The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Then Rhiann’s eyes fell on Gelert, stooping to enter her house, and she saw triumph chasing eagerness across his face – an eagerness to see her pain. She would not give him that. She rose, clumps of unspun wool falling from her skirts. ‘And when will this marriage take place?’ Her voice hardly betrayed her, as she gripped the edge of her loom.

  ‘In three days,’ came Belen’s devastating answer. He checked at her expression, and added hastily, ‘It is to the fifth grade only, lady. When the sea paths open, the prince will send to his father, and at year-end we will conclude the full rites then, if you are willing.’

  Outrage replaced the fear in her heart. ‘And when exactly were you going to tell me?’

  Belen paled slightly beneath her glare, and gulped nervously, his eyes straying to Gelert.

  ‘My lady is aware of the urgency to strengthen our position,’ the chief druid put in smoothly, leaning on his owl staff. ‘You are overdue to be married; you know we have only been debating where to bestow your hand.’ He smiled.

  ‘But you do not even know this foreigner, this gael!’

  ‘We know he is a fine fighter and leader of men, lady,’ Belen offered awkwardly, spreading his hands. ‘We know he has many riches. The druid confirms he is who he says he is.’

  The loom dug into her hands. ‘But … but you did not consult with me! I do not know what kind of man he is!’ She saw the blankness on Belen’s face: he, like all the elders, would think this of no consideration.

  ‘We deem this man worthy of your rank,’ he answered, frowning. ‘And most importantly, he has the abilities and men-at-arms that we need so sorely. We don’t only have the Romans to contend with, as you know, lady. The other clans will come baying for the kingship soon. We are desperate.’

  This tug on her guilt was enough to dampen Rhiann’s anger, and she found her mind stumbling, yet again, over what was best for the people.

  Duty. Fear. Pain.

  Then one thought of self-preservation came clearly through the rest: You must appear to agree.

  She bowed her head. ‘I will make my preparations,’ she murmured, not looking up until the door cover fell back into place. Then she gasped for breath, pushing her forehead into the sharp talons of the carved eagle on her roof-post.

  ‘My lady!’ Brica cried, jumping to her feet. ‘The Goddess will have Her vengeance if they force you! In the old days the queen would choose her consort, and then another if she wished …’

  ‘But it is not the old days any more.’ To her own ears, Rhiann’s voice sounded dead, and far away. The next thing she knew she was on her way to the stables, and the healer in her realized that she was in shock, real shock, for this was what the numbness was.

  Distantly, she heard the cries of children playing in the tanner’s yard, and from behind the forge came the squealing of a pig, the sound abruptly cutting off. She stumbled through the dyer’s shed, sharp with the smell of urine, and then she was at Liath’s stall.

  She had no riding trousers or cloak, but it did not matter – before she could form a coherent thought, she was on the mare’s bare back and nosing her through the outer gates of the village. No one stopped her, but again she felt their eyes.

  Her ears folded, Liath kept to a sedate walk until Rhiann was well out of sight of the dun, held by the hands in her snowy mane. But the mare must have felt the tension in her mistress’s legs, the taut muscles across her back, and once released from Rhiann’s hold she was away, flying through the bare fields, north towards Linnet’s glen.

  Once alone among the dying bracken of the brooding hills, the fear of this day, so long denied, at last broke free from Rhiann in an anguished gasp, the strangled sound of her heart, her secret heart. But as Liath’s legs drummed faster and faster, leaping out from beneath her, the gasp became a moan, and then swelled and sharpened into a cry of rage that wrenched itself from her throat, cleaving the air.

  Dimly, Rhiann felt the wind clawing at her bare thighs, but the ache was nothing compared to the sheer agony of helplessness. She, who prided herself on her courage, her strength, could do nothing. She was trapped: by duty, by guilt and shame. Trapped by men who saw her as no more than a brood mare.

  Then Liath was slowing to a stop, and Rhiann looked down to where her hands were clenched in the frosted mane, and they were wet with tears. Shakily, she slipped to the muddy ground beneath a dead oak furred with lichen. Liath blew her sweet breath on Rhiann’s face and lowered her head to lick her legs, which were trembling from cold and the strain of gripping the mare’s back.

  Rhiann buried her face in the horse’s warm neck, and let the tears come fully in the wake of the rage.

  By the time she cantered into Linnet’s yard, the wild outpouring was over, leaving behind a steely anger. ‘How dare they?’ she muttered, pacing the floor of Linnet’s tiny, low-beamed hut, as her aunt stirred tansy tea over the fire. She whirled. ‘Did you know they were planning this?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Linnet poured the water into cups and set them to cool on the hearthstone, then offered hesitantly, ‘Is he so bad, this man? He is very fair, and not old at all. He is noble. It could be wor—’

  With one look at Rhiann’s face, Linnet broke off.

  ‘Any man, any marriage, is hateful to me!’ Rhiann cried. ‘You know this! There could only ever be one, and even then—’ She bit off her words, appalled at herself.

  But Linnet’s senses were sharp. ‘One? You mean there is a man?’

  Rhiann gritted her teeth, shook her head. ‘Was, not is. It is nothing, a child’s fancy, that is all.’

  ‘No.’ Linnet held her eyes. ‘Tell me.’

  Rhiann shook her head again. ‘The man who tattooed me at my first bleeding, on the Sacred Isle. But that was years ago!’

  Linnet sat down wearily in her wicker chair. ‘Daughter, the skin painters are meant to rouse the girl, for it imbues the sacred symbols with power.’

  ‘I know, aunt, which is why I have forgotten him. None of that matters now – that is not why I resist!’ Rhiann passed her hand over her eyes. ‘The council is not marrying me to him, they’re marrying me to this … this … murderer, this sword-wielder!’

  ‘Not all men are like those raiders, daughter.’

  Rhiann spun on her heel and kept pacing. ‘I can still invoke the law. No woman can be forced!’

  ‘That is true, and if you take that path, then by the Goddess I will stand by your side, you know that. But …’ Linnet bit her lip. ‘This marriage is for the good of us all, especially now that we face the invaders, for without it we will fragment. It is a hard choice; and I would spare you from it, believe me. But if you say no, I see darkness and chaos for us all. That is the truth.’

  Rhiann whirled again. ‘And who did you choose, aunt, to give us our heir, when you were young? You have the same blood as me! You’ve never been sold to a man, I recall.’

  Linnet paled. ‘It was different, then. Your mother was Ban Cré. The King had many heirs. My blood was not needed.’

  A shadow of grief crossed her face, but Rhiann was too angry to take it in. ‘I don’t want any man!’ she cried again. ‘And this one is arrogant, and … and he is lying! I can see it!’

  ‘Rhiannon brought him to us, on the waves. He does not bode harm – I sense it, I sense it strongly.’

  Rhiann stopped, clenching her hands into fists. Linnet’s definition of harm differed greatly from her own, she knew that. Oh, her aunt would let no man disturb a hair on her head. But that was not the point … she didn’t understand …

  Linnet rose and took her hands. ‘Daughter, daughter, calm yourself! You must trust what She sends you, and trust me, and the things that I cannot speak. Somehow, all will be well.’

  All will be well.

  Rhiann wanted to knock the cups to Linnet’s feet. She wanted to wrench the shelves from the wall, shattering the pots of salves and bitter tinctures, send the loom crashing to the floor, its threads snapping, tear down the bags of dried roots from the r
afters, scatter the digging sticks and the carved figurines and the pans of beeswax and crushed dyes on the table. All will be well.

  She had spent years learning such acceptance, such calm trust, on the Sacred Isle. It was easy to find, as a child. But all of that had bled away with one ringing blow of a raider’s sword across her foster-father’s neck.

  Linnet pulled her resisting body into her arms. ‘Stay here this night. I will brew you a sleeping draught. Perhaps the Mother will make things clearer for you in your sleep.’

  Rhiann drew a trembling breath. Well, she could not go back today anyway, not if all the ban-sidhes of the Otherworld were on her heels. Let the council worry over her, for once.

  But in the darkness of the night, these proud thoughts deserted her, and the shadows on Linnet’s walls seemed to draw in. She huddled deeper into the goatskins to escape them, until the draught took her at last.

  And a dream from the Mother did come.

  This vision was much older than the memory of slaughter; it had come to her often since her first moon bleeding. It was a secret dream, a golden dream that she’d once dared hope might come true.

  There stood Rhiann, surrounded by all the people of Alba in a valley filled with light. Danger stalked the dark slopes beyond, and the harsh, high shrieks of eagles came from the mountain peaks above. But Rhiann stood at the centre, cupping the cauldron of the goddess Ceridwen in her hands, gathering the Source so that it drove back the shadows.

  And by her side there stood another, a man, though she could never see his face, and he held a sword that brought not death, but protection and truth. And they had come together again, as in many lives, to bring the Source into balance.

  Over the years, Rhiann had attached features to this man’s face in her imagination: dark gold hair and brown eyes. Drust.

  He was a youth when he tattooed her on the Isle; a man he must be, now. It had to be him, for he was an artist, with fine fingers – not a killer. And he was there when she bled for the first time, when the dream first came. Kissing her, touching her …

  In her dream, she sighed and turned, cradling this one glimpse of joy to her breast.

  Which was when, for this one night, the dream changed.

  She was alone in a forest glade. There was the whisper of wings in the night air, and she felt the fear of the mouse as it cowers from the shadow of the owl above. The fear grew, until, in a panic, she ran, sensing always the wings beating above. ‘Help me!’ she cried, and suddenly on the path before her stood a beast; its eye bright, its shoulders thrusting with strength. For a moment she thought it would attack, and she felt despair, but as her feet carried her on, the beast let her go, then turned to paw the path against what followed.

  Ahead of her she saw sunrise creeping through the trees. But from behind came an unearthly cry, torn from the owl’s throat.

  Chapter 13

  Rhiann’s bed-place was empty when Linnet woke to the chinks of dawn creeping under the turf roof, but to her relief Liath was still tethered in the stable.

  Not knowing when Rhiann would return, Linnet drew on her work dress and took down the muslin bags of goat-cheese that her maid Dercca had tied up to drain before she left to visit her sister. But as she ladled the curds into nettle baskets, Linnet’s mind kept straying to the night before.

  She could not tell Rhiann that she saw the man from Erin in a vision, that she recognized him at the moment of his arrival. To reveal that would mean revealing the other scenes she’d foreseen, and somehow Linnet felt if she did this, the course of Rhiann’s life would alter, and not for the better. She wouldn’t learn what she needed to, before the Otherworld called her.

  You knew you must prepare her, not guide her, Linnet reminded herself. She thought she had accepted this long ago … yet it had not been tested, not really. And now the time of testing had come.

  She sighed, teasing thyme stalks from a bunch drying on the rafter. The raid on the Sacred Isle had left Rhiann with a deep hatred of warriors, but why the girl feared marriage itself, that Linnet did not know. So long as the man was honourable – and the prince seemed so – then he bore no resemblance to the shrieking murderers branded on the poor child’s heart.

  Of course, if Rhiann had once felt a child’s love for a boy … but the tattoo artists painted many girls, and many fell in love with the first to touch them that way. It was not a love to hold on to. Rhiann said she had forgotten it, so Linnet would have to believe her. This Erin prince was a different matter altogether.

  Pursing her lips, Linnet stripped the thyme leaves, the sharp scent filling the room. Was the prince here for good, or ill? Was the vision of him a warning? She thought back to how she’d felt on the day she received it. No, she did not sense he was here to harm. And surely the Mother would not let him cross the waves – a realm where many die – if he was to hurt Rhiann?

  She sprinkled the cheeses and wrapped them, then wandered to her loom, plucking the warp threads absently, thinking of the harsh words Rhiann had flung at her.

  The girl had touched on more than she knew. For although she thought that in retreating from the world, Linnet had found her true place, Linnet had once wanted hearth and home as desperately as Rhiann wished to escape it. In the end, Linnet lost the very chance that was being offered to Rhiann now.

  But, ah! She could not tell her that.

  It was past midday when Rhiann returned. Linnet was feeding her goats, and she paused and set down the bucket of slops, leaning her elbows on the brush paling of the pen, as Rhiann approached. Her eyes still burned, though with wonder now, not anger.

  ‘Come, you must eat.’ Linnet drew Rhiann to the old bench set against the hut’s wall, ducking inside for a honey bannock and cup of milk.

  Rhiann ate silently, her eyes still far away. But finally she brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stretched her kidskin boots out. ‘You were right,’ she said, lifting her face to the weak sun. ‘The Mother did send me a sign.’

  Linnet’s heart leaped. ‘What was this sign?’ she asked eagerly, taking in the brightness of Rhiann’s eyes. But then she realized what a brittle light it was, with none of the warmth Linnet longed to see.

  ‘It was a dream, which I have been puzzling out all morning.’ Rhiann shook her head. ‘But now I am clear. And listen! The Mother sent this man from Erin to be the sword in my hand – the sword to break Gelert’s hold!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Rhiann explained the dream when she ran through the forest. ‘Don’t you see? The beast appeared to be a boar, and this prince has a boar crest on his helmet – I saw him polishing it while visiting his sick brother. I have been so afraid … but I see now that I can turn Gelert’s own weapon – this prince – back on him!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘If I accept, I will have a husband with a strong warband, and a kingdom across the sea. If I can gain control over him, I can use him to fight Gelert on his own terms!’ A grim smile touched her mouth. ‘I’ve been weak and sad for too long, aunt. But now a weapon has come to my hands, and I can wield it, and be just as hard as any man!’

  Linnet’s heart sank. No one should start a marriage with a heart so full of dark thoughts. Oh, my dearest!

  And yet … Rhiann had agreed to marry the prince. And the pitiful despair in her eyes, that had been slowly breaking Linnet’s heart for many moons, was gone. Perhaps, over time, Rhiann would change, if he was kind and treated her well.

  Please let him be a good man, Mother, the man with green eyes.

  And then, just as this fine day had broken through unending cloud, her spirit lifted. The sisterhood taught that the strongest soul-healing comes when the wounded one faces the source of harm.

  As man had wounded her, perhaps man would lead Rhiann back to herself.

  Most marriages took place at Beltaine, the start of sunseason, and brides were crowned with flowers beneath blue skies.

  But as Rhiann rode back to the dun with Linnet and Dercca two days later, she realized that this time o
f year was right for her union. A hoarfrost glittered on the dying sedges, and the taut air bit at their noses and fingers until they burned with cold. In the pale sky over the marsh, the geese wavered in long lines, fleeing south.

  The Samhain festival was close: the end of the old year and the start of the new, when the long dark drew in and the land went to sleep in the Mother’s womb. And for a new year, perhaps it was time for Rhiann to throw off the fear and weakness that had infected her for this last wheel of the sun.

  Samhain was also the time when the fabric between the Otherworld and Thisworld grew thin, and the powers could cross between worlds more easily, tormenting the living with apparitions. An Otherworld marriage, then … a dark marriage.

  I also do this for the Mother, Rhiann thought, winding her icy fingers in Liath’s mane. And if I suffer it well, and am strong, perhaps She will forgive me for not being strong enough to foresee the raid, for not being strong enough to save my family. Perhaps then she will let me see again …

  No one stopped Rhiann as she entered the village gates, but all those hurrying along the paths, and loading and unloading carts, and hovering in doorways, fell silent, staring. She sensed Linnet glance at her, and she kept her back straight, and Liath stepped proudly.

  Brica welcomed her back with a tirade of renewed anger about the marriage. ‘The lord druid is furious!’ she cried, taking their cloaks and laying them out near the fire. ‘He has had to put a good face on it for the gaels, but they must know something is wrong! The council guessed where you’d gone, but they argued about whether or not to force you. Belen said if you were so unwilling, to leave you be.’

  ‘Did he? I’m shocked.’

  ‘Everyone is talking,’ Brica rattled on. ‘Oh, my lady, you have caused a stir!’

  Rhiann glanced at Linnet, and smiled. ‘Good! Now Brica, I have something to tell you. I am going to marry this prince tomorrow, as planned.’ She held up a hand as Brica’s mouth opened to protest. ‘It is my duty as Ban Cré – you must understand that. We’ll have to see something of him,’ she repressed a shudder, ‘though I’ll make it as little as possible, you can be sure. The provisions for the feast are on hand? Good. Help me off with my shoes, and then go and tell the cooks to have it ready tomorrow eve. Come straight back – and don’t speak to anyone, mind. I’ll let the council know my decision in my own way.’