The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  ‘Eremon … what…?’ Rhiann’s mouth dropped open, as Conaire and Caitlin suddenly appeared at the stable door, their faces flushed from running ahead.

  ‘Eremon …’ Rhiann tried again, leaning forward to catch his shoulder, but he spun around and, with a lift from Conaire, vaulted on to Liath’s back behind her. Before Rhiann could get out more than a startled gasp, something soft and thick came down around her eyes and was tied behind her head.

  ‘Fear not, fair maiden,’ Eremon breathed, laughter catching in his voice. ‘We are bound for more private surrounds.’

  ‘Eremon!’ Rhiann squeaked. ‘Caitlin!’ But her voice was lost in the hurried tightening and clanking of buckles, a low murmur from Conaire, and Caitlin’s giggle. A small, female hand squeezed her knee.

  Rhiann felt Eremon’s thighs contract then as he dismounted, and Liath snickered a greeting to another horse being led forward on heavy hooves. Dórn; it had to be.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed, as Liath was gently tugged forwards beneath her. ‘We have a feast to go to.’

  Eremon’s disembodied laugh echoed back to her as they passed under the gatetower. ‘The feast can go on without us. I’m stealing you away instead, as they did in the old days, and you’re going to stay nice and quiet like all shy maids. Just hold on.’

  From somewhere behind, Rhiann heard the murmur of laughter, and the sound of pipes and drums breaking into a ragged tune, and as Eremon pulled Liath into a trot, Rhiann’s thoughts began to clatter as fast as the hooves below. Goddess, I hope everyone is at the King’s Hall because this is undignified and undoes everything I planned …

  Yet the ground soon grew uneven as they crossed the gravel causeway, jolting even those scrambled ideas from Rhiann’s head, and she had to lean forward and clutch the reins. Then Liath began racing, and the air flew past cool and salty off the marsh.

  Eremon didn’t remove Rhiann’s blindfold for the entire ride. By the splashing, she knew when Liath crossed a shallow stream, and then the mare’s stance shifted, and Rhiann felt them climbing through shade, as tree branches caught at her hair.

  At last the trees ended, the sounds opening out again, and finally they lurched over another rise and down into a hollow, where Eremon drew rein and dismounted. Rhiann sat quietly, the thumping of her heart very loud to her in the sudden stillness. Then Eremon’s hands were on her waist, setting her down, and his fingers at last untied the blindfold.

  Rhiann opened her mouth to speak, but when she saw where they were, the words died in her throat.

  The afternoon was softening into the long sunseason dusk, and all the warmth and scents of the day had been gathered here in this hollow of grass, bound by slopes on all sides. At the lowest dip of the bowl was a tiny, turf hut, one of those used by the herders. Its walls were newly white-washed and a gnarled rowan splashed scarlet flowers over the roof.

  Garlands of blooms hung about its doorway, and when Rhiann went to look inside she caught her breath. The single room had nothing more than a hearth and a bed on the floor, but the beams were hung with pink dog roses and creamy meadowsweet, and their scents were heady in the still air. The hearth was set with birch logs and hazel twigs, and there was a covered pot of beef porridge ready for warming, and beside that, several gleaming jars of mead and one cup of chased bronze. With one hand to her mouth, Rhiann peeled back the seal-fur bedcover, striped with silver and brown, and the fleece beneath, and pushed on the springy mattress that crackled with heather.

  Eremon’s shadow fell over her, and she turned as he dropped the saddle bags by the door and tossed his hide cape to one side. ‘They all helped you,’ she managed. ‘Even Caitlin, that’s why she was being so secretive. And why Eithne kept taking so long at everything, and why Conaire disappeared …’

  Eremon smiled and came into the room, taking her hand. I told you I would find a place to make you feel safe. And we never had a honeymoon before, when we should have.’

  Rhiann eyed the jars of honey mead. ‘We have enough for more than one moon; did you plan on keeping me here for ever?’

  Eremon’s teeth gleamed in the dusk. ‘That was Colum’s job; I think he got carried away.’

  Rhiann shook her head, so torn with confusion she could not speak. Eremon was looking at her with a strange timidity – he was unsure how she felt. And so was she. At the sight of the bed, her fear rose; at the sight of his bare muscles, the desire. But Eremon was so right about one thing. Here, away from Dunadd, she could already sense her tension loosening. The blindfolded ride was like a journey in a bard’s tale, when the heroine must travel through the darkness of the cave to emerge into the bright Otherworld. This would be their Otherworld, then.

  Now Eremon busied himself lighting a pine taper from an earthern pot of coals, touching it to the stone lamps that stood by the bed and on the single shelf carved into the wall. Soon the room was glowing with golden light. Rhiann spied a woven basket sitting on the hearth-stone, and opened the lid. Inside, she sifted fine, barley flour between her fingers, smiling to herself. This was Eithne’s doing; Caitlin would not have known the Epidii custom.

  ‘We must light the fire,’ she said to Eremon.

  ‘But it is warm … I thought—’

  She smiled softly. ‘I need it for cooking, cariad, not for warmth.’

  So while Eremon sat on the bed with mead in hand she knelt by the fire, mixed the barley meal, honey and water together in a clay bowl, and shaped the little moon cakes, setting them to cook on the hot hearth-stone. Soon the tiny room filled with the wholesome brown smell of bread baking, and when the cakes were done, Rhiann gathered them in her dress, and brought them to Eremon.

  She held one out, hot in her palm. ‘We must break new bread together, made by my own hand. So this binds us, ensuring we always have plenty, ensuring our bodies draw from the same strength.’

  Solemn now, Eremon took one cake and broke it in two, and they fed half to each other. Yet as his lips touched her fingers, a jolt ran up Rhiann’s spine, and she could hardly swallow, the dry crumbs sticking in her throat. Eremon smiled and held the mead cup for her, and when the fire of it was running down into her belly, he laid it down.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Rhiann suddenly blurted, opening the leather pouch she carried at her waist. Then she was holding her wedding gift across her palms: a sacred amulet of carved antler, stag-shaped, on an ochre-dyed thong. ‘I have sung chants over it for nine days and blessed it in a sacred pool,’ she murmured shyly. ‘It will protect you in battle.’

  Reverently, Eremon took it from her, and she helped him to bind it around his upper arm as a match for the boar tusk.

  ‘I have something also.’ He kissed her fingers and rose to his saddle-pack, dropping a bundle on the bedcover. ‘I always keep my promises,’ he said, stretching out on the bed.

  Rhiann pulled away flax twine and bark, and gasped.

  Eremon smiled. ‘There wasn’t much time, but I had your wedding gift made. It is from the last of the amber, just as I said.’

  Rhiann held up the delicate necklace to the firelight, and it trembled within her fingers. Smoothed orbs of amber were linked by bronze beads cast into graceful swirls and spirals. The whole thing glittered and moved with the flames, the light picking out threads of gold weaving through the amber.

  Rhiann’s eyes filled. ‘Goddess … it is beautiful.’

  Eremon rose to his haunches, and moved behind so he could fasten the necklace. His strong thighs were against her back, as he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.

  ‘Rhiann,’ his voice was hoarse, ‘do you trust me?’

  She didn’t have to think about that. ‘Yes, cariad, I trust you.’

  ‘Then trust I will do nothing that you don’t want me to. Do not be guarded.’ He brushed tendrils of hair gently back over one ear, and then the other, drawing the long strands through his fingers, over and over, until she half closed her eyes with drowsy, relaxed pleasure.

  ‘Trust me,’ came t
he whisper.

  The dusk was long gone now, the dark of night driven back by the flames of the lamps.

  Rhiann’s dress had slipped down one shoulder, and Eremon’s touch on the bare skin seemed part of the glowing trail of mead inside her, a natural step beyond their deep kisses.

  The rhythmic stroking of Eremon’s thumb echoed the ebb and surge of the blood beating in Rhiann’s throat, and when his butterfly kisses moved up her neck, a fluttering awoke between her legs that came not from his touch, but from her own desire.

  A part of her hovered anxiously, waiting for the unconscious jerk away, the freezing that she could not control. But his touch was gentle and languid, smoothing her skin and her soul into surrender, with no harsh breathing, no weight across her, crushing her, nothing urgent or painful. He didn’t take, he gave, and the fire that flowed from his hands and those soft, unexpected lips was brighter than the flames against the wall.

  Rhiann wanted to feel that slow touch all over, and her dress fell away from her own fingers as she stretched out like a cat, her skin sheened with the light. Eremon murmured then, matching the length of her with his naked body, touch gliding over the Goddess tattoos on her own belly, tracing them with unbearable slowness, then moving higher, over the mound of one breast, circling the nipple with his sword-callused fingers.

  Then she did tense, but it was not with fear … Goddess … it was with yearning … as her back arched of its own accord towards him, aching for him to cup her, to claim her body with his palm. And the relief of not being afraid suddenly flooded her, sweeping away the hovering watcher with sensation. She did not return.

  The tracing continued, around the base of one breast and then the other, Eremon’s nails, then his fingertips, softly, softly, feather-light, exquisite, burning … and Rhiann’s eyes flew open, seeking his, a moan trembling in her throat.

  She had thought Eremon’s gaze would echo the languor, the liquid warmth that was her blood. Yet it did not. Eremon’s eyes were almost pained, quivering with a tension absent from his trailing fingers. He wanted something from her, and was feared he would not see it. She glimpsed the depth of the fear: raw, naked.

  She raised a hand to his lips now, the yearning pushing up from within her … claim me … make me yours … But she couldn’t say it, didn’t know how to speak the words, and then came the whistle of his breath released … beg for me, Rhiann … want me as I need you …

  So the realization came to her of what he desired, more than her body: the certainty she needed him as much as he her, that it was not his force that drove this.

  Instantly, she wanted to give everything. The last whisper of the scared girl faded, and Rhiann placed his brown hand over one white breast, and drew his mouth to the other, and she dug her fingers into his hair and arched against him in triumph, the yearning free at last to flood every part of her being.

  Here, she whispered, drawing his lips as he followed her fingers, sucking them, to every place she wanted his kiss, and here, ribs and wrist and ankle and throat, here …

  Then suddenly he was no force to be guided but a power of his own, sliding down to place his lips on her thighs. And Rhiann gasped, confused, when his kisses nudged higher against the tender skin between her legs, his dark hair trailing across her belly, the tip of his tongue parting her, warm and wet. Oh, Goddess, she did not know that such a thing could happen.

  And all that she was, all she existed for, was the keen, sharp pleasure that centred there, the molten fire that began to flare. And when at last he covered her, it was this burning core that he drew to him; neither thrusting nor grinding, but clasping her buttocks and raising her to him as if she were an offering, as if she were sacred.

  Before Rhiann’s blurred eyes the tattooed animals on Eremon’s chest leaped and danced, slick with sweat, their fierce muscles given life by his own. He called her then, drawing her upwards with the power of her own need, and she opened with all that was in her, the outlines of skin and body fusing together.

  And when her gasps turned to cries, the burning overflowed, and Eremon took her face and stared into her eyes, his soul-flame holding her close as the ecstasy crashed around them.

  CHAPTER 10

  For two days Rhiann and Eremon did not leave the furs unless they had to. Outside, the season bloomed, the sun shimmering and pooling in the little hollow, spilling through the chinks in the willow door. The air inside thickened as the garlands wilted, releasing scent from falling petals. All sense of day and night dissolved in a haze of deep, wet kisses, and salt and sweat, and Eremon’s tongue stinging Rhiann’s raw flesh.

  Late on the second day, exhaustion claimed them long enough for a deeper sleep. At dusk, a cooler, rain-scented breeze blew in, brushing their hot skin, and Eremon rose again to see to the horses, while Rhiann stirred up the warm coals and set water to boil. When Eremon came back, she was sipping her tea, cross-legged in her linen shift on the edge of the bed. She had kept the womb herbs in the waist pouch under her wedding dress, where no one would see them.

  Eremon wrinkled his nose. ‘What are you drinking? It smells vile.’

  Rhiann reached out her hand for him. ‘A woman’s tea,’ she said, yet she flushed at the lie in her heart, and it was as if something dark at last crept into the sheltered cradle of the hut. I have no choice, a small, inner voice whispered. For now.

  She kissed his outstretched fingers, and pointed to another cup on the hearth. ‘Eithne packed something for you, too, cariad. It is mint and honey; tastes much better, I promise.’

  He threw himself down over the rumpled sheets, naked but for a long undertunic. The movement rucked up the pale linen, and she was treated to a clear sight of his buttocks, the muscles sweeping firmly down the backs of his legs. When he saw the direction of her gaze, he grinned. ‘And does this tea strengthen my man’s parts, too?’ He kissed the bare sole of her foot.

  She squirmed away, smiling. ‘No! You don’t need any more strength in those!’

  He lay his head across her lap and tickled her, and she jerked her hand, spilling hot tea over the bed. ‘Eremon, look what you’ve done!’ she scolded, laughing.

  He pulled her shift from her shoulder, the neck opening across one breast. ‘Yes, look what I’ve done,’ he drawled softly, reaching up to kiss the pale skin. Then one hand moved lower, and she half shut her eyes as he peeled back the hem from her legs, exposing the red, tender flesh between her thighs, raw with loving. ‘And here, look what I’ve done here.’

  ‘Eremon …’

  A piercing whistle shattered the heavy, scented air, and was followed by a dull thud of hoofbeats. In one smooth movement Eremon rolled to his feet, his sword in his hand before Rhiann could even draw her shift to her knees.

  ‘My lord!’ came Rori’s high, excited voice.

  Eremon’s shoulders lowered. Pulling his tunic straight, he went to the doorway and disappeared. Rhiann rose to her knees, craning to hear, apprehension stirring in her gut.

  ‘My lord,’ Rori said again, breathless from what sounded like a fast gallop. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘What is it, lad?’ There was no trace of anger in Eremon’s tone. He had left orders that no one should come here unless it really was a matter of urgency, and if it was, there was nothing to be done about it.

  ‘A messenger has come from a people called the Novantae,’ Rori declared. Rhiann could imagine him drawing his shoulders back with youthful self-importance. ‘They have rebelled against the Romans, and they want our help. Their lands are south of the Damnonii, and they heard from those people how you rose up in arms to aid them before.’

  Rhiann’s belly gripped with the first coldness she had felt in days.

  ‘Did they?’ Eremon muttered, half to himself. ‘I wonder if they heard also that, after my intervention, the Romans responded by razing the Damnonii villages?’

  Eremon’s men were used to answering questions not addressed to them. ‘Yes, sir,’ Rori piped up. ‘I heard the lord Conaire speak o
f it with the man. Yet although they have always kept out of the struggles against the invaders, the Novantae king and three chiefs were recently killed in some dispute over taxes. The messenger says laying low didn’t serve them, and so they have risen up instead. They want men, lots of men, to strike at the Romans with force.’

  ‘They are in the south of Alba, you say?’ Eremon mused. There was a pause. ‘Digging away at the south could weaken Agricola in the north. Indeed it could.’

  Rhiann looked down at her hands, swollen and soft from loving him, and wrapped them around her chest, her eyes stinging.

  ‘Rori, go back now,’ Eremon instructed. ‘I will return tomorrow. And ready a messenger to ride to Calgacus for aid in this expedition.’

  After a moment the hoof thuds gradually faded again, and Eremon waited a few moments, before coming back in. There he squatted before Rhiann, his eyes shadowed with apology and regret.

  ‘Hush,’ she said, pressing her lips to her favourite curve, where his neck met his shoulder. There the skin moved from rough to soft, holding his scent, so she closed her eyes now and breathed him right down into her.

  She would not weep over him, for it would only spoil what they had. But when he took her again with an exquisite tenderness, drawing out her ecstasy until she clung to him, he would never know that tears and not sweat dampened her hair, that it was grief and not joy she buried in his shoulder.

  When night had long fallen, and Eremon slept, Rhiann watched him. Her eyes roamed over him hungrily, seeking to capture in memory what she would not see for moons.

  Lamp-flame gilding long lashes.

  The down on his cheeks.

  The plane of muscle under his breast.

  His unbraided hair spilled over his arms, and Rhiann reached out a thumb now and stroked his lips, and he murmured and pressed them together before they fell slack once more, like a baby sucking in dreams. Only in sleep did Eremon look as young as his twenty-three years, for the world saw only the hardness in his eyes and the sardonic tilt of his smile, devoid of the tenderness which somehow still lay in his heart.