The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  All over the valley, on the edges of the firelight, couples were slipping away to the dark places beyond, to honour the gods on the fertile earth. Just as he had done with Aiveen … although that was more about frustrated lust than honouring.

  ‘Oh …’ Rhiann sighed.

  ‘What is it?’ He leaned over her … saw the flames gilding her cheek … blazing in her rich hair …

  ‘Oh … I feel sick.’

  Chapter 43

  Rhiann blinked her eyes open, squinting in the bright light of a new fire. She put out her hand and felt the bed furs. She was home. But the room was spinning.

  A dark shape crossed her vision. ‘Drink this.’ There came Eremon’s voice, the feel of his arm behind her head, and then the sweet coolness of water as he held a cup to her lips.

  She gulped. ‘What …?’

  ‘Don’t speak. The sickness will pass.’ Dimly, she heard the amusement in his voice. ‘I think you got most of it out of you on the grass. You’ll feel better soon.’

  She sank back on the feather pillow. But the room did not stop shifting, and it got worse when she closed her eyes. ‘Thank you. But go now …’ She struggled to string the words together. ‘You will miss the fires …’ She nearly said, Aiveen will be there, but then she remembered that Aiveen was married now, and wasn’t she far away in her dun?

  ‘Sleep now.’ His voice was gentle, gentler than he had ever spoken to her. ‘I’ll go in a moment.’

  As she slipped away, down into the whirling darkness, she thought she heard him say, ‘You did well tonight.’

  Freed, her soul floated aimlessly, watching the stars spinning together. Far off, one pulsed and swelled, growing brighter by the moment as it drew near. It was a ball of light; golden and rose-red and fiery, and in it pictures swirled.

  It was her beautiful dream … the saor making it more vivid than ever before. And as the power filled her, as she held the cauldron of the Source in the valley, the man by her side, she understood for the first time just how much she wanted that power. She wanted it with a desperate thirst, with a hunger. She would wield it for good … but she wanted it for her own. The power would make her truly special, shining, unique, so the dark memories could never hurt her again …

  ‘Rhiann?’ The voice was a dash of cold water, shocking her awake. ‘Are you all right?’

  She blinked again, and the room swam into focus. The fire was so low as to be almost ashes, and early daylight washed the inside of the house with grey. The Beltaine wreaths of hawthorn were dark against the rafters.

  ‘You cried out,’ Eremon said, beside the bed. ‘Are you in pain?’

  She struggled to sit up a little against the wall. Immediately, her head started to pound. Eremon still wore his clothes from the previous night, and he smelled of woodsmoke. Steam drifted up from a boiling pan in the coals, and a half-eaten moon cake lay on the hearthstone.

  ‘What – what did I cry out?’

  He sat down gently on the end of the bed, his face still in shadow. ‘Something about the men of the Eagle, and a cauldron, and a sword. You said “Turn to me”.’

  She winced, and immediately he got up and went to the fire to pour her nettle tea. She didn’t know that he’d ever noticed what she drank in the morning; perhaps Eithne laid it out the night before. She could just see the girl, bundled up in her blankets on her bed.

  Eremon followed her eyes. ‘She’s exhausted,’ he whispered, handing her the tea. ‘I think they must have all seen the dawn in – Caitlin has not even returned. Yet your little Eithne has more fire than I would have given her credit for. I practically had to tie her down to stop her fussing over you.’ He gave a tired smile.

  She cradled the cup, drawing comfort from its warmth. ‘You stayed here all night? But then you missed the celebrations!’

  ‘Like you, I had done enough celebrating.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, it’s not often that I get to sit all alone for hours with my thoughts before a nice fire. That was a rare treat, I can assure you.’

  She could understand that. He was always surrounded by people.

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘Now, what was all this crying about? The men of the Eagle – a dream about Romans?’

  She glanced down into her tea. ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘No.’ He was gazing at her sombrely. ‘After seeing – no, feeling – what you did last night, then it is far from “nothing”. You have a gift, I see that now. If this gift will aid us in our fight, then we must use it.’

  She did not speak.

  ‘Rhiann. I respect that gift. I will never laugh at it, or dismiss it, I promise.’

  She sighed. How could she tell him? She herself did not really know what it all meant. Except that in her hidden heart, she had always wanted the man in her dream to be one person … Drust.

  Maybe she could just tell Eremon some of it. So she did. But when she came to the part about the sword-wielder, she left out the bond between she and him – the recognition of souls. Eremon would never understand that. Besides, she did not want him inserting himself into her dreams when that place would be filled by another, she hoped, one day.

  Eremon listened to her carefully, his head down. And when she finished, he did not say anything for a long time. Then he asked: ‘You are sure that these people you defended were all the people of Alba? All of them?’

  ‘Yes.’ The speaking made her head pound, and she massaged her temple.

  ‘I must go, and think on this.’ Eremon rose, his eyes far away. But his mouth was tense with that excitement she’d seen when they attacked the Roman raiding party. He strode swiftly to the door to get his cloak.

  ‘Eremon, thank you for looking after me …’ she called, but he barely acknowledged her before lifting the door cover.

  Well! She stared after him, hoping that he did not think her foolish. But he had promised not to.

  Now her head was throbbing from thinking, so she put the cup down beside the bed and snuggled back into the warm hollow.

  She stayed in her house that day, doing as little as possible. It was a heavy, wet afternoon that matched her body’s lethargy. Eithne was quiet as well, and could do little but grind barley. But the grating of the quern hurt both of their heads, so instead they sat and spun wool listlessly as the rain drummed on the thatch.

  Rhiann’s head was still tender the day after. But leaf-bud was the time of fevers, and there was no rest for a healer.

  The call soon came to attend the chief’s daughter at the Dun of the Cliff, for she was with child again, and suffering from chills and sweats. Rhiann and Eithne saddled their horses – Eithne on the pony that Rhiann had given her for her nameday – and in grey mist and rain they crossed the marsh and climbed the valley to the Dun of the Cliff, perched high on its rocks watching the sea pass.

  The chief’s daughter turned out to be suffering more from marital irritation than fever. After dosing her with tansy, treating her child’s boils and lice, and listening to a long and wearisome tale about how the woman’s husband had taken up with her cousin in the next dun, Rhiann patted her hand and got up to leave.

  When she and Eithne emerged from the chief’s house, the heavy cloud had broken up, and sunshine and showers were chasing themselves in from the west. The dun looked out over the wide blue expanse of the sound towards the Isle of Deer, and the whole sweep of island, loch, and sea was spread out like an embroidered blanket below, clear of the morning’s mist.

  Faintly, the sound of hoofbeats came on the wind: a fast horseman was climbing the southern road to the dun. Soon the thudding grew louder, and they turned. It was Eremon on Dòrn, Cù loping by his side.

  ‘So you are here.’ He swung himself down awkwardly, kneading his arm.

  Rhiann took in his rain-wet cloak and muddy boots. ‘You shouldn’t be galloping like that until the wound has knitted. What’s wrong? Is someone sick?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’ve come for your advice.’ That was Eremon, never one to waste time on co
urtesies unless he had to.

  ‘You raced all the way here for my advice?’

  He flicked wet hair out of his eyes. They were glittering green, reflecting the sun on the sea. ‘I couldn’t wait. I was passing the shrine, when Declan sought me out. It appears that he left the Beltaine celebrations to meditate there all night with the seeing bowl … and was sent the most extraordinary vision. You must tell me what it means!’

  Now Rhiann recognized the glitter in his eyes. She glanced at Eithne. ‘There is a patch of lovage just down there, do you see it? Go and gather some new leaves to take home.’

  Eithne nodded, and with a swift look at Eremon, untied a pack from her saddle and took it off to the cliff edge.

  ‘Now,’ Rhiann folded her arms, ‘tell me what druid words could have made you ride all this way!’

  Eremon turned his sea-eyes on her. ‘He saw a god holding a torc of Erin gold; a god with a boar’s crest. It was about me, I know it! But then the god shifted and became the lord Manannán. Declan says he knows him well!’

  ‘Manannán?’

  ‘Yes.’ He flicked the ends of the reins across his palm. ‘He is the patron god of Erin, too. But there was a goddess there, as well – his wife. You call her Rhiannon; you were named after her. She is patron of your people.’

  ‘Yes.’ It came out as a whisper.

  ‘Declan saw people, thousands of people, covering the land. Then he heard Manannán say: “My son, brother of my sons. Will you give your sword to Me?” And Rhiannon rose, and she said: “My son, brother of my daughters. Will you wield your sword for Me?”’

  Rhiann’s breath came short, for the tale was heavy with the power of true vision. She felt the air around her crackle with it. ‘And then?’

  ‘And then … he woke, and knew no more.’ Eremon’s eyes were alight. ‘But, Rhiann! The god of my people, and the goddess of yours! Asking for my sword to protect all of the brothers and sisters. You see, don’t you? After your dream, it all makes sense!’

  Rhiann bit her lip, watching him. His face glowed with power, and the sun blazed on the copper threads in his dark hair. He looked more than a prince. He looked, undeniably, like a king. A king who could inspire a following.

  She knew what was alive in his face; knew it in the depth of her bones. Just across the strait, the Eye of Manannàn swirled, sucking in any boat that came near – and that was how this vision felt to her spirit senses. The fabric of Thisworld was being pulled into a maelstrom, and nothing was going to be the same again.

  ‘Your dream and this vision, they mean the same thing, you know it.’ He was earnest, staring deep into her. ‘I am meant to bring together the people to defend Alba against this Roman.’ He paused. ‘All the people of this land. All the people of Alba as one.’

  ‘Yes.’ She breathed the word in surrender. She had held the cauldron in her dream, so she knew what it meant. She had tasted the power; it had sung in her blood. And, as if awoken, it surged through her now, just as she remembered it.

  ‘I knew you would see it!’ He clapped Dòrn’s neck, and the stallion whinnied. ‘So I have spent the day thinking it out. Is there one king above all others in Alba? Someone who is the most powerful, who holds the most land and warriors?’

  She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘And his name? Where is he?’

  She tried to speak, but her mouth had gone dry. ‘Calgacus,’ she managed. ‘His name means the Sword – he is a great fighter. His dun is on the great north-east bay of Alba.’

  ‘And how long will it take to send a message to him, and receive a reply?’

  She licked her lips. ‘The Great Glen is the quickest passage, for it splits Alba in two, and is the only way to cross the mountains to the east coast. A chain of lochs lies at its base, so a man can travel by boat and horse, and be there and back in around fifteen days.’

  ‘Good.’ Not noticing her disquiet, Eremon pulled himself into the saddle with his good arm. ‘Then, my lady, I will send my message with Aedan as soon as I can. And then I must be ready to pay a visit to this Calgacus. For a council of war!’ He yanked the reins and wheeled, whistling for Cù, and the hooves churned the mud as he raced away, until the sound was lost in the cry of the gulls.

  Shaking, Rhiann leaned back on Liath’s steady flank.

  Calgacus was the strongest king of Alba … and father of a man she had not seen for seven years – Drust, the tattoo artist, the dreamer.

  Drust, whose long, fine fingers had smoothed her skin, and awakened the fires that burned long before a raider ever laid his hands on her. Fires that were now cold ash.

  And then she began to tremble, as the pattern of the Goddess was made clear. Wearing Rhiannon’s face, She had come to place Eremon’s feet on his chosen path. Yet in doing so, She would reunite Rhiann with Drust – for Rhiann had no intention of being left behind when Eremon went north.

  Is Drust the man in my dream, Mother? Is that why you take me there? Am I worthy of him?

  Somehow, perhaps she and Drust were wrapped in Eremon’s fate, for it was plain to her now that the Erin prince must play a vital role in delivering Alba, not just saving the Epidii. Of course, Eremon was not in her dream, but it would take all of their efforts to accomplish such a task, and perhaps her own vision only showed the part that involved those close to her.

  As she and Eithne crossed the marshes below Dunadd in the lengthening shadows, she told herself again that the man in the dream must indeed be Drust. He was the only man she had ever touched; the only one to be gentle and refined and noble. The only one to open the door to her desires. But she was not the girl Drust first met. Would he still feel for her, still want her?

  Despite her fears, like the sun glimpsed through cloud, she suddenly sensed an echo of that desire: how it felt when her blood flowed hot and free, before the darkness came to twist and deform it.

  Could a miracle happen? Could Drust awaken that in her again?

  Chapter 44

  Eremon chafed at having to seek the council’s approval once more, but the power of Declan’s vision turned many minds towards him, and Eremon’s fine words easily inflamed those who were undecided. And the success of his raid still carried him high in the hearts of the Epidii warriors, who trained with ever greater fervour on the river plain.

  The raid had lit a fire in them that could not be put out now, and they fought and yelled, tussled and cursed, and ached to confront the Romans once more.

  ‘And this visit I pay is one step towards that glorious day,’ Eremon told them, from his customary perch on the chariot pole. ‘For with an alliance of all Alba’s tribes, we can beat them back to Britannia!’

  It took most of another two days for Aedan’s pride at being chosen as messenger to conquer his fears of the northern tribes, but eventually, trembling and stiff in a new tunic and cloak, he was despatched with gifts, ten warriors, and his harp. Eremon knew that, despite his youth, Aedan would speak to Calgacus with words of beauty – and he wanted this king to know he was a prince, not some cattle-raider seeking bloodlust.

  After that, Eremon wasted no time, and was everywhere at once, from dawn to dusk, training men, visiting the nobles, and strengthening the territorial defences, especially to the east. Scouts were continually going to and from the King’s Hall, as he briefed them about where he wanted watching posts, and how many, and who the scouts would report to in his absence.

  Again, Eremon was leaving Finan in charge, although the old warrior did grumble this time, for the glory of Calgacus’s dun was being talked about among the men. But he knew his duty, and the Epidii elders respected him now that he’d bonded with them over many ale-soaked tales.

  Eremon took Rhiann’s news that she was going with him with no flicker of resistance, merely grunting, ‘Good,’ before turning away to speak to one of his scouts.

  So she and Eithne collected blankets and hide tents, and baked hard bread that would not spoil. Caitlin was under their feet all the
time near the fire, steaming ash rods for a new set of arrows, and boiling glue for fletching – until Rhiann put her foot down over the pungent smell of birch tar, and Caitlin was removed to the King’s Hall.

  Then Rhiann rode to see Linnet. ‘You will remember that Tiernan’s wife birthed her other babies early, won’t you, aunt? And that Neesa’s second son has twisted legs: they need massaging with this salve every day.’

  ‘I remember it all, child.’ Linnet was feeding her goats, and she put down the bucket of slops, her eyes twinkling. ‘I have been doing this a long time, you know.’

  ‘Forgive me!’ Rhiann shook her head, and scraped some of the mud from her boots against Linnet’s fence. ‘I feel as if my head is stuffed with hazelnuts, all rattling around!’

  Linnet wiped her hands on her skirt. ‘Don’t worry, I will look after everything for you. It is too great a chance to miss. The great Calgacus came here as a young prince, long ago – we thought he would offer for your mother. But then he became king of his own people, and could not be tied to us.’ She sighed. ‘His totem is the eagle, and he has the look of that bird, very fine.’

  ‘Why, aunt, you sound like a blushing girl! I’m interested in his mind, not his face.’

  Linnet laughed, and came to lean on the fence. ‘He has a fine mind, too. He will see what both you and Eremon see, Rhiann. He will see the sense of unity among our people.’

  ‘I hope so. The tribes have never joined before. But then, we have not faced this kind of threat before. Together, we will be stronger.’

  ‘Yes, but whether the warriors will see that, who knows? Women are better at discerning the patterns, for we are the weavers.’

  Rhiann sighed. ‘I will do what I can, anyway, for the dreams tell me that I must.’ She frowned. ‘You will not mind moving down to Dunadd, will you, aunt? I know I ask a lot of you … ’

  ‘Of course not – especially since I won’t have to share the dun with Gelert.’

  ‘Why? Where is he going?’