The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  Caitlin, whose bravado had made her a favourite since her arrival the year before, had now all but disappeared beneath a mass of milling women, and Rhiann was just about to rescue her when a pair of sturdy arms were suddenly flung around her.

  Stunned, at first Rhiann could not recognize the broken voice babbling in her ear, and it wasn’t until the woman held her at arm’s length that Rhiann recognized her friend, the blacksmith’s wife Aldera, her round, ruddy face streaming with tears, her butter-coloured hair wet with them.

  ‘Rhiann, we thought you dead! Yet Didius was right that you were alive … by all the gods!’ Rhiann’s face was pressed into a plump shoulder redolent with the scents of woodsmoke, swaddling cloths and sour milk.

  ‘It … was a mistake …’ Rhiann mumbled into the folds of Aldera’s dress.

  Then Aldera was holding her out again with one hand, wiping her tear-streaked face and blowing her nose into her sleeve, as three of her five children tugged on her skirts, the baby wailing at this unusual show of emotion. Aldera looked down at her eldest boy. ‘Quickly now! Run to the King’s Hall and tell the council there the war leader and Ban Cré have returned safely!’

  The child nodded and rubbed his nose, his eyes huge, but as he turned to scamper away, a hand shot out and grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling him to a startled halt.

  ‘No,’ Eremon said, his eyes meeting Rhiann’s over the boy’s head. ‘I will go myself, and deliver my own surprise.’ He released the boy and clapped his shoulder in a more manly way. ‘You stay here, lad, and look after the women.’

  Eremon spared a glance for Conaire now and, as usual, the two brothers needed no words between them. Jerking his head at Fergus and Colum to follow, Conaire dropped a kiss on Caitlin’s head and fell into step behind Eremon.

  Those people flowing down towards the gate parted as the four warriors drove their way up the muddy path that snaked between the roundhouses, granaries and stables, up the steep, rock stairs of the crag and under the carved wooden arch of the Moon Gate, which guarded the crag’s first tier.

  Here, the nobles’ houses were set above the village, but they were silent and grim now, their round walls in cold shadow. The bright banners of horse, stag and wolf that normally fluttered from every roof tree and carved door-post had been taken down as a mark of mourning.

  Eremon spared no glance as faces appeared at every door, drawn by the shouts from below. Speed was of the essence, because on entering Dunadd he had been struck by an idea. If he took the council by surprise, their reactions might reveal what they would otherwise keep hidden.

  With his men behind, Eremon leaped up the last set of rock stairs and through the carved arch of the Horse Gate, which led to the uppermost tier. The only buildings on the crest were the druid shrine and the King’s Hall, the largest roundhouse in the village. Framing an ornate set of double oak doors, its conical thatch roof swept almost to the ground, rising to a point seven spear-lengths above.

  There were no guards at the open door and, pushing past the few servants, Eremon burst into the hearth-space of the Hall, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim, smoky haze. He ignored the confusion of spears and shields on the curved walls, the painted and carved roof-pillars, the flickering flames in the huge hearth-pit. All he sought for was the ring of council benches, and the faces of those who sat on them, staring up at him in utter shock. Unlike the men of Erin, Alban warriors all sported face tattoos, and the dark blue lines writhed fearsomely in the firelight.

  Fixing on the palest robe, Eremon saw the chief druid Gelert first. Sure enough, within his tangled grey beard, the druid’s thin mouth had fallen open in horror, and those yellow eyes gleamed with quickly veiled malice. Horror and hatred told their own story.

  Yet beside Gelert was someone Eremon had not expected to see here at Dunadd: Urben, the chief of a secondary Epidii clan. A powerful noble who had wanted his son to be king and war leader when the old king died – hopes thwarted by Eremon’s chance arrival – Urben’s shock mirrored Gelert’s, except that his grey eyes flashed with anger and clear dismay.

  Urben’s son Lorn, the object of his sire’s ambitions, was different again. The immaculate young Epidii warrior had his ale cup halfway to his mouth. At Eremon’s sudden appearance it paused in mid-air, but the glacial grey eyes above the gilded horn rim showed only surprise.

  And that was all Eremon could see before the rest of the council reacted more forcefully. Talorc, the old king’s cousin, leaped to his feet and threw his huge arms around Eremon, exclaiming his shock and delight. Lost for a moment in a bushy, red beard that reeked of ale and boar meat, Eremon had time to register a jolt of relief. Not Talorc, then. His loyalty had been real.

  Belen, another royal cousin, backed up Talorc with a thump on Eremon’s back, the fierceness of his tattoos melted by his grin. By the gods, lad!’ he cried joyfully, quite forgetting Eremon’s rank. ‘We sit here drinking your funeral ale, yet here you are, alive!’

  Extricating himself from Talorc’s arms, Eremon quickly scanned the rest of the council, though they had by now guarded their expressions. It was a mixture, as he’d expected. Some were on their feet, some stayed seated. Some were pleased to see him, and some, like Tharan, always the greatest opponent of Eremon’s schemes, had already carefully veiled their true thoughts.

  But no matter. Eremon had seen what he needed to in one person. He turned now as the three Erin men he had left behind appeared at the edges of the fire, their faces pale with shock and relief. Old Finan, Colum’s sword-mate, was so overcome he also thumped Eremon on the back. The youngest warrior, Rori, stared and then ducked his face, his red hair swinging over flaming cheeks. Eremon’s young bard Aedan was also speechless for once, clutching his harp to his chest as if he were drowning.

  ‘Peace,’ Eremon said to them, moved by their emotion, as Conaire, Colum and Fergus surrounded them, clapping shoulders and murmuring reassurance.

  Not willing to lose the advantage of surprise, Eremon took a breath, and turned to plant himself before the muttering ranks of nobles, deliberately leaning on the ornate scabbard of his father’s great sword, so the firelight glinted on its curling bronze and gold designs. ‘Yes, I have returned,’ he declared, his voice rising over the mutters, waiting for the men to fall silent.

  And in that moment, Eremon struggled to gain some calm over the confused mix of anger, fear and hurt that suddenly bloomed in his chest, taking him by surprise. It had brought it all back to him, these faces of betrayal. His uncle and kin turning on him with jealousy and hatred in their eyes, exiling him from Erin and his dead father’s Hall. The hurt that had lodged then in his heart like a ragged shard of iron, pierced even now. You do your best for people, to serve them well, and they turn on you, like this … Eremon fought for control, forcing the old feelings aside, holding up his hand. Not all had betrayed him here, not all. He had to remember that.

  Gradually, the babble of voices died away, and it was only then that Eremon speared the chief druid with his hard gaze. It appears that the news of our death was somewhat premature. An easy mistake to make, no doubt.’

  Many pairs of eyes slid towards Gelert, but the druid said nothing, his knuckles pushing white and bony through his dry skin, as he gripped his owl-head staff.

  ‘These things happen sometimes, prince,’ someone else put in hastily, and Eremon swung towards the speaker. It was Gelert’s deputy, Declan, a reasonable man, and one not given to guile. ‘The Source does not always reveal itself clearly,’ Declan added, his eyes darting uncertainly from Eremon to his chief druid.

  ‘No.’ Gelert spoke at last, his voice as thin and cracked as the skin on his face. ‘Not always clearly.’

  Eremon shrugged. ‘Certainly this time, not clearly. Still, no real harm is done.’ He turned his attentions to the warrior-nobles, relaxing his face into a pleasant smile. He must re-establish himself right now, here, when they were disconcerted. He must take their attention from what they were no doubt beginning to discuss �
� the rule of the tribe – and bring them back into his vision, holding them there.

  ‘I am glad you are all together,’ he began, ‘for I have a strange tale for you. I feel you may be even more pleased with it than my sudden reappearance.’ He smiled wryly, and there was a ripple of uneasy laughter. Eremon then reached into the neck of his tunic and took hold of the boar stone, which hung against his skin on an ochre-dyed thong. ‘Whatever you were discussing, I ask that you put it aside for the moment, for things are stirring in the matter of the Romans, beyond Epidii lands. And now I come to tell you that our tribe is no longer acting alone.’

  Talorc was frowning. ‘What are you talking about, prince?’

  Slowly, Eremon withdrew the stone on its thong: a thin, polished disk of dark granite. ‘One side is carved with the eagle, the totem of Calgacus the Sword. The other is the Boar.’ He dropped the stone so it lay against his tunic. ‘My own totem.’

  ‘And what has this to do with us?’ Urben interjected, his mouth hidden by his ale cup. ‘Prince.’

  Eremon met Urben’s cold gaze. ‘Calgacus of the Caledonii offered an alliance between his tribe and the Epidii, yet in your absence I could not speak for you. So he made this binding oath with my people, and any who wish to join me.’ He straightened his shoulders, unable to hold back the pride that warmed his chest. ‘We now have the strength of the most powerful tribe in Alba behind us, when the Romans come!’

  Tharan was peering up at the boar stone, his sharp eyes unimpressed. ‘And if they come, still it will not be enough. As rich as Calgacus is, of what use is an alliance with a tribe at the other end of Alba?’

  Biting the inside of his lip for patience, Eremon transferred his attentions to the old warrior. ‘Then listen to the other part of my news. By the will of the gods, on the Sacred Isle I was made the King Stag, the sacred war leader of the Caereni and Carnonacae – and given the sacred tattoos.’ He paused, and with a dramatic flourish raised his tunic, showing them the flowing designs lately carved into his chest and the flat plane of his belly. ‘Their warriors are now mine to command in defence of Alba, as I choose it. Their lands border your own … their people are many. Perhaps this interests you more, especially since you also border the Creones, and they are no friends of yours.’

  As Eremon dropped his tunic he recognized expressions that were much more satisfying: greed, calculation and, above all, respect – grudging or otherwise. Yet he had not finished. In a sudden burst of inspiration he realized he had one more thing to announce, which would strengthen his power over these men even more. He glanced at Conaire behind his shoulder, but there was no time to gain his brother’s leave.

  ‘There is more news, closer to home but of great interest to you all,’ Eremon added, holding his hand up again to stem the tide of rumbling voices. He beckoned Conaire forward, reaching up to rest his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘The Lady Caitlin is to bear a child to my brother, Conaire mac Lugaid.’ Glancing at Conaire out of the corner of one eye, Eremon was pleased to see the pride which swelled his brother’s chest, although the effect was diluted by Conaire’s abashed grin.

  Eremon had just opened his mouth to continue when there was the sudden, discordant twang of a harp string. Looking towards Aedan, he saw that his bard’s sweet face was transfigured.

  ‘My lord!’ Aedan burst out, his shining eyes darting from Conaire to Eremon, forgetting in his joy just where he was. ‘But the Lady Caitlin is the Lady Linnet’s daughter, and so she too carries the old king’s bloodline. Her son could be an Epidii king!’

  Eremon closed his mouth to smother a smile. Though inappropriate, Aedan’s outburst had clearly stated his message to these nobles. When Aedan realized what he’d done he’d be mortified, of course, but right now all Eremon wanted to do was embrace him.

  There was another shocked silence as this news and its implications sank in. Eremon risked a glance at Urben, and now the old chieftain was truly glowering, the rage suffusing his heavy cheeks with blood. The darkness in his face made a glittering mockery of the profusion of gold rings and bracelets and brooches that covered his rich clothes. No doubt, Eremon thought grimly, Urben had been about to argue that his son Lorn was the obvious candidate both for the kingship, since there were no closer heirs, and for Eremon’s rule of the war band, since there was no longer an Eremon.

  Except that there is – and here I am. Eremon bit down a grim smile, but again it was Talorc who responded with the appropriate pleasure.

  ‘A royal heir!’ he cried, this time smothering Conaire in a bearded embrace. ‘Well done, son of Lugaid! Well done!’

  Grinning even more sheepishly, Conaire accepted the congratulations of the well-meaning nobles, while Gelert, Urben and Lorn sat frozen, as if part of the scene on the wall-hanging behind them.

  At last Urben lumbered to his feet, the fringe of his bearskin cloak brushing the ground. He pushed past Eremon in a waft of sour sweat and ale, briefly dipping his blunt, grizzled head. ‘My compliments to the lady, your man and to yourself, prince.’ His eyes bored into Eremon’s. ‘We were discussing the appropriate form of mourning for one of your … position and talents … but happily these discussions can be put aside now.’ Glancing sharply at his son, he barked, ‘Come! We have spent enough time away from our own dun. We must ride now to be back before dark.’

  Urben had barely disappeared out the door when Talorc gripped Eremon by the shoulder once more, his wide grin disappearing into his red beard. ‘The funeral ale can easily be drunk in celebration, aye?’ he cried heartily.

  Eremon let his face relax into a more natural smile now, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘Well, it’s not every day a man gets to attend his own mourning feast, after all.’

  Talorc laughed, and beckoned to the servants hovering by the walls. ‘Bring the pitchers!’ he roared, waving his horn cup. ‘And more food!’

  As soon as Eremon disappeared, Rhiann had given in to her own sense of urgency.

  On dismounting, Caitlin had turned so pale that Aldera, brooking no resistance, herded her into her own house by the gate, to let her rest. Rhiann waited only long enough to see Caitlin seated at the hearth among a pack of children, before she ducked back outside, nearly colliding with Didius.

  Grasping him by the arms, Rhiann muttered, ‘Stay and watch over her,’ before she broke away and hurried up the village path in Eremon’s wake. Her maid Eithne had also been left behind when they went north, and Rhiann must settle her distress first before she could seek out Linnet.

  Though the day was warm, Rhiann was dismayed to see that her door-hide was down, not tied back for fine weather. She paused for a moment, apprehensive, then lifted it and bent under to enter the house.

  The first thing that assailed her was the smell. Her rafters were clustered with drying herbs and roots, and many years of healing brews, beeswax, honey and sharp dyes had scented the wall hangings, rugs and cushions set on the floor around the hearth. But now a mustiness pricked at her nostrils, the sourness of unwashed linens and unclean cooking pots, and the dank that comes when no fire has been lit for many days.

  Before the cold hearth-pit in the centre of the roundhouse sat a lone figure, curled into the rush chair that Didius had made for Rhiann. Around her the floor cushions were in disarray, as if they had been tossed around in a rage of grief. So sunk in misery was the girl, that she didn’t even notice Rhiann’s steps on the floor rushes.

  ‘Eithne?’ Rhiann whispered, sensing the sorrow hanging heavy in the air.

  Eithne started and raised her face, eyes wide and unseeing with terror. ‘Mother of All!’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t hurt me, mistress, with your spirit breath!’ She buried her head in her arms, quaking. ‘Don’t hurt me, please!’

  ‘Eithne,’ Rhiann said again, and reached out to touch the maid’s thin, shaking shoulder. She could feel the delicate bones beneath her hand, pushing through the taut skin. ‘I am alive, I am really here.’

  Eithne curled herself into a tighter ball, though she di
d raise her dirty, tear-streaked face. ‘Lady?’ she whispered. ‘Lady?’

  Swallowing, Rhiann brushed Eithne’s black hair from her flushed cheeks. ‘See here,’ she said, as if gentling a foal. ‘I am here. Feel me.’

  One tiny, work-roughened hand, the nails crusted with dirt, crept up to cover Rhiann’s own. There was a moment of utter stillness, and then Eithne flung herself from the chair into Rhiann’s arms, collapsing in a flood of choked sobs that rocked them both on their heels.

  ‘Hush now,’ Rhiann murmured, rubbing between the girl’s shoulder-blades. Yet of course this outpouring drew the tears Rhiann had successfully squashed in her chest up to cloud her throat, and she swallowed even harder, her eyes stinging. She could feel the head-to-toe trembling of the small, seemingly fragile body in her arms, though she knew also of the wiry strength in Eithne that could grind grain for hours, and haul water from the well.

  ‘Now,’ Rhiann choked out, smiling through her tears, ‘sit right there, and let me make this a place of the living once more.’

  Shivering with shock, Eithne wiped her face on her sleeve and sank back into the chair, watching Rhiann light the fire and tie up the hanging. Then Rhiann sat on the oak hearth-bench and coaxed the same story from the maid that Didius had given.

  ‘I thought of going back to my mother’s,’ Eithne whispered now. ‘Even though Rori offered to look after me … but … but I wasn’t ready to go anywhere, not with all your things here, lady, just as you left them.’

  And indeed, the digging sticks against the wall still had earth clinging to them, and on a stool by the loom was a crumple of linen Rhiann had been embroidering on her last night here. Her healing bench was stacked with hastily sealed jars of macerating leaves, and covered trays of buds steeping in honey.

  It was a wrenching thought, of Eithne sitting here alone amongst Rhiann and Caitlin’s belongings. Just then Rhiann’s eye fell on one side of the fire. Though Rhiann had taken her goddess figurines with her on her journey, the tiny, squat figure of the triple-faced Mother was still resting in her place on the hearthstone, guarding the home. Yet her feet were nearly smothered in a congealing mess of dried milk and barley grains – Eithne’s offerings, which looked like they had been flung there in desperate grief.