The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One
Page 23
Without him, she would have gone mad with frustration, though she did not let him see that. Never had she been so trapped. The cage of her marriage was one thing, although she had come to some peace about that. But this waiting, not knowing if she were in danger … All this for a man – for the same man!
Every hour the urge came upon her to take her horse and race for home. And yet, though she railed at her weakness, she could not give up on Eremon quite yet. Even if she went back to Dunadd, she would still be bonded to him, and the council would not back her in the face of Eremon’s warband. After seeing the way he trained the warriors, she knew how important he would be if it came to war with the Romans.
That is, if he stayed on their side.
Surely he would not betray them, as Samana had obviously done? For now that she could reflect, it was plain to Rhiann that her cousin was in league with Rome.
Rhiann had not mentioned her suspicions to Eremon before he left. He would think it jealousy talking, which it was not. After all, they were married in name only. Liaisons outside such unions were the rule, not the exception.
No, she was only angry that he had left her behind. Her frustration only stemmed from this enforced waiting. These were the only things that ate at her, she was sure.
The soldier led Eremon through the camp, which was just beginning to stir. The smoke from new-lit cookfires puffed into the chill air, and all around he heard the harsh sound of the invaders’ language, so different from the musical flow of his own.
A good league away from the gates, the heather slopes of a hill flowed up on to a stony ridge, high above a flat river plain. The spears of two guards at the base of the hill glinted in the dawn, announcing their presence, as they moved into position on either side of Eremon and escorted him up a steep track. Above, a figure was outlined against the greying sky. He felt like a prisoner being marched before his captors, and with a shock he realized that was exactly what he was. Agricola would never let him go if he refused him.
‘I trust you had a comfortable night,’ said Agricola, when Eremon reached him.
The camp was spread out below them now, and though shrouded in dawn mist, Eremon could just glimpse its layout. He marvelled that the Romans would build something like this as a temporary halting place. It was more substantial than many of his own people’s homes. He turned back to Agricola, conscious that he was about to give the performance of his life.
‘I did, thank you. Your hospitality was not as bad as I have heard.’
Agricola smiled. He looked fresh, considering his age. Being in the field obviously agreed with him, and he looked out over his camp with relish. ‘I wanted to show you two things, man of Erin. One is this camp: see how strong it is, and how many men lie within it. See how well-armoured they are, how perfectly controlled, like one beast, rather than many.’
‘I see that.’
‘Good. Then I wish you to tell what you see to these Albans, these painted men. We are many, and we are strong beyond their imagining. And my intention is to make all Alba Roman. Be very clear on that. We have done it in the south, and we will do it here.’
‘I shall tell them.’
‘If they resist, they have no chance. Their people will die or be enslaved. Yet if they make peace, they will become part of the greatest empire the world has ever known!’ Agricola swept his arm out. ‘They will have roads, baths, heating, running water, temples. They will have access to the goods of the world – spices, jewels, exotic cloth. All will be orderly. All will be peaceful. Their clan raids and petty squabbling will be but a memory.’
Eremon tried not to let his feelings show, but Agricola sensed the curl of his mouth and turned to him. ‘I know you people have this fixation on freedom. But what is freedom? Fighting and warring incessantly? Starving to death during a hard season?’
‘Freedom is ruling yourselves.’
‘But peace is true freedom. And that is what we bring, son of Ferdiad. We bring peace. Peace to raise crops, to raise children. We have found the best way to live, and we want to share it with the world!’
Eremon forced his face to relax. ‘The peoples of this island find this concept difficult, Agricola, as you know. Fortunately, I think differently.’
‘Yes, so Samana has told me – a man with a cool head, not a fire in his belly like so many of these fool Britons. They do not understand what is best for them. They are like children, playing at war. They need a strong guiding hand – that is what Rome was made for.’
Eremon’s belly was, in fact, on fire. But Samana was right about one thing. He did have a cool head on his shoulders, especially when it was a matter of life and death. His heart nearly thrust through his chest with each beat, but he kept his mouth still.
Agricola cocked his head at him. ‘So will you agree to be my messenger, to convince the tribes to make a treaty?’
Relief began to course through Eremon’s body. It appeared that he might escape lightly after all. ‘Yes, I will tell them of your intentions, and of your might. But I am not a prince of their own. There are many different tribes. I cannot promise they will acquiesce to you.’
‘I realize that. But no matter, I have come prepared for a fight. I will crush them anyway.’
Eremon clenched his hands, desperate to throw himself on this man and rid the world of such ruthlessness. But he knew there were more Romans to replace him; many more. And the guards could stop him before he completed the deed.
Why die for the Albans anyway? he thought. I just need to get home to Erin.
Agricola took his arm and looked up searchingly into his face. ‘Now that I see you are a reasonable man, there is the second thing.’
He dropped his hand and gestured for Eremon to fall into step with him. They picked their way between dark outcrops of granite, until the land again fell away. Gazing out, Eremon could see lower hills and ridges that rose to a haze of purple mountains.
Agricola pointed. ‘Erin is westwards, is it not?’
Eremon’s heart sank again. ‘Yes.’
‘I am considering it as my next conquest.’
The sinking lurched into nausea.
‘Your arrival has made me think,’ Agricola went on. ‘It is easier for us to make peace if we have a ruler of the land to smooth our way. In exchange for offering no resistance, he gets to keep, and in fact increase, his power.’
‘Client kingship,’ Eremon remarked. His voice, thankfully, was steady.
‘Yes. It suits us, and it suits him. It seems fortune has brought you to me at this time, does it not, Eremon of Dalriada?’
‘You are proposing that I become your client king.’
Agricola nodded. ‘With my forces, you can gain as much of Erin as you wish. And we will accomplish it far quicker than you could with Albans by your side.’
‘And in return?’
‘Your followers keep the peace for us, and we don’t have so many troublesome uprisings to deal with. It saves me men, but I get the same result: all Erin and Alba for Rome.’
Eremon stared at that far horizon, where his land, his Erin, lay nestled out of sight. Dark fingers of cloud were now creeping up from the wall of mountains. The clear skies would not last.
Agricola put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This may have come as a shock, I understand. I understand also that you barbarian princes hold your concept of “honour” highly indeed. But what is honour? Saving lives and stock and land, surely? Think about it. You have until dawn tomorrow to answer.’ He dropped his hand and strode back towards the camp.
Eremon noticed that the guards who had followed them immediately moved in closer. Towards the western edge of the ridge, more guards were stationed, cutting off all thoughts of escape. He watched Agricola’s retreating back, conscious that the Roman toyed with him. For if he refused, he would be killed or imprisoned. And the former was much more likely.
It was only when he turned back to his home that he realized, with dawning horror, that part of him was wavering over Agricola’
s offer. I could go back now, this voice in his heart whispered. I could kill my uncle and release my people!
Then from somewhere deeper, a darker thought arose. I could increase my kingdom, its splendour, its might … High King of all Erin, I could be …
Appalled at the turn of his own mind, he spun on his heel, and saw the flash of red from Agricola’s cloak as he re-appeared in the camp below.
By the Boar, what would he do? It could all be over now; he could have all that he wanted. But what did he want?
Samana was lounging on Agricola’s bed when the commander returned.
‘This does not help your case with your prince, Samana.’ Agricola handed his cloak to a slave. ‘I gather he does not know about your other exploits. What if he sees you here?’
Samana picked at the grapes on a platter by the bed. ‘He won’t. I have left guards outside, and at our tent.’
‘Still, I am relying on his feelings for you to guarantee his loyalty, as you know. Do not endanger that.’
Samana licked juice from her chin. ‘Do not keep him here long, then. One of your men may talk.’
‘He will give me his answer tomorrow. If it is yes, then he will stay. If no … he won’t be leaving!’
‘Do you think he will do it, my lord?’
‘He appeared strongly tempted, and acquiescent. You say he does not have the powers for guile?’
‘No, he prides himself far too much on his honesty. None of the peoples of these islands have such powers.’
‘Except you.’
‘Except me.’ She slipped off the bed and came to link her arms around his neck. ‘I must be a Roman babe that was exchanged in its cradle. Which is why you must take me with you, wherever you go.’
‘And what will your man think of that?’
‘I can tie him to you until he sails for Erin in your name. Then he will be in too deep. He is hardly going to give up what he has won there and come back to chase after me.’
‘You are too modest, Samana.’
She shrugged.
‘So, you do not care for him at all, then,’ Agricola said. ‘This is all just to please me.’
She pouted. ‘Of course! But if you do not want me, then I will go with him. Only as a second choice, you understand.’
‘Ah, yes, you still need a man to warm your bed.’
‘I need to rule more than I need that.’ She kissed the corner of his mouth. ‘You can at least give me that, my love, if you turn out to be so cruel as to reject me. Set me up as a client queen.’
‘You already are.’
‘I mean of all Alba. Once you get rid of those coarse northern tribes.’
He untangled her arms. ‘I will not promise you anything, because then you won’t try so hard.’ He cupped her breast and stroked the nipple through the fine wool. ‘Talking of my empire always inflames me, and I missed you last night.’ He pushed her to her knees. ‘There are troop inspections this morning. I don’t have long.’
Eremon stayed on the ridge-top until the sun had long been eclipsed by the brooding bank of cloud creeping in from the west. Outwardly he was still, but inside the fires were raging, and as the hours crawled by, the shame he felt for even thinking of joining Agricola burned brighter.
The voices warred within him. What was best for Erin? What was best for his men? What was best for him? And, though he did not like to admit it, one face kept shimmering in his mind – a fine-boned face framed by amber hair. She did not want him as a man. But she needed him as a leader. Could he do that to her? He pushed the image away, replacing it with a fall of raven hair and the scent of apples. The other choice, as Samana said.
Surely, though, a choice between two women was not as important as the other issues. As his men. As his country. As his pride.
His guards grew bored, and soon squatted down nearby to throw bone pieces on the ground in some sort of game. He heard them talking and laughing together, and dimly realized that he understood their speech. He turned to look at them directly. Both had dark hair, but instead of Latin eyes, theirs were grey. Then he remembered that the Romans had been in Britannia for more than thirty years now.
One soldier saw him looking and nudged the other. There was no kinship in their hostile regard. These men were born of Roman sires, and though they spoke British, their blood was a source of shame for them, not pride. ‘Stuck in a bit of a hole are we, then?’ one of them jeered.
The other laughed. ‘Our commander has you right where he wants you, to be sure!’
Eremon turned his back.
‘You puny, savage kings think you lord it over all of us,’ the first guard muttered, loud enough for him to hear. ‘But our commander will take everything from you, princeling. He’s already got your woman, eh?’
The other man snorted with laughter. ‘Everyone in camp has had that witch!’
Eremon’s heart chilled, and he remembered the strange glances between Agricola and Samana. The way the other guards looked at her.
‘Our prefect Marcellus says she does some interesting things with that tongue of hers,’ the first continued. ‘You know that one, prince? Or does she keep it for her real men?’
Eremon spun around, fixing them with a cold glare. ‘Speak no more of the woman, or when I wield a sword again I’ll take it to your throat.’
‘I’d like to see you try!’ the first man spat. ‘There’ll be no more of these petty raids of yours, no fine duels. Our army will march right over your rabble, and we won’t stop until Alba is ours, so the commander says. Just wait and see, prince. Wait and see.’
By the fifth night Rhiann’s doubts had become unbearable. She paced her hut in the firelight, hair unbound and uncombed, frustration tearing at her. She could not sleep, nor eat. Was Eremon betraying them, betraying her, even now? Were Romans marching at this moment, on their way to capture her? It seemed impossible in the daylight hours, but at night, her fears grew as distorted as the flickering shadows on the walls.
Suddenly, she stopped pacing, her eye falling on her medicine bag. Of course! She waited here like a blind woman, when she had something that would surely bring her the information she needed.
Then she resumed pacing. No, it was too dangerous, far more dangerous than a simple seeing, when the priestess stayed in her body. This trance would involve leaving the confines of her earthly form.
Linnet would be unhappy that she had any spores of the rye fungus in her possession, the spores that could release the spirit from the flesh. It was reserved for the very rarest druid and priestess trances, for aside from being painful to use, many spirits did not return to their own bodies, and were lost in the Otherworld.
She paused again at the line of goddess figurines, their faces in shadow. A flare of firelight caught Ceridwen’s eyes. Were they … pitying? Nay, disapproving, surely.
But it was the only way! Only the spores could ensure her a seeing, now that her powers were so weakened. She stopped again. It could be unpredictable, but anything would be better than this waiting.
There was only a trickle of water left in her wash basin, but she did not want to go creeping about the dun in the dark for more. It would have to do. She stirred up the fire, setting the shadows to leaping and dancing, and unfolded the tiny curl of birch bark, buried in the secret pocket of the pack. She took a few pinches of the dried powder and mixed it in a cup with the water. Then, before swallowing it, she sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing in the priestess way, right down to the feet, then right out to the top of the head, striving to still the trembling, to centre her heart energy.
The centring was important, to ensure the soul did not sever its cord with the body; to ensure she was not lost in the terror of hallucinations, or led astray by glittering dreams dangled before her by fey spirits.
When she could clearly sense the column of soul-light running the length of her body and into the earth, anchoring her, she at last swallowed the liquid in the cup and then rose to lay on the bed, staring into the fire.
First her spirit began to contract from the edges of her body, growing smaller and smaller as the dark walls around her loomed larger, undulating like kelp in the sea. She lost the feeling in her toes and fingers, yet there was a terrible burning in her tongue.
Then, when her spirit had shrunk to a tiny pinprick, it began to rush down a dark tunnel, faster and faster, the walls of the tunnel spiralling and flashing with spears of light. The wild music of the Otherworld called to her … Come to us! Come! Be free! Let go!
But she resisted the pleas and the unbearable pull, remembering she was a priestess, remembering what she had been taught: slow the rush by breathing through the cord, see it tied still to her body, see it still anchored to the heart energy of the earth, see its silver light pulse and strengthen with each breath …
Yes … the cord is rooted, unbreakable … I can return … I will return … and the tunnel opened out into light, and she retained a last flicker of awareness that behind her in a shadowed room, her body was in spasms on the bed, jerking with rigid limbs, pouring with sweat …
Normally a scene resolved itself to her spirit-eye gradually, as she floated between space and time, focusing on what she wanted to see. But now there was a sudden lurch, and the light turned from golden warmth to cold day, and in the light two figures stood. The figures grew clearer as she drifted closer.
It was Eremon, and another man with a large nose and a shaven face – a Roman. They stood under a clouded sky, talking, but it was hard to see if their faces showed anger, or friendship. She was drawn closer. Ah, now she could see Eremon’s face. He was smiling.
Tied to the pinprick spirit by the cord, her body registered a jolt of some emotion, and then she was following Eremon, floating helplessly as the air shimmered around him, turning to night.
He emerged out of darkness into a pool of warm firelight: the inside of a tent. And Samana was there, drawing a comb through her black hair and smiling as they ate together. No! Rhiann tried to pull herself back, but she could not. Something in her wanted to see, something would not let her go.