The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  Eremon snorted. ‘Perhaps your council would have been better pleased with that! After all, they gained a war leader, but no gold or cattle in exchange for their princess.’ A thought occurred to him, creasing his brow. ‘Do you think they will refuse to make the marriage binding?’

  ‘Eremon!’ Rhiann raised herself up, pillowing her knees on her blue priestess cloak. ‘You sail home with two major alliances, and you’ve trained our men so well we’ve already achieved one great victory against the invaders. How can you still doubt your position here?’

  Eremon was chewing his lip, as he often did when thinking. ‘Because it still isn’t secure, and I can’t make it so with a sword. Not when the enemies may be inside as well as out.’

  ‘You mean Maelchon,’ Rhiann whispered. They believed the king of the Orcades had engineered their shipwreck two weeks ago, but did not know his exact motives.

  Eremon’s mouth hardened into a straight line. Maelchon had left Calgacus’s fort, so he couldn’t be the only person behind the sinking of our boat. He would not have known we were leaving by sea, or when we sailed …’ Suddenly he bit off his words, clamping his lips together with a hint of his old severity.

  And although Rhiann had let the memory of the shipwreck subside, something cold now slithered up her spine. The plunge into the sea … the sucking of freezing water at her mouth and nose …

  Eremon saw her shiver and curved his arm around her, lying back to press her cheek into his chest. His tunic was stiff with salt, and smelled of male sweat, although she found this oddly reassuring. ‘I’m sorry I spoke of this now,’ he whispered. ‘Let me deal with it, a stór, my beloved.’

  His voice vibrated in Rhiann’s ear, yet she resisted closing her eyes and sinking into his strength. ‘You said enemies inside. You mean within the Epidii, my own people?’

  Eremon’s hand stilled on her hair. ‘Only the Epidii warriors knew we were setting sail from Calgacus’s fort. No one else within the dun knew.’

  Rhiann’s mouth dropped open with instinctive denial, but just then all thoughts were banished by the sudden, startled shout of the boat’s captain. He was a black-haired island man, and keen of eye.

  ‘Lord!’ he cried to Eremon, and when Rhiann raised her head she saw he was pointing at the mainland, his other arm clasping the mast, each tendon strung hard under the weathered skin.

  Eremon leaped up so abruptly that Rhiann fell on her hands and knees across the packs, before scrabbling to her feet.

  ‘Prince!’ the sailor shouted again. ‘Smoke! Thick smoke, in the air over Dunadd!’

  CHAPTER 2

  Driven hard by the now desperate oarsmen, the boat shot between the scattered rocks into the Bay of Isles like an arrow released from its string.

  Yet once they rounded the great headland that sheltered the bay from the sea, Rhiann saw that the smoke staining the blue sky came not from Dunadd, but from the signal beacons, lining the high ground to north and south of the bay.

  ‘They are burned out,’ Eremon muttered to Rhiann, shading his eyes to look up at the ridges cloaked in bracken and sheep-bitten turf, with hazel and oak trees spilling down the slopes. There were no flames to be seen, only the trailing smoke of the bonfires.

  Rhiann’s breath was tight and high in her chest. She glanced at Eremon, wanting to speak, but was stopped by the hard glitter of his eyes. The man who had cradled her so gently moments before was gone.

  Conaire, Eremon’s foster-brother, had laid aside his oar to join Eremon in the bow, his lithe leaps from rib to rib belying his great height and build. ‘Do you think it safe to land, brother?’

  Eremon was still, his dark head thrust towards shore like a hound scenting the air. Ahead, the bay had opened up into full view: the broad sweep of marsh surrounding the mouth of the river Add; the river channels snaking over the tidal mudflats; and, further towards the eastern horizon, the blue hills that cupped the plain on which Dunadd sat. Close to the shore was the cluster of roundhouses and jetties that made up the port of Crinan. A pall of smoke hung over the village, yet the buildings themselves seemed whole.

  Across from Crinan, on a headland that curved around the bay like a sheltering arm, the black skeleton of an abandoned dun crouched. That fort had been burned by the Romans less than a year before, and it was the reminder of this attack that had terrified them; the memory of coming over the hills to see smoke against the sky and bodies sprawled among the ruins. Rhiann’s blood was now pounding so hard that her sight shook, and she wiped her sweating palms down the skirt of her dress, trying to calm her breathing.

  Caitlin, Conaire’s wife, flung herself across the oar benches to reach Rhiann, her haste making her uncharacteristically clumsy. Rhiann grasped her thin arm to steady her.

  ‘Wh-what does it mean?’ Caitlin cried, her tiny hand clutching at Rhiann’s fingers. Rhiann looked down into the small, heart-shaped face beneath a cloud of fair hair, tugged from its braids by wind and damp. Caitlin was drawn and pale from the nausea of the voyage, which, though calm, had still affected her now she was expecting a child.

  Rhiann forced a smile and stroked Caitlin’s cold fingers, though she herself was fighting down a wave of panic. ‘I am sure it is nothing,’ she murmured. Just then the backwash from the rocks of the headland made the boat lurch, and Rhiann’s hand had to steady both of them against the single mast.

  ‘There is no outward sign of trouble,’ Eremon at last pronounced, his gaze on the shore. ‘The fishing boats are there on the sand, unharmed. Look! The nobles’ boats are also tied up. There is smoke, but why?’

  Rhiann peeled Caitlin’s fingers from her arm and helped her to Conaire’s side, moving closer to Eremon. ‘Goddess, what of Dunadd?’ Their fort sat in the middle of the marsh on a rock crag, and could not be seen from the sea.

  Eremon chewed fiercely on his lip, then glanced at Conaire. ‘What choice do we have but to land? We are only a few, yet I can see no people at Crinan.’

  Conaire was nodding as he curved his broad arm protectively around his wife, his gold hair a fierce beacon in the sun. ‘We can see nothing from here anyway, brother. If anything is amiss, we are few enough to land and approach Dunadd by stealth, in case there are scouts.’

  Rhiann was feeling sicker by the moment, still trying to shake off the daze of the rocking sea and sunshine. It was still so early in leaf-bud, despite the fine weather. The marsh grass was new and green, yet the tops of the mountains that ringed the plain were still dusted with snow. How could the Romans have come so early in the season? How could they have been caught out again?

  As soon as the boat grated on the mud beach beside the first pier, the warriors were splashing through the shallows, swords drawn. Above, on a spur of rock that guarded the river mouth, the scattering of roundhouses crouched silent beneath their pale thatch roofs. As Eremon had seen, the nobles’ timber boats with their carved prows were bobbing unharmed on their weed-furred ropes. The little hide curraghs were drawn up in rows above the tideline, alongside dugout canoes. Yet there was no bustle of people coming and going, and no children crying. Only a lone dog, tied up against the first house, barked at them in a frenzy.

  At Eremon’s orders, Rhiann and Caitlin stayed in the boat with the Sacred Isle sailors, ready to push off at his sign. But no sooner had his warriors disappeared among the rocks, than Rhiann’s eye was caught by a pale blur in the shadows of the houses. Her heart gave a great lurch as she recognized the shape – her mare Liath, led by a short, rotund man who stumbled past Eremon in agitated haste.

  Drawing up her long robe with both hands, Rhiann put one foot on the railing and jumped down into the shallows, heedless of the freezing water that soaked her leather boots to the skin. ‘Didius!’ she cried, splashing free and breaking into a run.

  In the middle of the sand they met, Didius stumbling and yanking on Liath’s reins, making the mare throw up her head in protest. Rhiann halted, her initial smile of greeting faded. Didius’s plump cheeks were quivering beneath his stra
ggly, black beard, and his nose, the only large, straight thing about him, was red and streaming. ‘Didius?’

  Didius stuffed his fingers in his mouth to halt the sob that rushed out, his black, Roman eyes shining with tears. ‘Lady, I am sorry,’ he gulped at last, the musical Alban speech thickened by his native Latin.

  As Rhiann soothed the mare, stroking her cheeks, Didius snorted and wiped his nose on his tunic sleeve. All of his Roman clothes were long gone, as were his clipped hair and shaven face. If it wasn’t for his swarthy skin and oval eyes he could almost pass for one of the Epidii now, though, because of his girth, not a warrior.

  ‘Didius, what is wrong? Where is everyone?’

  Eremon stepped up now, sheathing his sword on his belt, and the Roman glanced up at the prince with some of his old fear. Yet his distress got the better of him, and he grasped Rhiann’s hand and pressed it between his own. ‘Lady, we thought you drowned! All of you, in the sea!’

  Rhiann drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘Dead?’ That was Eremon. ‘Who said such a thing?’

  ‘The – the chief druid. Gelert.’

  Eremon’s eyes met Rhiann’s, and she saw the same terrible question dawning there. How did the druid know about the shipwreck?

  ‘Didius,’ Rhiann strove to calm her voice, ‘tell us how this happened.’

  Didius’s throat bobbed as he stumbled through an explanation: that after returning from Calgacus’s fort by land, the chief druid went into seclusion, and then emerged to announce that he had been sent a vision from the gods. Rhiann, the tribe’s Ban Cré, the sacred Land Mother, and her husband, the war leader, had drowned at sea.

  As Didius reached the end his breath caught, and Rhiann closed her eyes for a moment, knowing exactly what this news had meant to him, a Roman prisoner, whose only protector among the Epidii had been Rhiann herself. She reached out to squeeze Didius’s callused hand. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that was three days ago, and the mourning has been terrible. People burned offerings in a big bonfire at the water – see, over there – and they lit all the beacons on the cliffs. Now many have gone to Dunadd, and the keening of the women has left no peace anywhere in the fort. The council of elders is at the King’s Hall, and a mourning feast is being prepared. No one will speak to me, they are all so anguished!’

  A chill crept over Rhiann’s skin, for there was one other person who would be utterly devastated by this lie. ‘And what of my aunt, the Lady Linnet? Have you seen her?’

  Didius shook his head until his chins wobbled. ‘No, lady, she has not come.’

  ‘Goddess!’ Rhiann whirled to Eremon. ‘I must go to her now; she will be frantic!’

  Eremon laid a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Soon, a stór.’ He addressed himself sternly to Didius. ‘If this was the news, son of Rome, then why are you here unaccompanied, with my wife’s horse?’

  ‘Eremon!’ Rhiann exclaimed.

  For a moment, the single, buried thread of iron in Didius rose to the surface, in a compression of his wet lips. Yet then it sank away, and embarrassment stole over his plump face. ‘I wasn’t escaping – where would I go? I wasn’t. I just … didn’t believe it.’ He gazed pleadingly at Rhiann. ‘I knew you would return, and I’ve been sleeping here with Liath ever since the druid emerged. Three days now, and watching the sea every day.’

  Rhiann slowly nodded. ‘Then you prove both your loyalty and your keen senses for, as you can see, we are alive and well.’

  Above, faces were now appearing at doorways, and there was a growing murmur of surprised voices from the cluster of houses.

  ‘Rhiann, we must go,’ Eremon ordered, jerking his hand at Colum and Fergus.

  Taking a deep breath, Rhiann glanced over her shoulder at the boat. Conaire had returned to sweep Caitlin into his arms, depositing her gently on the grey sands as Fergus and Colum now began tossing their belongings on to the beach.

  Taking Liath’s reins, Rhiann led the mare to Caitlin and explained what had happened. ‘We must hurry to Dunadd,’ Rhiann finished, ‘and so I wish you to ride Liath, cariad.’

  Caitlin swallowed hard and shook her head. ‘Oh, no, Rhiann, I can’t. You’re the Ban Cré; the people need to see you entering at the gate with proper ceremony.’She tried to draw herself taller, with a bold toss of her fair hair. Yet though she was kin to Rhiann, she didn’t share Rhiann’s height, and the effect was less than defiant. ‘I will walk.’

  Conaire’s blue eyes were shadowed with concern, and he bent his head close to his wife. ‘Beloved, please ride. You got so sick on the boat … ‘

  Conaire caught Rhiann’s eye, as Caitlin set her lip and jutted her chin. Rhiann dropped her voice, wielding her best weapon. ‘Do it for the babe, Caitlin. As your healer, I strongly advise you to rest yourself during these early moons.’

  ‘I don’t …’ Suddenly, Caitlin clapped her hand to her mouth, her arm holding her belly. Her throat moved convulsively, as a fine sweat beaded her forehead, and Rhiann put her hand gently on the back of her neck. Choking down the spasm, Caitlin dropped her hand and breathed deeply. ‘I suppose I must then,’ she conceded at last, and in a rare show of submission allowed Conaire to lift her to the mare’s back. The crew of the boat offered to accompany them, but Eremon refused, telling them to ask for food at the port and return home.

  Desperate with haste, they could spare only moments for the few fisherfolk who emerged from their houses as they passed, touching Rhiann’s hands. Throwing hurried answers to the questions coming from all directions, they took the trade path, which led along the river and across the marsh to Dunadd.

  The banter of the sea journey had been replaced with silence. Colum’s face had set into even grimmer lines than usual, his blue eyes hard beneath his stringy cap of thinning, grey hair. Fergus was watchful, scanning the shadows beneath the river trees. Didius’s short legs made him the slowest, and though he must puff and pant with his head down to keep up, his black eyes kept darting to Rhiann’s face, as if to assure himself she was truly there.

  When Dunadd emerged into view above the banks of river alders and willows, Rhiann realized she had braced herself to see some sign of disaster on the walls. But from afar there seemed nothing amiss.

  The single rock crag still reared proudly from the red marsh; the timber palisade of the village at its feet marching around it in stout oak stakes. The thatched roofs of the nobles’ houses, high on the crag’s crest, glowed like sun on ripe barley. And the scarlet and white banner of the White Mare, the emblem of Rhiann’s royal clan, rippled from the apex of the King’s Hall, set on the dun’s highest point.

  Something else was the same, too. The roofless circle of oak pillars that was the druid shrine still squatted beside the King’s Hall, as threatening to Rhiann as ever. For the shrine was the chief druid’s realm – Gelert must have announced their deaths there.

  And how? Rhiann wondered again. How could Gelert know? Yet Didius’s words called forth a powerful memory that had been subsumed by the shipwreck and all that happened after; the druid standing on the shore above Calgacus’s dun, watching their boat leave.

  Glancing at her, Eremon immediately drew her close and raised her hand to his lips. I know, his look said. I know, too.

  Even in his salt-stained tunic and trousers, with stubble shadowing his brown skin, Eremon looked every bit a prince, and Rhiann resolutely tried to take comfort from that. The more plainly he dressed, the straighter his back and shoulders seemed. And when his face was darkened with sun and dirt, the green of his eyes blazed all the brighter. He was a match for Gelert, she had to believe that.

  And what about me? Rhiann thought, with a flare of fierce pride, remembering what lay within her own soul. In the stone circle she had felt the Goddess fill her with the light of the Source – the life force which ran through all things. In that sacred space and with her surrender to Eremon, the connection between her body and the spirit world had been mended.

  And as she summoned it, the wordless joy
Rhiann had floated in that night now surged again, strengthening her. Slowly, she opened her eyes, the afterglare of the sun dancing in spots before her nose. She could face Gelert and Maelchon and even Agricola. She could. She must.

  They had not even fully crossed the causeway over the river when the first shouts rang out from people gathered on the meadow, digging the baking pits for the mourning feast. Then the cry of a horn soared up from the timber tower that spanned Dunadd’s main gate.

  They had been seen.

  CHAPTER 3

  They had barely emerged from the gatetower into the sun-filled yard inside the palisade when the shouts of recognition and surprise began, and the bellows of warriors from the walkway that ran along the walls.

  Most people had been inside, sharing the quiet of mourning, their doors smeared with spirals of rowan-ash and mutton-fat, their house banners taken down and folded away. Yet now, drawn by the noise, people came running from their clustered houses and down the twisting paths between the workshops and granaries: men with skinning knives; women with flour spilling down their skirts. Dogs writhed and jumped about in a frenzy of barking, and crying children were dragged along by their mothers. Within moments Rhiann was surrounded by a crowd all talking at once, as Conaire lifted Caitlin down from Liath, and Eremon tried to field the clamour of questions.

  Pale faces swam in the shadow of the gatetower, or were lit to blinding brightness in the sun. People touched Rhiann’s cloak, grasped her hands, assuring themselves she was alive. Their distress and relief was palpable, catching Rhiann by surprise.

  She was the Ban Cré, sacred vessel for the Goddess, servant for the people. Yet she hadn’t understood, or allowed herself to believe, that they loved her. The realization rose warm in Rhiann’s heart, overwhelming after what she had felt outside, and she had to swallow it down to smile her reassurance for them.