The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  ‘Why?’ Talorc adjusted the snaffle, and the horse shook its head and smacked its lips. ‘We have enough food.’

  Gelert’s golden eyes reflected the shifting clouds above. ‘I have an idea to safeguard the tribe, and it requires that we take the measure of this foreign prince. Now listen …’

  And the two heads, one red, one white, moved closer.

  Conaire was delighted that they were finally going to see the fabled Isle of Deer, and Cù was so excited when he saw them making new hunting spears that he ran rings around himself, barking furiously.

  ‘This will be more like it! I am so bored with all this talking!’ Conaire squinted down his ash spear-shaft to check its straightness. They were settled on deadfall logs along the riverbank, under a sky bruised with cloud. The evening air carried the first bite of cold from the north.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Eremon agreed, chipping bark from his shaft with his knife. ‘But don’t you think it’s a strange time to send us hunting, when they don’t know what the Romans intend?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Conaire grinned at him. ‘After all, word is that the invaders are staying where they are. So we get to throw a few spears into a boar, and then come back and do the same to Romans. Hopefully.’

  ‘Fighting Romans was not part of my plan.’

  ‘Ah, but you told me you wanted us to prove ourselves to the Albans, to gain allies here. That is the plan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Then what better way to do that, but to kill some Romans for them!’

  Eremon smoothed the fresh, white ashwood with a finger. ‘I’ve thought of that myself, brother. And yet, we know that the Romans fight differently, which makes them so hard to defeat. They have discipline … they make their warriors act like one beast. I don’t like the thought of putting my men in such danger, and all for someone else.’

  ‘This is just the chance we need! And, anyway, don’t you wish to see them fight? You studied those scraps of Greek about their tactics enough. Don’t you want to see them?’

  Eremon sighed. ‘Yes, but … I wanted time to get established here, time to run things my way. I don’t want anything to happen too fast. The Romans – we are talking about war, Conaire!’

  Conaire rested his spear-shaft across his knee and picked up a stick to throw for Cù. ‘I can’t see it coming to that, Eremon. They’ll just stamp around with their swords, make a few declarations, and then leave.’

  Eremon had to laugh. ‘And since when do you know so much about Romans?’

  Cù brought the stick back, panting, and Conaire threw it into the river reeds. ‘It’s what I’ve heard around the dun. Look,’ he put his hand on Eremon’s shoulder, ‘try as you might, you can’t plan everything. We’ve got to take things as they come. I say that we grasp at anything that brings you closer to your own hall – why else did we come to Alba? We’ve been lucky this far. And we can just as soon die in a cattle raid as in a battle with Romans.’

  ‘Or of sea sickness.’

  ‘Or of loneliness.’ Conaire clasped his groin. ‘I need a woman soon, or I’ll die!’

  They sat in silence as Cù came running back and then raced off again after the stick. ‘I still think it’s strange, this hunt,’ Eremon added, picking up an iron spear-point and hefting it in his fingers.

  ‘You think too much. They just want to get us off their hands. And we’ll be bringing in meat – the last of the season, probably. Let’s just enjoy it while we can.’

  Eremon did not answer, but as he fitted the point into the new shaft, he was uneasy. He would be glad when they were back, and he could get on with the real reason he was here.

  Which meant, of course, that he had better think of one.

  Chapter 10

  Rhiann opened one eye, glancing at Linnet’s tranquil face in the purple dawn. They were walking the barley strips closest to the dun, blessing the fallow soil to let it sleep safely until leaf-bud came. Breath misting the chill air, they stepped down the furrows, harvest stubble crunching under their feet.

  As Linnet had taught her, Rhiann tried to feel the Source, the universal fire of life, running through the soles of her feet, surging up from the soil. She strained to still her mind, to send her awareness down into the earth.

  Imagine that you are a tree, Linnet had told the child-Rhiann, years before. Your roots go deep into the ground, and there they find water. The Source is the water, and it flows beneath and through all things: earth and rock, tree and spring, beast and man. When you want to feel it, turn yourself into the tree, reach your roots into the ground. And you will connect, and feel it running through you …

  Rhiann tried and tried, picturing her legs as the roots. But the joining with the land did not come. Perhaps it would help to seek for the voice of the Mother herself. She closed her eyes, but again, it was the memory of Linnet’s words that came.

  The Source wears many faces, of many gods and goddesses. We call on Rhiannon as guardian of mares, Ceridwen in childbed, Sulis at the spring, and Andraste when our men go to war. But the mystery is that they are all one, child … an energy of Mother, the Goddess-of-all …

  Striving with all her heart, Rhiann sought for the Mother touch she had felt so many times before … sought and strained … until her eyes flew open, and she had to stop herself from crying aloud in frustration.

  It was no use. Every time she tried, she was met with the same deadness. It was something else that she had lost since the raid, along with her seeing.

  She pulled her wool cloak closed as a sharp gust of wind caught it. If the Mother will not speak with me, then She has not forgiven me yet. When I’ve paid the penance for Kell’s life, for Elavra, for Marda and Talen, for not saving them, for not getting there in time … then She will return to me. She must.

  There was the thudding of hooves on the Trade Path, and as she looked up, startled, a party of warriors galloped by on their way to Crìanan, a pack of yapping hounds at their heels. Near the back, she caught a glimpse of the blond giant from Erin, a brace of hunting spears in his fist.

  And by his side, a darker head that turned as they passed.

  The hunting party returned after four days.

  Gelert was in the blacksmith’s forge with Belen, a tribal elder, surveying their stocks of spears and shields, when the shout went up from the watchtower. They both emerged into the smoky dusk to see a wavering line of men tramping through the gate. And then they saw what led them.

  Four hunters carried a litter of willow branches tied with rawhide, and on it lay a man. As the party came closer, Gelert could see who it was: Conaire of Erin, face pale, golden hair lank with sweat, swaddled in cloaks. The prince held one hand, and his dark head was bent close to Conaire’s mouth. He was so intent on the injured man that he did not look up as they passed Gelert, but although Conaire was unconscious, the druid could see that he breathed.

  Gelert did not know whether to be satisfied or disappointed. Conaire showed no fear of the druid kind, from what he could see – and that made him dangerous.

  He squinted, looking among the men for Talorc’s great bulk, his mind racing. Perhaps Conaire had disgraced himself. That would deal a blow to the prince’s pride – which was certainly excessive. Maybe it would put the young buck in his place, and show him how much he needed Gelert’s support.

  The druid studied the other faces in the hunting party. The Epidii warriors were triumphant, shoulders heavy with leaf-wrapped haunches of boar meat, bloody spears in their hands. But the Erin men were downcast: a blow had befallen them.

  Gelert was intrigued. Would this benefit his plan? Were the gods extending their favour once more?

  Talorc was before him now, cheeks smudged with wood-ash and smelling of sour sweat. Bristles clung to his faded hunt tunic, and there was blood on his brawny arm – boar blood or man’s blood, Gelert could not tell. He raised his eyebrows, taking in Talorc’s flushed, excited face beneath its red moustache.

  The rest of the men
followed the litter up the path, and they were left alone with Belen.

  ‘What happened?’ Gelert demanded.

  Talorc swung his shield over his shoulder and leaned on his spearbutt, smiling broadly. ‘Ha! A thieving raid, Lord Druid! Those cursed Creones were in our hunting grounds. We came upon them late yesterday as we were leaving. We were outnumbered, but what a rout! Killed ten, we did. That Eremon lad – by the Mare, you should have seen him fight!’ He broke off coughing, hawked, and spat into the mud at his feet.

  Gelert gripped his staff with impatience. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘A drink first! Can hardly swallow.’ Talorc peered around him, then cocked his shaggy head at a passing servant. ‘Girl! Get me an ale, quickly!’ The girl scurried off to the nearest house.

  ‘Tell me what happened!’ Gelert snapped. ‘Was the son of Lugaid wounded in the raid?’

  Talorc’s smile faded. ‘Ah, no, poor lad. The boar got him, yesterday morn. It was a huge male, and it charged Mardon. Conaire jumped right in front: fair took the tusk to his balls, it seems.’ He shook his head. ‘Sad business, but odds are the Lady Rhiann can put him right. At least we can feast on boar for some time … Ah! Good.’ This last was to the girl, who had reappeared with a horn cup. Talorc gulped down most of the ale before pausing with a great sigh, his lips flecked with foam. ‘Now, where was I?’

  Gelert’s voice was quiet. ‘You are about to tell me that the prince bravely killed the boar, I suppose.’

  Talorc’s face cleared. ‘Why, yes – spectacular kill! Flew in a rage when Conaire went down, he did – I’ve never seen such a spear cast.’ He paused to swig the ale again. ‘Straight in the eye,’ he added, between gulps, ‘dead before it hit the ground.’

  ‘What about the raid?’ Belen broke in, eagerly twisting the encrusted rings on his thick fingers.

  Talorc handed the empty cup to the servant. ‘Well,’ he gave an impressive belch, ‘as I said, we were on our way back across the island. We’d wrapped Conaire up, and butchered the boar. Then suddenly we heard voices; a crew of Creones bucks, not taking too much trouble to keep quiet, I can tell you! Well, the Erin prince came up with a plan I could not have bettered myself.’

  I can well believe that, Gelert thought, holding his impatience in check.

  ‘Hard as steel, that one,’ Talorc went on. ‘His brother bleeding everywhere, and there he is, suddenly cool as can be, laying a plan to give those upstarts a beating they won’t forget! We ranged ourselves out among the trees, and Eremon took to the path to challenge them, single-handed. Three attacked at once, the cowards! He lured them by retreating, and they raced after him … and then we poured out of the trees and fell on them!’ He shook his spear. ‘You should have seen the fight! Of the ten we killed, half were Eremon’s trophies – and not a wound on us. They broke and ran. Ran! Can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun!’

  Belen leaned in, the fox-tails falling forward from his fur cape. ‘Talorc, what do you think of the prince now you’ve seen him at close quarters?’

  Talorc’s face was still bright with their success. ‘He brought us honour, and showed courage. He’s smart, too, and fights like the god Arawn himself.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I would rather have him and his men by our side than not, when the Romans come.’

  Belen sank back on his heels, and threw a satisfied look at Gelert.

  Now it was clear that Talorc was itching to be away, for the news of the raid had already spread. Throwing his checked cloak over his shoulder, he made his excuses and strode back down into the throng of people gathering at the gate tower. Soon Belen and Gelert could hear his voice booming out the tale, as his wife hung, big-eyed, around his neck.

  Belen looked up at Gelert. ‘Strange times, Lord Druid, strange times. Can it be the gods have sent us such a man at this time of need? A man of great ability, it is clear. Your talk of a good omen is proved right. I will call the council together, and we’ll hear the tale in full.’ He hurried away, his short, bulky figure disappearing into the dusk shadows between the houses.

  Gelert opened his mouth to call him back, then shut it again. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He had said to the council that the arrival of the men from Erin was a propitious omen. For he had many reasons to encourage closer relations with Eremon of Dalriada.

  Deep in him, wisdom warred with avarice. The wisdom whispered that this Eremon might prove difficult to control. The twin calamities of the King’s death and the Roman threat had provided Gelert with a rare opportunity to finally exert his full power over the tribe. In their terror, they were like children, looking for a father’s protection. But, Gelert was a druid not a warrior. For him to become the real power behind the throne – to steer the tribe’s fortunes, to be King in all but name – he still needed a man with a strong sword arm. One who owed him much; one who would depend on the Chief Druid’s backing to make his name.

  Yes, he needed a strong man … but not a hero.

  Doubt writhed in his heart, until avarice rose, reminding Gelert how powerful he himself was. The prince was a beast that wielded a sword well, that was all. He was merely a warrior. He could be as easily directed as a man directs oxen at the yoke.

  And then there was the girl, Rhiann.

  Proud and scornful, just like her bitch mother Mairenn, who’d looked at him with the same contempt when she threw his marriage offer back in his face, all those years ago. And the girl was likewise a priestess, and equally disobedient and wilful, always preening with her so-called goddess power.

  Well, he wouldn’t make the same mistake with her. She would be yoked to the plough early, for his gods had whispered the source of her suffering, and how to increase it until she could no longer raise her face to scorn him with those blue eyes.

  Mairenn’s eyes.

  Ah, yes, the prince could become quite a useful weapon. At this, avarice finally triumphed, and Gelert left, wondering how soon to take the young man aside.

  The carvings on the gate that led to the crag flickered shadows across Conaire’s pained face. ‘Take us to your healer’s house, quickly!’ Eremon cried to the Epidii men who took over the litter. He was so intent on ensuring that they did not jostle his foster-brother that he took no notice of where they were going. Then the bearers were laying the litter down on the ground, and he looked up.

  They were outside a small roundhouse near the crest of the dun, and a woman was emerging from the covering over the door. Eremon knew that hair, those fine features, from the day of his arrival.

  She is the healer? He should not be surprised; many female druids were healers, after all. But she looked so young and frail; she could not be more than eighteen. Would she be good enough to save his brother?

  Without a glance at Eremon, she went to kneel at Conaire’s side, taking his hand. She felt his pulse, sniffed his breath, checked his eyes, and finally peeled back the pad of torn wool, sticky with blood, that covered his groin. The boar’s tusk had in fact just missed Conaire’s most precious organ, and gone deep into the upper thigh instead. At her probing fingers, Conaire stirred and cried out in pain, and his eyes opened.

  The woman looked up at Eremon, and in place of the cold eyes on the beach, he saw the professional frown of a healer. ‘How long ago did it happen?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly two days, now.’ Then the words burst out: ‘Can you help him?’

  Her frown deepened, and all she said was, ‘Take him inside.’

  Eremon barely noted what the inside of her house was like, but was conscious somewhere that it smelled different, earthier, the air tinged with the strange, sharp scents of herbs and ground roots.

  The woman was confidently issuing a stream of orders to a little, dark serving woman, to put water on to boil, and to gather linseed and moss and bandages. He helped to ease Conaire on to a small pallet in an alcove divided from the rest of the room by a wicker screen.

  It was crowded now, with Finan, Rori and even Aedan milling around helplessly, until the servan
t shooed them away, scolding like a small, wiry crow. At length, only Eremon and the healer remained by the bedside.

  Eremon leaned over Conaire, his hand gentle on his brow. It was the first time his foster-brother had been conscious since crossing the strait from the island, when the boat was tossed by waves, and Conaire, groaning, had thankfully slipped away into a faint.

  ‘When I said we should prove our strength, my brother, I did not mean that you must try to kill yourself.’ Eremon said it lightly, but his chest was tight.

  Conaire tried smiling, his forehead sheened with sweat. ‘I thought something big was needed.’ His voice was hoarse, and he broke into a cough. ‘It was a good leap.’

  Eremon squeezed his shoulder. ‘Yes, it was. But now I want you to put the same effort into getting well.’

  Conaire could only close his eyes in exhaustion, and Eremon looked up to find the druid watching him closely, as she soaked a cloth in a bronze basin by the bed. ‘You’ve got to help him,’ he said, heedless of the plea in his voice. Let her think him weak; right now he did not care.

  She answered him bluntly, but her hands were gentle as she laid the cool cloth on Conaire’s forehead. ‘The wound itself is not serious, otherwise he would be dead by now. But … wounds from the boar often turn bad. I do not know why. This is what we must fight.’

  Conaire’s eyes flickered open again. ‘It has been long since I gave to the Boar, Eremon. Perhaps He is angry …’

  Eremon picked up the hand that lay limply on the blanket, and held it. ‘Then I will sacrifice for you! I will give him so much that his eye never falls on you again, except with favour!’

  Conaire tried to smile, but the smile turned into a wince as the wound cramped again.

  ‘I will do all I can for him,’ the woman murmured. She hesitated. ‘It is best for him to have quiet now. Go and make your sacrifice. The shrine is at the brow of the hill. And I will pray to the Mother of All, the Great Goddess.’