The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  When they entered the gates, the Votadini guards barely gave them a glance. Rhiann and Conaire were now a common sight to them, and in Samana’s absence they had not been given any orders that the Epidii Queen and her escort were any danger to them.

  Rhiann, Rori and Conaire feigned relaxation until they had walked their horses out of sight of the walls. Then, mounting up, Rori took them off the main path into the range of hills to the south.

  They reached Eremon by the next dawn, stiff and cold and aching from riding. In the blue shadows of a grove of tall birches, Rhiann was unable to discern one man from another, until she made out Eremon by Conaire’s horse, talking softly but urgently. At the sound of his voice, all Rhiann’s memories of fear, her sleepless nights, her burning vision … rose up in one surge of anger, choking her.

  Now he was standing by her leg, looking up. She stared straight between her horse’s ears, and then suddenly urged it forward until she was level with Conaire. ‘Are we going home?’

  The other men fell silent around them in the cold shadows. ‘Yes, lady.’ Conaire’s voice had resumed its distant, respectful air. ‘At all speed.’

  ‘Good,’ she replied. ‘You will ride with me, then?’

  Eremon was in the saddle again, and he walked his horse to Conaire. Rhiann could just glimpse a dark mound slung over his stallion’s rump. ‘Yes, brother, please look out for the lady. Make sure she does not fall behind.’

  ‘I can ride as well as you,’ Rhiann retorted. Eremon did not answer her.

  They rode far west before turning north, as Eremon explained that Agricola’s men were massed near the outfall of the Forth on the east coast. And at each brief stop, the Roman captive, for that is what Eremon’s burden turned out to be, was propped against a tree.

  Rhiann began to take him food and water, as something about the pitiful fear in his dark eyes stirred her, despite the fact that he was the enemy. Or perhaps it was because kindness to the Roman seemed to irritate Eremon, and she was still too angry to even look at him.

  The druids had taught her some scraps of Latin, for talking with foreign traders, and so she was able to glean the captive’s name and station.

  And the fact, important to her, that he was not a fighter but some kind of builder.

  Until her anger had run its first course, she avoided all talk with the men, wrapping herself in her cloak away from their whispered debates. But after two days, she needed the facts of what had happened, for her own peace. As they climbed in pairs up a high, twisting glen, she slowed her horse to keep pace with the prince.

  He glanced at her. ‘Does this mean you will hear what I have to say at last?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then hear this.’ He looked away, his voice subdued. ‘It was Agricola himself in the camp, Rhiann.’

  So that was the man in her seeing! ‘What happened, Eremon? I deserve to know.’

  He sighed, and hunched his shoulders. He was exhausted, but she hardened her heart against him, thinking of her own sleepless nights.

  ‘He wanted me to get the tribes to agree to a treaty. And … he also offered to make me a client king, to send me home to Erin with a Roman legion at my back.’ He said the last words in a rush.

  Rhiann gasped, and when he did not speak, stared at him more keenly. ‘So, the decision was difficult, then. But why refuse? I gather you did, else why escape?’

  ‘Of course I refused!’ he snapped, but for a brief moment, she saw guilt in his face. ‘He had me in a trap,’ he went on more softly. ‘If I told him what I really thought, he would have killed me. He gave me one day to decide, but I escaped before I had to give an answer. I think he assumed I would agree.’

  That fitted with her seeing, and what Conaire said. But there was, of course, something missing. ‘What of Samana in all this?’

  To her satisfaction she saw his face set like stone. ‘She was in league with Agricola all along. She had no intention of ever trying to win free of him.’

  Then why did Eremon still lay with her!

  As if reading Rhiann’s thoughts, he added, ‘I had to keep my real intentions from Samana. So I was … normal … with her, too.’ He shifted and cleared his throat. ‘Rhiann, have you not wondered why we have, as yet, seen so few patrols? Or why there were so few on our trip here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We are still in Votadini territory, that’s why.’ He was bitter. ‘Agricola is so sure of them, that he does not feel the need to patrol their lands. He’s using this peace to start the building of a line of forts across the land between your Clutha and Forth. From his base in the east, his grasping fingers are already reaching west. It won’t be long before he cuts off the southern tribes. Then he will turn his face to us.’

  ‘And you believe that Samana herself is behind this alliance, and not her king?’

  Eremon’s mouth twisted. ‘Oh, yes.’ He wrapped the reins around his fingers. ‘I admit I was wrong, Rhiann, in many things. And … I’m sorry.’ He seemed to want to say more, but instead compressed his lips and pulled up his horse so she could enter the pass alone.

  Stunned, she was blind to the broad sweep of valley that opened up before her. The great Eremon, apologizing? Humbling himself, to her? And Conaire’s words came back to her, describing an Eremon she had never seen. The best of brothers, the best of friends …

  She watched her horse’s hooves striking the stony path below, lost in thought. But for the first time in days, something cold and strained in her began to soften.

  In fact, there was no pursuit. Far behind, Agricola dismissed the interlude to his men.

  ‘He can do nothing,’ he said, when his commanders had been roused from their beds that morning. ‘We will be at war soon. The next time we meet the prince of Erin he will be on the end of my sword!’

  ‘What of Didius?’ one asked.

  Agricola shrugged. ‘He was witless enough to get caught. We will tell his family he died in battle – only his death could win him honour, anyway.’

  Samana, though, was not so calm, storming and stamping and cursing. ‘Give me men now, and we can overtake them!’ she begged Agricola. ‘Or send your fastest messenger to my dun so I can have them taken! And my cousin too!’

  Agricola shook his head. ‘He is not worth the trouble to me, Samana. I have lost four men, I will not risk more on some race across the country. You will have to accept that this bird slipped your net, lady.’

  Samana’s eyes burned with black fire. ‘No! I will not accept that. I never lose!’

  Agricola grabbed her wrist in an iron grip. ‘You are still mine, Samana. Since when am I the second prize? We are going to win, so you will not need your prince in any case.’

  Breathing heavily, Samana’s eyes focused back on him. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said, controlling herself. ‘But I am going home. I must check that nothing came to harm while the barbarians were there.’

  Agricola released her arm. That was the Samana he knew – the way she said ‘nothing’ rather than ‘no one’.

  Her deep disregard for people always impressed him.

  Chapter 32

  On a clear morning, the looming edge of the Highlands rose starkly from the broad Clutha plain. Eremon had been keeping the river to their left, but not following it too closely. If Agricola was building forts across the isthmus, then there must be troops around here somewhere – and the river provided a good artery for supply.

  So far they had been fortunate. After leaving the high ground to the east, they kept to the woods that clustered in the dips and folds of the open plain, and the alder scrub that fringed the river narrows. The sudden warmth had unfurled the leaves, and the trees offered better cover now than on their trip east.

  But Eremon still kept a tight watch. They had crossed into Damnonii territory now, and the people here had been subdued by the sword before their kings surrendered, so there was a greater chance of meeting soldiers.

  Soon the river widened into a slow-moving swat
he of green water, and turned away from its northern path to seek the sea in the west. In a saddle of woodland between two ridges, Rhiann again sought out Eremon. ‘There are few paths over the mountains. One that I know of will bring us to the Loch of the Waters and down to Dunadd. To get there we must bear away from the Clutha, north, until we reach a great loch as large as a sea.’

  They were edging down the slope of the River Elm, which ran into the Clutha, when they heard faint screams on the wind, and saw a thick plume of smoke erupting from the valley bottom.

  ‘Slowly!’ Eremon cautioned, and when they’d tethered their horses in a clump of birches, he and Conaire crept away to investigate. By now the screams had turned to sobs, and the smoke was spreading in a dark stain over the clear sky.

  Rhiann realized that her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on her dress, gritting her teeth as another shriek rent the air. When Eremon and Conaire reappeared, their eyes were bright with a steel light Rhiann had not seen before.

  ‘Fergus.’ Eremon was curt. ‘Take the Roman into the trees and let him pass water or whatever else he wants to do. But make sure that gag is tight, and keep your sword at his side.’

  After Fergus had shoved his charge away around a stand of dead oaks, Conaire spat on the ground. ‘There are strange soldiers raiding a farmstead. Big men, in rough uniforms. They are not Albans.’

  ‘Are they … hurting people?’ Rhiann’s voice came out faint, too faint.

  ‘Yes,’ Eremon answered, but his eyes were fell, not seeing her. ‘It is too late to save them. But not too late to teach these wolves some manners!’

  ‘Eremon!’ Rhiann blurted. ‘We cannot put ourselves in danger!’

  He did not seem to hear her. His hand went to Fragarach’s hilt, his mouth tense with excitement. ‘How my blade longs to drink of Roman blood!’

  ‘My blade, also,’ Conaire added, and in the fierceness of his face Rhiann could no longer see the gentle person who had befriended her. All the men were instantly charged with energy.

  ‘We have the element of surprise,’ Eremon was saying. ‘They are only ten on foot; we are six, mounted. We can storm them from the higher ground here, down into the valley. I don’t want anyone to stop and fight. Our swords are longer and we have the weight of the horses. Cut down as many as you can and keep going.’ He shaded his eyes. ‘A little way east we saw tracks leading to a ford. Cross that and it’s clear to the hills. We’ll regroup there, on the other side.’

  Colum slapped his sword and grinned. ‘At last, some real fighting to do!’

  ‘Eremon,’ Rhiann spoke quietly. ‘What about me?’

  He seemed to focus on her then, and his battle light faltered.

  ‘Lord,’ Rori put in, ‘I long to whip these Roman dogs, too. But if you wish, I could circle around with the lady and cross the ford.’

  Eremon’s face cleared. ‘Rori, you are a brave and resourceful man.’ Somewhat contradicting these fine words, Rori blushed. ‘But wait until you hear our attack,’ Eremon added. ‘We won’t let any get near you.’

  With one look around at the men, Rhiann knew that nothing she could say would divert them. Eremon’s movements were quickened with an energy and sureness he had not shown for days, and the priestess in her understood that he needed to do this. To purge himself, perhaps, of what had gone before.

  Fergus returned with the Roman, Didius, and Eremon ordered the men to tie him over Rori’s horse. When that was done, Rhiann struck out with Rori along the base of the ridge, stopping herself from looking back.

  Eremon’s breath stirred the blades of grass before his face. He was on his belly behind the trees that fringed the settlement, checking his count of the soldiers again.

  They were armoured differently from the patrol they had seen ten days before, and had the fair look of the northern sea-peoples, rather than Latins. Samana told him that Agricola had auxiliaries from other parts of the Empire with him. Perhaps these were Bavarians.

  A rutted cart path ran down from the ridge between two roundhouses, their roofs alight in sheets of crackling flame. Through the smoke, three soldiers were loading sacks of grain on to a cart, and four were driving a handful of bony cattle out of the one rickety pen. The other three were engaged in less productive pursuits; Eremon saw one pulling himself off the still body of a woman, her skin white against the red clay path; the other two were taking their turns with a girl-child, who lay splayed in the gateway. The bodies of the menfolk lay about the burning houses. As Eremon tensed to rise, torn by a desire to save the child, the last man rolled off her, fumbling with his tunic, and then reached down to cut her throat.

  Eremon crept back to his mounted men in the shadow of the trees, and grimly slid on to his horse. Jerking his head, he got them into formation behind him, and slowly and silently unsheathed his sword, raising it above his head.

  They could just hear the shouts of the soldiers, hear the cartwheels rumbling. They would be grouped now, close together. Eremon took a deep breath and slashed the sword down, kicking hard.

  The horse burst out of the trees like an arrow from the string. Conaire was racing on the path by his side, and Eremon heard the grate of his sword leaving its scabbard, and then they were both yelling the war cry of Dalriada.

  ‘The Boar! The Boar!’

  They rounded a bend in the track in a hail of mud. The soldiers were frozen to the spot, staring up with wide eyes. They had only a moment to drop their sacks and try to draw their weapons, but it was too late.

  Eremon’s attackers careened into them like a driving fist, trampling some beneath the flailing hooves. In the confusion, Eremon’s horse reared, and he found himself staring down into the wild bearded face of one of the soldiers, his short sword aiming for the stallion’s belly, a snarl of spittle on his lips.

  It seemed to Eremon then that the man’s features shifted into the sneering mask of Agricola himself, and with one great yell he gripped both hands around Fragarach, slashing crossways, and the man’s throat erupted in a spray of bright blood. The heavy body dropped between the horse’s hooves, just as another man came screaming at him from behind, his sword over his head. Eremon had little time to wrench his horse around, tangled as it was in the fallen man, but Conaire had just dispatched a soldier with his initial drive, and now he pivoted in his saddle and thrust out desperately, and his sword-tip slashed across the second man’s arm, opening it to the bone.

  With a scream of pain, the soldier stumbled, his iron helmet slipping, and Eremon, his horse freed, swept his blade down across the back of his unprotected skull. Bone cracked, and the man dropped. Panting, Eremon caught Conaire’s eye, before they kicked the horses onwards.

  Ahead, he saw Colum struggling with a man who sought to pull him from his mount, but with a fierce cry Angus was suddenly there, his blade dripping blood, and he drove it into the man’s neck beneath his helmet guard. Fergus was already riding hard ahead, and Eremon paused only long enough to see Colum and Angus leap away, with Conaire in front, before Eremon, too, urged his mount from the farmstead, along the riverbank.

  As he went he glanced back over his shoulder, counting swiftly. Eight men lay without moving, some at the back of the cart, two at the head of the oxen team, and the rest tangled among the bodies of those they themselves had killed. The other two were alive but too badly wounded to ride, crawling in agony on the path.

  Catching his breath, Eremon kicked the horse along the bank and across the ford, water spraying up all around him, blood pounding in his veins, Fragarach singing in his hand.

  Rhiann’s throat ached.

  From the far side of the ridge, snatches of ringing swords and cries came on the wind. She knew that sound well; far too well. She knotted her fingers in the horse’s rough mane, her head low on her breast as if she could shut out the sounds.

  She was so sunk in memory that she hardly noticed when the cries stopped, until Rori’s urgent voice penetrated her haze. ‘Hurry, my lady!’

  She looked up. They
were at the ford, and Rori had almost crossed over. Shallow foam swirled around his stallion’s legs, as he anxiously scanned the path on the far bank. ‘I can hear my lord just ahead. Hurry!’

  She nudged her horse through the overhanging willows and into the rushing water. But as her mare crunched across the gravel and lurched up the bank, as Rori’s face registered relief, there was a high whine, and a javelin thudded into a deep cart rut not two paces from Rhiann’s shoulder, its shaft vibrating. She jerked, crying out in shock, and her horse shied.

  She heard Rori curse, as his mount, laden with the Roman’s weight, leaped away from the riverbank in terror, and glimpsed him struggling to haul it back. Ducking low over her rearing horse’s neck, Rhiann tried to urge it forward, and with relief recognized Eremon’s voice, faintly. ‘Fly! As fast as you can! All of you!’

  From behind Rhiann now came the dreaded shout in Latin, and the splashing of many feet over the ford. She glanced under her elbow, and saw a red cloak, and the sun glancing off armour, and men pouring from the trees they had just left.

  Terror gripped her heart in a fist, and she kicked the horse again, but although it at last burst into a gallop she was so far behind …

  The thorn-scrub that fringed the track tore at her hair, and all she could see was a jumble of branches and confused slices of sun and shadow. Another javelin whizzed by, and her horse screamed, stumbling in its stride. It was hit!

  Now a set of hooves sounded behind her, closing in, and she knew it would be the mounted commander of the Roman troop, like the one she had argued with so many days ago, the one with hard eyes.

  ‘Eremon! Eremon!’ The whipping branches dragged at her braids until hair fell into her eyes, and she could not see him. The javelins had stopped falling, but the galloping hooves behind were louder, as her horse slowed and began to limp.