The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Now she lay there, in the half-dark, and did not know what to do.

  I’m trapped.

  Her breath came in shallow draughts, struggling to draw air into the heavy flesh that was her body. The detached part of her noted: You are a noble woman. You are a priestess. You must know what to do.

  But she didn’t. Her thoughts rolled around her head; one moment freezing into blankness, the next tumbling into fire. The moments crawled by, as moments do when they have been a source of dread for moons. She had avoided this moment, buried the knowledge that it was coming at all, and then, suddenly the time was here, now.

  And she must face it. Hiding inside her mind no longer worked, because it wasn’t a case of minds now, of thoughts, memories, fears. It was about flesh, a man’s flesh, his breath, his force.

  She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could leave. But then every reason for marrying him would be meaningless, and her people would be no better off. It wasn’t an answer, no matter how strongly it beckoned.

  She must do the only thing she could do, and that was to use the iron-hard priestess discipline she had learned on the Sacred Isle, to wall herself up. The focus that was required for seeing, that she could use; the way of making sure that thoughts and feelings did not intrude. She could do that …

  Outside, there was the sound of stumbling tread on the path, and men’s voices.

  And all the moments collided into one.

  Chapter 16

  Eremon was being jostled in a crowd of drunken men. Talorc pushed another cup of mead at him, spilling it down his tunic. ‘More, have more. Consort of the Goddess … needs to be strong …’

  ‘No … no more.’ Eremon tried to catch himself from falling, as Talorc laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with one meaty hand.

  Behind them, his men and many of the Epidii warriors were weaving along the paths between the houses, singing. A few stopped to bay at the moon, swimming through the racing clouds above, before breaking down into snuffles of laughter. Hounds barked in answer, and a woman’s voice cursed the men for the noise they were making.

  ‘I can walk,’ Eremon slurred. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Here we are. Here we are!’ Talorc turned and called needlessly to the revelers.

  Eremon leaned on the wall of the wedding hut. After coming out into the cold air, his bladder was bursting. The men swayed around him, still singing. Conaire took Eremon by the shoulders and said solemnly, ‘May the tusk of the Boar stand up hard tonight.’ His eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and the crowd shouted with laughter.

  ‘Ha!’ Talorc guffawed. ‘And may the White Mare be warm and wet for her stallion, eh?’ He pulled Eremon to him in a bear hug, his breath reeking of ale. ‘Your seed is our seed, brother. All of you! Health to the house of Ferdiad!’

  ‘The house of Ferdiad! Slàinte!’

  As Talorc released him, his moustache scraped Eremon’s cheeks. ‘Tonight, we add our strength to yours. Stand together, and we’ll beat these dogs back to Rome, where they belong!’

  ‘To Rome!’ In a rumble of laughter and heavy tread, the men began to disperse. Conaire gave Eremon’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and then he too was gone.

  Gods. They are leaving, at last.

  Abruptly, Eremon was alone on the path among the dark shapes of the houses. He fumbled in his trousers, and with great relief, passed his water as he leaned against the hut, his head pillowed on one forearm. When he finished, he raised his head, and the world shifted up and down disconcertingly.

  Ah! I am drunk, then.

  Well, what he had to do wasn’t difficult. He knew he was good. That girl at his cousin’s dun had said so … what was her name? That was two moons ago – two moons! With that thought, his body suddenly awoke with heat, a heat that suffused his loins and thrust his fuzzy mind impatiently aside. He took a deep breath, pulled the door cover up, and went in.

  The hut was small, with the bed pallet to one side of a central fire. On the other side was a single bench. Among the bedclothes, there was a dark shape on the pillow; her hair. He could not see her face.

  He stood by the bench and tried to pull his boots off, but swayed so dangerously that he sank down on to it, and tugged them off from there. His clumsy fingers fumbled over the brooch to unfasten his cloak, but he got it in the end. Then his belt, with his sword. Then the new tunic, the gold thread scratchy against his cheek, and then his trousers. They became tangled around his ankles, but by the time he got them off and straightened, he noticed how hard he already was. Gods! Two moons! Finally, he slid off his torc and finger-rings, leaving only the boar tusk around his arm – perhaps it would give him strength.

  All the while, the girl lay silent, her face and body turned away.

  She is shy. He sat down heavily on the bed, pulling the fur covers and the sheet back. The pallet dipped under his weight. All he could see was her white shift, and her hair spilling out over it. Her glorious hair. And then, with a shock, he recognized the pale pearl-sheen of skin. One shoulder, peeking out from the slashed neck of the shift.

  His pulse leaped in his throat, and his breath caught. The heat in his loins ignited into an urgent flame. Steady.

  Some part of him would normally be whispering to take it slow, not to scare her. But tonight, that Eremon had been drowned in a tide of drink and lust that had taken him by surprise. What did Conaire always say? You’re too serious. Have some fun. Well, tonight he was doing that.

  He put his hand out, to where the shift was rucked up a little against her hip, and moved it down to the lace edge. There, his fingers touched soft, warm skin. Living skin, the first life he had seen or felt in this cold beauty. The firm muscle of a white thigh.

  There was no response. She seemed frozen. Frozen by shyness? Uncertainty? Well, he would make her certain; certain that she wanted him.

  Slowly, so slowly, he slid his hand up inside the shift, up the thigh, to where the muscle gave way to the round swell of a hip. Gliding over that, he dipped down into the achingly velvet texture of her waist. His breath was coming so high and fast now that the dizziness had returned.

  And then he felt it. The slightest quiver of her flesh. He knew he would be able to rouse her. Encouraged, he moved his body up to press against the length of hers, and grasped her by the shoulder.

  Goddess of Light Lady of the Forests Giver of Life Bringer of Death She of the Three Faces Raven of War Mother of the Land Goddess of Light Lady of the Forests Giver of Life Bringer of Death She of the Three Faces Raven of War Mother of the Land Goddess of Light …

  From far away, Rhiann was aware of him sitting in the bed.

  It doesn’t matter.

  She felt the heat of his body as he moved closer.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Then the alien hand touched her skin – and that is what broke her.

  No! He will take; take what I do not choose to give!

  The litany and the distance and the numbness slipped away. She tried desperately to grasp them, to hold them around her nakedness, but they were gone …

  She is on the beach again. The sand crunches under her feet …

  This time, the sudden shout behind is not just a shout. She scrabbles up the hillside … she is nearly free … and then an iron hand closes on her ankle.

  Hands are everywhere then, wrenching her by the shoulders, throwing her to the boggy turf, so that sharp rocks bruise her breasts. More hands take her shoulders, more power than she has ever felt in her life, holding her down. Her cheek is pushed into a puddle of peat-stained water; the mud sucks at her scrabbling fingers. She opens her mouth to scream, gripped by panic, but the fist hits her. Stars explode behind her eyes, as she is wrenched over on to her back. There is a sound of cloth ripping. Her skin is suddenly cold. On her breasts, her belly. The hands on her shoulders have coarse, black hairs sprouting from them, the nails are dirty and torn. A man’s guttural laugh comes from above those hands, and the weight of a bull lands across her body, extinguishing h
er breath. A black beard envelops her face; the reek of rotten fish clings to it, stifles her. A wet mouth, wet like a fish, grasps her lips, bites until she tastes blood. There are jeers from above. She cannot move cannot scream cannot think cannot breathe cannot feel cannot see … until iron hands push her knees apart, fingers digging into her skin. She tries to close her legs, but the bull-strength wrenches them open again, and she rails at her weakness. Helpless … helpless … Something rams into her, breaks into her body. But it is her body … he cannot enter …

  She is impaled.

  The invader plunges again and again and again … as the pain erupts, searing her insides. And in the dark of her own body he floods her with liquid shame, and she knows that, in answer, her womb weeps blood …

  Between one breath and the next, the ice of Rhiann’s mind was shattered by the touch of the prince’s fingers, and in its place rage boiled over. With the strength of a cornered beast she twisted, ripping open the waist-pouch, and in her hand suddenly there was the steel of a dagger, firing off sparks of light.

  A dagger pressed into the soft skin at Eremon mac Ferdiad’s throat.

  She felt the wildness pour from her eyes, as his face paled in shock, and a single drop of blood welled around the knife tip.

  He was helpless … helpless! She rejoiced at that, as her heart sang in her ears, free of its constraints. Blood cascaded through her veins, alive.

  ‘If you ever,’ she hissed, ‘ever lay hands on me again, I will kill you.’

  Chapter 17

  The night was over. Crouched, shivering, on the bench she’d dragged to the open door, Rhiann watched the first streaks of dawn lighten the sky. She glanced down at the dagger in her stiff fingers, noting that, in the grey day, it was dull and lifeless. No sparks of fire flashed from it now.

  Goddess, but her body was tired. The flood of rage had burned out just as quickly as it exploded, consuming the last dregs of her energy. Her mind, though, was strangely awake, the lassitude that had invaded it after the raid gone.

  Something about drawing that dagger shattered it. Something about reliving the men on the beach, their touches … every agonizing heartbeat. In all this time, she had never let her mind replay that image, those feelings. All her night dreams ended with the shout behind her, when she clawed herself awake. And now this – a waking dream, a vision, brought on by the touch of the prince’s hand.

  She twisted to peer inside the hut, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The prince was seated against the farthest wall, on the floor, as far from her as he could get. He stayed awake a long time in the night, after crawling from the bed and dressing himself. For hours she felt his eyes on her, as she crouched in her cloak by the door, but eventually the drink claimed him. Now his sleeping head was sunk on his breast, his legs splayed out.

  She looked down at the dagger again, toying with the weight of it. She could plunge it into that vulnerable breast right now, if she wanted to. Then she sighed, and looked up at the sky. And become like him?

  The pureness of feeling, the bright bloom of pain and rage and the unexpected, blessed triumph of that blade in her hand, pressed against his skin – all of it had fled with the grey light of day. For her, it was back to living by the mind. And the first rational thought that came was the realization that she’d drawn a weapon on her new husband, and shed his blood, though the nick was slight.

  No one would understand her point of view; of course not. Though rape within marriage was condemned, he had not raped her. And no one knew what really happened on the beach, during the raid – not even Linnet. That was how well she buried it.

  This man was her people’s defender. Their hope. In that moment of her release, she had betrayed their trust. Part of her was appalled at what she’d done. Part of her could not help but feel satisfaction. It was a moment of madness, that is all. I would not have killed him.

  She glanced back at him apprehensively. Would he declare her mad, then? Shame her before her tribe, repudiate her? Or say nothing, and beat her in the privacy of their bed-place? She realized with a shock that, in her self-absorption, she had taken no note of what kind of man Eremon of Erin truly was. She did not know if he was brutish. Or witless.

  Stay calm. Think about this. She tapped the dagger on one finger.

  He had stayed the night, as she had. After all, they married for sound reasons, and he had much to gain from this alliance, as did the Epidii. What happened was between them, for the moment. Yet would it stay that way? If he rejected her, she would be freed from the marriage, but her people would be weakened again. And the Romans were coming.

  Now she heard a rustle of clothing, and she ducked her head, sliding the dagger out of sight under her thigh. It would not do to remind him of that too soon. In a moment, two booted feet entered her line of vision.

  ‘Lady.’ His voice was deep, though rough with drink and lack of sleep.

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly raised her eyes, bracing herself for what she would see. His clothes were rumpled, but he held himself straight, his head high. The nick at his throat was a sliver of crusted blood. His fore-braids had come loose, and dark tendrils wound about his forehead. At last she could no longer avoid his eyes, and so, tensing, she met them. What would lay there? Disgust? Hatred?

  What she saw was the last thing she expected, the last thing of all. His eyes were green and unflinching, and in them dwelt puzzlement, curiosity and … pity? ‘Lady,’ he said again. ‘I behaved unspeakably last night, and I seek your deepest pardon.’

  She was speechless.

  ‘I have no excuse but that of mead, if you will take that as any excuse at all. Be assured that, in answer to your request, I will not lay a hand on you again.’

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  He was adjusting his scabbard on its chains, and peering out at the sky as if getting ready to leave. ‘In view of the alliance between our two peoples, could we agree to keep my … indiscretion … to ourselves? Please trust that you have no cause to fear my attentions again.’

  She nearly laughed with disbelief. But he had offered her the way out, so instead, she drew her cloak around her shoulders and nodded stiffly. ‘I will not speak of it to anyone.’ She wondered what else to add, and could think of nothing.

  ‘Good.’ He was brisk now. ‘And our living arrangements are …?’

  ‘I am expected to move into the King’s Hall. With you and your men.’ At that, her voice caught a little, and he glanced at her keenly. Pity indeed! She put her chin up. ‘However, I will keep my house as it is, for my healing and ritual duties, for which I need quiet, and space. I will spend most of my time there.’

  ‘I see.’

  A silence fell at last.

  ‘Well, then,’ he added, ‘I have duties of my own to attend to. Lady …’ He bowed to her gracefully, and then he was gone, the clasps on his belt clanking with each step.

  She slumped on the bench, blowing out her breath. She had agreed to share a secret. With her husband. In other words – despite her wishes, in defiance of all her plans – a bond of sorts had been formed.

  Between her and the prince of Dalriada.

  The sling-stone whizzed through the icy air over the marshes, and fell harmlessly into a frost-fringed pool. The flock of black-striped geese rose with honking cries, before wheeling out over the Add, settling far to the north against the hills.

  ‘Hawen’s stinking balls!’ Conaire slapped the leather sling against his good thigh.

  ‘If you keep yelling like that, you’ll scare them all away.’ Eremon was crouched in the reeds, blowing on his chilled hands.

  ‘Ah, I don’t have your patience, brother. Give me a boar to run down any day!’ Conaire squatted awkwardly on his haunches, still favouring his scarred leg, and rooted through his satchel.

  Eremon worked the sling between his fingers, rolling the stone around. ‘Patience … ah, yes, a great virtue of mine.’

  He could not keep the bitterness from his voic
e, and Conaire glanced up, his hands around a flask of stiffened boar hide. ‘Still proving elusive, is she?’

  Eremon nodded, his fingers tracing the tiny scab on his throat, which he had explained away as a razor nick. He could not tell Conaire what really transpired in the bridal hut a week ago. He was too ashamed – not of his own behaviour, which was barely at fault, whatever he told the girl. But how could he admit that he’d not yet consummated the marriage? Or that a woman had drawn a knife on him; drawn blood? He could not bear the shame. And as for Talorc and the rest of the Epidii; he would instantly lose every grain of their hard-won respect. And he could say goodbye to any chance of leading them, of making his name, of returning to Erin in glory …

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come around soon.’ Conaire shrugged. ‘She must be shy, that’s all.’

  She’s mad, that’s all. Well, perhaps not mad. Something must have occurred in her past to make her like that – she had been sorely treated, that was plain. It was only this realization that had stayed his anger the morning after.

  That sudden stab of pity had surprised him, as he looked down at her hunched on the bench. Until then, she’d been a forbidding figure, but in that one fleeting moment, she was just a frightened child. Then she thrust out that proud chin, and the moment was gone. But there was a mystery there, it was clear.

  And what do you care for such mysteries? he chided himself. What time do you have for such follies? Rhiann of the Epidii was a riddle, best left unsolved. He forced a smile, his jaw tight. ‘Let’s just say that this alliance better prove its worth!’

  ‘It is that bad?’ Conaire took a sip of elderberry ale, and held the flask out for Eremon. ‘Maybe you need some lessons in the bed-furs, brother!’