The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  He had spent years trying to stop girls falling in love with him, because he did not want a wife. He was too busy roving Erin with Conaire, honing his military skills. With his looks and position, there had been no shortage of noblewomen making eyes at him, but he’d stuck to the safer options: regular tumbles with the dairymaids, the smith’s daughter, and his mother’s fine-fingered needlewoman. But this was altogether a different proposition. He must be careful with her. Especially tonight.

  ‘So, to the health and fortune of our prince, a married man at last,’ Conaire was saying, his cup lifted.

  Eremon glanced around at the bright circle of faces, cups in the air, humming with the promise of the evening’s delights – food, drink, and women. At least they were getting a feast out of it.

  ‘To the prince!’

  ‘The prince! Slàinte mhór!’

  Rhiann knew it would be one of the longest nights of her life.

  The saor had worn off now, and in its wake came a hollow sickness, and chills that brought a shiver to her skin. She desperately wished that she could take more, that she could return to the floating haze, and stave off the time when she would have to regard this hall and the people in it in the cold light of reality.

  She glanced around the huge ring of benches, circling the hearth. Servants dashed back and forth, holding on high woven willow platters of boar-flesh, salmon with juniper, roast goose with blackberries, and baskets heaving with soft cheeses and honey-baked bread. Others mingled among the nobles with jugs of heather ale and pale mead. The calls for more ale! more mead! resounded from the roof-beams. The crowd was becoming louder, the jokes quickly bawdier. Normally she would be long gone to her bed … but tonight, tonight she would rather endure this than … that.

  The bridal hut was waiting. With the houses always so full of guests, newly-weds were given their one night of total privacy. And she must go there, with him. The rite she had gone through today, to safeguard her people, it would have no meaning to them unless she disappeared into that hut with that man, and did not emerge until morning.

  Her hand crept to her waist. The jewelled girdle was still there, but underneath her linen shift she had tied on her priestess pouch. She cupped it now through the soft wool of her dress, her fingers seeking security. For the people, she must go to that hut. But, just as no one knew what went on inside her head, no one would know what went on inside the hut.

  Stop thinking.

  She had exchanged barely any words with her new husband. He tried that boyish grin on her a few times, but it slid off her skin like a straw arrow glancing off mail. It may well work with the insipid, moon-eyed girls that seemed to find him attractive, but it wouldn’t work with her.

  Her other hand was gripping her mead cup so hard that the enamelled mounts were digging into her palm. She had no intention of being polite to him. She’d made the sacrifice, and that was enough. He married her for her position, and that was all that he would get. The council may be able to barter her away, but no one could control her mouth, her mind, her heart. They were hers alone.

  One of the servant girls passed by again with the platter of boar-meat, and that great blond hulk from Erin paused to spear even more on to his knife. The prince was eating more sparingly, but she noticed his quick, nervous gulping of the mead.

  Good. Get so drunk that you pass out. As her mind slid dangerously close again to what would happen after the feast, she resolutely brought it to bay. Stay here, in the present. What comes after cannot be faced. It cannot be faced.

  At least she did not have to worry about Gelert. The druids had blessed the feast and partaken of a sparse meal, and then left the hall to the warriors and their women.

  On one side of her, she heard the prince and his brother talking about the Romans, speculating on what they might do. War talk, that was all they knew. Still, at least he had given up trying to speak with her.

  ‘Take some more food, daughter.’ Linnet, on her other side, squeezed her hand. ‘You must eat after the saor.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  A pause. ‘You did well today. I was proud of you.’

  ‘I did not have much choice.’

  Linnet sighed, but she put a light hand on Rhiann’s back, at the level of her heart. After a moment, a warmth began to tingle on Rhiann’s skin, through the layer of the robe and the shift, growing into a pulsing glow of comforting heat that spread throughout her chest. And Rhiann remembered with a pang how Linnet had always been there, stroking her face, putting her healing hands on a scratched knee, a feverish cheek. It wasn’t much. Right now, it brought tears dangerously close to the surface. But it was hers. It was all she had. She reached out and put her hand in Linnet’s lap, and took another sip of mead.

  The bards were tuning their harps near the door. One of the lesser bards had already been playing a series of wordless tunes throughout the feast, until it was time for the family lays to be recited and sung, to confirm the lineages and the new kin bonds. In effect, it was part of the marriage contract: telling the prince of Erin what he had got for his money.

  Meron, the Epidii chief bard, told the story of Rhiann’s own ancestor, Beli the Bold, who led his people out of the east, and crossed the great sea, fighting all manner of strange beasts to make landfall on Alba’s fair shores. It was, of course, a favourite for the royal clan, many of whom knew it off by heart. Rhiann saw more than one old warrior’s lips move in a silent echo of Meron’s deep, melodious chant.

  In the silent pause after Meron left the floor, when men were waking as if from a trance, blinking their drink-sodden eyes, a slight figure stepped out of the shadows into the cleared space beside the hearth.

  It was the bard from Erin. He was so young, he must still be undergoing his training. And pretty, too, as she’d noted before, with his ripples of dark hair framing a heart-shaped face. He could almost be a woman, especially clean-shaven as he was today. She heard a muttered joke to this effect from somewhere to her left, smothered by a loud guffaw, and saw Conaire, the blond giant, pin the unfortunate joker to his seat with a glare.

  The bard had borrowed a fine blue cloak to cover his tunic, and now he swept this back, somewhat theatrically, and paused, until a burst of talking and cries for more mead respectfully died down.

  Bards – no matter their looks – were sacred. They were untouchable even on the battlefield. After all, they held a people’s whole history in their heads – all the kinship lines, the battles, the marriages, the acts of kindness and outrage, the births and the feats of honour and glory. They could kill with words, by bringing stinging satire and shame down on a man’s head, hounding him to his death. And they brought beauty, on the long nights when the cold winds prowled around, and all within were aching to see the sun again.

  Someone hastily brought the young bard a stool, and he settled himself on it, tuning his harp, his fingers tracing over the strings lovingly. Rhiann’s heart thawed just a little at this total absorption. This one did not wield a sword, at least. He was a maker of things, of beautiful songs, not a destroyer.

  ‘I will sing,’ he announced grandly, ‘the lay of the Sons of Mil, the tale of my prince’s most glorious ancestor, the first Eremon, who conquered Erin with his brothers, vanquishing the faery-people, the Túatha dé Danann. This you will see, is the line of his blood, the most noble line of our most noble island …’

  And so on, so on … Rhiann took another sip of mead as the bard launched into his tale.

  She had to admit that he had a fine, clear voice. The sons of Mil, among whom numbered the famous bard Amergin, crossed from Iberia to Erin countless generations ago. Rhiann had never heard the story, and despite the fact it was about his ancestors, she gave herself up to the bardic rhythm of the voice, and the song of the harp, and drew some comfort from its beauty. People sat silent, relaxed if not always attentive, reaching their feet out to the fire, hands on full bellies, fingers curled around ale cups.

  Then, looking around the room, Rhiann�
�s eyes accidentally caught upon her new husband’s hard profile. He had straightened on his bench, his eyes fixed on the bard. There was something about him of the stag sensing the air, an alertness that had not been there before. Curious.

  She brought her attention back to the tale, where the bard Amergin’s powerful words helped the brothers to vanquish the Túatha dé Danann, who retreated to their underground mounds. The sons of Mil then divided up Erin between them.

  The bard continued proudly:

  And so the warriors,

  The great warriors,

  The warriors-of-gold,

  Gathered about them ten thousand swords each

  And ten thousand spearmen.

  Five boars a night they feasted on

  And twenty gold arm-rings they gave away.

  But hark! Eremon mac Mil was the brightest

  And the fairest.

  And the gold in his hall,

  The gold on his walls,

  Shone out across the length of Erin.

  The bard’s voice changed, and he paused to execute a difficult flourish on the harp.

  Rhiann’s glance now fell on the prince’s hand where it rested on his knee. The firelight glinted off a jewelled ring, as he clenched his fist. Then, she saw him mutter something to Conaire, who muttered something to another of their men, who slid away from the benches into the crowd beyond.

  The bard’s voice had hushed:

  So began the strife

  The kin-strife

  The greatest kin-strife Erin has seen

  Brother on brother—

  Suddenly, his fingers fumbled, and his fine voice faltered. His eyes darted to the prince’s face, and Rhiann, sitting so close, saw those sky-grey pools widen from the dreamy bardic trance into something more like … fear? Just then, the gael who had slipped away stumbled out into the hearth-space, clutching another man as if he was falling down drunk. The clutched man swore, and both careened into the bard, knocking him from his stool.

  The room erupted into shouts of laughter. The prince waved for more ale, and servants dashed in, breaking up the edges of the crowd. Under cover of a burst of shouted jests at the supposed drunk man, who stumbled off outside, Rhiann saw some others from Erin rush in to help the bard up. By the time he dusted himself down and checked his harp, he’d lost the crowd’s attention.

  Some of the Epidii servants had pipes and drums, and they took the opportunity to launch into a raucous jig, and the feasters shouted for more mead, for they would rather talk and dance now, and grope their women.

  The prince stood and nodded to her, his face grim, and then pushed his way through the crowd, his brother in his wake. Very curious. There was more to this man’s lineage than he had spoken of, that was clear. Perhaps he was not as noble as his little bard was boasting!

  ‘It is time to retire.’ Linnet was brushing crumbs from her skirts.

  ‘I’m staying.’

  Linnet searched Rhiann’s face. ‘Then I will stay. I will see you to your marriage bed.’ The line of her mouth hardened.

  ‘No, go. You are tired.’

  ‘I won’t leave you here.’

  Rhiann put her hand over Linnet’s fingers, and looked in her eyes. ‘It won’t make any difference, aunt. Go. For once, heed me.’

  Linnet held Rhiann’s gaze, as all around them the music and the shouting and the jostling bodies swirled. ‘I love you,’ Linnet said.

  ‘I, too.’

  But if you go, I can hide from this fear that chokes me. Go. Please go.

  Chapter 15

  The moon outside was heavy and low, sinking to her bed. The King’s Hall was hot now, packed to the brim with sweaty bodies, jostling their mead cups together. Another toast, and Eremon had to gulp from his cup for the third time in as many heart-beats.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Conaire wove into view, his blond hair a blurred halo. Someone had spilled ale down Conaire’s tunic, and there was a dark patch over his chest. A woman was hanging around his neck, her breasts pushing against her thin gown. Conaire was laughing and untangling her hands, trying to make his way through the crowd.

  Eremon swayed back on his bench, desperate for air. By firelight and torchlight, people’s faces swam in and out of focus, sheened with sweat, flushed with drink. Talorc was by the spits with a sick-looking Rori, forcing more mead down the young man’s neck while the other men laughed.

  Aedan was nowhere to be seen.

  Foolish bard. He’d gone down on his knees outside and begged Eremon’s forgiveness for singing that lay of the murdering sons of Mil, who turned, each on the other, and fought to the death, bringing Erin to its knees. The lay of that first Eremon, who killed his brothers for the throne of Erin. A tale too close to home.

  Aedan got so carried away proving Eremon’s lineage, boasting about him in front of these people, that he forgot the very reason they were here, and what they had to hide.

  Kin-strife obviously runs in the family. Eremon swigged mead, and smiled. Ah, the bard was only doing what a bard did. They existed to boast about their lords. Eremon was really only a little angry. After all, who here would make the connection? No reprimand had been required, anyway. Aedan’s shame was punishment enough, and he had crawled off to be alone. Eremon would ask him to write a song about the wedding. That would keep him happy.

  In front of him, Finan and Colum were crouched over a brandubh board in a cleared space; bets of rings and daggers were being passed furiously back and forth over their heads. The druids were long gone, as were most of the women.

  Eremon shifted uncomfortably. His belt was too tight, for he had gorged himself on boar. But he was given the champion’s portion, and could not refuse. He could not refuse the toasts of his new kin, either. Ah! I should not get drunk, not now. It’s not safe. He peered at Conaire, willing him to come closer.

  Something moved next to him. The girl. His bride. His wife. She had said nothing to him, but remained still and white-faced, rigid in her seat. The people and laughter and shouts, the drunken jests and spilled mead, eddied around her as if she were a pale rock in the middle of a dirty river. He looked at her. Her gaze was far away, locked on some point in the darkness of the roof. Why had she not gone to bed? She did not seem one for feasting like this.

  In a sudden burst of bravado, he leaned into her, swaying slightly. ‘I will retire if you wish, lady. It has been long enough?’ With a great effort, his words came out clearly.

  He sensed the way she froze, even though she did not move. Living skin became stone, just for a moment. Then she turned her head. ‘No,’ she said, and the word sounded bitten off, her voice harsh. ‘It will never be long enough.’ She turned away again.

  He did not know what to say. His brain was stuffed with wool, and nothing, no thought, would emerge clearly enough from the tangle of the rest. He realized, vaguely, that she seemed upset. But why? Most maidens were eager for the marriage bed, few were wholly inexperienced. Or perhaps this one was. She could certainly freeze a man’s balls at a hundred paces. He knew he must do something … must say something …

  ‘Eremon!’ Conaire’s hand landed on Eremon’s shoulder and he squatted awkwardly by his side, favouring his wounded leg.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ He could hear his words were slurred now. He shook his head to clear it.

  Under cover of the noise around them, Conaire leaned close to his ear, grinning. ‘Where do you think? I’ve been in the stables tumbling the young lass who spilt her drink on me!’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I’m not.’ Conaire pushed sweaty tendrils of hair back from his face, and then deposited a piece of straw on the bench next to Eremon. ‘She was very sorry for soaking me. Very sorry.’

  Eremon laughed, then hiccupped. ‘Brother – they’re getting me drunk.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Couldn’t say no, wouldn’t be polite … to my new kin.’

  Conaire picked another piece of straw out of his tunic. ‘Certainly n
ot. I’m honoured you’ve made the sacrifice for us.’

  ‘But it’s not safe. The men …’ He waved vaguely around the room.

  ‘By the Boar, man! You deserve it.’ Conaire settled his arm around Eremon’s shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’m here. I’ll look after them all, don’t worry.’

  ‘You … sure?’

  ‘As sure as the girl was sorry.’

  ‘You’re a good friend. A good friend.’ Eremon patted Conaire’s hand in emphasis.

  ‘Now, my prince, save all that energy for your lady wife. I’ll see you safe to bed, never fear.’

  ‘Bed! Ah, bed. I shouldn’t have drunk this much.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she won’t be expecting a lot.’

  ‘Hush, she’ll hear.’ Eremon hunched himself around Conaire in an attempt to shield his words.

  ‘No, she won’t. She’s gone.’

  Rhiann lay rigid, ears straining. The apple-wood fire threw off wafts of fragrant smoke, lacing the wattle walls of the hut with shadows.

  The bed in which she lay was rawhide over a wooden frame, with a down-filled pallet, soft and springy. The linen sheets were cool on her bare legs, scented with imported lavender. The furs on top were the softest: otter and seal and beaver. No labour had been spared to make this bed a haven of beauty.

  Her hand crept again to her waist, to the hard bulge of the priestess pouch. The young maidens who attended her had removed her outer dress, her undertunic, and her jewellery. One of them combed out her hair with a silver and bone comb, until it fell before her eyes in a silken sheet, copper in the firelight. They scented her skin with honeyed oils, giggling all the while. But she batted their fingers away from the lacing of the shift under her breasts, and with a glance at her forbidding face, they let her leave it on. They could think her modest; she did not care. She just wanted them to leave.