The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  Eremon spurred Dórn towards his youngest warrior, brushing hazel catkins from his hair. ‘Well, put us out of our misery, then! Who is it?’

  Rori was agog, his red freckles blending into one great flush across his face. ‘Warriors have just this day come from the Caereni. From a chief called … Nectan.’ He swirled the unfamiliar name on his tongue. ‘My lord, is this the man who helped you after the wreck? Who made the druids honour you on the Sacred Isle?’

  Eremon’s chest was suffused with a warm relief. ‘Yes, indeed.’ He and Conaire exchanged looks of surprise and pleasure. ‘So who has he sent?’

  Rori’s grin was brighter than the sunlight. ‘Archers!’ he breathed. ‘The finest I have ever seen! They have yew bows and beaded quivers and they wear odd clothes and they are so dark and small and you can hardly see them until they move and they are dressed all in skins and everything is a colour that doesn’t show up against rock or tree or grass …’ He broke off suddenly, blushing furiously. ‘Of course, you know all this. You were there.’

  Eremon smiled, and leaned out to rest his hand on Rori’s shoulder. ‘You can hear any such good news more than once. They are fine archers, the finest. Nectan does me great honour to send them.’ He looked again at Conaire, a question on his face. ‘Yet the Caereni chiefs told me they would only send men in the event of battle. I was not expecting any aid now.’

  Conaire drew a hunting spear from his saddle pack and hefted it idly, testing its weight. ‘Rhiann was always saying that Nectan is far-seeing. Perhaps he knows we will need men soon.’

  The dark spectre of the Romans flitted across Eremon’s mind once more. Yet he could not deny the excitement that rose behind the cloud. ‘Brother,’ he said to Conaire, ‘with the other kings set against the alliance for now, Calgacus and I don’t have enough men to challenge Agricola openly. But we can ambush and stalk – and for that, a set of fine Caereni archers will be very useful!’

  Rhiann paused in the sun at her own doorway to brush the dew from her skirts.

  Just inside, Eithne was scouring the iron cookpots clean with fresh sand. Like all young things she had recovered from her shock quickly, and Rhiann saw that her black hair and eyes were gleaming again, and the bony angles of her body were already filling out. She was growing up so fast, and into a beauty, Rhiann suddenly realized, as Eithne jumped up to relieve her of the gathering basket and digging stick.

  Once inside, Eithne set before Rhiann an alder bowl of water with soaproot, to wash the dirt from her hands, and a drying cloth, and knelt to unlace Rhiann’s muddy boots.

  Rhiann looked around her little house with a relief that it had been put to rights again. The pot by the door was full of water from the well. The basket by the hearth was overflowing with roasted barley grains from last year’s harvest, ready for grinding, and there was a fresh joint of beef hanging among the herbs on the rafters. The goddess figures were lined up on their shelf, and the bright cushions and rugs had been beaten, aired and set neatly around the fire pit.

  ‘The early sun has brought out the dog roses,’ Rhiann told Eithne.

  Eithne was now sorting through the basket, carefully brushing dirt off the roots, leaves and flowers, and laying them on the workbench under the herb shelves. Rhiann joined her there.

  ‘I do not yet know this one.’ Eithne held up one plant with spreading, pleated leaves.

  ‘This is lady’s-mantle; I went some way to find it. And you know feverfew.’

  Eithne’s brow creased as she repeated the names. ‘But what are they for?’

  ‘For pregnancy.’ Rhiann busied herself pulling out the other bundles of leaves, so Eithne would not see the concern in her face. Caitlin was feeling worse, not better, and Rhiann was determined to try everything she could to ease her way. ‘Did you sit with Caitlin, then?’

  ‘Yes, lady. I helped her bathe, but then she wished to sleep, so I went to the well and came back here to boil water and wait for you.’

  This pregnancy at least was timely, Rhiann thought, reaching up for a basket of the dried red haws. The festival of Beltaine was over, and the longest day still some weeks away, so there were no major rituals to organize. The sun’s warmth was melting away the fevers and hacking coughs of the long dark. Offerings were required neither for planting nor harvest; the barley fields around the dun were blessed and sown, and sprouting strongly. The cattle from surrounding homesteads had been driven up to sunseason pasture in the hills, and the ripening of fruits, berries and nuts was still moons away. The heather was not yet blooming, for ale; the honey was not yet flowing, for mead; and it was too early to take the oak bark, wild onions and woad leaves for dyes.

  Rhiann’s floor rushes had needed changing after the long dark, but the cutting and hauling and strewing had only taken the women a few days, and then the only thing left to do was gather herbs. All the new leaves, buds and early blooms were strong in their first growth, reaching to the sun.

  When the brew was ready, Rhiann and Eithne took a covered pot to Caitlin, who was up and squatting by the hearth in the King’s Hall, kneading some barley dough on the warm stone.

  Eithne took over the baking of the bannocks while Rhiann checked Caitlin’s pulse, eyes, breath and tongue, as she did every day. And as she did every day, Caitlin rolled her eyes at Eithne when Rhiann was peering in her mouth.

  Rhiann closed Caitlin’s mouth with a tap on her chin. ‘You can squirm and complain and protest all you like, but it won’t make me leave you alone.’ She reached for the cooling brew and horn cup, glancing sidewise at Caitlin with a smile. ‘Anyone would think you ungrateful.’

  She regretted that as soon as she said it, for the mischief in Caitlin’s blue eyes fled instantly. Caitlin was acutely sensitive to anyone thinking her sudden turn of fortune, from orphaned foundling to noble lady, was unappreciated. She clasped Rhiann’s hand. ‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘I thank you for all your concern, Rhiann, I just … hate being sick!’

  Rhiann observed her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think you’re sick, Caitlin,’ she corrected, ignoring the paleness of her pointed face with its upturned nose, the dark eye shadows that would not fade. Even Caitlin’s fair hair was lank, falling unbound about her cheeks. ‘Women’s bodies cope with babies differently, that’s all. You’re adjusting, and I’m just making you stronger.’

  Caitlin nodded trustingly, and Rhiann was shot through by a pang of pain.

  She must not fear, Rhiann thought desperately. It will weaken her more. She knew that Caitlin’s exhaustion wasn’t right, but she didn’t want everyone to be concerned, so she must keep it to herself. And tell Linnet, she amended, sometimes still needing to remind herself that Linnet was Caitlin’s mother.

  As for Caitlin’s father … Rhiann, discreetly studying Caitlin’s belly, stilled for a moment.

  Now that the tribe knew of it, the child appeared to have indulged in an enormous growth spurt, and Caitlin’s belly was already thrusting forwards proudly. Too proudly, Rhiann fretted. Too large, too soon. Conaire was a huge man, the largest she’d ever seen, and she had ascribed the child’s size to him. Yet though Caitlin’s frame was small, her own father had also been tall and broad, ruddy and strong; so perhaps there were twin reasons to be worried.

  Inwardly, Rhiann sighed, her heart squeezing with a familiar guilt. She had reason to know the physical attributes of Caitlin’s sire well – for he was Rhiann’s own father. They were half-sisters, not cousins, as Caitlin still assumed. Only Linnet and Rhiann knew the truth of it, for Linnet had kept the secret out of the shame of being young and foolish and laying with the husband of her sister. And these taboos from long ago had also stopped Rhiann’s tongue, for she had wished to give Caitlin the time to feel secure, without the taint of old guilt hanging over her. Yet soon Rhiann must tell her, even if Linnet still shied from it …

  ‘Rhiann, come back.’

  Rhiann blinked. Caitlin had been regaling Eithne with a tale of the wolves she used to track when she was a fur trader, and how the
beasts did this and that just like Cù did. But now she was addressing Rhiann.

  ‘I said, have you organized the wedding celebration yet?’

  Flushing, Rhiann sat straighter. ‘Yes, we have. But the details are secret; you’ll see for yourself.’

  Caitlin darted a conspiratorial glance at Eithne. ‘You are not the only one with secrets, cousin.’

  Rhiann glanced back and forth between them. ‘What do you mean by that? What has Eremon told you?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Caitlin waved her hand airily.

  ‘Conaire, then. What has he said?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  Rhiann sat back on the bench, drumming her fingers on her knee. ‘Caitlin, don’t force me to dose you with something to loosen your tongue.’

  Caitlin grinned weakly. ‘I may not be myself, but I can keep a secret, Rhiann. Remember when you presented me with my dowry, as a surprise? How much you and Eithne and Linnet enjoyed it?’

  Rhiann shrugged, spreading her hands. ‘Fine, fine! I won’t ask, then.’

  Caitlin leaned forward, patting Rhiann’s hand. ‘I look forward to it so much. Since the Sacred Isle, Eremon is changed, as are you.’

  And you, Rhiann thought with alarm, seeing so clearly now the startling thinness of Caitlin’s skin across her temples, the blue veins pulsing.

  After leaving Eithne to finish the baking, Rhiann’s steps dragged as she made for her house, her mind still gnawing on the problem of Caitlin’s pallor. Yet it was just as Rhiann reached to pull down another basket of herbs from her shelves that she felt the twinge low in her abdomen, an ache she knew well, because it meant her moon bleeding was beginning.

  Suddenly breathless, Rhiann sank to her hearth-bench and, after a moment, drew her knees to her chest. So much had happened since the stone circle that she had forgotten she could have been with child herself. Obviously, though, she wasn’t. Rhiann waited to feel sad or disappointed, but instead she realized her heart was pounding with relief.

  For her mind was filled with a vision of herself like Caitlin: weak and tired, preoccupied with fighting some inner struggle. And what good will I be to me or anyone else then? she thought, her arms tightening around her knees. The night of the moonlit pool still burned in her heart; she knew that to fulfil that dream she must focus outwards, not inwards. Nothing was more important than that – she would die inside if she failed.

  And fail she would, because Caitlin too had been robust, despite her slight build, always riding by Conaire’s side with her bow at the ready. Yet this baby, though much wanted, had changed everything for her.

  A memory now breathed up Rhiann’s spine: Eremon’s voice in the darkness of their bed. I have a way to make you feel safe, and there I will show you what it means to love.

  Rhiann ached for that love between she and he, but with it would come a babe, and then another, and another, and soon she would be bound by the demands of a brood, all wound about her legs like tangled wool. How could she be anything more than a mother, then? She had vowed to put aside revenge against Gelert to focus on the task – so perhaps she needed to sacrifice something softer in herself, too.

  Slowly, hardly daring to voice her impulse even to herself, Rhiann uncurled from the bench and reached for her cloak and then her digging stick, back in its place against the wall. There were herbs that grew nearby, which would stop a babe from starting in the womb.

  By the time she was at the stables her thoughts were clamouring and colliding with each other, and though she ignored their persistent voices she couldn’t avoid the shame that crept up her body in a hot flush. Only one thought emerged clearly from the rest: Eremon must never know.

  After such a long time alone Rhiann had finally found this precious love, and she couldn’t risk it now. She didn’t know how a man of Erin might feel about such things, yet since noble blood there ran from father to son, not through the women as in Alba, she suspected that proof of a man’s children might be more important there than here. In which case, her actions would fill Eremon with horror. He might look upon her with horror.

  Rhiann just needed a little time, that was all: a time for this new, fragile bond between them to strengthen, for its roots to deepen. And a breathing space to discover exactly what it was she would be called upon to do.

  BOOK TWO

  Sunseason, AD 81

  CHAPTER 9

  During Linnet’s solemn blessing, Eremon caught Rhiann’s eye and flashed her a wicked grin. They stood outside the King’s Hall for their marriage ceremony, with the people of Dunadd crowded between the houses on the lower tier. Though everyone could look up at them no one could see their expressions as they faced each other, holding hands. Rhiann stifled her own grin, her eyes darting to her aunt like a guilty child.

  She doesn’t look like a child though, Eremon thought, with a warm pulse between his legs. As the early days of sunseason continued to bloom, and they snatched sunlit moments together, so Rhiann’s body was rounding into ever more pleasing curves. And, by the gods, Eremon’s own body was not failing to recognize it.

  It was a glorious clear day with no hint of cloud, but that was not all that made this day different from their betrothal nearly two years ago. It was also a more elaborate ritual, involving an intricate system of symbols carefully designed by Rhiann.

  She had been led to the King’s Hall on Liath, whose pale coat was brushed and gleaming, her mane and tail braided with white swan feathers. This invoked the Great Mother Rhiannon, beloved of birds, on her white mare, and reminded people that Eremon was wedding the land, through the Goddess’s vessel Rhiann. It bonded him as defender of that land.

  Eremon had been waiting at the Hall wrapped in a deer-hide cloak, but as Rhiann dismounted, she removed it to show him bare-chested, clad only in his trousers and every piece of jewellery he possessed. His torc neck-ring was thick braids of gold twisted together, terminating in twin boar heads, and there were also finger-rings and bronze bands set with red enamel on his forearms. Below his helmet was the gold circlet of his father’s with its rare green jewel on the brow, and his boar tusk – another symbol of his own people – was tied around one upper arm. The boar stone took pride of place on his chest, symbol of the backing of Calgacus, most powerful Alban king. And winding across the sharp muscles of chest and belly were the symbols of his other alliance, the curling blue tattoos making him King Stag of the western peoples.

  All this was to remind the council, the druids and warriors that Eremon was a powerful man now, that he had earned his position as war leader and could not be challenged.

  And has it worked? Eremon wondered, studying the crowd from the corner of one eye. Yes.

  Rhiann had been clever, for the Albans, like his own people, loved spectacle, even when they did not understand all the symbols. Their eyes were greedily drinking in the glittering bronze and gold, the sword at his side, with its jewelled hilt, and the fierce bronze boar-crest on his helmet. In that gaze Eremon saw respect, yes, and awe.

  After arriving here with nothing but his own wits, his men and his sword, he had won this – the light of their gaze. It made him feel warmer in his heart than the sun’s heat on his bare skin, and he prayed his father could see him from the Otherworld. Perhaps then, at last, he would be proud of him.

  The women’s eyes were roving over Eremon’s bare chest more than his finery, but their gaze also devoured Rhiann as his did now. The back of her shining, auburn hair fell to her waist, yet the front was braided and coiled high around her elegant head, held with gold pins. Her green and blue embroidered dress was pinned on each shoulder, and her priestess cloak clasped at her throat by the Epidii royal brooch: a mare’s head set with garnets. She’d also put aside her own fine torc for the heavier royal torc, the terminals two rearing mares.

  Eremon vaguely sensed the people murmuring and shifting on their heels below. Some would be genuinely pleased, some thinking only of the feast to come, and others, like Gelert, mercifully lurking in the shadows and therefore
easy to ignore.

  Eremon dragged his thoughts back now, and bent his head as Linnet marked his forehead with the paste of sacred rowan ash and soil. He caught Rhiann’s eye again and winked, and she bit down another smile, her fingers splaying out at him in the merest flick of admonition.

  Yet when Linnet bound their hands with the red-dyed cloth, and held the jewelled cup of mead for them to sip, all the mischief in Eremon’s heart died. For when they were bound like this at their betrothal, he hadn’t known his bride, and Rhiann’s eyes had frozen him with cold rejection.

  Now, those same tilted eyes held him over the golden rim of the cup, gleaming with the reflected sun on jewels, and his breath was caught there in the shining net she made.

  As the tingling mead slid down her throat, Rhiann’s eyes dropped away from Eremon’s piercing gaze. For he had suddenly become solemn, and she saw the heat there, and recognized it in her own body, surging up from her core, and as the wave of heat and desire rose, so the fear chased behind to douse it.

  Now Rhiann forced herself to look at Eremon again, the sun so bright on his finery she could barely see. He stood there blazing and golden and alive, like a young god, burning the view of the Horse Gate and the thatch roofs and far blue hills into a background haze. How could Rhiann bear to see that light flicker and fade, if her body rejected him this night?

  All she wanted was for love to be enough, and the wanting made her body vibrate with desperate need, like a plucked harp string.

  As Linnet’s words bound Eremon, the defender of the land, to Rhiann, the Goddess of the land incarnate, Rhiann at least strove to honour that in her heart. And as a cheer went up from all the people, and Linnet untied their hands, Rhiann caught her aunt’s eye and saw there all the joy she knew her loved ones felt for her this day.

  They trusted Eremon, and so must she.

  Pushing through the cheering crowd, Eremon led Rhiann down the path on Liath, to parade her through the dun. Yet just as they got to the village gate, he suddenly turned off towards the stables on the southern side of the palisade.