The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Curled in a corner, he shut his swollen eyes and tried to extinguish the images in his mind: the brightness of their helmets against the snow; the jeering faces; the hatred in those dark, alien eyes.

  It was not like battle, where he locked eyes with an opponent, consumed with the thrill of pitting himself against an equal. For a moment out of time, only two existed, sharing heartbeats, sharing breath, sharing blood.

  But to be tied up like some animal, arms pulled back so the fists can penetrate deeper; to watch a sword-hilt come down on his fingers, helpless and exposed …

  A whimper escaped his tightly-closed mouth, and he was flooded with shame. I am a leader. I have courage. I will die with courage.

  He did not know why he was not already dead. They must want to send him to the main camps: any information from the north would be valuable. A shuddering now took hold of his limbs, and he bit his lip to stop himself crying out.

  I will find a way to kill myself.

  It is the best I can do for Alba.

  Conaire clustered the men under the darkness of the gate tower. Within the storm, the day had become no more than a dark, featureless stew of grey cloud, but Conaire’s heart beat clear and slow now, his mind sharpened with a grim resolve.

  The open space inside the rampart held two long buildings. One was dark, and seemed lifeless. From the other, the nearest one, firelight spilled from a row of small windows. Every now and then a faint roar of laughter sounded.

  ‘Colum,’ Conaire whispered. ‘Take five men and surround the door of that building.’ He indicated the dark barracks. ‘When you hear our attack, go in with caution. If you meet resistance, deal with it. If you do not, and Eremon is there, leave two to guard him and the rest come back and join us.’

  Colum took his picked men, and they crept around the rampart wall. Through the whirling snow, Conaire saw the dark shapes edging into position.

  ‘We have the best odds we’ll ever see,’ he murmured to those remaining. ‘We’re outnumbered, but I’m betting they feel safe inside their walls, and won’t have weapons to hand. We must take three down each.’ He paused. ‘Agricola will know it was us if they remember our unpainted faces. Leave none alive.’

  He eased his sword free, the sound masked by the high keening of the wind, and slipped across the space between gate and barrack block, his men following, ducking as they went beneath the windows.

  In a moment they were all outside the door, spread along each wall. There, sheltered from the wind, the sound of talking and laughing swelled. Peering at the door closely, Conaire saw that it was flimsy – not designed to keep out anything, except wind.

  With tight lips and a jerk of his head, Conaire got his swiftest, heaviest fighters into a tight wedge behind him, as only the first handful would have the element of surprise, and they must clear a space for the others to swing. With a quick prayer to the Boar, he tensed back a few steps, adjusted his shoulder.

  And ran.

  Like a charging bull, he burst through the door as if it were brushwood. By the light of fire and lamp, he glimpsed scores of men, lined up on the benches and floor, gaming, drinking. While the surprise was still dawning on their faces, Conaire, his sword held two-handed, swept it across the nearest men like a scythe.

  Screaming, his warriors charged in after him, laying about them in great circles of blade. Arms and heads were hewn from living bodies; in moments the floor was slippery with blood.

  Conaire saw the men at the edges scrambling for their weapons in the farther reaches of the barracks, and with a roar he cleaved the crowd, cutting a swathe through those who were ill-prepared, striving to reach those who sought for arms.

  Some had their swords up by the time he barrelled into them, but he was unstoppable. Fergus and Angus were tight up behind him: as Conaire drove the wedge, so they had time to swing. He felt the sting of Roman blades on his arms, but they were just glancing pinpricks. His own sword bore them down like a storm wave.

  In his head, a litany thrummed. Eremon. Eremon. Eremon.

  The litany brought the fire to his limbs, the strength to his legs … and at last it burst from his lips, as he felt the blood-lust bloom in his chest. The men took up his cry, until among the curses of the Romans and cries of pain, one name rang to the rafters.

  ‘Eremon!’

  As if waking from a dream, Eremon stirred. There was a noise … something familiar, out there in the howls of wind. He raised his head, though it rang with dizziness.

  Manannán.

  His name. Someone called his name.

  Was it the gods, come to claim him at last? Had he passed over to the Otherworld? But no: he opened one swollen eye. It was nearly dark now, but a last drift of light caught on the nubbled plaster of the wall before him. He was not dead.

  ‘Conaire?’ he managed to croak, through cracked lips. The sound faded away in the room. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he edged himself up the wall, his hands still bound behind him. He took a deep breath. ‘Conaire!’ he cried, louder now, hardly knowing why he called, for Conaire was far away.

  Though the sound was mewling to his ears, like an injured cub, in an instant the doorway was filled with the dark shadows of men. He tensed, but had no arms free to raise in defence.

  ‘My lord,’ someone said. It was a language he knew. Words that made sense, at last.

  ‘Boar’s balls, get your knife,’ someone else said, and arms came around him, cutting his bonds. The blood rushed back to the ends of his fingers, bringing agony.

  He fainted.

  At the edge of the slaughter, Conaire paused and risked a glance back. His men were fighting in knots all over the room. In the first charge, perhaps a score of Romans had died, reducing the odds to two to one. But in such a confined space, with the Roman order in tatters, the men taken unawares, the odds had become, in truth, even.

  The strength of the Romans lay in their discipline, so Eremon always said. Hand to hand, like this, armourless, unprepared, they had only their brute fighting skills to save them. And Conaire’s men were taller, heavier. In this they could triumph.

  The Roman soldiers that had not been killed were backed up against the walls, led by someone who seemed to be their commander, but the Erin men were hacking their way through their defences. The room was deep in bodies, the floor awash with blood. Fergus was just pulling his sword free of a downed man, and with a yell, threw himself back into what remained of the fray. Angus must still be fighting in the shadows.

  But it was only a matter of time, now, and they could do without Conaire at last. So he hurried back through the splintered door, and across to the other building. Two soldiers lay dead just inside the doorway, and voices echoed from a small room at the far end.

  Conaire plunged through the inner door, to be faced with the sight of Eremon laid out on the floor. He knelt down, pushing Colum to one side. ‘Alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Conaire gathered Eremon in his arms. Though only half-conscious, Eremon moaned in pain. ‘Gods!’ Conaire cried. ‘Rhiann’s not far. Find his horse and pack and follow me. I want him out of here, now!’

  Chapter 59

  Mercifully, Eremon missed most of the journey home.

  He remembered snowflakes falling on his face, and shivering beneath blankets before a tiny fire, which swelled and shrank, as he tried to look at it through half-open eyes. He remembered wafts of Rhiann’s honey scent, and the thudding of her heart against his ear. He remembered water being squeezed between his cracked lips, and then warm broth.

  And her voice swam in and out of his mind.

  ‘I’m giving him as much as I can … it will make him sleep. It’s the only way for us to travel fast, he’ll be in too much pain otherwise … No, we can carry him on the horse … it’s only the fingers broken …’

  And so it went on for an endless time: the lurching of the horse beneath him, and the stabs of fiery pain; the cold that crept in under his furs, clawing at his skin; the wind scouring his f
ace. He burned, and then he shivered.

  ‘Thank the gods for snow,’ came Conaire’s voice, from far away. ‘Our loop would not throw them off long otherwise.’ A rough hand cupped his shoulder.

  And sometimes, when the lurching stopped, there would be singing, very soft and close to his ear.

  Rhiann sat by the sickbed in her house, gazing down at Eremon’s face. The men had just laid him in the furs, and she had given him an extra dose of the sleeping flower, so she could examine his injuries.

  It had been hard to do by firelight on the journey home, although she saw from the grotesque swelling that the Romans had broken three fingers on his left hand. Luckily the breaks were clean, and she splinted them while he was unconscious. He had two black eyes, but no damage to the eyeballs. Mainly, she had concentrated on breaking the fever, and getting some food and water into him.

  ‘Rhiann,’ Caitlin said now, ‘tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’ll hold him up for you, hold him down for you, whatever you ask.’

  ‘No,’ Conaire broke in. ‘I’m staying by his side. I’ll do it.’

  ‘I will treat him alone.’ Rhiann’s own voice sounded so strange to her ears, strained and cold.

  ‘But we can help!’ Caitlin protested.

  ‘Mistress,’ Eithne moved to Rhiann’s side, ‘the brew will be ready soon. I can bring it for you.’

  ‘No!’ Rhiann turned on them. Three pairs of eyes widened. ‘I will treat him alone! Now leave me!’

  Astonishingly, they did, seeing in her face, perhaps, a glimpse of the anguish in her heart. When they were gone, she let out a shuddering breath. For the first time in days, the healer self began to recede. She’d had to be strong, to get him home.

  Until now.

  She peeled back the furs, and eased his tunic up over the planes of his belly, over his ribs, up to his chest. And then she looked down, and gasped.

  The entire surface of his skin was webbed with red welts. And beneath them, mottling his ribs and abdomen, were wide swathes of purple and green bruises. Of the kind not only made by fists, but also by feet.

  Her fingers jerked free of the fine linen, and her eyes sought his face, the pale oval blurred by her tears.

  In sleep, his mouth was a soft curve. His hair flopped over one injured eye, the lashes long and black against his cheeks. Perfect.

  And yet below, ruin.

  Eremon’s fingers had been well-splinted, and though Rhiann’s prodding of the bruising detected a cracked rib, no internal organs were damaged. The hunger and thirst and beating had weakened him, bringing on the fever, but it was a slight illness, and soon burned itself out.

  On regaining consciousness, the first thing Eremon asked about was his men. Conaire looked down at him with sorrow in his eyes. ‘Angus and Diarmuid did not make it, brother. Three of the Epidii warriors also died.’

  Eremon turned his head away at that, and did not speak for a long time. Caitlin pulled fiercely at the lacing on her sleeve, while Rhiann went to tend the fire. Conaire sat heavily on the covers without saying anything.

  ‘I was foolish.’ Eremon’s face was pale. ‘I knew I should go back but … I saw only the danger to me. Curse it! Curse me!’

  Conaire shook his head. ‘We dealt the Romans an incredible blow, brother. Like any of us, Angus and Diarmuid would be honoured to die for this cause. They feast with the gods now; the bards will sing their names.’

  ‘We all ache to kill the invaders, Eremon.’ Caitlin rested her hand on Conaire’s shoulder. ‘I was with Angus and the others, I heard them speak. They were where they wanted to be.’

  But Eremon’s eyes remained bleak, and no amount of Rhiann’s strengthening draughts seemed to bring the colour to his cheeks.

  It was at this time that Didius, who had been staying with Bran, returned to speak to Rhiann. He crept inside the door and stood as far away from the sickbed as possible. But Eremon, the hollows in his cheeks dark with shadow, caught sight of him.

  ‘Son of Rome,’ he croaked. Didius froze. ‘Your countrymen offered me the same hospitality as we did you.’

  ‘I know,’ Didius replied, watching Eremon warily.

  ‘Then we are even, are we not? We have shared the pain. So stop scuttling around me as if I will eat you. You perform a good service for my wife.’

  Didius nodded, surprised.

  Eremon’s eyes seemed to look beyond the Roman then, into the shadows on the wall. ‘Your governor seeks all Alba, and he is the kind of man never to rest until he has something. Is this not right?’

  Now Didius glanced at Rhiann, confused, and back to Eremon. ‘This is right.’

  ‘The deaths of countless men won’t stop him, will they? So the death of one foolish, weak man will gain nothing … will mean nothing to him. Will it?’ The dark wells of Eremon’s eyes sought no answer from Didius, but Rhiann went forward to the bed.

  ‘No, Eremon, it won’t,’ she said softly. ‘Only to us.’

  Eremon drew a shuddering breath then, as if a battle had been fought. From that day forward his recovery was swift, as youth and strength reasserted themselves in knitting bones and warm cheeks. Youth and strength; and perhaps duty. Certainly duty.

  It was only then, at last, when Eremon was out of danger, and needed little of her care, that Rhiann’s own feelings about the whole matter were able to surface. And they surprised even her.

  The first evening came when they were alone. Conaire and Caitlin, reassured about Eremon’s recovery, had gone, and Rori had called in to take Eithne for a walk, as the snows had thawed, and the days were fast growing clearer.

  For the first time, Eremon was well enough to sit up by the fire in a new rush-backed chair that Didius had made for Rhiann. As she plumped the cushions behind him to ease the pain in his ribs, Eremon said, ‘I heard what you did at the Roman fort.’

  She turned to adjust the cauldron chain, lowering it closer to the fire, not sure how to answer.

  He raised his voice. ‘You must have relished the chance to prove yourself against them.’

  She glanced back at him. His smile was tinged with that familiar bitterness, his eyes, circled by fading bruises, were shielded. She remembered the last time she had seen him in the stableyard, and how that bitterness lashed out at her. And look where that led!

  Instantly, all the anger she suppressed while acting the healer rose up in full. First she nearly scared herself to death outside the fort, then she went without sleep for days, cold and exhausted – and all for him! And now those green eyes of his were prodding her again, and his voice held that same sarcastic edge, still! Something in her snapped. ‘Unlike you, I don’t care about proving myself ! You should be ashamed for putting me through all this!’

  ‘Sorry to inconvenience you.’

  ‘Eremon, don’t be stupid, and stop feeling sorry for yourself ! You ride around without a thought for anyone else, get yourself captured and beaten, and then I’m supposed to put you back together! And after everything, you dare to look at me like that!’

  His face was hard and white. ‘I was not thinking only of myself … not at all!’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Rhiann put her hands on her hips. ‘So when you scared the life out of Conaire and the others, it was all to benefit them, I suppose! And what about me? I’ve never been so terrified in my life – and it was all fear for you, foolish man!’

  There was a startled silence. ‘Imagine that,’ Eremon said faintly.

  ‘I’m more surprised than you, believe me!’ She stirred the fire up fiercely, then flung herself down on the hearth-bench. ‘I don’t know what to make of it!’

  This time she heard an intake of breath, and she glared at him, before realizing, suddenly, what she’d said.

  Smoothly, simply, Eremon leaned forward with his good hand and took her own, so confidently that it brooked no denial. And with that one gesture, all the words, the currency of the past year, were suddenly and simply redundant.

  She waited for the unconscious flinching of her bod
y, but the touch of his fingers just felt … natural. Their hands fitted together as if they had been forged as links in a chain.

  Frozen, she stared into the fire, as the house held its breath around her.

  ‘Rhiann,’ Eremon said softly, after what seemed like an age.

  She raised her eyes. And when she saw what lay in his, naked there, she did flinch. But still he leaned closer, and she found she was watching his full, curved mouth, was enveloped in his musk scent, her heart skipping.

  I cannot be what he wants me to be. I will let him down. I do not want to let him down.

  As his face drew near, as his eyes held hers, reaching deep into her breast … she looked away, pulling back in her seat, breaking the hold of his hand. ‘Eremon I … cannot.’ She dared not look at him again, for the shame was burning too bright in her face. Yet it was better that he did not begin to care for her; better for them both.

  At her words, he had stilled, and now he slowly sat back in the rush seat. ‘I see.’

  ‘Let us not change what we have,’ she begged, her voice low.

  He said nothing more for a long time, and then he asked, abruptly: ‘Surely I am now well enough to sit with Conaire in the hall?’

  She nodded, and he rose and drew on his cloak with one hand, keeping the other arm close to his injured chest. When he had gone, she curled up in the rush chair, laying her cheek on one arm. Why couldn’t everything stay as it was?

  She pressed her fingers to her lips, smelling where his scent lingered. And she remembered her own words to Linnet only a moon before. One day he will be going home.

  If the thought of losing him to the Otherworld had brought such pain, then she knew what would come when he took sail again for Erin. No, she must ward her heart well.

  He was her war leader, her partner, and friend. And that he would stay.

  Chapter 60

  The next day was Imbolc, and the gift of ewe’s milk to the river soon brought the return of weak sun and a flush of green to the bare trees. But the fair weather brought more than buds: the southern wanderers had come back to the marshes in clouds of whirring wings.