The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Gelert slowly nodded. ‘Then you may land.’

  The line of Epidii warriors fell back as the boat’s hull grated on the sand. Talorc, a thick-set, grizzled warrior who still sported formidable arms despite his age, planted himself before the strangers to take their weapons as they stepped ashore.

  Rhiann drew her cloak closer with trembling fingers, stepping back so that she was further away from these strange men. She saw the prince take a ring from his finger and hold it out. ‘I give this to you for your dead,’ he offered, bowing gracefully from the waist.

  The rustling of approval around Rhiann grew louder. ‘He speaks fine for a gael!’ an old woman croaked.

  ‘He came to us as the sun,’ a younger one breathed. ‘The gods must favour him!’

  Gelert studied the foreigner before taking the ring. ‘We will offer your gift at a sacred spring. The gods will look kindly on you.’ He beckoned one of the novices forward. ‘Take these men to the funeral hut, and send mead.’ He swivelled his eyes to the gael leader. ‘We are soon to return home, and have little food to give you beyond cold meat. You can drink, though, and then we’ll speak.’

  Wide-eyed, the novice led the men up the beach to a single roundhouse that stood on the machair, the flower-starred strip of grassland that edged the sands.

  Rhiann watched them pass. Now that they were close, she could see the prince’s clothes, though well-made, were torn and crusted with salt. Yet he held his head as if dressed in the most expensive finery, and now that the crooked smile was gone, his dark braids framed a face that seemed carved from stone. His forehead was a smooth plane, his jaw-line clean, and high cheekbones gave his eyes an exotic, slanted cast. Yet his out-thrust chin was too sure of itself, and the eyes themselves were a glacial green. Then she saw the bloodless lines on his swordhand from clenching hard the horn pommel of his sword.

  Ah … he was lying. His face dared someone to see it, as his very hand betrayed it. Someone who could lie and look so fair was dangerous. She wondered if Gelert already knew.

  Behind the leader came the largest man Rhiann had ever seen. His mop of barley hair and sky-blue eyes gave him a boyish air, yet his arms were thick as young trees, and a curved scar caught at the corner of one eyelid, pulling it down slightly and scoring his cheek. A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, which broadened when the young women crowded forward to stare at him. Aiveen, Talorc’s bold daughter, was foremost among them, her butter-coloured braids swinging.

  And then there came a shy youth, hidden behind a shock of scarlet hair, neck a mass of freckles. Then a bard, pretty as a girl, with cream and roses skin that was bruised along the jaw. He limped slightly, clutching his harp to his chest as if drawing strength from it. Both of these boys were too young, surely, to be away from their mothers! But then Rhiann’s eyes fell on the men who followed: all hard-bitten warriors in their prime, with sinewed arms that spoke of constant swordplay, seamed with faded scars. Likewise, their armour and weaponry shone with careful burnishing, though their tunics and trousers showed the wear of the storm.

  Traders. Indeed.

  As the Epidii closed in behind the foreigners, Rhiann felt a soft touch on her hand. ‘Come,’ said Linnet, ‘walking will help your body to let go of the fear.’

  Until it comes again, Rhiann thought, but accepted the arm around her shoulders. After a few steps, she glanced up, bracing herself for the pity in Linnet’s eyes. Perversely, though she yearned for help from her aunt, she hated to be pitied.

  But Linnet’s face was white, with bright spots of rose on each cheek, and her eyes had deepened to a stormy grey. She was not looking at Rhiann at all. She was staring out to sea, past the last traces of smoke from the burning, her eyes glazed.

  And then Rhiann’s senses caught the smallest quiver of something else in her aunt; something entirely unexpected.

  Excitement.

  Eremon and his men were left alone in the funeral hut, with only one guard to watch over them. It was clear that guest laws were as sacred in Alba as in Erin. Strangers must eat before discussing their business: it was a rule that every tribe from Gaul to Erin held to.

  Cold meat in a cold dawn was not ideal, though better than stale bread. The others eagerly attacked the woven willow platter of deer flesh, but under the piercing black eyes of the warrior at the door, Eremon had little appetite.

  The wild blue tattoos curling up the man’s cheeks and around his eyes made him look as fierce as a charging boar. The effect was heightened by the long moustache that drooped over his mouth, and his hair, limed into stiff peaks. Eremon rubbed the stubble on his own chin, which was kept shaven among his people. Those blue markings must inspire fear in battle, but he’d rather keep his own face.

  Conaire had no such qualms about eating beneath those fierce eyes. He ripped off huge mouthfuls and chewed noisily, and Rori, Finan and the others followed his lead. Eremon leaned in to pick some pieces for Cù, who was laying under his feet. The hound gulped the meat from his fingers, coating them in drool.

  Eremon wiped his hand on his trousers and scanned the room.

  Despite his estimation that the Alban jewellery was not as ornate as his, nor their swords as fine, the walls of this hut were painted with beautifully-wrought symbols, and similar forms were sculpted into the roof-posts and beams. Some were animals: he could see the horse, the boar, and the stag, so real that their muscles flowed as if moving. Other symbols were unknown shapes; lines and curves that were also beautiful, yet meaningless to him. The same symbols were painted on a high table by the hearth, scattered with pots of fragrant oils, and dried petals of meadowsweet. There, the bier for the dead person had clearly laid.

  The guard moved, and the sunlight from the doorway glinted on his spear. Eremon frowned and shifted, conscious of his own sword’s weight by his side. He’d been furious about giving up their weapons, even though there was little choice. Many spears had been trained on them, and from the size of the warriors they were well within range. If only he’d seen more clearly through that smoke, perhaps they could have landed somewhere else …

  So much for simple fisherfolk.

  He gnawed at his lip. It seemed he’d just brought his men from one danger straight to another. It was not the landing he’d imagined at all. And yet, the gods had brought him here, for the boat was driven helplessly before that storm. Were They plotting his glory, or his downfall?

  It is a test, he reminded himself. The gods demand proof of your bravery. Show yourself worthy, and you’ll be home next leaf-fall.

  The meat was almost gone when, from outside, he heard a burst of singing and crying, a blaring of trumpets, and thundering of beaten shields. The din grew and grew, until it echoed on the walls of the house, and Cù threw his head back and howled, his eyes wild. As the noise died away to a last throbbing drumbeat, Eremon saw the Alban warrior close his eyes and murmur fervently to himself.

  He did not need to ask what had happened, for in Erin they, too, drove the spirits of the dead away like this. Now the freed soul would heed the god Lugh’s call to fly away to the Blessed Isles.

  Soon after, a shadow blocked the doorway: the old druid who had spoken on the beach. He was followed by a servant girl, carrying a bronze-rimmed horn cup, and the heavy, older warrior who had taken their weapons – a man almost matching Conaire’s size. The servant came straight to Eremon with the cup, its two handles cast as rearing horses. The workmanship was very fine, like that of the carvings, and to Eremon’s surprise the ale within was also good, with a musky flavour he’d never tasted before.

  He must have betrayed himself, for the druid was smiling at him. It was not a warm smile. ‘Our women make the best ale in Alba. The heather flowers give it the flavour.’ The druid’s voice belied his age, ringing with power and authority.

  Eremon nodded carefully, and the girl took the cup and turned to lift it to Conaire’s mouth. She was pretty, and Eremon saw her start and blush when she caught his foster-brother’s eye. After the cup
had been offered to Eremon’s men, the druid wasted no more time. ‘Now,’ he said, gesturing to a screened alcove. ‘I wish to find what you are seeking here. Come, and we will speak.’

  Eremon glared at Conaire, who pulled his eyes away from the girl and followed him, wiping the traces of grease from his mouth. They joined the druid and the old warrior, easing themselves on to fur cushions on the alcove’s earth floor.

  Eremon began, as was his due as a guest. ‘I am Eremon, son of Ferdiad. My father is King of the great kingdom of Dalriada in Erin. This is my foster-brother Conaire, son of Lugaid. We come to make new trade alliances with our honoured neighbours.’

  ‘I am Gelert, man of the oak,’ the druid returned. ‘My cousin Brude, son of Eithne, is King of the Epidii, our tribe. The King is … away, collecting tribute in the north.’

  The pause was slight, and Eremon saw the Epidii warrior glance at his druid, before turning to Eremon. Around one great arm was a fox-fur band, the same colour as his hair and moustache, though they were now frosted with grey. But his blue eyes were clear, cheeks ruddy with health. ‘And I am Talorc, son of Uishne, also cousin to Brude.’ He folded his arms on his barrel chest, chin thrust forward. ‘You are right to seek us out, prince, for we are the foremost tribe on this coast, with many riches.’

  I did not seek you out, and I see few riches, thought Eremon, keeping his face still. And where, in truth, is your king?

  ‘I am surprised,’ he said out loud. ‘Your death rite was for a man of great standing, it seems – yet your king is not here?’

  Gelert’s yellow eyes glinted with anger. ‘You seek trade alliances, you say?’ he barked.

  Eremon blinked in surprise, and nodded.

  ‘Then your storm gods drove you to the right place, prince. Our fortress of Dunadd rules the trade route this side of the mountains. We exchange with the tin tribes in southern Britannia, and those on the Northern Sea. What can you offer us?’

  Eremon took a deep breath: at least he was ready for this. ‘The gold you see is only a part of our wealth,’ he explained, throwing open his cloak to reveal his ornate belt and jewelled dagger-hilt beneath his mailshirt. ‘Our rivers run with it, and the hills are seamed with copper. And I have men joining us with more examples of our skill. We will call on tribes all over Alba.’

  Talorc’s eyes were resting on the jewelled circlet on Eremon’s brow.

  ‘Of course, gold is not all,’ Eremon continued, smiling. ‘We have plains of barley and rich cattle herds, for our land is warmed by milder winds than yours. And we make many other things: our craftsmen are famed the world over.’

  At this, Talorc could not help himself. ‘So! We have the best deermeat, the finest hunting dogs, and the warmest hides!’ He thumped his chest. ‘Our sheep give much better wool than yours – and our women are, of course, the most beautiful.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ Conaire broke in, grinning. ‘How about I show you the quality of my sword – and your women the fineness of another weapon altogether!’

  Talorc’s face twitched, then he chuckled and slapped his leg. ‘You jest well for a gael,’ he laughed. His eyes gleamed as he took in the breadth of Conaire’s sword-arm. ‘I wonder if you can fight as well as you make jokes, young colt! I was cattle-raiding when you were pissing in your bracae! What say I give you your sword back, and—’

  An abrupt movement from the druid silenced him. Gelert was raising himself to his feet with his oak staff, frowning. Eremon saw the knobbed end was carved as an owl’s head, with eyes of glittering jet, and as the druid leaned on it, two pairs of pupils seemed to fix on the prince. ‘I’m sure my cousin appreciates how little time we have for such … pleasantries. Come with us across the water to Dunadd. There we can feast you, and talk more.’ His cold gaze swept Eremon from feet to head.

  Caught in that druid net, Eremon felt a sudden, childish impulse to take his men and run. Run where, though? Such discourtesy would win him nothing except suspicion. No, he was being foolish. He must trust to the Boar. The breaking of hospitality laws was unheard of, and these people were not savages, plainly, no matter what the fisherman had said.

  ‘Thank you, we’ll come gladly,’ he found himself saying. ‘But … you go by sea?’ He could not hide his body’s sudden remembrance of that roiling hull.

  Gelert smiled thinly, as if he sensed the sickness that lurched into Eremon’s belly. ‘This is only an island: Dunadd lies across the strait to the east. We’ll give you guides for your boat, for there are many rocks in the Bay of Isles. Talorc will see to it.’ He turned to go, and then paused. ‘One more thing. We cannot speak of the dead man for one moon. Respect this, and ask no questions.’

  Eremon nodded, his face stiff.

  Once Gelert was gone, the air seemed lighter. Talorc clapped Conaire on the shoulder and jumped to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. In contrast to the druid, his eyes were guileless; the pale blue of a winter sky. ‘Our servants will make ready for a while yet. Let’s not waste the ale!’

  Chapter 7

  Eremon was glad the day had unfolded so fair, for his men came close to mutiny when he said they must take to the water again.

  ‘It is an island,’ he explained, as they clustered around the hearth in the hut, cups in hand. Talorc had left to speak to the Epidii nobles. ‘There is no choice.’

  ‘How do we know we can trust them?’ This was Finan, gruff as ever.

  ‘We’re under guest laws now,’ Eremon replied, with more confidence than he really felt. ‘They will hold to this, as we do. And there’s another thing.’ He drained the dregs of his ale. ‘They think I have more men coming, and that my father is a powerful ruler. They wouldn’t risk a blood feud with a king.’

  ‘They will when they find out there’s no king.’ Colum rubbed ale-foam from his stubbled chin.

  ‘Then we make sure they don’t find out. Look, without allies, the Boar knows how long we might remain fugitives, fighting for our lives instead of building our strength. How can I win my kingship back then?’ His eyes rested on them all, one by one. No one argued.

  They left the hut and crossed the sands to their battered boat, past the suspicious eyes of the Epidii warriors, and the speculative looks of their women. On the way, Eremon’s attention was caught by a bloom of flame along the dark rocks that cupped the bay, and he stopped as his men carried on without him. The painted curraghs were being burned!

  Though born and bred a warrior, Eremon had always had, in his father’s eyes, an unmanly attraction to the mysteries of the druids. If he’d been a commoner he might have followed that path, though any such tendencies had been driven away by Ferdiad’s beatings. So he stood and watched the burning for a moment, intrigued that something so beautiful was being destroyed.

  Suddenly he became aware of another standing nearby who also watched; someone with the unmistakable air of a druid, draped in a sapphire cloak, its hood up. Struck by an impulse, he opened his mouth to ask what the symbols on the boats meant, and why they were being burned.

  But before he’d uttered a word, the druid whirled to face him, and he saw snapping blue eyes, huge in a white face, and a nimbus of the most extraordinary hair. ‘Keep your hands off me, man of Erin!’

  Her voice cut through him like a shard of ice. No one had ever looked at him like that, with blazing eyes in a face of such tense coldness. Women did not look like that. Not at him. Gaping, he stood there like a fool, as she clutched her cloak closer and hurried away. By the gods, have I insulted a druid? How? Why?

  Conaire was suddenly by his side. ‘Eremon, I’ve been calling! We have our guides and we’re waiting for you.’ A loud belch sounded in Eremon’s ear, and then Conaire paused, watching the slim figure retreating down the beach. He cocked his head at Eremon and chuckled. ‘You don’t waste time, my brother.’

  Eremon shrugged helplessly, and put the encounter out of his mind as he followed Conaire to the water. Their boat was already afloat in the pale shallows, and one of the Epidii guides wa
s directing some of Eremon’s men to hold it steady while the others boarded.

  A pack of curious children jostled each other in the foam, and further back, young women eyed Eremon with interest, whispering behind their hands, as he waded through the water. He placed his sword carefully in the boat and hoisted himself in, and the women’s murmuring grew louder. One of the Epidii guides shot him a sullen look.

  ‘I am not used to your local speech.’ Eremon’s voice was friendly as he stowed his blade and settled to the oar. ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘They call you mac Greine, lord.’ The man’s voice held a hint of scorn. Plainly, he thought little of the women’s fancies.

  Mac Greine. Son of the sun. Eremon did not know whether to be flattered or embarrassed, for that was a name given to the god Lugh of the Shining Spear. Then he shrugged to himself, practicality winning out. If they were in awe of him, that was no bad thing.

  And, though he was sorry for startling the druidess, if some were afraid of him, then that was no bad thing either.

  The Alban boats were timber built, as sleek and curved as spear points, with painted animal prows. The horse was foremost among the carvings. What had Talorc said over the ale? We are the People of the Horse. It was a noble creature indeed – Eremon just hoped that this tribe lived up to its totem.

  Despite his concerns, he could not help but feel excited. Behind him lay great darkness, and he would have to face the pain of it all soon. Too soon. For now, though, they were on an adventure in an unknown land, with a new day’s sun in their faces and swords by their sides. The Boar knew what glory might come his way here; what paths might open …

  Steady on, my boy. Just focus on getting home.

  His eyes were drawn west, to where Erin lay over the horizon … Erin, his land, his love, with her rounded, lush hills and soft winds. A stab of longing pierced him, but then he shut the door firmly in his mind. He could not go back, not yet. The time would come, one day, and it would be the right time, under the right circumstances.