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Her gown, of a far more attractive style than he'd expected, clinging delightfully to her more than delightful curves, was cinched around an impossibly tiny waist by a belt apparently made from solid gold links. The woolen gown had been dyed a blue as striking as her eyes. Jewels glittered at her wrists and ears. A heavy woolen cloak, startling in shades of crimson-and-green plaid and lined with soft white fur, hung from her shoulders, held closed across her breasts by a jeweled chain.
"You're awake at last!" she breathed.
Belatedly, he noticed the golden circlet at her throat. Torque of royalty... Was this woman his—or rather, Ancelotis'—wife? Ancelotis' reply growled through his confusion. She's no wife of mine, a fact she forgets far too frequently. Her identity, reaching him from Ancelotis' memories, burst into Stirling's awareness with cold horror. Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit... He stood up hastily, which was a mistake, given his poor coordination. He stumbled off balance and the girl gasped, darting forward to steady him.
"I'm no child!" he snapped, pulling free and wondering for a bad moment if he'd spoken in Brythonic Welsh or English. She froze, eyes wide. The begi
While Stirling scrubbed at his face, trying to dredge up some kind of response, Ancelotis simply muttered, "Forgive my short temper, it's that damned potion of Morgana's."
For a long, hazardous moment, she said nothing at all; then the danger passed and she relaxed, although she remained standing far too close for his peace of mind. "Aye," she nodded. "Belike. Druids' potions have left me dizzy a time or two."
He glanced curiously into her eyes, wondering about that. No sense in asking, however; that could be even more disastrous than snapping at her had been. "I am all right, truly," he tried to reassure her.
"What happened?"
He shook his head, neither of them able to come up with an explanation that sounded even remotely plausible. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now."
Her glance remained wary, but she didn't press the issue. Just how much did a Briton woman argue with her menfolk? Ancelotis didn't answer him, instead speaking with a firmness that bordered on the grim.
"Thank you for making certain I'm all right, but you had better go."
She glared at the door with a flash of defiance, then her shoulders drooped, as though her cloak—or some other burden—were far too heavy. "Aye. It wouldn't do to stir trouble just now. The council met while you slept," she added, eyes flashing with some strong emotion Stirling couldn't interpret. "Summoned by Artorius from the capital."
"And did the councillors take a vote while I slept?" he asked, voice on edge for a reason Stirling didn't quite understand.
Her ice-pale eyes glinted. "They did. You're wanted in the great hall."
"In that case," Ancelotis said coolly, "you had best not be here when they come to fetch me."
Her eyes flashed, rebellious again, but she subsided without further verbal protest. She did take one worried step forward—Stirling was pretty sure it was worry that prompted it—and checked abruptly at some tiny signal he hadn't realized he'd telegraphed until too late. She caught back a sob—of rage or frustration or grief, he had no idea. Then she whirled aside and snatched at the door, peering carefully into the corridor before slipping away with a rustle of woolen skirts. Stirling discovered an unmanly tremor in his knees and an even more disturbing response at his groin.
This was worse than riot duty in Clonard.
Ancelotis muttered, A man may leave a city of his free will, if life there displeases him, but a woman like Ganhumara will plague a man to the grave, stirring trouble wherever she sets foot. And she but a girl scarce grown to womanhood.
That, Stirling thought grimly, was doubtless the best reason for avoiding female entanglements he'd ever heard. He sat back down to tug on his boots, scrubbed his face for a long moment, and thought seriously of finding a very deep and icy lake to jump into. He was still wrapping ankle laces around his trouser cuffs when the door opened again, the knock so peremptory as to be nonexistent.
"Ancelotis! You're looking much better!"
Stirling found himself facing a man in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older. His face had been deeply weathered by sun and worry and the harshness of battle. There was an odd, out-of-place look about his features, better suited to the wilds of Persia than the Lowlands of Scotland. He wasn't tall, but only a fool would've made the mistake of calling him a small man. Stocky, athletic under a tunic and loose trousers of cut and quality comparable to the ones Stirling wore, his hands were scarred and calloused. His nose had been broken at least once and his stance communicated instant readiness to fight. It was not belligerence. Stirling had seen that look of hair-trigger readiness before, in the faces of soldiers in a combat zone. This was a man accustomed to war. And command. And victory.
A golden torque, much smaller than the one Stirling wore, narrower even than the copper-haired girl's, glittered at the man's throat. High rank, then, but not quite royalty. A red dragon, hand-embroidered by some skilled needlewoman, blazed scarlet on the breast of his tunic, giving Stirling the final clue he needed, confirmed by Ancelotis.
Artorius.
Dux Bellorum of the People of the Red Dragon.
He didn't even know how to address this man. The word "sire" froze in the back of his throat. Artorius wasn't a king. That didn't stop Stirling from thinking dazedly, My God, it's King Arthur in person... .
Artorius was staring at him rather oddly. "You are all right, Ancelotis?"
He managed a nod. "Aye. It's that blasted potion." He winced at using the same lame excuse, but Artorius merely grunted.
"You'll need a clear head by week's end, man. The council's voted. I sent for them the moment you collapsed. They're in full agreement and Queen Morgana gives you her full backing."
Stirling had not the faintest idea what Artorius was talking about, but his host's reaction gave him an unpleasant clue. Ancelotis blanched, groping for the bed and sinking onto it before his knees gave way.
"She's refused it, hasn't she?"
"You ca
Ancelotis ran a distracted hand through his hair, a movement that startled Trevor Stirling, who still wasn't accustomed to having his body respond to commands he hadn't given. "No," Ancelotis agreed with a sigh. "It doesn't surprise me. If anything, I respect her the more for it. They've given it to me, have they? Until Gwalchmai is of age?"
"They have. I fear the formal ceremony must be kept far briefer than you might wish."
Ancelotis snorted. "I would wish for none at all to be needed. It was never my intent to rule Gododdin—or anything else, save my warhorse and a cavalry unit or two. That was Lot's desire, never my own."
Artorius' weathered face betrayed the depth of his concern in a whole series of deepened gullies through cheeks and brow. "This ca
"But—"
"Gododdin may be as far from the troubles of the south as it is possible to go in Briton territory, but if we allow Cutha and his machinations free reign while you look to Gododdin's internal affairs, you will wake one morning all too soon to find Cutha and his ilk massing on your border, not Glaste