by Jules Watson
Then something scratched against her eyebrow, and she pulled her hands away and spread them out. On the third finger of her left hand was a gold band, her priestess ring, the mark of her initiation into the Sisterhood, engraved with the three moon faces of the Goddess.
Samana grew utterly still as she stared at it. Perhaps it was time to find other sources of information with which to please Agricola.
Suddenly energized, she called for a servant to boil water for a scented bath. Though it was still before dawn, she wanted to scour the stink of Agricola’s sweat and streaks of filth from her body before he came to her again.
Stretched on the ground, Rhiann nestled her cheek into Eremon’s thigh as he sat on the flat-topped outcrop beside the Horse Gate. His shield had been shattered in the Novantae rebellion, and he’d just had Bran make him a new one of alder and oak, with a tanned hide stretched across the frame. Now he was painting over the yellow background with his own red boar emblem.
Eyes closed to the cool sunshine, Rhiann heard him sigh as he tapped the bristle brush on his knee. ‘I hope that is a contented sigh,’ she remarked.
‘I’m as content as I can be,’ Eremon answered. ‘Gelert has left us, after all.’ The dun had woken to the news that the chief druid had disappeared, leaving no word of his destination.
Rhiann’s jaw tightened. ‘Don’t invoke his name,’ she begged.
For a moment, Eremon’s hand rested on her forehead. ‘He is gone, a stór, to the gods know where. Perhaps using Urben like that was his last attempt to gain a greater hold over this tribe and, like the others, it failed. Perhaps he wishes to try his luck elsewhere.’
A shiver ran from Rhiann’s legs, pressed into the damp turf, up her torso. ‘If he did have something to do with the shipwreck,’ she ventured in a low voice, ‘then he must have some connection with Maelchon.’
Eremon’s stroking fingers stilled. ‘I sometimes wish your mind ran less quickly, Rhiann.’ He sighed again. ‘I too have thought this, yet if that is the nest to which Gelert has flown, there is nothing we can do. After all, that is as far from us as he can go, so let us be happy with that.’
Rhiann opened her eyes and blinked in the sun. Pressed against Eremon’s crossed leg, all she could see was a patch of sky between his arms, the blue deepening as leaf-fall took hold of the land, and beyond that, the top of the palisade. And there stood Conaire, who had barely moved for three days, waiting for Caitlin.
Eremon rubbed at a stray speck of paint on the boss in the centre of the shield. The bronze disk had been skilfully cast into a flattened boar’s face, with large eyes, snout and curving tusks. ‘Eremon?’ Rhiann tilted her head. ‘Will the baby be safe here with Lorn?’
Eremon tapped the brush handle on his knee again. The boy is a babe, and cannot claim his hall until he reaches manhood. By then Lorn’s time will have passed; and as under your strange kin laws his own sons cannot be king, I think he will leave it be. He got what he wanted, in the end.’
Rhiann pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps Lorn thought you would use Conaire’s son to keep him away from the kingship, but you have proven you will not.’ She kissed his wrist, looking at him upside down. ‘For all my fears, you have an answer.’
Eremon’s eyes glinted back, and with one swift movement he pulled out from under her and pinned her on the grass, the dripping brush poised in one fist. ‘And what answer do you have for me?’ he murmured, pressing his lips against hers. When their tongues met, she wound her fingers in his thick hair and crushed him closer, until they were both breathless.
Laughing, she whispered at last, ‘What was the question?’
His green eyes danced as he looked down at her. ‘How much do you love me?’
A shout at the gate forbade Rhiann from answering that, and she saw immediately that Conaire had disappeared. Struggling upright, she pulled her cloak out from under Eremon’s leg, sending him sprawling and narrowly missing the scattered pots of yellow and red paint.
‘It’s Caitlin!’ she cried. ‘Come on!’ She threw her bundled cloak over her shoulder and, leaving Eremon to disentangle his limbs, scrambled down the rock cleft to the path.
At the gatetower, she nearly ran into Conaire’s back, for he had come to a sudden halt. Peering under his arm, Rhiann saw that the few people outside the gates had drawn back, and the raucous ball-and-stick game taking place on the river meadow had been suddenly arrested, as the boys crowded together, muddy and curious. Then, across the open space of stamped-down earth, Rhiann saw Caitlin approaching, the swaddled child tucked into her arms. Behind her came Eithne, holding the two horses. Conaire’s shoulders quivered once, and then again.
To Rhiann’s immense relief, Caitlin’s face was no longer pale, but touched with the healthy flush of the sun. She had come in one of Linnet’s finest dresses, of pale blue wool edged with white mink, fastened on the shoulders with gilded brooches. Her hair was washed and combed, unbound and flowing, and her neck was clasped with a deer-headed torc.
She was beautiful, but by far the greatest beauty was in her eyes, because of the love there. Rhiann swallowed the lump in her throat, as Eremon stepped up beside her. She risked a glance at him, and felt his fingers close on her own. When she looked back, Caitlin was standing before Conaire, and had shifted her son into her hands. Now she raised her arms, until the child was balanced precariously before his father.
The guards on the tower had fallen silent, looking down, and those inside the gates were respectfully still, even if they couldn’t resist whispering behind their hands. Everyone was straining to see what Caitlin would do. The only movement came from the babe, who squirmed in his linen swaddling clothes, kicking one foot free.
‘My lord,’ Caitlin said distinctly, gazing up at Conaire, ‘your son.’
Rhiann could not see Conaire’s face, yet his arms slowly came out, and at the moment he took his son in his huge hands, a sigh rippled over the onlookers. Then Conaire raised the babe awkwardly. ‘I name him Gabran, after my grandsire,’ he declared, his voice cracking with emotion. Suddenly the baby wobbled and let out a loud squawk, before bursting into cries. People laughed, and the tension was gone.
Instinctively, Conaire drew his son against his broad chest, Caitlin ran to him, and the three of them were one in the circle of his arms. Rhiann sniffled and rubbed her nose, and Eremon pulled her into his side and smiled down, his own eyes suspiciously bright. ‘It was all worth it, mo chroi,’ he whispered. ‘For that little scene, I’d risk Conaire’s wrath myself !’
She smiled, and together they pushed through a chattering crowd of well-wishers to stroke Gabran’s fuzzy head as he lay on Conaire’s chest, his blue eyes staring up at his father with faint puzzlement. Then Eremon had to hold the babe, just as awkwardly, and proclaim him the finest son ever born, and the grip of his little fist on Eremon’s tunic the sure sign of a good sword hand, until even Caitlin rolled her eyes and took her son back.
Yet when Rhiann recognized the eager spark in Eremon’s eye as he gazed down at Conaire’s son, her smile suddenly felt tight on her cheeks. The guilt of her secret brews returned with force, sharpening from an ache into a sliver of pain that pierced her heart.
‘And here,’ Caitlin was saying, beckoning Didius and Aedan forward, where they lurked beneath the gatetower. ‘You helped to bring him, and guard him, and for that you have my everlasting thanks.’ And she drew a surprised Didius into the centre of the group and deposited the babe in his arms. Struck dumb, Didius stared down at the wobbling bundle, his plump face flushing a mottled shade of crimson. But Aedan saved him, bending over the child to proclaim his beauty and fineness in the most extravagant bardic terms.
Summoning a smile along with everyone’s laughter, Rhiann glanced up then to see Linnet standing silently on the edge of the crowd. Wordlessly, she hurried into her aunt’s embrace.
At length, Linnet drew back and held Rhiann by both arms, searching her face. ‘I had a strange dream,’ she whispered, her eyes ringed with tiredness.
Her auburn hair was bound back from her forehead, accentuating the strain in her face. ‘A dream of you.’
Rhiann smiled softly. ‘I’m glad you heeded this dream.’
Slowly Linnet shook her head. ‘I am unsure about wanting to know how you did it, daughter, for it would have cost you much.’
Rhiann glanced over at Caitlin and Gabran. ‘It was worth it, or you never would have risked yourself, either. But how did you leave?’
Linnet’s smile was tinged with bitterness. ‘I could only hold the glamour long enough to be free of my hut, and then hid in the secret places, protected by loyal ones. My guards were most vexed when Dercca made their morning tea the next day.’ The anger was still bright in Linnet’s eyes, but after a moment she took Rhiann’s arm and turned her back towards the happy scene. ‘No matter – today is a day for joy. The babe thrived in my care, and Caitlin’s own milk is already showing signs of returning.’
As they all entered at the gate, Eremon noticed Rhiann’s aunt hesitate, glancing up at the Epidii warriors who stood on the tower with their shining spears and armour. Leaving Rhiann with Aldera, he turned back to her. In the time since he arrived at Dunadd, Eremon had in fact spoken few words with Linnet, for she saw much and appeared as forbidding to him as Rhiann had once seemed.
‘Lady.’ He bowed to Linnet and turned his back on the gate to survey the river meadow. The rowdy ball game had by now resumed, making the most of a halt in training, for Eremon had judged it too soon for the different factions of warriors to be let loose against each other with weapons.
Linnet nodded gracefully, and from the corner of his eye Eremon saw her watching him. ‘I was grieved at the news of your confinement,’ he began, noticing the slight stiffening of her shoulders.
‘As was I,’ she answered bluntly, and he realized just how angry she was. Who would not be?
‘I understand if you want to seek restitution from Urben’s clan at this outrage—’
She half turned to him, and now one elegant eyebrow was raised. ‘Do you, prince? Though I sense a “but” lurking behind your speech.’
Eremon felt himself flush. A shout came from the meadow then, as half the game sticks triumphantly waved in the air, and Eremon smiled. ‘But, I ask that you do not take that course of action. I am not underestimating the damage done to your honour,’ he added hastily, folding his arms, ‘but you see far, and know that we must be united to resist the Romans. If you bring this matter to druid trial, I fear the tribe will be riven as surely as if I’d attacked Dunadd myself. You will be giving Urben what he wanted – bad blood between myself and his son.’
Eremon held his breath, for Linnet was a formidable woman. Yet the flare of heat in her eyes – so like Rhiann’s eyes! – soon faded.
‘We have had little speech, you and I,’ Linnet said instead, watching the ball game begin again. ‘Yet Rhiann has told me much of your gilded tongue.’ As Eremon wondered whether to smile, she added tartly, ‘And I am glad to see that she did not exaggerate.’ She glanced at him sidewise. ‘You will have your wish, prince, though not today. I cannot face that young buck Lorn yet, and my home calls me – I must scour the stink of men from it! Tell Rhiann I could face no crowd today, but will ride to see her soon.’
‘As you wish, lady.’ Eremon bowed again, then hesitated. ‘And I thank you for your part in saving my brother’s child.’
Linnet tilted her head to one side, and the sun lit her hair to the same auburn as Rhiann’s. ‘He is my grandson, too, Goddess bless him.’ A mysterious smile caught the edge of her mouth. So the first connection of blood is made across the sea between Alba and Erin. Yet there will be others.’
As if in royal acclaim, the trees along the river hung out their own banners of gold and russet and umber for the day of Lorn’s king-making.
At the carved rock beside the Horse Gate, Rhiann stood to one side as Declan painted Lorn’s face with the blood of a yearling foal, and sprinkled him with sacred water. Rhiann had little to do for this most male of rites, as Declan now raised his white arms to the sky gods and sword gods, and sang to the sun sinking over the sea. Nor did the effect of the copper and gold circlet on Lorn’s brow, the roan stallion hide around his naked shoulders and the thick bronze arm-rings particularly impress Rhiann, for she knew at what cost the fine scene had been bought.
Instead, she gazed over Lorn’s shoulder to the patchwork of hills and valleys with their rusted hues of bracken and turning leaves, holding this focus even when called upon to raise the mead cup to Lorn’s thin lips. Just as on her wedding day, she had to bestow the sovereignty of the land upon Lorn with her own hand, by binding him to the protection of its Goddess.
Yet this time Rhiann resisted meeting the male eyes regarding her over the cup’s rim. Lorn’s manner to them all had remained confident, with a hint of apology and regret, and though Rhiann understood he could show no weakness, she was still angry with him, and he knew it. She had begged Eremon to return to their bed in her own house, now that Lorn would be officially residing in the King’s Hall, and to her relief, Eremon had agreed. She did not think she could stand a whole season shut up in the dark with Lorn.
As Rhiann stepped back now, Lorn turned to face the sacred mountain Cruachan to the north, placing his right foot in the hollow carved in the ancient rock. Grudgingly, Rhiann had to admit he looked the part: his chin high, his silver hair spilling over the copper hide, his jaw outlined against the sky. Though the days were still sunny, the nights were growing frosty and, as the light now faded into the long, purple shadows, Lorn’s breath misted before his face.
Lorn was trapped by his loyalty to his father, Eremon had been saying to Rhiann. I understand. All Rhiann understood, however, was Eremon’s need for peace, and for sake of that she would keep the peace in their own Hall and among their kin.
Yet as the cheering of the people broke out, from the crag and the village and the walls, Rhiann found herself begging the Goddess to make Lorn prove his loyalty to Eremon once more – and this time beyond all doubt.
CHAPTER 25
The Orcades Islands at the northern tip of Alba were already in the grip of the first seasonal storms. On the rare occasions the sun struggled free from the wind-whipped cloud, it seemed to cast only pale, cold light, and soon sank once more into darkness.
Despite the weather, which bent the few hardy rowans almost double, the Orcadian king Maelchon wished nothing more at night than to prowl the village around his new broch tower. He had found few things to assuage the restless energy that plagued him, and one was pacing alone, mindlessly in the dark. His white-bear cloak was warm, and his huge girth, thick, black beard and mane of hair made him almost immune to wind and rain. Yet he would not pace this night.
This night he sat in his new tower, the roof timbers still smelling of sap and fresh wood, because here by the fire he could think clearly and calmly about the news he had just received. The peat coals in the hearth glowed brightly, but the wall hangings stirred when drafts from outside reached in cold fingers, defying the wealth Maelchon had expended to make this tower impregnable. The king, his female companion and two guards were silent, and only the hoarse snores of his hounds, stretched out by the hearth, gave any life to the vast, round room.
The Epidii druid who had borne this interesting news was used to travail, but he was old, and had crawled to his guest bed long ago. Though Maelchon was grateful for his insights, he had no wish to look upon those unearthly yellow eyes for any longer than necessary.
The king’s thoughts turned to his gods now, and what they might be asking of him by sending this man. For just when he thought the sea had delivered him his victory over that red-haired bitch and her Erin cur, so they returned to haunt him. The gods didn’t want him to forget them.
Staring into the fire, Maelchon tapped one finger on his lips, still greasy from the meal of buttered salmon. He must be careful about what this information awoke in him, for he knew that when something burned in the soul with such a single,
white-hot flame, it could consume bodily strength. And as a king, he could not afford to lose strength in the face of what was coming.
Maelchon’s eye fell now on the wench with red hair from across the bay, gnawing on dark bread at the end of the table with tiny, pointed teeth. He had moved her into his new hall, and was pleased with what this brought out in her. Most of the island women feared him, and though this involved its own delights, even that had palled on his return from Calgacus’s war council. However, this copper-haired slut, though common-born, shared a spark with her king – a lust for power. So she delighted in his carven cups, soaring roof and soft furs, the sweet wine, roast boar and bright rings for fingers and toes. And to keep them, she was not going to allow herself to be scared of him.
He watched her now as she rose and swung around the table, her skirt hitched up so her long, bare legs caught the firelight. She enjoyed trying to provoke his guards with her scanty clothes, flashing her eyes and curving her rump when she walked. All this only amused Maelchon, of course, for they both knew that if she touched another man he would kill her with his own hands.
At least the game was a fine diversion on these long nights, and better than the quick, brutal couplings with which he used to amuse himself. Just as the careful nursing of bitterness was a sweeter brew than gulping rage down all at once, as he had been wont to do. And didn’t he have many more slights to add to the brew now?
That Epidii bitch priestess scorning him with her fine eyes, first as a maiden and now as a woman. The Erin cub snatching her as his prize – a prize Maelchon had desired for years. The Caledonii king, Calgacus, exulting in his jewels, cattle, lands and men. And most bitter of all, the sea death to rid him of these first two thorns had, according to the druid, been thwarted.
Maelchon grunted and took a gulp of wine. Well, he had tried to lay the distant past at rest, and the gods had chosen otherwise. They wanted something more from him, then.
He surfaced from his thoughts to see that the red-haired slut was drunkenly writhing before him, in what passed for a seductive dance. Though sodden with ale, she must have sensed that his attention had drifted. Stumbling, she came to a stop before him, her blue eyes glazed, pulling her dress higher until the moist, dark triangle between her legs was exposed, beckoning him. Without waiting for a word, she straddled his lap, winding her fingers in his black mane.
