The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Then a hard arm gripped her waist, dragging her to another saddle, and she fought instinctively, clawing at the face above with her nails.

  ‘By the Boar, woman, let me be!’ She stared up into Eremon’s eyes, for once alight with fear. ‘Now lie flat!’ He pushed her face down, and she flung her arms around his stallion’s neck, nose buried in horse sweat and mud. She felt the muscles in the beast’s forelegs bunch as Eremon wheeled him, and the shifting of Eremon’s thighs against her back. And the clash of blades rang in her ear.

  The mounted man behind screamed a curse in British this time, and then all Rhiann could hear were grunts and hard breathing, and she felt each blow of the Roman’s sword on Fragarach shake Eremon’s body.

  There was a quick, thrusting movement, another curse, and the fall of something heavy to the ground.

  Eremon wheeled the horse again and kicked it hard. ‘Ya!’ he yelled, slapping the reins, which just missed Rhiann’s nose. Then the cascade of hooves began again, and she saw the earth rushing past beneath.

  Eremon’s breath was rasping in her ears, but to her it sounded as sweet as music.

  After Eremon unhorsed the centurion, the path was quickly swallowed in a defile that led up into the lower reaches of the hills. Perhaps Agricola was regarding that as a natural barrier, for although Eremon did not let them slow until they had cleared the pass to the great Loch of the Beacon, they neither saw nor heard any more of the invaders.

  The mountains crowding the loch rose steeply from the black waters below, leaving only a narrow stony path. Above them, the peak of the Beacon snagged the clouds, drawing them in a dark cloak about its shoulders. The riders clattered beneath a misted waterfall, and in the dusk, turned west into a high, clouded glen where Eremon at last let them halt.

  For the first time he loosened his hold on Rhiann, and she slid to the wet carpet of moss and ferns, too tired to speak. After a while, there was the bloom of fire among the dark trees, and a shadow crossed it as Eremon came with his warmed cloak for her shoulders. ‘Here, this is for you.’

  ‘No, you’ll need it.’ As Rhiann said this, her teeth chattered.

  Eremon squatted down next to her. ‘It is shock; it happens to all of us the first few times. Look! You’re shivering.’ He wrapped the cloak around her, and it enveloped her shoulders with a comforting weight.

  ‘Thank you.’ She held his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  He knew of what she spoke, and looked down at the cup he carried, before holding it out to her. ‘I would have done the same for any man here. That’s what happens when you join my warband.’

  ‘You don’t need a woman here.’ She took the cup and sipped the mead, feeling warmth coming back into her limbs. ‘I should never have fallen back like that … it was foolish.’

  He brushed dried mud from his thighs. ‘Our attack on the men raiding that farmstead … it wounded you, and that is why you faltered.’

  She said nothing. In the fading light, she could see that his right arm was drenched in blood to the elbow, and there were spatters of something else on his tunic that she did not want to identify. Pressed against him as she had been, it would be smeared on her own skin. She swallowed hard.

  ‘I heard tell in the dun that you witnessed a raid that killed your foster-family,’ Eremon ventured.

  She wanted to deny it; did not wish this tender part of her to be exposed. Yet he had saved her life. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I saw it all.’

  He nodded once, sharply. ‘War is my business. Yet I am sorry that my attack on those soldiers grieved you so.’

  She sighed. ‘You were defending my people, I know that. Yet still I react badly to such scenes.’ The wedding night flashed into her mind. Was he thinking of this, too? ‘I’m sorry I was careless.’

  ‘No, my guard was down – that was even more foolish. I should have made sure you were already across.’

  ‘No, the fault was mine. I endangered us all.’

  A flare of firelight caught the shadow of his crooked smile. ‘Perhaps that’s enough guilt for one night, for both of us.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not enough.’ She took a breath, for her next words were difficult to say. ‘I miscalculated, Eremon. I assumed where Samana’s true loyalties would lie, but I was as wrong as I could be. We should never have come, and it was all my doing.’

  His eyebrows rose, and she hunched deeper into his cloak. ‘I will never tell you what to do in such matters again.’

  He straightened, and a hand came down on her shoulder in a friendly pat. ‘If I thought that the truth, I wouldn’t take you anywhere. Now sleep; we stay until morning.’

  She watched his retreating back, mystified.

  Chapter 33

  In his dark northern hall, Maelchon received the craftsman Gelur. Kelturan’s orders to resume work on the broch had been passed on. Gelur was the foremost wood-worker of the kingdom, and also skilled with shaping stone, so he had been set as the master over the construction.

  Gelur was tall for the islands, with hair so black it was nearly blue, but his skin was marked all over by the scars of the pox he’d had as a child. ‘My lord,’ he began, twisting his hands before him. Maelchon watched him with satisfaction, letting the fear grow.

  ‘What do you want, wood-man?’

  ‘My lord, it is impossible for me to start the building again so soon. The men must finish the sowing, and take the boats to sea, or we’ll starve.’

  He did not say that his family’s fortunes rested on the carving and building that he did for the rich men of the mainland, or that he had an important commission to fulfil before sunseason. Maelchon knew this, though, for Kelturan had many ears and eyes.

  He leaned forward on his throne. The chair had been carved in his grandsire’s time, and both arms were in the shape of sinuous otters, curling in underwater spirals, their eyes set with amber.

  ‘You are getting above your station, Gelur,’ he warned. ‘You will start work now. There is an end to it.’ He turned away to a table set by his side, where stood, as always, the great ale cup.

  Gelur did not move, did not bow and scrape and leave, as was expected. He remained where he was. ‘I must disagree, my lord.’

  Maelchon glanced up in surprise. He admired such courage, even when misplaced. It would not be enough to save the man, of course, yet he did need him for a while longer.

  So Maelchon sat considering, tapping his fingers on the otters’ eyes. ‘I will think on this,’ he finally said. ‘But you will abide by my decision.’

  Gelur hesitated for a moment, then bowed swiftly. But as he neared the door, Maelchon suddenly spoke. ‘One more thing, wood-man. Remember to give my blessing to your beautiful wife, and your new babe. A son, wasn’t it?’ He smiled.

  Now fear did alight on Gelur’s face. ‘Yes, my lord. I will, my lord.’

  When he had gone, Maelchon let the smile die, and stared at the wall, his eyes burning.

  That night, he dined with his wife. As usual, she sat as far from him as she could, shrinking her slight body into a protective crouch.

  He watched her over his wine cup. She was young and sickly, with skin the paleness of a drowned thing, and hair lank as seaweed. The bones of her face showed through her skin, giving it a pointed look he found unpleasant. He did not visit her much at night, for she was weak, and he could not risk a kin strife yet, poor prize though she was. From a lowly branch of the Caereni – not even a princess of the royal blood!

  Of course, soon he would be able to choose any bride he wanted, from the highest houses in the land. Any maiden … anywhere. No one would refuse him! A memory of red-gold hair flashed into his mind. No one would refuse him this time.

  As always, the reminder of that day, the exact shade of that hair, brought the surge of fire to his groin … the pressure. So he scraped back his chair and smiled at his wife, and at that smile she froze, like a thin, pale hare caught outside its burrow.

  Maelchon had dismissed his servants, and Kelturan was early in
his bed, as usual. So, alone, he rose and came around the table to where his wife sat. Her eyes darted wildly about her, but there was no escape. She whimpered.

  Yes, that is good.

  ‘Are you going to fight me, my dear? For you know well what I want.’ He stroked her cheek with a gnarled thumb, and wound his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back sharply so she was forced to look into his face. Yes, there was fear in her eyes, but hatred, too.

  Ah, hatred is good; even better. Small and weak though she was, there was a spark in this girl, a spark that came from this hatred he had nurtured in her.

  Suddenly he wrenched her out of her seat with his great, bear arms and threw her on to the table among the half-eaten food and spilled ale. His wrists were so thick that one of them could easily hold her down while the other exposed himself and tore away her tunic and shift.

  She was struggling now, as he hoped she would, and the flailing fists and scratches only inflamed him further. He continued to hold her, prolonging the moment, as his member stretched out and hardened, red and pulsing in the firelight.

  Then he could wait no more, and he rammed into her, his heart devouring her grunt of pain. The feeling of her slight bones beneath him, the knowledge that he could crush her as easily as a bird, brought a tide of dark anger that stoked the lust. And as always, the blurred memories came in a rush.

  The glow of that hair against dark heather slopes; sea-light in blue eyes; a mouth that taunted with promise.

  The memories deepened the anger, and fired the rage, until the lust and need to destroy merged into a glorious whole, and he lost control of his thrusting in a wild roar and spasm and wrench of his thighs, the images now sparks behind his eyes.

  When he withdrew, panting, she did not move to cover herself, but lay there, her thighs smeared with blood from wounds that never seemed to heal. She was not a real woman, just a stunted mockery of one.

  He yanked up his trousers and threw himself into his chair, hardly noticing her scuttle away.

  For a brief moment, staring into the fire, he enjoyed the sweat drying on his neck, his ragged breathing and pounding heart. But this relief would not last long, he well knew.

  As always, the return of the hunger, the need for ascendance, would prod him and prick him and torture him.

  Until he did what he must do. Until he had everything he deserved.

  Chapter 34

  Inside the lower gate of Dunadd, all eyes were on the squat man in the torn cloak, being untied from a Roman horse.

  Although the captive was soon propped upright, he only came to Rhiann’s shoulder, and so the village children immediately got over their fright and crowded close. The man tried to remain aloof and proud, but as he could not stare over anyone’s head, the effect was diluted.

  As he watched the tall, fierce men throwing questions at Eremon, as he listened to the skirling of an unknown language, Rhiann saw the aloofness falter, until only sheer fright remained. His dark eyes grew wide, and in them was reflected a white circle of leering faces.

  To make matters worse for him, it was the turning of leaf-bud, when the druids said the days and nights were of equal length, and so time for the yearly horse fair. With the barley seed now sown, people had come from the furthest Epidii lands, the mountains and far islands, to trade for breeding mares and stud stallions, and to offer last year’s colts for chariot teams. They also came to give their tributes of furs and wool, in exchange for grain and iron, dyes and herbs, and to gather news and arrange betrothals. The numbers within the village had swelled, and the river plain was covered with horse pens and tents, some crowned by banners of outlying clans.

  The normal trickle of people passing in and out of Dunadd’s gate had become a flood, all eager to partake of anything curious or exotic.

  Dirty hands reached out to finger Didius’s cloak, his smooth-shaven skin and close-cropped hair. People laughed and pushed closer, until the whites of the Roman’s eyes showed, rolling like those of a frightened horse.

  This terror only grew greater when Eremon gestured to Fergus to prod his charge along through the village and up to the King’s Hall, Rhiann and the other men following. The children scampered alongside them, and soon began to jeer at Didius, using the terms that their fathers had been spitting into the fire for many a moon.

  ‘Invading scum!’

  ‘Murdering dog!’

  And then a clod of mud came flying through the air and hit Didius behind the ear. He stumbled, and Fergus and Angus laughed, pushing him on before them. Rhiann whirled on the children fiercely. ‘Cran! Begone with you now! Such behaviour is beneath you.’

  The boy fled with his playmates; a last stone clattering defiantly against the nearest house wall.

  Rhiann turned to see Eremon standing with one hand resting on his sword, watching her. ‘Why do you care for this Roman?’ he asked, frowning.

  Rhiann hesitated, for she didn’t know herself why she pitied the man. ‘He is not like the others. He’s a builder, not a soldier. And I know what it feels like to be so alone.’

  At the amused twist of Eremon’s mouth, she snapped, ‘Why do you keep him then? Why not kill him and be done with it!’

  His smile faded. ‘I may still do so. But I am hoping that in time he can furnish us with some information. He does not look the stoic type.’

  ‘War is one thing; cruelty another, Eremon.’

  ‘And I know why I am here, lady, and what I have to do. You would do well to remember that, too.’

  Despite his hard words, as soon as they reached the King’s Hall, Eremon unbound Didius. But he also ordered Bran the smith to forge a set of leg chains, and though his arms would be free, the Roman was to remain securely hobbled.

  In the last light of day, Rhiann plucked a handful of woodruff from the base of a spreading oak by the river, and rested her palm on her back, gasping. When Eremon wrenched her from her horse, muscles had torn, and the hard ride home had bruised her thighs so much she was still limping three days later. But there would be no rest.

  When she had returned to her house, it was to find Brica fending off a steady stream of women from the outlying duns clamouring for the medicines that were not available in their mountain homes.

  With the sudden trip south, Rhiann had not yet replenished any of her stocks after the long dark, and the returning sun would be bringing many of the brief-blooming plants into flower. She had allowed herself the hottest comfrey bath she could stand, for her aching muscles, and donned clean clothes before taking up her digging stick and nettle bag.

  For two days she made herself scarce downriver, in the woods close to the bay, glad for the chance to think. She needed to consider all that had happened on their journey – and most especially what she had learned about Eremon of Dalriada.

  Now she spotted a rare patch of candle-flower, and was just straightening with the fragile leaves in one hand and the woodruff in another, when something whizzed past her cheek and thunked into the tree behind her.

  It was an arrow, fletched with white ptarmigan feathers.

  As Rhiann jumped back in shock, the crushed flowers falling to the ground, someone yelled, ‘Goddess Mother-of-All!’ and a slight figure came bounding through the undergrowth, bow in hand.

  ‘I did not see you!’ the figure squeaked. ‘Forgive me, lady! Forgive me!’

  Her hand to her leaping heart, Rhiann sank back against the trunk. ‘You nearly killed me!’

  The woman, for the voice was female though the appearance not, flung out a frightened hand. ‘I did not mean to hurt you! I was just practising! Oh, don’t have me beaten!’

  This was such an odd thing to say that Rhiann’s shock fell from her, and she straightened, taking a proper look at her assailant for the first time. The woman was close to Rhiann’s age, but there the similarity seemed to end. She was small, and dressed in male clothes – worn buckskin bracae and a rough, faded tunic of indeterminate hue, which was too big for her wiry frame. Over her shoulder a quiver
was slung, full of the same white-fletched barbs, one slim arm sported a stone wrist-guard for the bow-string, and at her waist hung a dagger that almost reached her thigh.

  Her hair was carelessly braided and wound back under an old leather helmet, so that only a few fair strands curled about her cheeks. Beneath that, a heart-shaped face peeped out, cupped by a determined, pointed chin. The whole was smudged with mud, the grime only making her wide-set blue eyes stand out more. Despite being the strangest-looking individual that Rhiann had ever seen, something about the woman seemed familiar.

  ‘Who are you?’ The sharpness had left Rhiann’s tone, because the baggy clothes and jaunty helmet looked so comical. She had never been introduced to anyone in quite such a manner.

  The woman tried to sketch a bow, but it was plain that she had never executed one before. ‘My name is Caitlin, my lady. I come from Fethach’s steading in the southern mountains.’ She thought for a moment, and then added, for want of any other title, ‘I am a great archer among my people.’

  The twitch of Rhiann’s mouth threatened to break into a smile. ‘I have no doubt of that, but I would see such skill used against an enemy, rather than my own self.’

  The woman puffed out her chest, gesturing with her bow. ‘And so it has been, lady. I even killed a man of the Eagle.’ When her tunic fell back from her inner arm, Rhiann noticed a large blue bruise marking the fair skin.

  ‘A Roman?’ Now Rhiann was truly intrigued.

  Caitlin nodded. ‘I was hunting a wolf pack, and saw a patrol, which had, unfortunately for them, strayed too far up our glen.’ She grinned. ‘They went home with one less man.’

  ‘You hunt wolves as well?’

  Caitlin’s teeth were white against her grimy cheeks. ‘A wolfskin was the only fur I was missing from my stores. That’s why we’ve come to Dunadd – it’s the first year that I have anything to trade.’

  So the girl had never been here before. Then why did Rhiann feel that she knew her? Rhiann shrugged to herself. ‘And do you like it here?’ she asked, reaching down gingerly to her bag.