For King & Country (32 page)

"We'll need to dig wells," Cadorius muttered, "to support that number of people."

"Aye, and cisterns for rainwater, as well."

"There won't be room for cisterns," Melwas protested, squatting beside Myrddin's mud map and using a finger to sketch in the outlines of the buildings Myrddin had just enumerated.

Myrddin chuckled. "Ah, you're thinking in terms only of the summit. There'll be plenty of room. It's why I want five walls, not just the one or two you generally find with hill forts like this one. Look you, now, we'll build the five circumvallations like the labyrinth of Glastenning Tor, a maze of walls, with stone-lined cisterns between and gutters cut across the entire eighteen acres of the summit, feeding the rainwater into them, so none is wasted."

Melwas gaped. "You can't be serious? No one could build such a complicated structure in the time we have!"

"Nonsense," Myrddin snorted. "Haven't you read your
Gallic Commentaries
? Caesar's legions could have done it in a week, if not less."

The young king of Glastenning tried to find his voice, mouth working like a fish drowning in air. "But—"

"He's right," Cadorius cut in. "Remember, we'll have more than the farmers of Glastenning to help with the quarrying and the digging. Half the fighting strength of Britain is on its way here, with a fair percentage of them close enough to Badonicus, we should have a sizeable work force by tomorrow's sunset. We may not have the equal of Roman engineers, but we've plenty of strong backs and this is a brilliant defense plan." He tapped the muddy sketch, which rainwater was spattering into oblivion. "We could hold this hill for weeks, if need be, provided we can lay in the foodstuffs as quickly as we lay in the walls and cisterns and put up the shelters."

Myrddin nodded. "That, too, will be critical. The
cataphracti
and infantry due to join us will be certain to bring their own baggage trains with them, as even the greenest commanding officer knows an army of the size needed here cannot scavenge off the surrounding countryside as their only source of victuals. They'll have a sizeable store of grain and smoked meats with them, never doubt that. It's our job to be sure we've places to store it before the Saxons reach us.

"It's certain as sunrise the Saxons will cut any supply lines to Caer-Badonicus, the moment they arrive. It's a holding action we'll be fighting, distracting and keeping the Saxons bottled up here, goading them into trying to take this fortress, while the armies of the midlands and the north rush southward to join us. Without that fighting strength of the north, we'll never drive them back, so we must take great care to hold out until they can reach us—and make damned sure the Saxons don't scatter and ravage the countryside the way Cutha ravaged Penrith."

Melwas was still frowning down at the disintegrating mud map. "Why so many cisterns, though? With eighteen acres to provide runoff, surely so many won't be necessary? That's a lot of wall you're talking about, a lot of water, thousands of hogsheads, I'd say."

Emrys Myrddin grinned. "Indeed, you show a fine grasp of the mathematics. It's fortunate for us that the season's been one of the rainiest in memory. Come, let me show you something," Myrddin said, leading them back to the edge of the hill, where workmen had begun repairs to the old fortress wall. They had to squint into the teeth of the wind and shelter their eyes with upraised hands against the slashing rain. "If you were going to besiege this hill, would you put your tents here?" he gestured at the steep, rain-slashed slope. "In the brunt of the wind and rain? Or"—he led them across the summit to the opposite slope, where the wind and rain pummeled their backs—"would you pitch your tents here, in the lee of the hill?"

The lee side of Caer-Badonicus still suffered the effects of wind and rain, but the storm did not rattle so fiercely through the scrub here, nor did the rain fall with such brutal, wind-flung force. Myrddin spoke above the howl of the wind at their backs. "With this kind of weather to contend with—and it shows no sign of clearing up—the Saxons will have to cope with the same conditions we're fighting right now. They'll throw up a ring of men all the way around Caer-Badonicus, don't mistake that, but for any lengthy siege, even a day or two's worth of attacks, they'll want the bulk of their army out of the wind, particularly their sleeping tents. And that slope is the only place they can get it." He pointed downward. "So we prepare a little surprise for them."

Cadorius shot him a startled look. "With the cisterns between the walls?"

Myrddin chuckled. "Indeed. I'll draw up detailed plans to work from tonight. Work can begin at dawn, with more men being added to the effort as they arrive from the other kingdoms."

"I almost pity the Saxons," Cadorius grinned. "Wherever did you come up with such a notion?"

Emrys Myrddin laughed, clapping him across the shoulder. "After you next visit Constantinople, come and ask me again. Now, let's get down off this godforsaken summit, get some hot food into our bellies, and get to work."

Lailoken discovered very quickly that the North Channel is a nightmare to sail across when October's gales sweep in off the North Atlantic with the scream of storm wind in the rigging. The sickening roll and pitch of the ship's hull twisting clear of the wave crests, only to smash down into the black-water troughs, leprous with grey foam, left Lailoken groaning in acute misery. Stinging white spray blasted his face every few moments. Lailoken's entire experience of boats totaled perhaps five or six rides on the occasional flat-bottomed scow of a river ferry, poled across a long, low, relatively shallow stretch of water under civil if not quite genteel conditions. The sailors manning the fishing sloop held very little sympathy for a man whose chief interest was lying in his hammock and wishing the world would hold still long enough for him to quietly die without throwing up his guts one last time.

The bad weather held for two solid days, all the way up the coast past the Mull of Kintyre, the longest peninsula in Scotland. It dogged their heels past Islay Island, where they turned inland to parallel the long Kintyre coast. Irish ships, at least, were nowhere in evidence, their captains and crews doubtless too intelligent to set sail in weather so rough. The way Lailoken felt, he would almost have welcomed the thrust of an honest Irish sword through his gut—at least it would end this Godforsaken, spinning nausea that turned his whole existence unbearable.

Banning was none too pleased about Lailoken's seasickness either, and his guest's scathing, angry disgust added to his utter misery. They lurched and rolled past Jora Island, that long, low strip of land lying opposite the great Irish fort of Dunadd, where the
Scotti
kings had crowned themselves lords over all the sub-kings of the Irish clans pouring into Dalriada.

Across the heaving, pitching deck of the fishing sloop, Morgana's nephew Medraut stood with wide-braced legs, eagerly watching the coastline slip past as they approached the harbor below Fortress Dunadd. Medraut, disgustingly, had not spent even five minutes seasick, to the hearty approval of the fishermen—who had been well paid with Morgana's gold to run the risk of sailing into Irish waters during bad weather.

"Speak you any Gael?" the captain asked, threading his way across the cluttered deck to Medraut's side.

The boy glanced around. "Nay, not a word, I'm afraid. I've been wondering since we left Galwyddel last night how I'm to communicate with them."

The captain grinned. "The very act of sailing into Dunadd Harbor is communication of a bold sort, lad. They'll respect you, if nothing else."

Aye,
Lailoken thought uncharitably,
they'll respect us all the way to the gallows. Or do the Irish lop off heads with an axe?
Lailoken had very few words of Gael and when he'd asked Banning shortly after setting foot on the trawler, his guest had responded with outrage.
Irish Gael? That barbaric tongue? I would sooner have my tongue ripped out and nailed to a wall than ever speak Irish Gael!

Lailoken hoped very fervently, indeed, that the Irish didn't grant Banning his wish.

The sail rattled and shook as the tillerman turned them inland toward the harbor entrance. The boat rolled broadside on to the heavy seas and Lailoken swallowed hard, managing to stuff the nausea back down before thoroughly humiliating himself again. He clutched the edges of the hammock—which the sailors had rigged so he wouldn't, at least, fall overboard while ill—and literally held on during the long, miserable stretch of time it took to round the headland and reach calmer, protected water.

The coastline here was rugged, with a slope of rocky beach above which rose an outcropping of rock. It was there the Irish had built an immense stone fortress, with a commanding view of the harbor and the sea beyond it. The town which huddled at the fortress' feet was a substantial settlement, housing several thousand people, at least, with smoke curling black as peat from the chimneys of low, solidly built cottages. Thatched roofs rustled in the wind, held down with nets of rope weighted in place with heavy rocks at the end of every single strand of rope netting. The heavy grey stones hung down nearly to the ground along the cottage walls, one for every twelve inches or so of roofline, swaying in the storm winds like beads on a rosary. It was a technique the Britons would do well to copy, Lailoken had to admit, earning a derisive snort from Banning.

By the time the fishing boat had crossed Dunadd Harbor, Lailoken managed to drag himself out of the hammock and reach the boat's rail, tottering but on his feet. Medraut glanced briefly his way, then turned his attention back to the shore, where a group of men had begun to gather, fisherfolk, from the look of them, curious about the foolhardy sailors out in the storm. Certainly they weren't armed soldiers, although movement on the road from the fortress suggested that someone had noticed theirs was not an Irish boat and was taking steps to determine just what the boat was and what its crew wanted. Lailoken was still too seasick to be overly alarmed and Medraut merely seemed excited by the whole grand adventure.

They dropped anchor where the water shoaled and when the sail came rattling down, wet and heavy and ponderous as a sow's belly, the sailors threw a rope ladder across the gunwale, down which Medraut skinned, landing in hip-deep water and holding the bottom of the ladder for Lailoken. He swallowed back nausea, muttered to the captain, "Send someone ashore with the gifts, eh?" and limbered himself awkwardly over the side. The seawater was cold, soaking him to the skin as he waded grimly for shore.

"You'd think they'd build a pier, at least," he growled under his breath, prompting a nervous chuckle from Medraut.

The knot of fishermen on the beach had grown to a lively crowd of curious men and boys. A few women had put in an appearance as well, but stayed back from the water's edge, watching from a safe distance. A babble of voices speaking incomprehensible Irish Gaelic deepened Lailoken's uneasiness, but no one had drawn weapons, which was a mercy, particularly since they'd been recognized for what they were. Several voices sent the word racing outward through the crowd:
Britons!

A moment later, the crowd parted for new arrivals from the hill fort above the harbor. The newcomers were armed with long swords and shorter, wicked belt knives, but for the moment the blades remained sheathed, their owners more curious than threatened by a handful of Britons very far, indeed, from their home waters. The man in the lead, a stocky fellow with the characteristic blue-black hair and ice-blue eyes of the dark variety of Irishman, looked them up and down, then spat out a question in language that left Lailoken's tongue aching, just hearing it spoken.

Lailoken, as the designated messenger, spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension and said very slowly and clearly, "We speak no Gael. Have you anyone that speaks Brythonic?"

The man frowned, rubbed his heavy black beard thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to a lad at his elbow and issued some sort of instructions that sounded like a cat swallowing its tongue. The boy raced across the beach, pelting up the road toward the fortress. While they waited, everyone on edge and uncertain what would happen next, one of the women came down to the water's edge, handing them thick, dry cloaks to wrap around their sodden clothing. Medraut flashed her a smile of intense, crimson-cheeked thanks, which prompted giggles among the younger girls watching from behind their mothers' skirts.

"They're more like us than I'd ever believed possible," Medraut said in quiet astonishment. "I'd not expected them to make such an offer." The loan was deeply generous and very welcome, as the wind whipping across the harbor drew a foul bit of shivering from both of them.

"Aye," Lailoken was getting his stomach back under some reasonable semblance of control again, "it's rare that an offer to trade goes sour at the beginning. It's what you're offered for your goods—and what you think of their offer—that causes war to break out in little sheltered bays like this one. Pride is a fine thing, so long as it doesn't plunge a man into trouble by the refusal to bend his head. A trader's job is never an easy one."

"Nor a matchmaker's."

"Hah!" Lailoken wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and wished mightily for that drinking skin he'd sampled just before coming aboard. "That's the bloody truth."

Another delegation was descending from the hill fort, headed by a woman this time, who was surrounded by a group of older women and a few men with white in their beards. The younger woman's eyes were a soft blue-green shade, like deep waters of a steepy loch in summer's haze, eyes that were violently alive and intelligent. Her copper-flame hair, caught back in one long plait and held neatly in place by a tubular hair net that glinted with threads of gold, hung down her back like a thick and immensely expensive jeweled serpent from some pagan god's pleasure garden. As she approached, several of the fisherfolk whispered, "
Riona the Damhnait!
" passing the astonishment back amongst themselves.