The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  He shifted to let her settle, and she grabbed his wine cup and drank, letting the liquid spill down her chin like blood. Her shift had been pulled off one shoulder by her dancing, and the wine stuck the thin linen to her skin. She wiped her mouth and trailed a wet finger over one breast. ‘Oh, am I not clumsy, my lord?’

  Maelchon regarded her silently from half-lidded eyes, yet when he said nothing she groped between his legs, fingers furrowing under the heavy belly that rested on his thighs and down into his trousers. He did harden at her clumsy touch then – not for her dance, or her spilled wine, but for all the other things that turned in his mind. And there was her hair to inflame him, too, bringing to mind the Epidii bitch. He grabbed a hank of it, as she eased him free and wriggled on top, taking him inside her. Then he yanked the hair down, thrusting deeply until the slut gasped with pain and bit her lip.

  All the while, Maelchon kept his gaze on the two guards at the door, as they kept theirs on the wall hanging behind him.

  Yet the firelight flared along the bladed tips of their spears and the swords at their sides. And when Maelchon felt the fire-burst in his loins, all he saw were thousands of those spear-tips under an Alban sun, marching south across a green plain.

  CHAPTER 26

  Leaf-fall, AD 81

  Samhain. Womb-time. The great fire festival that heralded the start of the new year, and the start of new life. When growth turned inward and the unseen seed gestated in the darkness, building strength until it burst forth into sun.

  The sacred meanings sang in Rhiann’s blood along with the saor herbs. Yet for her they were edged with guilt as sharp as the icy night air, and the frost on the stones of the tomb mound, slippery beneath her feet.

  Below the first cairn at the head of the ancestor valley, the druids had spilled the bull’s blood for their sky gods. Yet as Rhiann stood aside for the king-making, so Declan and his brethren stood aside now. Druids studied the stars and marked the time, so knew when Samhain fell. But they did not grow life in the dark of their wombs – it was a woman’s task to bless the long sleep of living things.

  At the tomb mound’s base, the feast for the dead had been set out – platters of honey cakes and pitchers of milk. The tiny need-fire had been kindled at Rhiann’s feet, and all the hundreds of people spread on the plain now waited for her to light the hazel brand and throw it in the firepit of sacred woods below her. Their breath was a mist that rose above them, their eyes lit only by moon and starlight, for at Samhain all hearth-fires were extinguished. This long moment of utter darkness beneath the sky represented the void of Her inner world, where She created new life from nothing.

  And here Rhiann stood, warding away that life with the bitter brew she still tasted on her tongue beneath the saor. Was it any wonder she felt the surge of the Goddess as only a faint trembling in her limbs? For since Eremon’s return, and the gathering inside for the season, the guilt over the matter of the babe had risen to claim all of Rhiann’s attention.

  I called the Stags, Rhiann whispered inside now, with a stab of desperation. Yet in this other thing she was trapped. For if she gave in to creating that life, she feared she would be turning her back on the dream – and that she could not do, not even for love of Eremon. Not after the despair she had tasted that night by Linnet’s pool.

  So the struggle between the desperation and the guilt held Rhiann rigid this night, her undyed robe falling from her outstretched arms like a frozen waterfall under moonlight. And the sacred words were carried from her to the people on a surge of fierce shame, leaving only ashes on her tongue.

  Rhiann only came down from the mound once she’d thrown the brand into the sacred bonfire, and riders were streaming back to Dunadd with their new-lit torches. The points of flame bobbed and wove down the dark valley.

  ‘A stór.’ As the flutes and drums broke out into music all around, Eremon tucked Rhiann under his arm beneath his new wolfskin cloak. Like her he wore a crown of scarlet rowanberries, tilted rakishly on his dark hair, for after bringing the warband home from the borders the druids had taken him at sunset to offer the spoils of Roman armour and weapons to the sea-gods. And when they killed the calf, it was his brow they had marked with blood.

  Still flushed with this honour, Eremon seemed now to glow as bright as a brand himself, kissing Rhiann’s cold nose and enveloping her in warmth and the scent of ripe blackberries on his breath. Yet over his shoulder Rhiann glimpsed Caitlin smiling, and the tender clasp of the fur-wrapped bundle against her breast.

  Rhiann closed her eyes, her heart leaden.

  Samhain. Womb-time.

  ‘By the Mare! By the Mare!’

  Liath snorted and threw up her head, as the bare, snowy wood suddenly exploded around Rhiann. Two packs of screaming warriors in a patchwork of hides and furs dodged back and forth through the black, leafless trees, shooting blunted arrows at each other.

  ‘The Boar—!’ Rori stifled his own war cry as he slid to a halt in the snow slurry before Rhiann, making Liath rear back. ‘Rori!’

  ‘Forgive us, lady!’ Rori called over his shoulder, leading his men into a screen of feathery dwarf birches, their red branches rimed with frost. From behind, another volley of arrow shafts flew over Rhiann’s head, and she glimpsed Lorn pounding over the floor of the snow-filled hollow, screeching the Epidii war cry once more.

  Liath was still snorting indignantly when she and Rhiann crossed the bridge to the village. Below, the Add flowed sluggishly, its banks lined with clumps of frozen sedge, and on the snowy meadow scores of other warriors practised with spear and bow. Rhiann easily recognized Conaire, whirling his arms to urge the men on, his frame bulked up by layers of wool and a bearskin cloak. The palisade stakes were tipped with white; the wooden gate and thatch roofs dark with melted sleet.

  Rhiann stabled Liath and discovered Eremon on top of the gatetower, studying his men from above. Unlike Conaire he was clad only in a thin wool tunic and trousers, and his breath merged with the steam coming from his skin.

  ‘You should be in a cloak,’ Rhiann scolded, touching the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck.

  Eremon smiled distractedly, pulling her into his arms. ‘I’ve been running back and forth from plain to walls so much I’m hot,’ he replied. ‘Feel me!’

  ‘If you insist.’ Rhiann squeezed his waist and kissed his neck, tasting the snow on his skin. ‘You are training again already?’

  He shrugged, his attention on the field. ‘The Romans may have retreated south for the long dark, yet I imagine Agricola keeps them in training.’

  ‘Well, your men in the woods set a fine ambush – they managed to scare the life out of me and Liath just now.’

  Eremon grinned down at her, his eyes crinkling. ‘I gave Rori his first command. How was he doing?’

  ‘I think he was winning.’ Rhiann pulled off her sheepskin mittens and tucked them under her arm, cupping her wind-blown cheeks. ‘Lorn seemed to think so, too – he looked furious.’

  ‘Good.’ Eremon’s grin widened. ‘Our new king may be suitably chastened, but he still hates me drilling the men Roman-style. I thought he’d be happier raiding in the woods. And anyway,’ he stretched his arms up and cricked his back, ‘the strike and run worked so well last year. There’s no time to lose if we want to be in peak condition come leaf-bud.’

  Come leaf-bud.

  Those words rang in Rhiann’s mind as she carefully made her way to the ground on the wet, slippery stairs. The long dark was a testing time for them all – to be almost constantly inside, the air stifling with the scent of unwashed bodies, damp fleece and wet boots. For Rhiann, though, this long dark had been worse than all the others, for every day she lavished care on Gabran, with sweet oil rubs for his griping belly, and beeswax salves for his rashes. And every night, she forced the bitter tea down in the shadows of the bedplace, but held Eremon’s warm shoulder to her mouth in the dark.

  Yet she was still grateful for the snow and storms. For with the thaw the sun would return a
nd, like armoured insects drawn from the ground by its warmth, so would the Romans.

  CHAPTER 27

  Long dark, AD 81

  ‘Ah!’ Rhiann threw down the strip of raw beef and swiped at her eye with the back of her hand.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Caitlin asked, cross-legged on a bench against the wall of the curing shed. She was wrapped well against the cold seeping up from the earth floor, in sheepskin breeches, tunic and wool cloak, her fair hair spilling from under a fleece-cap. Nestled in his hide sling, Gabran had all but disappeared into his otter fur wrappings, but his loud suckling announced his presence.

  ‘I rubbed salt in it.’ Suddenly, Rhiann stamped her foot in a rare show of frustration, and the women at the other workbenches glanced up from their salt pans in surprise. With a glance at them, Rhiann pulled the cloth hanging on her belt free and dabbed her streaming eye.

  The last of the bulls had been slaughtered for the long dark, and the final cuts of beef were being cured or pickled or hung for smoking. Despite lavish applications of beeswax salve, Rhiann’s hands were raw from gritty salt and cold flesh. Yet she preferred to be busy rather than sit by a fire gnawing on secrets.

  ‘Here.’ Caitlin offered the rest of her berry bannock, and Rhiann joined her on the bench, wrapping herself in her sheepskin cloak. The rows of women bent back to their conversations and their pans, pressing the strips of flesh into the mounds of sea salt.

  ‘Sister,’ Caitlin ventured, her brows drawing together, what is wrong? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve not been yourself.’

  The words reminded Rhiann suddenly and sadly of Fola, but Gabran saved her from replying by losing the nipple, and with it, his temper, and it took some moments for Caitlin to soothe him and help him latch back on.

  Outside the grey daylight was harsh on the snowy path, glittering on the ridges of frozen mud. ‘I am just afraid of Eremon leaving again come leaf-bud,’ Rhiann said, gazing at the curve of Gabran’s baby cheek.

  Caitlin was silent, her breath clouding the air. ‘It is more than that,’ she whispered, and when Rhiann’s head swung up she added, ‘Is it … is it something about Gabran? When you hold him and bathe him, sometimes there is a look on your face …’

  She broke off as Rhiann started, and clamped her small hand on Rhiann’s arm. ‘You are longing for a babe of your own, aren’t you? And you’re afraid it won’t happen. But Rhiann, you know that some women take longer to bear than others.’ Her face flaming, Rhiann dropped her eyes to their linked hands, as Caitlin ploughed on. ‘That’s why you take that special brew of yours, isn’t it? Does it help women to conceive?’ Rhiann tried to stifle her gasp of pain and Caitlin glanced at the chattering women and back at Rhiann. Come,’ she suddenly said, pulling her to her feet. They bundled themselves up against the cold, and only when they were through the Moon Gate did Caitlin stop. ‘If you tell me,’ she said. ‘I can help you.’

  She held Rhiann’s eyes with her worried gaze, and standing there shivering with fear and shame Rhiann suddenly found herself blurting it out. ‘The tea, sister, is to stop a baby taking root in me.’

  Caitlin’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Stop a baby? Why, Rhiann?’

  Rhiann’s head sank among the folds of her cloak, and she fixed her eyes on the slushy ground, dented with muddy footprints. ‘I cannot become a mother,’ she whispered. ‘I must be able to follow Eremon if he needs me; lead the rites to help him. We have never faced such a threat as the Romans before …’ She lifted her face, her cheeks set and cold. ‘There is no room in me for a baby, not now, not until we are safe.’

  ‘But, sister,’ Caitlin hitched Gabran higher in his sling, ‘you love my son as if he were your own, as does Eremon. I may not be a seer like you, but you and he are meant to raise children.’

  ‘I wonder if I am fit to be a mother at all,’ Rhiann murmured, tucking her mittened hands under her arms. ‘A priestess, a healer, yes …’ Her eyes blurred. ‘I am afraid I cannot give enough to be a mother.’

  Caitlin was frowning with immense bafflement, and suddenly Rhiann knew that the difference in their hearts meant Caitlin would never understand. Caitlin had no walls inside herself, she had given her heart to Conaire and her son completely. Yet neither had she been charged with the task of caring for a whole people.

  ‘That is not true,’ Caitlin whispered, brushing stray drips of sleet from Gabran’s hair. ‘Yet I will not argue with you – I know how set are your thoughts.’ She paused. ‘I must respect your decisions, Rhiann.’

  The heat of Rhiann’s shame swept her body, and she found her fingers fastening on Caitlin’s arms with urgency. ‘Sister, Eremon does not know, and you cannot tell him.’

  Caitlin’s cheeks coloured. ‘But Rhiann—’

  ‘You must swear to me!’ Rhiann cried in sudden terror. ‘Please! The Erin rites are different; you said so yourself. I don’t want him to look at me like that.’

  At last Caitlin’s chin dropped, and she nodded. ‘Whatever you wish, sister. Though it grieves me greatly.’ Her trembling breath stirred the white hare fur edging her cloak.

  ‘I know you find it hard to understand,’ Rhiann added desperately, for Caitlin’s sadness was worse than any judgement. ‘But… but this is how it must be, for now.’

  Caitlin nodded and forced a smile, pressing her lips to Gabran’s head. ‘Well, my prince could have no more devoted an aunt. Isn’t he the luckiest boy?’ In answer Gabran writhed and gurgled, and Caitlin held him close as she turned to go.

  Rhiann trailed after them along the muddy path towards her house, forcing the pain back into the shadows around her heart.

  Caitlin and Conaire decided to combine Gabran’s naming ceremony with the feast for the longest night.

  Every feast of that season was a sweaty, noisy affair, as people endeavoured to dance and sing and drink away all the nervous energy they were not expending outside.

  Now Rhiann rested her head on the ivy-covered post beside her bench, her temples pounding from mead and the heat of the Hall’s two hearth-fires, a feast cake of ground acorn and hazelnut half-eaten in her hand. Caitlin was on her other side, deep in a discussion about teething with Aldera.

  One of Gabran’s naming gifts caught Rhiann’s eye, as the baby waved his fists in Conaire’s broad lap. It was a tiny armband of rowan wood, into which Rhiann had sung protection and safety, and on which Didius had carved a string of fierce animals. The other gifts were also on prominent display, piled at Conaire’s feet. And Eremon sat beside Conaire, brandishing the wooden toy sword he had caused Bran to make, along with a tiny shield painted with the Boar. He was chuckling as his brother reminded him of their own early exploits in Erin, and when he leaned over to tickle Gabran under the chin, the softness in his eyes was clear.

  ‘When your son is born, brother, we will train them together!’ Conaire proclaimed, placing his hand over the width of his son’s belly, the joy on his face incandescent.

  Eremon smiled and placed the sword in Gabran’s grip, wrapping his tiny fingers around the hilt. ‘Aye, and imagine the terror they will cause for ever after.’

  They laughed, and suddenly Rhiann was struggling for breath among the hot press of bodies in the close, ale-fumed air. Lurching to her feet, she tried to nod calmly at Caitlin’s soft enquiry and, picking up her cloak, hurried for the door.

  Outside the night was frozen and still, moonless. Rhiann hastened beneath the torch-lit Horse Gate and down the path to the village, drawing in great lungfuls of icy air to steady herself, before her senses picked up the soft pad of feet behind her. She tensed instinctively, as warm arms came gently around her, pulling her close, with a wash of that familiar, sweet male scent.

  ‘Eremon!’ A flood of guilt sharpened her voice, and she tried to laugh. ‘You scared me half to death!’ She nudged him with her elbow, but he suddenly pulled her to one side, into a dark, doorway. The air within tickled her nose, thick with chaff and the scent of old hay. It was one of the small granaries, used onl
y for horse fodder.

  ‘I wanted to see you alone,’ Eremon murmured, mouth buried in the nape of her neck.

  ‘Well, there were other ways to do that.

  ‘True, but none as much fun.’

  ‘Then all playfulness died as his lips claimed her own, his soft tongue reaching through her guilty pain and plucking a string that vibrated deep in her belly. As his warm hand slid under her cloak and dress and up the back of her thigh, she wrenched her lips free. ‘Cariad, it’s freezing in here!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured, edging her back until her shoulders came up against the mud wall, ‘you won’t be going anywhere near the ground.’

  ‘Eremon …’

  His palms were stroking her buttocks now, and then he dropped to his knees on the tumbled hay and lifted her dress, drawing her to his eager mouth, cupping her like a goblet in both hands. His tongue swirled and savoured, circling until her breath came fast and high, and she buried her fingers in his hair.

  Just as the opening began inside her, the overflowing of the flame, he came to his feet and lifted her onto him, burying himself up to the hilt. Then all of her protests dissolved in the animal fierceness that swept her, born of guilt and desperation. And she clawed him deeper, faster, her back scraping against the rough wall.

  Later, in their own bed, Eremon soothed her raw, swollen skin with a more languid tongue, and the second peak was slow and sweet, the fierceness a strange memory.

  ‘A stór,’ Eremon whispered into her hair, as their breath slowly calmed. ‘Never have I felt that you wanted me more, in the granary.’ He paused, touching his nose to her forehead almost shyly. ‘Perhaps it was a babe we called this night. In such fire, we say, a king is made.’