The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Seeking a breeze, Rhiann crossed the stableyard and there spied the stairs to the upper walkway. But when she came out on top of the palisade, who should be standing before her but Drust.

  He was holding court where there was a view of the sea. The group of attendants around him was unremarkable: sons of some of the lesser nobles, and their wives and unmarried daughters.

  Drust was explaining something he had seen when visiting his mother’s kin in the south. ‘… and the Romans make their symbols on stone, not flesh and wood as we do,’ he was saying. ‘That is why I carved the eagle stones for my father.’

  ‘What do the Romans carve?’ one of the girls asked prettily. She was looking at Drust with intensity, but he seemed oblivious to her. His face was alight with some passion. Rhiann’s cheeks grew even warmer.

  ‘Mostly names,’ Drust said, dismissively. ‘But imagine seeing my designs on stones all over Alba!’ He swept his hand out to the horizon. ‘They would last for ever! They could be set up at all points of the land, as the Romans do with their milestones, and then everyone would see our power!’

  He paused, and Rhiann took the opportunity to speak, as the audience fell into impressed silence. ‘My lord Drust.’

  Drust swung to face her. ‘Lady Rhiann!’

  Her belly flipped over. He did remember her!

  ‘I have been hoping to speak with you,’ he said.

  She was rooted to the spot, speechless. It was not the greeting she had expected. He spoke as if they were friends, and had just seen each other days ago. She sought for something to say, but in one smooth movement he took her arm and turned her away from the others. She noticed the sullen looks from the women left behind. This would not do!

  ‘I have been watching you,’ Drust murmured. ‘I am glad you sought me out.’

  In her sleeveless linen tunic, Drust’s touch burned Rhiann’s bare skin more than the sun above. Then she remembered who she was, and removed his hand from her arm. ‘It is good to see you again, my lord.’

  He flashed a look she could not decipher. ‘And I you – but I am sure you do not wish to speak with me like this.’ He gestured at the little group, all straining to hear what they were saying. ‘Can we meet somewhere more private?’ His face was tilted down, and now he looked up at her from under his eyelashes; a look her body remembered.

  This was ridiculous! He had not spoken to her with the proper degree of respect for either her rank or their unfamiliarity. And she could not arrange some secret assignation; it was beneath her. Yet … Goddess … she had to meet him. She had slipped into the stream, she had already let it take hold of her.

  What if someone sees me? She dismissed that thought as soon as it came. She was no Roman woman, forbidden to speak to a man not her husband.

  So in a quirk of impulsiveness, before she could back down, she answered: ‘Yes. I will meet with you.’

  ‘There is another feast tonight.’ He was eager now. ‘It is outside the walls, on the plain. Come back inside the dun and go to the eastern stables, after my father has declared the toasts. We will talk there.’

  Rhiann wavered. To steal away, and meet him at night! But his eyes were on her mouth, as he said, softly, urgently, ‘I must talk with you. Please come.’

  And suddenly she was in the hut on the Sacred Isle, with the firelight on the walls and his hands tracing the curved lines over her belly. He had looked at her then with the same urgency. So she found herself nodding, and turned away, her damp hands clenched by her sides. I will only talk! she told herself fiercely. I just want to see the man he has become.

  For how else would she know if he was the one in her dream? She did not stop to think if she wanted him to be. The beloved was here in Thisworld, somewhere. He was here to take her from her loneliness.

  To help her to be something great.

  The feast was under a pale sky, its swollen moon a bronze shield hung to catch the last light. Beneath the sparks of bonfires, Calgacus toasted his ties with the Epidii. But he did not speak of the Roman threat.

  Watching him, Eremon realized that until he, Eremon, spoke before all the Caledonii nobles, Calgacus would not show his hand. After all, what did Eremon mean to him? Calgacus had powerful men to placate: men with kin bonds to hold warriors to them, men who, massed together, could take his throne.

  Who was Eremon to him?

  And yet, even so, Calgacus kept Eremon close, giving him the best cut of boar and the best ale, and introducing him to all the influential men who had arrived that day. He jested with him, and told him of his lands and his peoples with pride.

  Eremon could see that the pride came not from boasting of wealth, but from the King’s knowledge that in his twenty-year reign he had built his people into the foremost tribe of Alba, until every soul, from the lowliest cattle herder to the King himself, felt strong and secure and prosperous.

  To this, Eremon listened with envy. He realized that, absorbed as he was with losing his father’s hall, and the fighting and scheming, he had long ago stopped thinking about what kind of king he would be.

  Like this one, he thought now, as Calgacus held court before a fire.

  Imagine having the peace to build, to forge a people into something united and strong and safe. To wrap power around them all as a man enfolds his children, so they can watch their barley grow fat in the fields, their cattle multiply, and their babies sleeping safe in their beds.

  That would be a good life’s work. He sighed. His own father had felt it necessary to war incessantly with his neighbours over some slight or another. Even the seeds of Donn’s betrayal had been sown between the brothers long before.

  Standing there, a prince with no lands, Eremon promised himself fiercely that he would keep fighting, not for his own glory, but so he could give his people of Dalriada a king like Calgacus.

  A snatch of Aedan’s voice drifted up with the spiralling sparks, and Eremon turned his head to hear better. Nearby, the bard was keeping a sizeable group entertained with his new song about the attack on the Roman fort. Seeing the eyes of the listeners wide and shining in the firelight, Eremon smiled to himself.

  Well, perhaps he could bask in a little glory.

  Just then he caught sight of Conaire with Caitlin across the crowd, and realized that he had not spoken to Rhiann all evening, or even found out what she did that day. Now, she was just here a moment ago …

  His eyes scanned the crowd near Calgacus, where he’d last seen her standing. But she was gone. Perhaps she was getting something to eat. He wandered around the fires, peering at every woman that passed, seeing if it was her.

  Many women looked back, but none of them were Rhiann.

  Something made him glance up to the walls of the dun, then, and he glimpsed a figure disappearing through the gate. From the grace of her walk he knew who it was, and without thinking, he found himself following her.

  Soon the men would meet in council, he told himself. He really should see if Rhiann had any other news to add to what he already knew. Women found out all sorts of interesting things from other women …

  But when he entered the gates, she was not on the torch-lit path up to the guest lodges. Turning around, he just caught sight of her vanishing into the maze of tracks that led towards the worksheds and stables. He knew there were no houses there, because he had toured the walls with Conaire only that morning.

  Something in his chest thumped, and his mind began to race.

  Why is she going there?

  Perhaps she is visiting a friend.

  But she has never been here before.

  Perhaps she goes to check on Liath.

  Liath is in the western stables; I took her there myself.

  He realized, belatedly, that he was being ridiculous. So instead of giving in to the urge to pursue her, he forced his steps back out of the gate and down towards the fires on the plain.

  But despite his determination to put Rhiann out of his mind, when he got there, he began to look for someone else in
the crowd.

  And as he suspected, Calgacus’s son was nowhere to be seen.

  Rhiann made her way down the darkened path to the stables. I feel like a maid on the way to meet her stableboy! She shook her head, but beneath the wry smile, her belly churned.

  It was all very well to lie and think about this in the night. It was disturbing enough to see Drust in daylight. But this was something else entirely. She could not quite believe she was doing it.

  And yet, recklessness, which she rarely felt or ever surrendered to, was thrumming in her blood. She’d seen Eremon with Aiveen and Samana, and caught snippets of Conaire’s tales about his conquests. She had not missed Rori making eyes at Eithne, nor was she blind to the growing feelings between Caitlin and Conaire. Everyone else is doing this, why can’t I?

  Despite these brave thoughts, she still half-hoped that Drust was not there. And when she got to the darkened stable and heard only the snuffling of horse breath, she shook with a sigh of relief. So that was that, then.

  ‘Lady.’ The voice slid out of the night, and a shape moved within the shadows of the walls.

  The blood leaped in her veins. ‘Prince, I am not accustomed to meeting men in stables.’ She thought she should remind him of who she was.

  He laughed softly, a purring sound. ‘Would a moonlit walk on the walls suit you better?’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to get out, and he took her arm and led her up to the walkway once more. The moon had now paled from bronze to silver, and the plain below was glowing with fires, like bright coals in a darkened hearth.

  Drust turned to her, and the warm breeze ruffled the hair at his brow. Her fingers remembered the exact thickness and weight of that hair, and ached to bury themselves in it again. When he shifted closer, his shoulders caught on the wool of his tunic.

  ‘I noticed you the first night, at the feast,’ he was saying.

  She dragged her attention to his mouth, trying to listen to his words.

  His lips softened. ‘You are the most beautiful woman here, by far.’

  His words, which she had longed to hear, sounded thinner than she remembered. She hardly heard them. Instead she found herself musing on how that mouth would feel on hers …

  ‘I had heard much of your beauty, of course, and longed to see it for myself. I love beautiful things.’

  She looked into his eyes, startled. ‘But it has only been seven years. Have I changed so much?’

  A frown touched his brow, and then it cleared. ‘Why, you have only grown in beauty, my lady.’

  But Rhiann’s heart was sinking. ‘You do not remember me.’

  She saw him searching for words, but before he could speak the lie, she cut him off. ‘You came to the Sacred Isle. We spent a week together.’ She wanted to say, You painted me, you caressed me … But of course, he was a tattoo artist: he painted many girls. And how many did he touch in that way?

  Foolish woman! Stung, she turned away, rubbing the pebbled skin on her bare arms.

  ‘Rhiann.’ His breath brushed her ear. ‘Forgive me. I do remember. It has been a long time.’

  When she did not answer, he moved around in front of her, gently taking her arms. ‘Rhiann! When I left, you were going to be dedicated to the Goddess. I did not think of you that way because I was leaving, and you were going to be out of reach.’

  She searched his eyes, wanting to believe him. Suddenly, he smiled in that boyish way of his, which tugged at her heart just as it had before, and ran his hands down her arms to her fingers, before pulling away. His touch left flame in its wake. ‘What does it matter now, anyway? You are the most beautiful woman here. We can walk and speak of the old days, surely?’ He waved carelessly. ‘All this talk of war and Romans bores me.’

  An image of Eremon’s face, lit up with the fire of his dream, flashed across Rhiann’s mind. She felt herself go stiff. ‘I am here because of the Romans.’

  He shrugged. ‘That is for my father and your husband to debate. They can frown and mutter like two old men. In the meantime, we can make the most of the fine weather. I have many stone carvings to show you.’

  He reached out to flick a braid from her shoulder, and in doing so, touched her neck. All protest at his words died on her lips. In this moment, she did not care that he had not remembered her. It had been a long time. And everyone else managed to live and laugh while going about the business of war, even Eremon. Why not her?

  Her wiser side was hammering out a warning in her mind, but she ignored it. Dear Goddess, she was standing here with a handsome man under a full moon. If she was ever going to kiss someone, it should be now. And if she could just get it over with, perhaps then she would start to feel normal. Like other women.

  Sensing the indecision in her body, the touch of Drust’s fingers changed. His thumb began to make soft circles on her skin, and gradually his hand moved around her neck until he cupped the back of her head.

  It was not her mind hammering now, but her heart, and the throbbing warmth she had last felt seven years ago was a hot flood, loosening her thighs. Drust smiled, his pupils huge and dark in the moonlight. She closed her eyes.

  His lips were cool and dry, not warm as she had expected. But then she felt the muscles of his chest brush her breasts, and that burned. He pressed even closer, his tongue parted her lips …

  … and then she felt the hardness between his legs.

  A wave of fear washed over her. She pulled back, feet tangling, both hands pressing against his chest, as if warding him away.

  ‘Lord Drust?’ The brisk voice came from the gate tower, schooled into that blandness that servants perfect. Rhiann swung away, hiding her face.

  ‘Yes?’ Drust was breathing hard, and he ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Your father asks for you.’

  ‘I will come.’

  Drust cursed under his breath, but looked at Rhiann with a smile. ‘Duty calls. Perhaps we can continue our reminiscing another time? After the hunt tomorrow, I ride south to visit one of the nobles who is too ill to attend the council. I will be back the day after.’ He brushed her lips with one finger, regretfully. ‘Meet with me again.’

  Rhiann could not think straight, could only look down at her feet, but Drust took that as agreement, and left her there with a sure smile.

  When he had gone, she took a shuddering breath, leaning against the palisade. Tears of shame pricked her eyes, as she remembered how she pulled away. Perhaps she was too damaged after all, even to enjoy a man’s kiss. Perhaps she would never be a real woman.

  She glanced down at the fires, and saw the shapes of the people moving around them, heard the snatches of wild music. Down there was warmth and cheer and laughter. And here she was, alone again. Despairing, she made her way back down to the main path, and thought about curling up in her cold bed.

  No. No more.

  The warm light beckoned through the open gates. She would go back to the fires, and have a cup of mead, and smile at Conaire’s bad jests, and listen to Aedan’s sweet voice. And she would sit with her shoulder touching Caitlin’s, and talk to Eremon of the council.

  That is what she would do.

  Chapter 48

  In a fine dawn heavy with dew, the nobles set off for their hunt the next morning along a wooded path that wound up a glen north of the dun. Eremon rode with Conaire at the rear of the party, behind Drust.

  ‘Brother.’ Conaire kept his voice low. ‘I found out what you wanted to know.’

  ‘Yes?’ Eremon stared at the back of that dark gold head in front.

  ‘The King’s son paints the tattoos, on women mainly. At their first moon bleeding. The tattoos are sacred in some way.’

  Eremon gripped his spear harder. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Although he is the King’s son, when artists show their talent early, they are taken for some kind of druid training. It is probably the best thing he could do, since he cannot be King.’

  And I imagine that hurts, Eremon thought.

  He did not
see anything sacred in this man. Indeed, looking at him now, riding out on a carefully brushed stallion, dressed in bright clothes, he seemed nothing more than a strutting capercaille, all shiny plumage and strident cries.

  When Drust reappeared at the fire last night he stood by his father’s side, but Eremon watched closely, and saw him paying far more attention to the pretty women there than to what Calgacus was saying. Shortly after, Rhiann also appeared. When she sat down on a bench next to Caitlin, he noticed how flushed her cheeks were.

  Now, the memory made him feel sick all over again.

  He could not understand Rhiann’s interest. She did not suffer fools – how could she not see what was so apparent to him? Then he thought of Samana, and how he had been blinded by her.

  But that was because of the demands of my body.

  Abruptly, he yanked the horse up. Did this mean that Rhiann had succumbed to Drust? No, surely not! It was impossible. But was it? Here he was thinking she did not want any man … when perhaps it was just that she did not want him.

  His sinking heart suddenly made the connection. Rhiann said that she met Drust on the Sacred Isle. And there, he must have painted her when she had her first bleeding. That meant that this man had seen her naked, and put his hands on her breasts, her belly. Perhaps he had even raised passion in her, when all Eremon had gained was her dislike.

  He kicked Dòrn, and the stallion broke into a trot. When he drew level with Conaire again, his foster-brother glanced at him from the corner of his eye. But Conaire knew that set of his mouth, and let him be.

  Not long after, the hounds brought the boar to bay in a shadowed hazel thicket. The nobles sat their mounts a safe distance away, breathless from the chase, as two Caledonii princes advanced on it with their spears raised.

  The beast was enormous, with spittle running from its gaping mouth, which was framed by curving tusks, stained and yellow. Its tiny black eyes were full of rage. Eremon wished he had been the one to bring it down so that he could sink a spear into something. Then he became aware that Drust had nudged his horse up next to him.