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Morgana said gently, her thoughts full of grief and understanding, Never castigate yourself, Bre
Bre
Covia
She pulled from her baggage a small, flat packet in which she kept a precious supply of thin-scraped vellum, calfskin as pale as the skin of a white onion, with a far smoother surface. She chose a smallish piece, trimmed from a larger vellum she had written while in Caer-Iudeu, and set it on the table beside her borrowed bed. Mixing a small amount of ink from a powdered base, using a few splashes of white wine—the best liquid for producing a fine writing ink—Covia
Artorius, she began, using the beautifully scripted, cursive Latin she had learned as a girl from her dearly beloved Marguase—it pains me enormously to be the bearer of ill tidings, but my concern for the safety of Britain impels me to send you this warning. It is, perhaps, a symptom of some inherited madness, but Morgana has lost all reason. She has made secret arrangements to betray Galwyddel to the Irish of Dalriada.
I heard her, with my own ears, plotting to secure for Medraut the throne of Galwyddel, which he will earn by betraying you and all of Britain. It is the form of this betrayal which distresses me so deeply. He is to marry a princess of Irish blood, a marriage Morgana is negotiating to bring about. As soon as the marriage is consummated, he will invite in her Dalriadan kinsmen as foederati.
My heart grieves that this is so, for I believe Morgana truly thinks this insanity to be the right thing to do. It is clear to me, at least, that the Dalriadans will take full advantage of our distraction in the south and invade at full strength the moment she has concluded this mad treaty. Please, for the sake of Britain, ride to Caer-Birrenswark and stop her before she commits this act of desperate folly.
I will ask a minstrel to deliver this into your hand, as I must ride south with all haste to help my own kinsmen at Glaste
She carefully blew the final lines of ink dry, disposed of the excess ink by pouring it into the chamber pot, and rinsed the little glass inkwell with water from her basin before carefully storing it away again in her baggage, along with the quill in its pen case and the penknife in a second case tucked inside the first. She lit a taper of beeswax from an oil lamp, then creased the vellum into a small square, so that all sides were sealed by folds.
Covia
"Covia
She allowed him to kiss her fingertips.
"Bricriu, I would have you deliver this note to Artorius after I have gone. But do not take it straight to him. I must try and verify the matters written herein. If I do not contact you by the next full moon, then the matter is true and Artorius must know of it."
She handed the small, folded vellum over—and with it a coin glittering golden in the late and slanting light of afternoon. A gold aureus of Rome, it bore the portrait of the last emperor of the west, Romulus Augustulus. Twenty-five years after their last minting, the golden Augustulus coins still circulated amongst the peoples of the vanishing empire, even as far afield as Britain, which still managed a lively trade with her former imperial masters despite unrest, civil war, and invasion that seemed to sweeping across the entire known world.
Covia
"Agree to follow my instructions to the letter," she purred, "and this will be yours immediately. Breathe not one single word of this to anyone, not even to your fellow minstrels or bedmate, but give it straight into Artorius' hand, and I will provide others. Multiple others. Once you have given it to Artorius, bring his response to me at Glaste
He caught it with a snatch like a starving dog, turning it over and staring at it while babbling, "I swear by Afallach and Christ, I will put your letter into the Dux Bellorum's own hand and no other's, even if I must ride to Avalonis across the waves and back again." He slipped the coin into his belt pouch, then held out his hand for the note. "Provided I have not heard otherwise from you, come the full moon, the task will be done."
Satisfied, Covia
"Your servant," he bowed.
Covia
"Covia
"No," she said in a low voice, giving him a look of grave concern. "With war brewing in the south and my kinsmen at Glaste
"You need not risk yourself," he protested, twisting a strand of her golden hair around his fingertips.