your husband lives, for if he does not, the victory won today will be erased as though it had never taken place. Think hard on how well it would please you to lie in a Saxon's bed. Or bear a Saxon's bastard in your sweet little belly."

Tears flooded Ganhumara's eyes. She uttered a single sob, then turned and fled into the darkness. Morgana watched her go, then hurried back to Artorius. He fumbled weakly for her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered, gripping his fingers tightly and wishing she could unsay everything that had just been said. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

He shook his head slowly, fighting to move his head against the weakness. "She is young," he breathed out sadly, "young and foolish. As we all once were. And she has been as... disappointed in our marriage as I." A sigh shuddered loose. "Don't trouble your heart over her, Morgana. She is my problem. If God permits me to live."

Tears stung Morgana's eyes. "I will stay by your side and fight for your life, as long as it takes. Rest now, save your strength. We'll sit with you, I vow it."

He tightened his fingers around hers, then closed his eyes and lay quietly. The night was endless, stretching out cold and bitter toward the small hours of morning. Morgana fed Artorius more of the medicine, praying each time she did so that the poison would do no further damage. Dallan mac Dalriada and Riona Damhnait came to the doorway for a few moments, murmuring in low voices to Keelin, who whispered the news to them, tears streaming down her cheeks. They left quietly, leaving her to sit vigil beside Morgana.

Very few people in the hill fort slept that night. Bonfires were built high and messengers were sent round every hour with word of Artorius' condition. Artorius was one of the few who did sleep, resting quietly and lying so still he scarcely seemed to be breathing. With painful slowness, his pulse gradually strengthened beneath Morgana's fingertips. His color improved. The waxen grey tint slowly left his skin, which flushed with a rosier, healthier hue. By dawn, Morgana was certain.

"He's past the crisis," she murmured, leaning against Ancelotis. "He will live."

Word raced through the hill fort, through the camps below, on the plain, where a great shout went up from the assembled armies of Britain. Morgana sent Medraut and Keelin away to bed, reeling on their feet. When they'd gone, Ancelotis murmured, "You're exhausted as well, Morgana. You must get some rest."

"Bring another bed then, and place it beside his. I will not leave him. Not even for a moment."

Ancelotis hesitated. "Tell me truly, Morgana. Will he recover?"

She met his eyes, bit one lip. "I don't know. The poison paralyzes, weakens the muscles. It will take time, perhaps a great deal of time, to rebuild his strength, to teach him to use those damaged muscles again."

"How long? How long will you and I need to stay by his side? To... protect these people?"

She could see the worry burning in his eyes, knew that it was Stirling, as much as Ancelotis, who was asking. She phrased the answer in English. "It may take years. I—" She hesitated. "I'm afraid I don't know Arthurian lore very well, never mind the history behind it. Do you know how many years were supposed to pass between this battle and Artorius' last one, the battle he was to be killed in?"

Stirling replied, also in English. "From Badon Hill to Camlann? Thirty-five, maybe forty years. And, Brenna, it isn't just the Saxons we need to worry about, getting ready for Camlann. There's more than just the loss of their war leader that led to the Britons' destruction. There's this ruddy volcano that's going to erupt. I read about it on the train, on the way up from London. You've heard about the explosion of Krakatoa in the 1800s, I'm sure? Well, it blew apart in AD 536 or so, as well. So violently, it caused weather disruption like nuclear winter for ten years. The crops will fail, Brenna, worldwide. And when that happens, the Briton kingdoms will fall, weakened by starvation and plague."

Brenna's eyes widened. "My God. The wasteland..."

He nodded gravely. "If I am still here, thirty-six years from now, I will do everything in my power to make sure they're ready for it." He managed a smile. "They say Lancelot became a wandering hermit, preaching Christianity everywhere he went. I think Ancelotis and I may take up that challenge, when Gwalchmai is old enough to take his throne. And there's much we can do before then, as well. I'd like to spread the word about Joseph and the seven fat and lean cows, that lovely parable about being prepared for famine. I may not have the holy grail to heal the king and bring the land back to life, but I can at least urge these people to build granaries in every town, every village, every hill fort."

She touched his cheek, wonderingly. "You will, too, won't you?" She found herself swallowing hard. "You can't know how very sorry I am, that I didn't meet you a long time ago, Trevor Stirling."

Very, very gently, he kissed her lips. "And you can't know how very glad I am, that I met you when I did. Even if I did spend several weeks thinking you were the enemy."

He waited for the smile that touched her eyes, happy to see it displace some of the terrible bleakness. He sighed then and glanced toward Artorius. "Where will you take him for his rehabilitation?"

"Ynys Manaw. The Nine Ladies who taught me the healing arts will help me care for him." She chuckled. "You know, we Irish call the Isle of Man the 'Apple Isle' in Gaelic."

Very softly, Trevor Stirling began to laugh.

It was the most joyous sound Brenna McEgan had ever heard.