The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Though he had been ordered not to swing a sling, Eremon could stalk, and a day of fowling gave him and Conaire an excuse for air and exercise. They had little chance of a catch, anyway, for Cù was splashing in the pools and snuffling among the reeds, following one trail and then breaking off to lurch the other way.

  He knows how I feel, Eremon mused, watching the hound’s indecision, and his warring thoughts clamoured once more. He should not have tried to kiss her. But, by the gods, her eyes had flashed with that rare fire, and the light was in her hair …

  His breath caught, and he stumbled over a tussock of sedge. ‘Quiet,’ Conaire muttered, scanning the reedbeds.

  Eremon squatted down beside him, but could not keep his mind on the hunt.

  At first she had been afraid for him – and she let him take her hand! Yet then she pulled away. Was it that she did not care enough? That struck a note of pain, and yet he could have sworn that he saw something deep in her eyes, a flame that mirrored the fire in his heart …

  Was it something else, then? Something about her past? He stared out over the marsh, his eyes unseeing.

  One thing only he knew: it had taken him so long to win her trust, to turn hatred and fear into friendship, that he would do nothing – nothing – to risk even that. If she only cared a little, if she only let him near her sometimes, then it was still more than he had ever had from her, or wanted from anyone else.

  So he would not scare her again. Nor would he let that bitter anger grow in him once more. Apart from driving her away, it had made him do something so foolish that men died. For loyal Angus and Diarmuid, he would be stronger.

  His heart lifted a little. She had given him a small sign of hope, after all, so it was easier to keep the bitterness at bay. Where there was that kind of opening, more could grow, in time.

  As if reading his thoughts, Conaire spoke up. ‘You should have seen Rhiann when she heard of your capture, brother. I’ve never witnessed her so upset.’ He was fiddling intently with the sling.

  Eremon smiled. ‘I know. She told me herself.’

  ‘Really?’ Conaire raised his face, and grinned. ‘Well!’ He nudged Eremon’s arm with his shoulder. ‘Perhaps she’s looked past your ugly face, at last!’

  Eremon pushed back hard enough to edge Conaire off balance, and he fell on his haunches. Cù, coming up behind, yipped and barrelled into Conaire with great excitement. ‘Get off, dog!’ The pair disappeared into a jumbled mass of grey fur and flailing arms.

  By the time Conaire extricated himself, Eremon was far ahead, sauntering along the trackway. ‘Hurry up!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got my heart set on a nice roast duck, and you must shoot for both of us!’

  As the earth woke from its slumber, so Rhiann’s blessing of flock and herd began, before the stock was released to the higher pastures. And after the long, fair nights of the previous sunseason, the women of the dun began to bear another kind of fruit, keeping her busy bringing babes into the world – a task to ease any heart.

  And behind the rhythm of sowing and planting, the rites for fishing and lambing and birthing, Beltaine drew closer. And with it, the preparations for their journey north to the tribal council that Calgacus had called.

  Far up the valley of the ancestors, past the crooked standing stones, Rhiann sought for Linnet at her favourite copse of hazel and oak, a reliable source of sorrel and other herbs coming into full leaf.

  ‘You used to say my eyes were the colour of bluebells,’ Rhiann said, coming up behind Linnet in a dell of the flowers, their cups touched by the gold of dawn.

  Her aunt straightened, herb-knife gleaming in her hand, breath misting the air. ‘They haven’t changed. I can still see you sitting here with your little, fat hands, squishing blue flowers against your nose.’

  Rhiann laughed. ‘Aunt!’

  Linnet stored the cut sorrel in the bag over her shoulder. ‘Is it time for you to leave already? I was on my way to see you today.’

  ‘Tomorrow we leave, but I needed some peace away from the preparations. It seems I just get back and unpack and off we go again.’

  Linnet smiled. ‘One thing about your prince: he is not in one place long enough to become stale. Here, sit by me. Dercca warmed the mead.’

  Seated beneath a spreading hazel, Rhiann took a sip and handed the flask back to Linnet.

  ‘Rhiann.’ At the note in Linnet’s voice, Rhiann looked up. Linnet’s brow was shadowed. ‘Last night, I stood under the sky with the moonstone beneath my tongue. I sought a vision … of your journey.’

  ‘And?’

  Linnet shook her head. ‘The visions made no sense. But afterwards I thought long on what I had seen. And the knowledge that came was … that there can be no clear visions. The fates are in flux, more so than ever before. As if all our paths are suspended.’

  ‘That is little to go on.’

  Linnet shrugged. ‘I know. But the flux stems not from the Source, not from the Goddess. Something … some choice … needs to be made before the paths become clear again.’

  ‘Whose choice?’

  ‘Again, I do not know. But there is something else. The one thing I could discern in the visions was darkness, a thread of darkness.’

  Rhiann watched the sun through the leaves. ‘Well, the Romans are our darkness.’

  ‘No, no, this was not the Romans.’

  Rhiann stared at her. ‘Do you wish me not to go?’

  Linnet shook her head, perplexed. ‘No, you must go, for on the journey, I feel the choice, whatever it is, will be made. A way forward will be found. And yet at the same time, there is danger, and you must take great care.’

  Rhiann took Linnet’s hand. ‘Aunt, all around us is danger. If we sit here and do nothing, we are in danger. If we move, we are in danger.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You worry for me, but I am discovering that being Ban Cré is not just about blessings; it is about protection. We have been thrust into change, and I don’t know yet what my role should be. But I have to find out.’

  Linnet forced a smile. ‘Then perhaps this journey will show you.’ She stroked Rhiann’s hair. ‘If only you could stay my little, fat-cheeked girl, right here in this bluebell wood.’

  ‘Many times I have wished the same.’

  ‘And now? Things are better for you?’

  Rhiann looked away, suddenly shy. At such questions, the warmth of Eremon’s hand came back to her so vividly. ‘Yes … better.’ She bit her lip. ‘But look to Caitlin and Conaire to be breeding soon. They will be fruitful, I know it, and we … Eremon still respects my wishes.’ She looked down, shamed, for this was only the second time she had told Linnet of the true state of her marriage bed.

  Linnet’s hand came to rest on her arm. ‘I am glad. I just wish both my girls to be happy – even though their paths may be different.’

  Once Rhiann had gone, Linnet stayed by the hazel for a long while, her eyes closed, seeking the comfort of the tree’s life source.

  For she had not told Rhiann that the choice centred on her alone. And that it must come from her own deepest desires. Any other influence, from Linnet or anyone else, would twist and warp its power.

  The darkness was another matter. If Linnet could discern where it came from and whom it would strike, she would speak out. But Rhiann was right. Darkness was all around them, in many guises. Who could say what this instinct meant?

  She remembered the visions that came to her in Rhiann’s childhood. The man in the boat had been real, the blood on the sands … undeniably real. But the sea closing over her head, the great battlefield, littered with bodies … as the first had come true, would these come true as well?

  She rubbed her face. Sometimes being blind and deaf to the Otherworld was easier, for there were then no tantalizing hints to bring anticipation or concern. After all, human powers gave only a glimpse of the Source; the sight was not always clear or timely.

  Then she sighed. She always asked Rhiann to trust, and now so mu
st she. Only this time she must trust Rhiann herself, this sad, changeable daughter of hers. When the choice came, Rhiann would know what to do. Had the Sisters not said she was the most gifted, before the darkness came?

  Of course, Linnet was well aware that after the raid Rhiann had lost her way with the Goddess. But the raid itself must be part of the Mother’s loom, the pattern of fate.

  Rhiann’s footsteps were weaving her life’s path, and somehow, the thread was looping, drawing her back.

  Chapter 61

  In the spattering of rain and gusting wind, the pyre proved difficult to light. Maelchon stood by impatiently, wrapped in his bear cloak, his dark eye on the smith crouching at the pyre’s base.

  The flame wavered and disappeared once more, and the smith glanced up fearfully.

  ‘Hurry, man,’ Maelchon growled.

  With shaking hands, the smith tried again, touching dried twigs to the coals in his firepot, then sheltering the tiny flame from the wind with his bulky shoulder. At last it caught, and he blew on it until it reached the dribbles of pitch beneath the body, where it burst into life.

  The King nodded at the old wisewoman, who clutched her threadbare cloak as she strained to sprinkle the head of the body with sacred water. But Kelturan the druid had become shrunken before he died, and the woman could not quite reach across the branches to his wasted face.

  Maelchon snorted to himself. Peasants!

  It was Kelturan’s own fault. The old man got rid of the other druids on the islands, and sundered his bonds with those on the mainland. What did he expect Maelchon to do for him? There was no one competent left to officiate at such a ceremony.

  Sighing, Maelchon inclined his head towards Gelur the craftsman. It was only the slightest movement, but Gelur quickly limped forward to help the woman, hunching his pock-marked face away from the King’s gaze.

  Maelchon watched him, satisfied. That obstinate pride of a year ago had been nicely quelled. With Gelur’s family now ‘guests’ of the King, the craftsman worked ceaselessly on Maelchon’s building projects with no word of complaint. Yes, everything was proceeding as planned.

  Beneath his robe, Maelchon stroked his hands together, as he did when more pleasant thoughts arose. By the time of his own passing, he would be a rich king, the richest in all of Alba, with twenty druids to sing him on his way, and ten stallions to slaughter, and slave girls to lie by his side, and a jewelled helm … He smiled to himself, and the old woman, watching him with nervous, rheumy eyes, rushed to the end of the rites.

  Back in his hall, he pondered the message he had received only that morning. The messenger, now resting in the guest lodge, had come from a surprising source. Calgacus.

  That proud, boastful, arrogant king, who thought himself above all other men in Alba.

  Maelchon gulped his ale, then sat, tapping his hands on his otter throne. The message was an invitation, to discuss the Roman threat. So Calgacus had got it into his head to bring the tribes together, to get himself declared war leader, had he? He must think the other kings witless indeed! If they loosened his reins, he’d just trample all over them. There would be no escape from his greedy maw then.

  Still.

  It might be prudent to go to this council, to see where the other kings sat on the issue. Maelchon might even be able to turn such an opportunity to his advantage: whisper in a few ears, sow dissent. If the other kings felt threatened, they would be easy to play against each other.

  It would be painful, of course, to see everything that Calgacus had, which he, Maelchon, did not. The fat-marbled beef would stick in his throat, the fine mead would curdle in his gut. But the advantages outweighed such trifles. He needed to know what was happening in the heart of the tribes, if he was going to survive, and such offers, such meetings, came rarely.

  ‘Get the Caledonii messenger,’ he ordered his steward. ‘And send for my wife, too.’

  When Calgacus’s man had been dispatched with a carefully-worded acceptance, Maelchon caught sight of his queen hovering in the darkness by the door. ‘Come here, girl.’

  She crept forward into the torchlight, her head down.

  ‘Stand up straight – you are a queen! Though I suppose no one could mistake you for such.’

  The girl raised her pale face, and her eyes burned. Maelchon smiled. When the spark came, it was so much more diverting than that pitiful surrender. ‘I have been invited to a council of all the tribes, at the Dun of the Waves. You will come with me.’

  The girl dropped her chin again. She was probably terrified at the thought. Well, what good was that?

  ‘You must reflect well on me. Get your women to make you new dresses. I’ll find you some suitable jewels, arm-rings, brooches. And do something with your hair … you look like one of the fishermen’s sluts.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. When do we leave, my lord?’

  ‘In a week. You’d best be ready, or I’ll leave you here.’

  Still averting her face, she scuttled out.

  Maelchon shifted on his throne. For a moment there, that hatred in her eyes had stirred him. It was the only time he could ever rouse to her, but of late she had become irritatingly subservient. Calm, even.

  Yes, the southern trip presented a timely opportunity. He might be able to sell her to some other king. Or, if her kin was there, he could have her declared barren in public and get his bride price back.

  All to make way for when he would have his pick of the Alban princesses. No tribe would turn him down then. No scornful island cattle-lord who was not even a king … The surge of anger, of burning bitterness, poured into his belly. His breathing quickened.

  After all these years, that memory of red-gold hair – and the hatred that fed it – could quicken his loins far easier than any real, physical woman.

  He lurched to his feet and groped for his bear cloak. Among these dark, northern peoples, so strong in the Old Blood, he had discovered a wench with red hair living across the bay. With her, he found something that could slake his thirst, for a little while.

  For a little while only.

  Chapter 62

  LEAF-BUD AD 81

  The sea-wind swirling around the Dun of the Waves still held the bitterness of the long dark in its wings.

  Wrapped in her riding cloak, Rhiann gave the eagle stone no more than a glance as they passed, and was pleased to note that this time, there was no trembling and no churning in her belly. Her heart was free of Drust, then. She glanced at the back of Eremon’s dark head. If she could do it once, she could do it again.

  Under dark clouds, the bright banners of the tribes on the plain glowed like blooms in shadowed woods. Tents and shelters were thrown together in a jumble of oiled linen and leather, ropes and poles, and there were lines of painted chariots drawn up in rows, and carts full of hides and furs and bolts of wool. Hounds barked, children dodged among the tents, shrieking, and faintly, there came the clink of a smith’s hammer and the shouts of men drinking and gaming. The scattered peoples of Alba rarely gathered together, and this was too good an opportunity to miss: trading would take place, fosterings and betrothals would be transacted, and complaints heard by the druid judges.

  As a mark of Calgacus’s regard, Eremon was given the same central lodge as before. The two married couples took beds, and Eithne and Didius had pallets by the fire. The rest of Eremon’s men were happy to set up their tents on the plain, for the smell of roasting meat, and the faint sound of pipes and cheers were already floating up from the encampment.

  They had arrived when the sun was high, and there was time enough for Caitlin and Rhiann to take a turn on the walls while Eremon settled his men in the camp. Didius shadowed them, a few steps behind, while they wandered the length of the battlements to the stretch that faced the sea.

  After much pleading from Rhiann that Didius must be able to defend himself at the tribal council, Eremon relented and allowed the Roman to carry a small dagger, reasoning that no warrior worth his sword would ever let such a weapon un
der his defences. Rhiann then gave Didius the most ornate sheath that she could find in the storehouses, and a helmet with a crest in the shape of a stallion.

  Didius strode along behind them now, his hand resting on the dagger sheath, his eyes darting from beneath the brow guard of the helmet as if he expected an attack on Rhiann at any moment.

  ‘I do love it here!’ Caitlin threw her arms out to each side and leaned over the palisade. ‘The sea is so flat and you can look out so far … like you can fly away!’ She glanced at Rhiann, her face clouding. ‘Not that I don’t love Dunadd,’ she amended hastily. ‘The view of the island is beautiful, too.’

  Rhiann laughed. ‘You are allowed to love more than one place at a time, cousin.’ She cocked her head back at Didius. ‘And what do you think of this fine stronghold?’

  Didius remained grave. ‘It is very fine indeed. Although a different angle of gate approach would put attackers at a greater disadvantage.’

  ‘Don’t let Calgacus hear you speak so, Didius.’ Rhiann winked at Caitlin. ‘You would find it hard to stay silent before him.’

  ‘He’ll have you working on the gate before you know it,’ Caitlin added, a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth.

  But Didius was looking behind them, his eyes widening and Rhiann heard a musical voice speak her name, low, breathy. Just as she remembered it. She turned.

  Drust was dressed soberly for once, in a dark blue tunic and ochre-dyed trousers, his skin burnished by the sun and wind, until he was all dusk and gold and copper. He still looked beautiful. But her heart did not cry out this time, nor did her breathing quicken. The last time she saw that face, it was wet from some other woman’s kisses. Those broad shoulders were being grasped by long, feminine fingers. Now, his nearness did not make her feel warm and trembling, but sick, and cold. As she stood there, face to face with nothing but illusion, the last of him slipped from her heart.