by Jules Watson
‘I am a woman, Eremon. They would hardly shoot at me, all on my own. Anyway, as Queen of their closest allies, they have given me a seal to show.’
‘And they did not think it strange that you come, with no escort, in the middle of the night? It hardly ranks as an official visit, does it? If you can do that, they will wonder why you bring me at all!’
She sighed. The closer she came to the truth, the better he would be pacified. ‘If you must know, I have a friendship with one of the camp clerks, and I have in fact visited on many occasions. In the night.’
He did not answer, and she propped herself on one elbow, pressing her breast against his arm. The boar tusk dug into her skin. ‘Don’t play shocked with me, Eremon. I’m sure you enjoy the favours of many women, so why can I not do so with many men?’
He snorted. ‘Because they are Romans, Samana!’
‘Romans have as much between their legs as you do!’ She nestled her head into his chest, but he remained rigid, and did not take her in his arms, ‘It was a short-lived thing, many moons ago. I gained much knowledge that was of use to my people.’
He still did not answer.
‘Eremon!’ She was exasperated. ‘How is this any different from you wedding my cousin? You do this for your own reasons – you bed her to gain something! How is this different?’
After a long while he sighed, and his body relaxed a little. ‘When you put it like that, it is little different. Except that the Romans are the enemy.’
‘You see them that way. But I have chosen not to fight, remember.’
‘You are a dangerous woman, Samana.’
She smiled in the dark, and her hand crept down towards his bracae, cupping him through the thin wool. The vestiges of her magic would have faded by now, but it had bought her time enough to ensure that his body was bonded to hers, and his mind less sure of itself.
Its power over him had surprised even her, for magic could only intensify existing desires. And when she cast her spell she’d no idea that such a wealth of passion lay untapped in a man such as this. The prince of Erin had obviously not found what he needed on the shores of Alba yet.
This thought made her smile even more as she sought out his lips to claim them.
Chapter 28
Conaire did not see Rhiann on the first day of Eremon’s departure, though as he came back into the dun near dusk, breathless after a beach ride, he was seized with a sudden impulse to seek her out.
Even more surprising was the pity that drove him; a feeling that arose when he noticed her distress after learning of Eremon’s plan. He’d never anticipated feeling anything at all for his brother’s bride, and she certainly was not an object of pity for anyone else. But from the time that she proposed this mad southern journey, his interest in her had increased.
She seemed to think like a man, which was a new idea to Conaire, but intriguing. She and Eremon did not like each other, obviously, although Conaire failed to see why. She was sharp-tongued, and did not throw herself around like Aiveen and Garda. But so what? The way she handled the council and then that Roman patrol had sealed her worth so far as he was concerned. Eremon should forget about seeing her as a woman – for she obviously did not encourage that – and just treat her as a comrade. There were plenty of other girls about to lay with.
He sighed as he dismounted and handed the horse to the stable-boy. For all Eremon’s undoubted talents, he knew very little about women. Take Samana. As much as Conaire would bed her in a moment, something about the Votadini Queen made him uneasy. It was not herself, for she looked to be a wild one in the furs, and that was a pleasant thought. No, it was the change he had seen in Eremon.
Conaire had enjoyed his share of women, but had never been in thrall to a particular one. And had this hold of hers affected Eremon’s judgement? Conaire’s thought felt horribly disloyal, but as he strode along the dun path in the fading light, he was overwhelmed by a flood of frustration. He and Eremon had never been parted this way, certainly not when either of them was going into danger.
He realized that his footsteps had taken him right up to Rhiann’s door. He stared at the cover, and when he heard movement inside, acted without thinking, and entered.
Rhiann was shaking moisture from her skirts and handing her damp cloak to a servant. She seemed tired, and he blurted out, ‘I am curious how you got so wet on a fine day, lady.’
She glanced up in surprise, and then a look of wariness settled on her face. ‘The woods are still damp.’ She waved at the basket set down near the door. ‘I have been collecting plants. There are different medicines here than at home.’
Conaire rocked on his feet, not sure what to say, but she broke the silence. ‘They are gone, then?’
‘Yes, this morning.’
She nodded, and he could see now that she was unusually pale. ‘Good evening, then.’ She turned away to the bed.
‘Ah …’ he began, just stopping himself from catching her arm. Then he knew he could not say anything of Eremon, not now. There was pain there in her face, and it was clear to see if you were looking.
He struggled to choose his words, which he was not accustomed to doing. ‘I never gave you thanks, lady, for saving me and my leg.’ He grinned and patted his scarred thigh, and was gratified to see colour rush back to her cheeks.
‘Your own body did most of the work but … thank you.’
‘I seek your help again, if I may.’
The wariness returned to her eyes. ‘How?’
‘Well …’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I am terrible at waiting. If it is acceptable, perhaps we could eat together?’
He trailed off, knowing she would refuse, but to his surprise she hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘Yes, why not? Maybe it will help time to pass.’
He grinned again, conscious that she looked less anxious and more … approachable. But then, he only ever saw her around Eremon.
They ate together that night, eschewing the Roman chairs for benches. When the food was brought in, Conaire was surprised to see good, honest fare piled on the platters – roast pig and sorrel leaves, sea-beet and salmon. The wine had been replaced with ale.
Rhiann was watching him, with a small smile that might almost be called mischievous. ‘I told the cook to give us food from home. Nothing Roman!’
He laughed. ‘I was getting a bellyache from those spices. And the wine! The aches are worse than with ale.’
‘Assuming you drink so much,’ she returned lightly.
Conaire never expected to talk with Rhiann, of all people, in the way that he spoke to Eremon, but soon he almost forgot that she was a royal lady, and his brother’s wife. Conaire only bedded women, never conversed with them, and having one without the other was fascinating.
The next day she invited him to join her again, and the evening after. He found that he was able to make her laugh a little, even though the dark circles about her eyes showed her real state of mind. Soon he found himself suggesting that he accompany her gathering expeditions.
So they rode, and talked, and ate.
And they waited.
The harsh challenge rang out from the gloom above. Instinctively, Eremon’s hand went to his sword, but then he remembered he had left it with Conaire. He only had one spear, as would befit a lady’s escort among allies.
Samana stepped forward, leading her horse and firing off a sentence in rapid Latin. A torch flared on high, and peering up, Eremon could see two Roman soldiers standing on an earth bank, the flame bouncing off polished leather armour and javelin tips, and the timber palisade behind. To get this far, he and Samana had already passed through two outposts, and been funnelled between a strange arrangement of other banks to reach the camp gate.
Now his attention was claimed by the scrape of the gate being dragged open, and as Samana ushered him inside the camp, he remarked, ‘They know you well.’
‘I told you, I have had much to do with this camp.’ Samana stopped, and moved closer. ‘Trust me, my love,�
�� she breathed softly into his ear. But fear had sharpened Eremon’s senses, and her honeyed kiss did little to allay his unease.
After releasing the horses to one of the soldiers, Samana led him towards the glow of torches, across a cleared space of crushed heather and stamped-down turf. And here Eremon had to stop, for his feet would not move.
Hundreds and hundreds of leather tents were set out in orderly rows that stretched away into the gloom, and fire glowed in pits before each one, shining off stacks of hide shields and spears and helmets. Torches wove serpents of light among the pathways, aflicker with the shadows of many men. To one side, horses nickered on their lines, and behind them the oxen teams shifted and stamped. Further off, in the darkness, he could just make out another bank and palisade.
‘The tent spaces are marked out for the troops in the same way for each camp,’ Samana whispered. ‘The position of the officers and units are known by all, so that in the event of attack every soldier knows where to go! Isn’t it marvellous?’
Eremon heard the note of awe in her voice, and followed behind her more slowly.
She led him on through groups of soldiers milling about, ducking in and out of tent flaps, stirring pots over banked fires. From every dizzying direction came sudden shouts of laughter and the clanking of weapons and harness. There appeared to be close to ten men in each tent, making for the whole camp … no, he did not wish to know the numbers. Never had he seen so many warriors in one place.
Samana came out on to a wide path that led straight to what appeared to be the centre of the camp. There, he saw a larger tent, flying a standard from its apex: the emblem of the Eagles. Eremon’s stomach tightened when the firelight caught the banner, and he wondered, with rising alarm, just who they were going to see.
The formidable guards at the tent’s entrance lowered their spears when they saw Samana. Eremon balked then, his instincts flaring, but it was too late. He must not draw attention to himself. He looked down as he followed her inside, avoiding their eyes.
A three-legged brazier bathed the interior with light. Eremon caught a glimpse of a low bed and leather satchels stacked up in neat piles, before his attention was claimed by the man who rose from a stool by a high table. Three other men with him turned to the door.
The first man only came up to Eremon’s nose, and his hairline was receding, but he carried authority in every line of hooked nose and strong, shaven chin. Eremon recognized that he was staring at another hardened warrior. Dark eyes bored into his own from a few paces away, as if the man sought to read Eremon’s mind before he spoke.
‘You are a prince of Erin, yet you have married into the tribes of Alba.’ The man spoke in accented but clear British.
Samana had tricked him! Eremon glanced at her, eyes widening, but she was at the table, staring intently at one of the scrolls. What a fool he had been! Yet despite the shock, the contempt in the man’s face made his own pride surge. ‘And you are of the Roman kind,’ he replied, lifting his chin, ‘yet you seek to take a country not your own.’
The man smiled, and said something to Samana in Latin. She swept forward to introduce them, avoiding Eremon’s eyes. ‘This is Eremon mac Ferdiad of Dalriada in Erin. And—’
The man broke in, taking instant command. ‘And I am Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Governor of Britannia.’
Icy fear drenched Eremon, as the man added, ‘Forgive my rudeness. I have been on the march for so long now that I have forgotten how to entertain distinguished guests.’
Eremon quickly recovered. ‘I did not know I would meet with you, Gnaeus Julius Agricola. Your deeds are known to us even in Erin.’
Agricola raised his eyebrows. ‘That is praise indeed.’
‘The refugees that came to our shores did not think so.’
When Agricola spoke, his voice was still pleasant, though his gaze was not. ‘Ah, yes. When one is new come to a position, one must make a name.’ He took up a silver jug and poured wine into a cup. ‘You are a young prince, I am sure you understand that. Perhaps you are even in the process of making your name, too?’ He looked up and smiled, then handed the cup to Eremon. ‘But enough of that – wait.’ And he turned back to his men and continued his discussion, leaving Eremon standing where he was.
Eremon’s face suffused with heat, and he didn’t know what he wanted to do first; wipe that smile from Agricola’s face or take Samana by the arms and shake her. Eventually the officers saluted and left, each one staring curiously at him as they passed.
Agricola went to the door of the tent and called in his guard. ‘I had a bed prepared for you,’ he told Eremon, then looked at Samana with the hint of a smile. ‘And you, lady. Or would you rather they were one and the same?’
Eremon put the cup on the table and stepped to Samana’s side. ‘We will stay together. But what do you intend? Is it a ransom you wish from my people?’
‘You mistake us!’ Agricola shook his head. ‘I only wish to talk. I have something to show you. You would like to see our camp in the light of day, would you not?’
Eremon stared him down. ‘Of course.’
‘Then so be it. Enjoy our hospitality. I will send for you.’
Eremon and Samana were shown to a tent as spacious as Agricola’s own, and as soon as they were alone, Eremon did grasp Samana’s shoulders, his fury boiling over. ‘What in Hawen’s name do you think you are doing?’
She stayed pliant between his hands. ‘It was the only way to get you here. He wants to speak to you of a treaty, as I said.’
‘You did not tell me I would be meeting with the commander of Britannia’s entire army. Nor that you would tell him who I am! Do you want me killed?’
She was breathing hard. ‘No! And this is the only way to keep you alive! Don’t you see? You have no choice! You must ally with him. He is the power in this land.’
The red fog of rage in Eremon was abruptly doused by cold reality, and he stopped the torrent of angry words from spilling from his lips. Samana was in league with Agricola. If Eremon angered her, she could have him executed.
And just like that, he was back in control – the haze that had invaded his mind ever since they set foot in Samana’s dun fell away. It was like the coming of sunrise after a long dream, but a cold sunrise at that. He breathed in deeply, and as he let out the breath, he felt his mind clear, and then his heart. Now there was no confusion or indecision to grapple with; only the reality of bitterness and shame. But at least they were true.
‘Hear what he has to say, Eremon. See the might of the Romans. You are not witless, which is why I brought you here!’
He released her shoulders. ‘He wants my support for a treaty, is that it?’
‘Yes.’ She was rubbing her arms, her expression wary.
‘What will you do if I say no?’
She reached out and put her hand over his heart. ‘I have not been entirely honest with you.’
He snorted. ‘This I know.’
‘I had to get you here first, to make you hear what he had to say. But now, I can tell you the rest of my plan.’
‘What is it?’
‘Regardless of the tribes, regardless of any treaty that he makes or does not make with others in Alba, I want you to agree to personally support Agricola.’
‘You are telling me to turn traitor to the Epidii?’
‘What loyalty do you have to them? They are nothing to you! You must think only of yourself.’
Eremon sat down heavily on the camp bed, his eyes roving around the tent; at the claw-footed table, the elegant wine jug, the carved oil lamp, the platter of figs. Everything in it was foreign to his eyes.
‘Like you, I think the tribes will fight,’ Samana was saying. ‘And the Romans will win. But as I said before, they will not stay. There will be need for new rulers. Rulers like us.’
His head jerked up, and she came to kneel by him. ‘Think, Eremon! More land, more power than you could ever dream of. All for the sake of lip service to the Romans!’
�
�My only desire is to return to my own lands. I had no thought for taking more.’
‘Well, start thinking!’ Her face was alight. ‘What a formidable team we would make together!’
‘And what of Rhiann?’
‘What of her? For this is also your choice. I have no intention of being caught up in a fight with the Romans – I have already made my decision. Yet Rhiann will choose with her heart, soft fool that she is.’
To Eremon, this sounded utterly unlike the Rhiann he knew, but Samana caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘Eremon, Eremon! I, too, am a princess. I can also give you the help you need. My people are powerful. And you enjoy me in bed, do you not?’
‘Of course, but I could not do that to her.’
‘She was forced into this marriage, you told me. She will be happy to let you go, and return to her blessings and her horse and her … peasants.’
The scorn in her voice surprised him. ‘You hate her!’
She seemed to recover herself and rose, smoothing down her skirt. ‘She is inconsequential to me. But you are another matter.’ When she looked down at him, her mouth was soft, her eyes as wide as when they lay in the bed furs. ‘We were meant to be together, you and I. We can forge a kingdom that spans Alba and Erin. Think of that!’
‘But if I say no?’
The softness was extinguished with a shrug. ‘Then go back to Rhiann, back to your dry marriage bed – and to a future that guarantees a Roman spear through your heart.’
Chapter 29
Although at first Rhiann was furious to hear that Conaire was her guard, as if she were a fragile child, within days something unexpected happened. She began to feel grateful for his presence.
The strain of the last few moons, of constantly being on her guard with Eremon, had worn her down. Conaire’s jests, though often forced, somehow managed to slide in under her broken defences. And although she knew it slumbered within him, for she had seen the scars, there was no hint of the violent warrior in his open face and blue eyes.