Prince Marchudd's Fingers drummed on the arm of , his chair: a restless man, Meganius thought, quite aptly named before he changed the appellation. He was chris- tened Rhys, which means "rapid" or "rushing," and only on his accession to the throne of the Parisii and Brigantes did he style himself Marchudd or "horse lord." Some clergy saw this as a lapse of faith. Meganius knew it was entirely political, helping Marchudd and his consort to identify with the unbaprized among their tributary chief- : tains, especially the remote Brigantes. The royal house of Eburacum, like the Church, would do or be whatever it needed to survive.

Marchudd shifted in his chair, obviously more com- fortable in movement than repose. A small, darting, intel- ligent man, he was more at ease in British trousers and tunic than the purple-striped gown and toga his visit prompted him to wear. The toga trapped his left hand, holding it in place, quite an annoyance since he was left- handed, and forced him to wear the gold armlet of the

36.

Parisii and Brigantes on his right arm, where it always felt

awkward.

"On this matter of the Coritani," he said in clipped

tones, "if they want a war, they've got one. I've relin- quished the claims on their northern lands, but I'll have their respect. The cattle raids will cease, by God. Those people are worse than Faerie for thieving and I've told

their nuncios as much."

"How do you think it will come out?" Meganius plied

in real concern.

"In all candor?"

"And all confidence."

"I think in a year or two I'm going to be at war-och!

Let's talk of pleasanter things." Marchudd's balding pate jerked impatiently. "My new son."

"Ah. yes. How does he?"

"Lusty as a bull, hungry all the time."

"A proper princeling."

"We'd have him baptized tomorrow if you will officiate."

"Of course. What will you name him?"

"We thought of Constantius, but the princess thinks something old-fashioned might be better, so we'll name

him Cador."

"Excellent." The bishop bobbed his head judiciously.

He raised his goblet to the notion. "May he be chosen prince in his time and grow wise as his father."

As a matter of fact, Meganius' wish was answered with an embarrassment of riches. Marchudd was an able ad- ministrator. Cador grew into one whom even Ambrosius noted as a wizard at playing both ends against the middle, and he sired Guenevere, who was much of the political

genius ascribed to Arthur.

Meganius was distracted for a moment; his gatekeeper

had just admitted a stranger, a young priest who stood waiting inside the portal, noting with obvious disapproval the bas-relief of Janus carved into the gate arch. The gatekeeper relayed his whispered message to the servant in attendance on Meganius and his guest, who then hur- ried to the bishop's elbow.

"Who is it, Corus?"

"A Father Patricius, your grace. He says you have had

letters from Caerleon of his coming."

37.

"Oh. yes," Meganius verified without enthusiasm. Then to Marchudd: "The young Augustinian, my lord. One of Germanus' lion-killers."

"Well." Prince Marchudd rose, eager to be away and to waiting business as always. "I'll leave you to receive him.

I can't abide that sort."

"Perhaps he's still green enough to be salvaged. Be- sides, I think you know his father. Send him to me, Corus."

Marchudd looked blank. "His father?"

"The decurion Calpurnius of Clannaventa."

"Oh, of course."

"Shall I present him?"

"If you wish, but then I must be off. People to see . . ."

the prince-magistrate trailed off vaguely. "Yes, he does favor Calpurmus somewhat. Spent some time as a slave among the Irish, didn't he?"

"Six years."

Marchudd whistled softly in compassion. "Ought to take that off purgatory for the lad."

"From what I've heard of Father Patricius, I don't think he'd permit it."

As the young priest strode energetically across the atrium, Meganius couldn't see where Irish captivity had done him much harm. Patricius had a rugged, unpriestly gait. He bobbed his head to the prince and dropped to one dutiful knee to kiss the bishop's offered ring.

"Thank you for receiving me, your grace."

"My blessing, Father Patricius. Prince Marchudd. allow me to present Magonus Succatus, the son of Calpurnius."

"Father."

"Honored, my lord," Patricius said in a brusque tone that signified a deal less than that.

A comely enough young fellow, Meganius decided: in his mid- or latter twenties, reddish hair shaven across the crown, eyes large and inconsistently brown in the round face, the fair skin permanently darkened from years of living in the open. Where many British priests allowed themselves light linen in warm weather, Patricius was se- vere in coarse dark woolen canonicals, the studiedly plain garb Germanus wore when he refuted the Pelagians in debate.

Yet, somehow, Meganius sensed the severity of Patricius

38 to be something laid on and not inherent, like an actor striving loo hard for effect in a role. He'd paused a mo- ment coming across the courtyard to stroke one of the house dogs and note with pleasure the lush spread of a peacock's tail. Underneath the zeal, Meganius suspected a