The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  ‘What he says may have truth in it.’ Maelchon at last stepped forward, his bulk filling the hearth-space.

  Eremon swung to face him. ‘What?’

  ‘All of us here are loyal to Alba, except one.’ Maelchon bared his teeth at Eremon in what passed for a smile. ‘A foreigner, who came to seek his own glory, as the druid said, not to protect us. And even worse, this is a man who, if we believe him, met this Agricola, vanquished a Roman regiment – and then walked free from a Roman fort.’

  Eremon caught his breath. How had he known that? And yet, Eremon did not tell his men to keep it secret. If he knew Aedan, the tale had already been taken up by a host of bards who would spread it throughout Alba.

  ‘And exactly how did he do this?’ Maelchon looked around at the other kings. ‘He has had a little too much to do with Romans, so far as I can see. How could he walk free unscathed … unless he has closer ties with them than we suspect?’

  Eremon’s hand went to his sword. ‘That is an evil insult.’

  He kept his voice low, but Calgacus rose to stand beside him. ‘Peace,’ he growled at them both. ‘I will have no fight in my hall. The prince of Erin is loyal to Alba, and a sworn enemy of the Romans. He is my ally, and has my full backing.’

  Maelchon looked as if he would say more, but he evidently did not want to speak out openly against Calgacus. He preferred to stir other men to do that for him.

  Calgacus continued mildly. ‘And in answer to the debate in progress before we were interrupted … it does not matter who is appointed war leader, only that our forces are combined for greatest strength. No one is seeking anyone else’s lands. I wish only to keep my own free.’

  He could say it over and over, but Eremon saw, in the eyes of the most recalcitrant chieftains, that they did not believe him. Not before, and certainly not now.

  The Caledonii Ban Cré tottered to the fire to refill the cup. The herbs would help to strengthen the druid’s mind and body, as he lay tossing feverishly. It was plain that he had been living wild in the forest for moons now, eating little.

  She looked down at him, her senses confused and repelled by the emanations of the man, of something more than darkness. There was a void, as if the Source in him had been cut off.

  The sooner he was gone, the better. It would not be long: his physical hurts were slight, and the scratches would soon heal. One good sleep and some broth and the druids would take him back, thank the goddess.

  There was a tap at the door. ‘Yes?’ she called.

  A man came into the lodge and straightened. He was slight and stocky, with tangled black hair. ‘My master wishes to know of the druid. Is he well enough to receive a visitor?’

  ‘He’s sleeping.’

  ‘But he will not lie abed with sickness for long?’

  The old priestess squinted at the man. ‘And why are you asking me all these questions? What do you want?’

  The man hesitated. ‘My master is a powerful king. He wishes to speak with the Epidii druid.’

  ‘And why? What business is it of his?’

  The man scowled. ‘He does not answer to you, old woman. Tonight he will come, and you will tell no one of it.’

  The priestess drew her old bones up to resist him, but they ached, and after a moment she shrugged and turned away. Kings, druids. What did it matter to her?

  The two men stretched their feet out to the brazier in the King’s room, for the evening wind had grown sharp, swinging to the north, driving a squall in from the sea. As the lamplight ducked and leapt, they were silent, each deep in their thoughts, twirling their mead cups.

  There was a light tap on the carved screen, and a steward announced the Lady Rhiann. Calgacus rose and bowed, taking her damp cloak, urging her into his empty chair.

  ‘You had success?’ She searched Eremon’s face, but he only stared moodily into the brazier coals.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Maelchon stirred up the fear of the northerners that an alliance will lead to their subjugation by Calgacus. They will not agree, not now.’

  Rhiann sighed. ‘We feared this, yet what else can we do?’

  Eremon rested his cup on the three-legged table beside him. ‘There is something.’ He glanced at the King, who nodded. ‘Calgacus tells me that not all the tribes were represented at the council. The Caereni and their allies from the western coast chose not to attend.’

  Rhiann nodded. ‘That is not surprising. People from the east travel to the Sacred Isle, but as for the mainland, the tribes there are isolated by the central mountains, and have always kept to themselves. We do not even know their true numbers.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Calgacus agreed. ‘Which is why we need to find out. I would guess that they feel no threat from these Romans, and so took my summons lightly. We must make them see differently, and quickly, before the dissenting kings from this council return home.’

  Eremon leaned forward, his hands on his knees. ‘The King will give us a boat, to sail north and then west around Alba, on a diplomatic mission in his name. Then we get there before the other kings have a chance to spread the false rumours of that slippery druid, and this trouble-maker Maelchon.’

  ‘Druid?’

  Eremon threw a look at her. ‘I’ll tell you everything later. But the King and I feel that it might be best if we leave now. Because of your connection, among other things, Maelchon has fixed his baleful eye on me. I do not wish to damage Calgacus’s efforts with the other kings. What do you think?’

  As he spoke, Rhiann realized that her hands were trembling, her tongue dry against the roof of her mouth. The Caereni lands were so close to the Sacred Isle; to the Sisters. She had gone nowhere near the island since the raid; since she stormed away, determined never to go back, never to face the shame that she had not done enough …

  Now she took a deep breath, seeking calm. They weren’t going to the Sacred Isle. ‘It is a fine idea,’ she said at last. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘In two days, before the kings scatter to their homelands. Calgacus is ordering a boat to be made ready.’

  ‘Then I have something else to do first.’ She turned to Calgacus. ‘Maelchon’s wife has sought my aid, for he is mistreating her. Her kin will not act to protect her, but I must, as a member of the sisterhood. It is our duty to offer protection to all women.’

  Calgacus’s brows knitted together. ‘His wife? What does she accuse him of?’

  ‘I would prefer to keep that private, for her sake. But your own Ban Cré and I have talked with her at length, and her guard also offers proof. I am invoking the law to release her from the marriage.’

  Calgacus sighed. ‘Then this will inflame him even further.’ The lamplight drew the flecks of gold from his eyes. ‘I cannot ask you not to act, under the circumstances, but you are sure this warrants such drastic action?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rhiann’s voice was flat. ‘I am sure.’

  ‘What do you wish to do, then?’

  ‘I am going to confront him now.’

  Eremon jumped to his feet, his mead forgotten. ‘You’re not going near him without me!’

  She smiled. ‘Well, of course not. But I must talk to him alone, with only Dala and the old priestess. I will not shame the girl before other men. You can wait outside.’

  ‘No.’ Eremon was firm. ‘I will stay by your side, with my sword to hand.’

  ‘Eremon, Dala will not speak before you. If you surround the house, there is nothing Maelchon can do, and he knows it.’

  Eremon tried to argue, but Calgacus raised his hand. ‘The Ban Cré is right,’ he said. ‘This is women’s business. Remember that I grew up at the knee of a priestess; I know when to let them be.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could teach that to my husband,’ Rhiann retorted. But as they left, she turned to Eremon. ‘You can stand just inside the door, then, but not too close.’

  Maelchon tried to push aside the fog of rage that clouded his mind.

  The red-haired vixen dared to stand here and accuse him. Accuse
him! In front of his mouse of a wife, and that doddering old healer – and of course, in the background, that cur from Erin. All of them, joining forces against him, like they always did. He shook his head, and focused the force of his attention on the Epidii Ban Cré.

  She did not look away or tremble with fear. Her blue eyes were clear, and they burned with anger. Great gods, that fire and hate aroused him more than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He longed to lay hands on her creamy skin, to shake her until her anger burned all the brighter, and he could conquer it with his body …

  ‘I said, what do you answer to these charges?’

  He caught his thoughts, froze them. ‘That they are unfounded. She is my wife, and under my control.’

  ‘And there you are wrong,’ the vixen snapped. ‘She has her own rights, under the laws of the Mother, as the druid judges will confirm. She cannot be beaten or … taken … in that way. We have a witness from your own lands who will attest to her injuries. I myself have also examined her.’

  Maelchon glared at his wife. She was half-hidden behind the Ban Cré, her head down – as it would be. Behind, the firelight glanced off the sword of the Erin prince, but his face was in shadow. Maelchon had no doubt that there were other swordsmen outside the house – they were all in thrall to the Epidii Queen and her husband, and would do what they said.

  He puts his hands on her, he takes her when I cannot. The red fog swirled and beat on his temples.

  ‘Now, we can debate this before the druids and Calgacus and the other kings, in council, or you can agree to release your wife, here.’

  ‘You have no power to order me like this!’ he growled.

  She smiled. ‘Oh, I do. I understand you have no druids or priestesses in your islands, so you may have forgotten how the laws are applied in civilized lands. Here, what you do is wrong, as all would agree. We can win your wife’s freedom with force if you wish.’

  Maelchon glanced at the prince behind her. The man was quick, and by all accounts deadly with that sword, and he, Maelchon, did not have his own blade to hand. He had been caught unawares in his lodge, without even his own guards to hand.

  Gods! In the end, what did he care for his pathetic wife, anyway? He wanted to get rid of her, and they had given him the way. ‘Bah! She is nothing to me – she is worthless. You can take her.’

  ‘And her dowry?’

  His lip curled. ‘Pitiful though it was, she can have it. I’ll send it to the Caereni when I return home.’

  ‘Good.’

  He watched with beating blood as his wife crept to her bedplace and took her few personal belongings: a shale bracelet, a broken antler comb, an old bronze mirror. And then she scuttled out the door, the old priestess hobbling after.

  The Epidii Ban Cré turned on her heel and left him without a word, as if he were beneath her notice, and only the prince dared to glare at him before following.

  Maelchon stood for an endless time in the centre of the house, as the rage erupted and boiled over inside, drenching his body in a flood of sweat, though he moved not a muscle. If I can’t have her, then, by Taranis and the Dagda and dark Arawn himself, the Erin cub will not.

  And the way had already opened before him.

  Chapter 67

  Calgacus spent the last days of council feasting the kings even more lavishly, mending what bonds had been weakened, trying to create bonds when there were none.

  The time would come, he explained to Eremon, when there would be no choice but to fight. And then, it must be Calgacus those kings ran to in their fear. He must rebuild any bridges that had been weakened by Maelchon.

  The Orcades King himself left immediately after his confrontation with Rhiann, not even taking his leave of Calgacus – although the Caledonii King was grateful for this.

  ‘After knowing his treatment of his wife and people, I don’t wish to look in his face again,’ Calgacus said to Eremon, as they stood on the walls of the dun and watched Maelchon and his followers ride away.

  ‘Is there nothing we can do to find out more of him?’ Eremon asked.

  Calgacus pursed his lips. ‘He patrols his sea-lanes well, and guests are not welcome. Yet I will think on it.’ He sighed as the Creones King also rode out close behind Maelchon, his back stiff, his eyes covered by his helm. ‘So you taste the bitter cup of a king, Eremon. Men’s anger, men’s distrust, men seeking to bring you down.’

  Eremon glanced at him, and noticed for the first time the deep furrows that ran from that hawk nose to a decidedly grim mouth. The council and his son’s treachery had taken a great toll on the King; Eremon remembered suddenly that he was not a young man.

  ‘But there are other things too, lord,’ he murmured now. ‘The respect of those who … who look up to you. Pride, admiration …’ He fixed his gaze on his own hands, clenched on the palisade. ‘Where you lead, there are those true of heart and mind who will follow. Believe it. Alba needs you.’

  The King’s hand came down on his shoulder. ‘I once said you were a poet, prince. As you bend hearts to war with your talk, so you can bend mine to hope. Don’t listen to my old man’s weariness now; your youth and fire will lead us too, as mine did me.’ Eremon looked up to see that the grimness had lifted from the King’s face. ‘My uncle, a great king, said something to me once that I have always remembered: Be true to yourself and your path will always lay straight as a new spear, no matter how twisted and beset by troubles it seems to others.’

  Eremon smiled. ‘That is sound advice.’

  ‘It is. And I have also learnt that as a king, you walk that path alone. It used to seem a harsh choice when I was young, but only alone can you hear the deep music of your heart, and then it will guide you more truly.’

  Eremon thought for a moment. ‘So something I see as a burden is also a source of strength.’

  ‘Yes, it is the making of a great king.’ Calgacus grinned. ‘And there is always time for mead, and tales; never forget that, Eremon! The love of your brother and your men … and your wife … will always be waiting when you return.’ Something deep in the King’s eyes twinkled at mention of Rhiann, and despite the solemn words, Eremon felt himself flush.

  On the morning of their own departure, Calgacus asked to take his leave of Eremon and Rhiann in private, in his hall. When they entered, Calgacus was sitting on his throne, his gold circlet in his hair, his jewelled sword across his knee.

  Eremon glanced down at his own plain tunic and trousers. ‘I fear we have not dressed for such a formal leave-taking, lord.’

  Calgacus smiled, rising to his feet to kiss Rhiann. ‘I am dressed in state because I have a matter of state to address.’

  He beckoned to two servants standing against the walls, and they came to him. One held the great, jewelled mead cup that was passed around at every formal feast, to join honoured guests together as kin. The other held an intricately carved box made of cedar, a fragrant and costly wood from the other side of the Middle Sea, in the desert lands.

  Eremon and Rhiann exchanged glances.

  A third servant, a girl, glided forward with a pitcher of mead, and filled the jewelled cup as the King held it in two hands. Calgacus fixed them both with his golden eyes. ‘I come to offer you a formal alliance with the Caledonii.’

  Eremon heard Rhiann gasp. A formal alliance! Up until now, Calgacus had spoken only of his personal support. This was something entirely different.

  ‘I hereby bond my people to you as brothers and sisters against our common enemy – Rome. We will share our forces, our intelligence, our ideas. And perhaps, our blood.’ Calgacus held Eremon’s eyes as he said this. ‘What is your answer?’

  Eremon cleared his throat. ‘I cannot accept on behalf of the Epidii, in the absence of the council. But I can, and do accept gladly, on behalf of my men and my own people. We will be as brothers, bonded by oaths that cannot be broken.’

  Calgacus smiled. ‘Then pledge with me now, that we will fight together, to do all we can to rid Alba of these in
vaders. Wherever that may take us, to whatever battlefield.’ He raised the cup and sipped from it, then handed it to Eremon.

  ‘I pledge myself and my own forces and, the gods willing, those of the Epidii to fight with you, wherever it may take us.’ Eremon sipped and passed the cup to Rhiann.

  ‘And I pledge my support to both the Epidii and Caledonii as Ban Cré,’ Rhiann added softly, ‘in the defence of my land.’ She took a sip of the golden mead, and the servant took the cup from her.

  Now Calgacus reached to the cedar box and lifted the lid. Eremon caught his breath, expecting to see the glint of gold or bronze; the shine of gems.

  But instead, there on a finely-embroidered cushion lay a stone. It was a disk of polished, dark granite, the size of an apple, though flat, perforated by a hole through which an ochre-stained leather thong was threaded.

  Calgacus lifted the stone by its thong, so it swung in the light, turning around and around. They could just see the lines of carving on both its surfaces.

  ‘I had this made for you by my best stone carver – my best carver now,’ he amended, and for a moment, his mouth tightened. ‘It is not of iron or bronze, for they rust. It is not of gold, for gold is soft. It is of stone: hard, unbending, true and unchanging. It will not perish, or lose its lustre.’ He looked directly at Eremon. ‘It represents my bond to you, for that will be eternal, and never falter.’

  Eremon’s throat seemed to close over, and he swallowed.

  ‘Look closer,’ Calgacus said. On one side of the disk there was the familiar carving of the eagle, its head noble, its eye sharp. And on the other was the most beautiful carving of a boar that Eremon had ever seen. The fierceness of its crest had been caught in stone, its bunching muscles flowed like a song.

  Around the edges ran lines of symbols sacred to the druid kind.

  ‘My personal totem, and yours,’ Calgacus explained, ‘joined together on a message stone. This declares to all who see it that we are allied in soul, for ever.’