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She could do nothing but whimper in the back of her shared throat when Morgana stepped to Medraut's side and said, "Please tell King Dallan that I, Morgana of Ynys Manaw, have placed myself and all that I love in his hands, risking everything to bring this warning. Has he or any man aboard this ship drunk from Lailoken's wine cask?"
Dallan's eyes widened. "Wine cask?"
The words were pure Gael, but—unmistakably—he had said, "Wine cask?"
The translation came when Riona sagged in relief so profound, she nearly slid to the decks, braced at the last instant by an alert sailor who caught her from a nasty fall. "Your God has looked upon us, Morgana," the Druidess whispered, staggering back to her feet, "for no one has yet tasted the gift."
Keelin was speaking urgently now, so urgently, her father could not get in a single word of protest or negation. Judging by the expressions and gestures, she was telling her father that Medraut and Morgana had themselves insisted upon accompanying Keelin on this voyage, knowing full well they might be executed for it, that she had come to love Medraut for the honorable and courageous young man he was, that Medraut would fight to the death whole armies of Saxons, to protect his new Dalriadan Irish kinfolk, those the Saxon treachery had left alive. And judging by the tears sparkling in the dawnlight on her cheeks and the thunderous black look on her father's face, those kinfolk were very few in number now, and therefore doubly precious.
The king's reply, when it came, needed no translation. I ought to have my head examined, that look said. He gestured and two of the sailors bound Medraut's wrists behind him, and Morgana's as well, while Irish sailors spilled over into the British fishing sloop and tied the hands of every man aboard her. But they had not been gutted on sight, which was more than Morgana, at least, had expected.
"Ask the king if he has a dog aboard this ship," Morgana said, turning her gaze to meet the Druidess' unhappy gaze. "Or better still, a rat. Feed the creature some of the wine from Lailoken's cask. If it contains the botulism toxins, the animal will be dead within twelve to twenty hours. And he will have enough proof to hang whomever he considers guilty for the atrocity at Dunadd."
Dallan mac Dalriada snarled out a reply. Keelin shrieked, "Nay!" and threw herself in front of Medraut again. Impasse. One that did not last long. At a bellow from her father, two burly sailors dragged the girl away, fighting and clawing, even biting them in her desperation to escape and prevent Medraut's untimely slaughter. That he had won not only the girl's heart, but her unswerving loyalty, was not lost on Dallan mac Dalriada. It was equally clear that the Irish king had no idea what to do about it, a hurt and bewildered and angry parent doing his best to protect his child while his entire world crashed down about his ears.
When he finally gave a curt order that sent Medraut and Morgana below the deck, dragged down into the cramped cargo space—cold and damp and unutterably wretched with dirt and foul smells of dead fish and live rats—Keelin broke free, striking her father with both fists in a paroxysm of raging emotion, then collapsed in Riona's arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
A heavy wooden hatch slammed down across the only exit from their watery prison, robbing them of further sight of Keelin's wild grief, which was just as well, for Medraut's sake. The boy trembled where they lay crammed together between ship's hull and a heavy case of something that thumped and rattled like shifting crowbars. Ingots of iron, no doubt, ferried north to be forged into weapons.
Battered and bruised, Morgana lay still, the ropes hurting her wrists, and tried to catch the sound of Irish voices arguing in Gael. It was, like the German spoken by the men of Saxony, a language one ought to understand, if one simply listened hard enough to catch the similarities of phrase and slightly odd pronunciation of familiar words.
Medraut whispered, "I've learnt enough Gael to know a little of what's being said. Dallan mac Dalriada is ordering rats brought to him, along with Lailoken's wine cask. He's going to try it, Aunt."
"Pray God he believes Keelin and his Druidess, for Riona Damhnait is no fool and it's clear he knows that. He's also turning for home," Morgana muttered as the ship wallowed and rolled and took up a new tack, but without turning around to sail back south. "He'll go straight to Dunadd to verify the deaths himself. God pity us when we arrive, Medraut, for I very much doubt that Dallan mac Dalriada will."
"I'm sorry," Medraut choked out, his whisper a badly shaken child's apology for creating an unwanted mess.
"No, never be sorry, Medraut, for doing the right and honorable thing."
"No," he countered her at once, "I'm not sorry for coming. I'm sorry for allowing you to come along, as well. For that, I am twice the fool and will regret it as long as the Irish allow us to live."
She wished there were some comforting thing, anything, she might say to the boy.
There was not a single, useful word in her weary and battered brain.
So she laid her head against a pile of coiled rope and waited for the rats—and doubtless soon thereafter, the prisoners—to die. The day passed in agonizing slowness, the most physically miserable day of Morgana's life, not as painful as childbirth, but bone-jarring as the ship plowed through heavy seas, rolling and bashing them against one another and the contents of the cramped space below deck. Nausea tore her throat, occasionally leaving her helpless in the throes of uncontrollable heaves. Medraut tried to brace her at such times, using his shoulder to help lift her over his own body, as their hands were bound tightly behind them.
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What felt like an entire lifetime later, night descended, robbing them of the few meager cracks of light that found their way between boards and joins. The total darkness was suffocating. When the ship wallowed heavily, coming around on a new heading, Medraut murmured, "We must be entering Dunadd Harbor. It feels like the right amount of time to've reached it."
"I wonder," Morgana said bitterly, unable to keep the sound out of her voice, "if the rats have died yet."
"At least they haven't forced us to drink from the cask. I've halfway expected him to order it."
Morgana shivered. "He may yet."
A distantly heard splash reached their ears and the ship pitched and yawed and came to a rocking standstill, tethered by her anchor line. They could hear voices overhead, shouting in Gaelic, and other voices replying faintly. "They must have brought the fishing sloop along," Medraut said in a faintly surprised tone.
Morgana forced a chuckle. "What, fail to secure a free ship and several new slaves for himself? Your father-in-law is no fool, nephew. He will," she added darkly, "have need of a few slaves, to replace the men and women Lailoken murdered. Winter is nearly upon them and this blow bids fair to destroy his whole colony."
Overhead, the hatch cover was lifted clear, allowing torchlight to spill into their eyes. As Morgana squinted against the light, a sailor slid down and lifted her into the hands of another man who hauled her up onto the deck. Medraut was hoisted out, in turn, while a third sailor busied himself untying her wrists. She rubbed the chafed skin and bruises gingerly, wincing and trying to keep her balance, more weakened by thirst, battering, and fear than she'd realized.