The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  His heart thudded against Rhiann’s ear, strong against the uncertain tripping of her own. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, cariad.I … I just—’

  ‘Shhh.’ He held her tighter, and she breathed deeply of the smoke caught in the folds of his tunic. ‘I told you I would be there as you faced those memories, and here I am. There is no rush, sweetheart, no rush at all.’

  Her bitter laugh was half a sob. ‘No rush? When you will be gone to war soon, and may not come back?’ She curled around the sudden plunge of shame in her belly, but he only held her tighter.

  ‘I knew it would be hard for you,’ he continued evenly, ‘lying here so close to those you know. But I have in mind a place, a way to make you feel safe, and there I will show you what it means to love, in a way that leaves no room for fear.’

  ‘A place?’ She raised her face, searching for his darkened eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  He loosened his arms and pressed one finger against her lips, pupils wide in the flickering lamplight. ‘You’ll see. Just trust me.’

  She stroked his cheek. He still hadn’t paused to shave, and she wondered at the unfamiliar feel of stubble. ‘I do trust you; you mustn’t think I don’t. Or that I don’t … want you.’ She glanced down to where his brown throat disappeared under the embroidered hem of his tunic, saw the lump there bob as he swallowed, his gaze following her own. She remembered when that wanting did flow through her, in the stone circle, the feel of that smooth skin under deer-hide. ‘I won’t disappoint you,’ she whispered desperately. ‘I won’t—’

  ‘Hush,’ he only said again.

  And though Eremon kept his tunic on as he always had, everything else was different this night. For the gulf of cold sheets between them was no more, filled now with the sweet, warm curve of bodies, as he held her, back tucked against his belly, legs tangled into one.

  Over the years Rhiann’s dream had evolved as she evolved, and this night it changed again, as she and Eremon held each other for the first true time in their own bed.

  The valley was the same, just as she described it to Linnet, the cauldron warm and tingling in her hands, brimming with the light of the Source. Beside her, Eremon stood, his unsheathed sword in both hands. But now she could see his face fully, his dark hair spilling from beneath his Erin boar-crest war helmet, the line of shadow that edged his jaw as he raised his face. Up there, where the jagged peaks reared, the far clash of arms sounded, accompanied by the scream of eagles.

  ‘Eremon.’ She heard her own voice, a note of fear in it. ‘They’ll take it, Eremon. They’ll take the Source and leave us nothing. I can’t save our people then, don’t you see? I can’t save them without the Source.’

  Yet Eremon gazed at her calmly, and the flame that licked up from the cauldron was reflected in his eyes. I won’t let them take it, my wife.’

  Suddenly an eagle’s shriek pierced the air directly above, and they both looked up. For the first time in memory she saw it then: a shadow of great wings, a huge, outspread figure that blotted out the stars. And the cry broke free from Rhiann’s throat. ‘They come! The Romans come!’

  And Eremon’s hands were on Rhiann’s shoulders, shaking her gently awake. She blinked her eyes open into pure night, still tasting the echo of that cry on her tongue.

  ‘It is me, love.’ Eremon’s voice was soft and sure in her ear. ‘I am here. You are safe.’ His hands, pulling her back to herself. His breath brushing her face, moth wings in the dark.

  Rhiann’s chest heaved, and she pushed a hand under her breastbone to calm it. When at last she could speak, it was not to allay his fears. She groped for his cheek, cupped his chin. ‘Eremon,’ she hissed. ‘The Romans are on the move – you must find out where they will strike, for they sit idle no longer.’

  He was silent for a long moment. ‘Are you sure?’

  In answer her fingers found his mouth, and unthinking, desperate, she pulled his lips to hers as if to assure herself he was here, warm and alive. He tasted of ale and salty meat, he tasted of Eremon, and she broke away and buried her face in his shoulder.

  When he felt her trembling, he rolled over to his back and pulled her into the curve of his body.

  ‘I am sure,’ she whispered, her eyes open in the darkness. ‘They are moving.’

  Though Eremon at last fell into an uneasy sleep, Rhiann could not. She lay until the grey dawn crept under the wide oak doors below and climbed the stairs.

  Then she rose, sliding her cloak from the wicker screen, taking her shoes from beside the bed. Silently she crept past the other bedplaces and down the stairs.

  By the banked fire, Cù raised his grey snout from among the old king’s hounds. She paused to pat him as she stirred the coals up with a poker, feeding them with twigs and bark from the wood basket until the flames were bright and new, pushing back the last of the darkness. Against the walls, the dark humps of the other men did not stir, for they had sat up late drinking, judging by the scattering of empty alder cups on the hearth-benches, and the few pig-bones that even the dogs had left.

  Rhiann set the tripod over the low flames, filled the iron kettle from the water pot by the door, and scattered in a handful of dried nettle-leaves. Then she went to the porch and scraped open the door, settling her cloak around her shoulders, deep in thought.

  The eaves outside dripped with dew, and all was grey and cold, the thatched houses below hunched and silent, awaiting the sunrise. The women’s waste pit was against the south-east wall of the crag, and she was returning through the Horse Gate, her head burrowed into her cloak, when she realized someone was blocking her path.

  It was Gelert, on his way to the shrine for the sun greeting, his owl-head staff held high before him as if to cleave the mist.

  The druids concerned themselves with things of the sky and stars; the science of marking time; when to sow and harvest and hold the festivals to honour the gods. The priestesses were of the earth, the slower rhythms of growth and birth. Each could respect the other, yet Gelert despised all things female. Rhiann knew that her mother had rejected him in his youth, but the hatred of women must come from somewhere deeper even than that. She didn’t understand; she would never understand.

  Such confusion always unnerved her, and now Rhiann drew her cloak closed and made to go past him, her chin down. As she did, she glimpsed the way Gelert’s cold, yellow eyes slid over her body, suggestive not of lust, but of other dark things. Once, he’d waited to see that belly swell, as proof Eremon had taken her by force, making her life a misery. Now, she realized, he would want to see it flat, for his hopes of controlling them had come to nothing, and he would not want their heirs ruling Dunadd.

  In a sudden burst of defiance Rhiann dropped her crossed arms and straightened. Don’t be afraid. It feeds him.

  At her scornful gaze, something in his own eyes lit and he smiled, the faint tattoos on his ageing cheeks stretching into jagged lines. ‘I am pleased to see our Ban Cré so robust, so healthy. So unharmed by her recent travails.’

  Rhiann’s mouth twisted, the accusation hovering on her tongue. But she’d already decided she didn’t want to invite his ire; she didn’t want him to think of her and her loved ones at all. So she swallowed down the bitter words, brushing her hair back from her shoulders. ‘Yes, I am well, as you can see, and I have you to thank for that.’

  The wing of Gelert’s eyebrow quivered among the straggling strands of his long, grey hair. ‘Oh? Pray do tell me, that I may serve you the greater.’

  ‘Why, choosing such a man for me, brother druid.’ Rhiann smiled sweetly and, to her satisfaction, the muscle in Gelert’s flaccid cheek jumped. ‘You have given me more than I ever hoped for – how could any man win the hearts of the Epidii so quickly, so completely, as Eremon? Such a man has not been seen for generations.’

  Gelert’s thin mouth worked in what passed for a smile. ‘He’s won nothing so completely, girl.’ His glance dropped again to her flat belly. ‘Neither have you, I see.’

  So insolent,
as if he owned her. Hot anger rose in her throat. ‘And yet a child of the Erin blood, of my blood, does indeed already quicken, as you well know. He will sit in this Hall when you are no more than ashes on the wind.’

  Gelert blinked. ‘Ah, yes, the other whelp breeds, does she not? Interesting.’ He spoke of Caitlin as if she were a dog.

  Rhiann’s bold spurt of anger quickly died. She crossed her arms again. Under her fingers, bumps had risen on her skin. ‘Conaire and Eremon, indeed all the men, have taken this child to their hearts, though he is not yet born.’ She didn’t know why she said it, for her voice was strained, and Gelert’s gaze came back from the distant sky and sharpened on her face.

  ‘Indeed? Then I hope that the child comes safely in these uncertain times.’

  At those words the chill sank through Rhiann’s skin. Then Gelert’s eyes slid to one side, as a cough and shuffling of feet came from behind her.

  Rhiann glanced back. It was Didius, standing there with a determined look on his face, his dark eyes wavering only slightly as he stared somewhere towards Gelert’s knees. Rhiann nearly laughed aloud with relief. Didius had once vowed to be her personal guard, and he certainly had an uncanny knack of knowing when he was needed.

  ‘Curious,’ Gelert observed, ‘how you and your man strive against our dreaded enemy and yet keep one of them here as your hound at heel. Anyone would think you had something different in mind than mere defence.’

  ‘They are our enemies, and remain so,’ Rhiann replied coolly, turning back to him. ‘Didius is a prisoner, as you well know.’ She was belatedly conscious that Didius was also best away from Gelert’s attention.

  Gelert eyed Didius’s unbound wrists and legs with the same derision with which he’d studied her belly. ‘A prisoner, or an envoy? It is remarkable how such things can be easily mistaken.’ He glided away towards the shrine, his pale robe blending with the mist.

  Rhiann held her tongue for a moment, breathing steadily through her nose. Then she smiled wanly down at Didius. ‘I am sorry.’

  Didius was looking after Gelert like a stiff-backed hound, his body trembling, and Rhiann laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep away from him,’ she murmured. ‘Do not let his eye fall on you for any reason. He bears me no love, and extends the same to those I care for.’

  A flush of surprised pleasure warmed Didius’s cheeks, and he dropped his eyes to his feet.

  Rhiann smiled. ‘You are part of my household now – I extend that care to you.’

  The kettle was steaming when Rhiann and Didius went back inside the Hall. Rhiann poured tea for both of them and took hers back to bed. Eremon stirred when she eased under the covers, flinging an arm out over her thighs, but he did not fully awaken.

  Rhiann held the cup to warm her fingers, gazing up at the hanging on the wall by the bed, seeing with her eyes only dark shapes against light, yet knowing every thread of it better than she knew her own face. Her mother had woven it before Rhiann was born, and it depicted the goddess Rhiannon on her White Mare. The mare’s sides were so pure they shone almost silver, and Rhiannon’s blue cloak trailed stars. The scene glowed with power, the power of woman and the Goddess, the Great Mother. And Rhiann had not only been named after this Goddess, but was also She incarnate, the Mother of the Land for her people.

  So how can I let myself fear Gelert so? Rhiann grumbled to herself, burrowing deeper into the warm nest of furs. I am my mother’s daughter. She faced him and scorned him, and I can, too.

  But her mother was long dead now, taken to the Otherworld by Rhiann’s birth. Safe from the reach of one such as he.

  CHAPTER 8

  On the hills east of Dunadd, looking out over the marshy plain, Eremon’s black stallion, Dórn, snorted and pawed the muddy ground. In the two weeks since Rhiann and Eremon’s return, leaf-bud had strengthened its hold, and the marsh and crag below were hazed by a pall of cooking smoke that hung low and still in the sun-warmed air.

  ‘He’s eager for home,’ Conaire remarked, flexing the mailshirt stretched across his massive shoulders.

  Eremon patted Dórn’s arched neck. ‘Eager for honey and mash, more like.’

  ‘We all need to be home.’ Lorn crossed his hands on his own reins. ‘I must fly now to my father’s dun, to deliver this news myself.’

  Eremon glanced at the young Epidii lord, resplendent in a scarlet tunic and checked trousers, a hardened leather jerkin he had freshly greased, and over it a new-dyed green cloak. Lorn didn’t look as if he’d just ridden hard over the mountains and slept for a week on the ground with the scouts, chewing dried venison and hard-baked bread. His silver-gilt hair was neatly tied back with a deer-hide thong; Eremon had watched him comb it from the corner of a half-opened eye that morning. Lorn had even shaved, so the rearing bear tattoo – Urben’s totem – was clearly outlined on his cheek. Eremon, in contrast, probably looked as he felt, and he rubbed his temples now in an effort to soften his headache.

  ‘There’s no need to alarm your clan,’ he replied, squinting in the bright sun that spilled over the heather slopes. ‘I don’t want any rumours spreading that the Romans are marching this way, because at present they are not.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Lorn corrected. ‘But my father must know they have left their camps, for we command the southern defences, in case you have forgotten.’

  Conaire, watching Lorn with veiled eyes, made a sound deep in his throat.

  Eremon sat back in his saddle. ‘No, I had not forgotten,’ he answered dryly. They had seen nothing of Lorn or Urben, until Lorn turned up unexpectedly with a hundred of his own warriors, to continue their training as part of the warband. Nothing had been said, either of Eremon’s return, or Urben’s reaction to it. For the moment, Eremon had decided to let this lie, for he needed the men, and the cohesion of the tribe, and keeping an eye on Lorn was easier with him close by. And though Eremon wasn’t thrilled to admit it, Lorn was a fine warrior.

  ‘All we know is that there is a greater movement of Roman soldiers across their frontier,’ Eremon added patiently, scratching his sweaty neck above his own mailshirt. ‘In the absence of other information, this means little; I don’t want to cause unnecessary panic.’

  Lorn tossed his fair hair in a gesture Eremon had only seen Caitlin use. With her, it was amusing and endearing; with Lorn, strangely irritating. ‘They are moving,’ Lorn emphasized, ‘and this means a change. If they come suddenly west, then by the Mare it will be my people who die first.’

  ‘Eremon’s chain of scouts works perfectly,’ Conaire pointed out, yet Eremon sensed the effort of his even tone. ‘We would know of their approach long before, leaving enough time to move your clan.’

  Lorn turned glacial grey eyes on Conaire. ‘As the Damnonii knew, son of Lugaid? As the Selgovae knew?’

  Conaire flushed, and his head dipped bullishly between his shoulders. ‘The Selgovae didn’t have Eremon. The Damnonii didn’t either, until we went to help them.’

  Eremon shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for this reminder of the Damnonii brought back the shame. He had helped them to destroy a Roman fort two years ago, but Agricola’s retaliation had been more brutal than any expected, and now the Damnonii were a scattered people. It was not a success he wanted to repeat; if he hadn’t offered his help, perhaps those warriors would still be alive. And Roman slaves, he reminded himself sharply.

  ‘Son of Urben,’ he said to Lorn, ‘alert your father, but at this stage, not your other chieftains, and don’t allow the rumours to start. Your defences are enough for now, until we know more. Agreed?’

  Lorn raised his chin, nodded sharply and wheeled his horse, a bay larger than Dórn and with red-painted hooves. Sketching a wave, Lorn took off down the slope at a reckless speed into a thick bank of woods, his green cloak flying.

  Conaire let out a strangled grunt, shaking his messy halo of gold hair, which could barely be tamed into braids. Why did he bother swearing to you as war leader if he argues about everything?’

  Eremon rubb
ed his stubbled chin ruefully. ‘He swore to support me against his better judgement, because he felt the gods were telling him so. But it makes him angry, all the same, and he must release that somehow.’

  ‘I’d rather he release it on my fists,’ Conaire grumbled. ‘Or better yet, my sword.’

  Eremon glanced at him, but he knew Conaire wasn’t serious. A breach in the Epidii now would threaten everything they had worked for. As it was, they were fighting hard to bring all the tribes of Alba together; they had at least to hold their own as one. That was the reason for putting up with Lorn – the only reason.

  Conaire saw the look and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, brother. I’ll keep my head. Although,’ he pursed his lips thoughtfully, ‘next time I train beside him I could slip and thump him with my hilt. Accidentally, of course.’

  Eremon laughed, and the heavy veil that had clouded his heart this last day lightened. ‘If he thinks it accidental, too, then go ahead. He is a mighty test of my patience.’ They nudged their horses on. ‘Remember, brother, that he said his oath stands until the Roman threat is over, and I fear it has only really begun.’ Eremon shrugged. ‘I think we have little to fear from Lorn beyond hard words, for now. He is loyal to his people – frustrated, yet loyal.’

  The gait of their mounts shifted as they edged down the slope and into the woods, yet as soon as they broke free of the undergrowth into sunlight they heard a high yip, and glimpsed another rider thundering towards them along the wide cart track that ran to Dunadd. The sun struck sparks from his red hair.

  ‘My lord!’ Rori cried, bringing his horse to a halt with an unnecessary flourish. Eremon saw Conaire hide his smile behind a sudden cough. ‘My lord, we have some new arrivals!’