...and staked out a table near the hearth. Dropping his cloak across the back of a chair, he moved to the fireplace and rubbed his hands briskly, taking out the chill.

Cadfan came running over, face beaming. "'Ow are ye, Rhys? An' what kin I be gettin' ye?"

The Catuvellauni Headman smiled at the innkeeper. They had served together under Ambiorix some years ago, before time and fortune had set them on different paths. Cadfan had his Inn, and Rhys, well, he represented the Catuvellauni people. He wondered idly who was the luckier of them.

"Ale, Cadfan," he smiled, "and what are you serving today that won't kill a man?"

The Innkeeper feigned indignation. "Go on wi' ye now. We 'ave an 'aunch o' beef, with bread, some lamb stew, or just plain cold 'am. Whut do ye want?"

"Make it the beef, Cadfan, lots of it." Rhys watched as the innkeeper hustled off to fill his order. Reluctantly tearing himself away from the fire, he returned to his table, settling himself in the near chair, feet propped on another.

Cadfan returned with a flagon of ale which he carefully placed on the table, then hurried away to attend another party that had just entered the inn.

Sipping at the fine drink, Rhys thought about the day's news, none of it very good. The meetings with the petty chieftains had gone as expected. The complaints, as always had turned to rights infringed upon, and taxes...always taxes.

The news of the attack on the Queen's party had spread like wildfire, and the scant trust in the Roman's ability to maintain the safety of Catuvellauni territory had evaporated in an instant.

Rhys' face was glum. His report to Miranda would be balanced and fair.

It would also be, he feared, most unwelcome.