The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  ‘What the …?’ In a familiar gesture, Agricola ran his fingers through his damp, grey hair, the harsh lines beside his mouth deepening. ‘What are you doing here? Is there trouble on the frontier? Why didn’t you send a messenger?’

  Samana forced a smile and swayed closer to him, wetting her lips with a pink tongue. ‘There is no trouble. I needed to see you … to speak to you in private.’

  Agricola’s eyes widened. You mean, you had no reason for coming?’

  ‘I needed to speak with you about military matters,’ she replied evenly.

  ‘Gods!’ he barked, his nostrils flaring. ‘There are high-ranking officials here. My wife is here … my life is here! How dare you come when I gave you no permission to do so!’

  Bitterness rose in Samana’s throat, but she kept the smile in place. She never glimpsed such scruples when he was buried between her thighs! Well, I am here now.’ She raised her chin, wondering how best to handle him. He admired boldness, that he did, so she put her hands on her hips. ‘And I came to deliver my gift in person. Does a shipment of the best Falernian vintage not sweeten my arrival? We can drink some of it here.’ She glanced towards the bed.

  ‘Wine?’ Agricola stared at her for a long moment, and then at the table, where she had set out her implements: the enamelled pan to heat the wine, the spices, and the strainer, as well as two red samian-ware cups. The hard line of Agricola’s mouth softened, and abruptly he threw back his head and laughed. ‘I might have known the panther would not remain caged in the north for long.’

  Encouraged, Samana swayed forward and curled her arms around his neck. After five moons, his growing boredom with her would surely have been replaced with boredom for his own enforced captivity – the tedious feasts, the tedious wife. Now Agricola ran his hands up her body, roughly cupping her breasts, and sure enough, the fire flared in his dark eyes.

  ‘Go on,’ she purred, ‘admit you’ve missed me. Admit you are bored with your slack-eyed whores and your endless dinners and your fat, sleek administrators and your talks and letters and orders and—’

  ‘Enough,’ he growled, and his mouth came down on hers, wrenching, violent, sliding to her neck as she threw her head back, and down into the cleft between her breasts. Then the bed was beneath her, and he was above, and soon his back was a leaping shadow against the wall, as all his frustration poured into her in a frenzy of thrusts.

  Samana pretended her moans and cries, too wrapped up in the glow of renewed triumph to focus on the sensations in her body. I’m not beaten yet, she thought fiercely, as he lay on her afterwards, the sweat slick between their bodies, his breath rasping in her ear. Nowhere near beaten yet.

  In the north of Alba, Calgacus, king of the Caledonii tribe, paced the timber battlements of his fort, the Dun of the Waves. He was a tall man, lean and muscled despite his advancing years, beak-nosed and sharp-eyed. He barely felt the biting sea-wind on his face, for the Epidii messenger just arrived from Eremon had delivered news to light a fire in any old warrior.

  ‘So,’ Calgacus muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the palisade with sword-hardened hands, staring out at the sea as it darkened with the dusk. Below him, the belt of trees by the river was already deep in shadow, and torches were being lit on the battlements. ‘My young Erin friend wants to bring the Romans to me.’ Calgacus grinned, surprised at the spark of excitement that flared up in his soul at the thought of Eremon’s plans.

  He had considered himself past such fiery exploits – a grave, ageing king whose only role was to extend advice to bold young princes like his Epidii ally. But then, he’d discovered early on that Eremon had a way about him, a gift for oratory that could stoke the fading coals in a man, and prod him out of complacency. And Calgacus had also been brooding on the Romans for the entire long dark, as the sea storms howled around his firelit hall. They would come north eventually, there seemed little doubt of that, and the rich Caledonii lands were probably their first target.

  Better to go down fighting than hiding in my hall, Calgacus thought now, stroking his jutting jaw, staring up at his royal banner rippling on its gold-tipped mast. He wasn’t so old that the idea of glorifying his name had lost its allure either.

  Calgacus grinned again, and turned his eagle face to the wind, letting his cloak fly behind him.

  Far in the west, the dusk was still and golden over the sea, as Nerida stood watching the messenger striding away to the guest lodge.

  ‘So Rhiann will return to us, and soon,’ Setana remarked from the bench against Nerida’s house.

  Nerida nodded. ‘She asks us to send riders to the priestesses in the northern tribes, asking them to come for Beltaine. She has already dispatched those to the southern tribes.’

  ‘Then the great change we have sensed is drawing near now, Sister.’

  Nerida sighed, her shoulders bowing with the weight. ‘I know.’

  Suddenly Setana stood by her side, and they clasped hands, as they had many years ago when their skin was white and unlined. ‘The dreams, the visions, they hint at an ending,’ Setana murmured. ‘Though how it will come to us, I do not know. It rises like a distant wave, growing ever closer: now I can hear the far roar; now I sense the wind driven before it. Yet we must not fear.’ Her soft voice cracked. ‘Our Mother wants us not to fear.’

  Nerida tightened her fingers. ‘You will help me, then.’

  Setana shook her head, and the shells woven into her grey braids sounded faintly. ‘Our fates are tied together, dearest friend, and so we will help each other.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The first sip of Falernian wine slipped down Samana’s throat, though she was too excited to note its taste.

  Agricola had left the bed now and, after shrugging on his tunic, he dragged the bench to the brazier. The coals in the iron bowl glowed brightly, but it was their only light, and the rest of the room was entirely in shadow.

  Samana reached across and put her wine cup on the table. As she slid forward, she held the sheets up around her breasts with one hand, covering her nakedness. There was a time and a place for such things, and that time had passed for the moment – now she needed him to listen to her.

  Swiftly, she finished relating the details of the visit she had recently made, to an old Damnonii priestess who had managed to remain in her isolated hut despite the ravages that the Romans had unleashed on her tribe. Yet despite Samana’s urgent tone, Agricola’s eyes never left the curve of her breasts, visible through the damp linen that clung to her body. Samana wrapped an arm over them, biting down frustration. He was not excited about what she had to say. Not yet.

  When she paused, Agricola tossed back a careless gulp of her expensive wine, stretching his bare legs along the floor and yawning. ‘Your women priests – these Sisters – are healers, you told me, muttering chants over birthing women. What care I for them?’

  Inside, Samana allowed herself the slightest curl of contempt. Warriors would never understand the power of the spirit. Weak arms did not make a weak mind. ‘No, my lord. The Sisters can do more than that, especially when they act together, with one will. But they have not wielded that power in a military manner for generations.’

  He frowned, scratching lazily behind his ear. ‘And they have now, you say.’

  Unconsciously, Samana had been leaning forward, her arms tightening about her knees. Now she realized what she was doing, and forced herself to play with one of her blue-glass bangles, breathing deeply. Never be desperate before him.

  ‘I have … inserted myself back into the web of the Sisters, my lord, just on the edges. And some interesting rumours have come drifting over the high mountains. Last sunseason there was a powerful rite on the Sacred Isle. The old priestess I spoke to knew little more than that; she herself lives alone and receives her news only sporadically.’ Samana paused, noting the bored cast of Agricola’s hard mouth as his gaze wandered over the window shutters and shadowed walls. She waited for it all to change at her next words. ‘My lord, what she hea
rd was this: the rite was to give strength to the Novantae … and the Epidii war leader who came to their aid. The rite delivered a great victory over Roman soldiers at the time of the longest day.’

  The transformation was instant. In one movement Agricola sat straight on the bench, the cup gripped so hard it tilted, spilling that fine wine over his tunic. ‘What?’

  ‘She knows no more,’ Samana added, gratified to see the anger etched around Agricola’s eyes as he slowly placed his cup down. She abandoned her calmness, and moved on her knees to his side. ‘They understand their own power, now. They will try again this season, I know it. When you are in the field.’

  Agricola’s breath came quickly now. ‘Can it be?’ he muttered, staring up into the shadows, his eyes glazing over with some memory. Then his head swivelled towards her. ‘Where is this Sacred Isle?’

  Samana raised her finger to gesture towards the west, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. Then she watched with horror as her finger trembled before her … and in slipped a memory of laughter around a dawn fire, warm barley bread on her tongue, her legs cold and tired from standing all night in the Stones … With a strangled gasp Samana buried the offending finger in her fist. Curse the Sisters! Always trying to subdue her will, worming their way into her … Abruptly, she cleared her throat. ‘The Sacred Isle is in the sea to the west of Alba – not on any of your maps.’

  ‘No matter.’ Agricola was again staring at the walls, but he was no longer at ease, no longer yawning. Instead, he leaned forward, rubbing the dark, wet patch on his tunic with rhythmic rolls of his knuckles. ‘There is more than one way to hunt down a pack of she-wolves. Hound, horse, or man?’ He paused, and at last she caught a glimpse of a tight smile. ‘Hound, I think. Definitely hound.’

  A cold surge rippled through Samana’s belly, for Agricola seemed to have forgotten her now, and that was not the reason she had come so far, at such great cost.

  Her hand crept to his muscled thigh, and she wiped the wine from the hair and skin beneath, touching it to her lips, seeking for his eyes. Then his gaze did fix on her, and the hot anger and tension there wavered, drawn back into something more indulgent. ‘You did well to bring this to my attention, my dark witch.’

  Samana licked the last taste of wine from her lips, hiding the rush of relief. And she resolutely replaced the image of the Stones and the dawn fire with a more satisfying one: Samana in the marble hall of a Roman palace, dressed in cloth-of-gold, rubies and lapis dripping from fingers and ears, black hair arrayed around her. Yes, she would be the very image, from what she’d heard, of the great Egyptian queen Cleopatra. A woman who had captured the heart of an emperor.

  Samana kneeled between Agricola’s legs and edged the hem of his tunic up his thighs, a smile playing about her lips. Tilting his head, Agricola opened his legs wider and drew her close, one callused hand grasping her chin while he explored her mouth with his tongue. From the hardness pressing into her belly, she knew she had won again.

  Eremon’s public farewell was no easier for Rhiann than the private one.

  Huddled in her fleece cloak, she stood outside the village gate beneath a leaden sky, as Eremon mounted Dórn at the head of his warband. Yet in front of all these people she could not repeat the words that she had whispered as a litany over his sleeping body in the night: I love you. Come back to me. I’m sorry.

  So many times Rhiann had seen him ride out with sunshine glittering on his armour and weapons, and that glorious spectacle was always a reassurance of triumph and invincibility. Yet today the silent, drifting rain dulled his boar helmet and bright sword and mailshirt. Rori was sitting straight in his saddle, proudly bearing aloft the new scarlet and white standard, but it hung wet and limp, the fierce Boar obscured in its folds.

  All around Rhiann, the fleece and fur trimming the warriors’ cloaks and hoods was sodden with water. Hair was plastered to foreheads, moustaches dripped, and rain pattered on leather capes and saddle packs. It was a thoroughly miserable day to be outside, and though it hadn’t stopped the women from farewelling their men, the cheering crowds were absent.

  Eremon was taking only 400 warriors himself, which didn’t seem nearly enough to Rhiann, yet as he had pointed out to her, he must leave sufficient forces behind to guard Dunadd’s land and sea approaches. And Calgacus had many warriors: that was the reason the alliance with him had been so valued, after all.

  Her throat aching, Rhiann now gazed up at Eremon, and the mist that rose from the river to merge with the drizzle seemed suddenly to wreath about him, like the cold breath of the Otherworld. Her fingers tightened on Dórn’s bridle.

  Conaire huddled in the shelter of the gatetower, his bulk shielding Caitlin and the baby from the rain. Eremon’s eyes strayed to them now, and beneath the dripping browguard of his helmet Rhiann saw a glint of regret. Yet this was what men like Eremon and Conaire did; this was what they gave their lives to.

  ‘You will be with Calgacus in two weeks,’ she repeated, more for herself than for him.

  Eremon nodded, wiping rain from his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘With so many men, it will take much longer than our last trip. But at least we don’t have to look over our shoulders for Romans.’ The Great Glen along which they would travel was separated from the Roman frontier by the highest, most impassable mountains of Alba.

  ‘But where will you go then?’ She needed to be able to picture him somewhere, even though all roads they were likely to take led him towards the Roman lines.

  Eremon shrugged, and rivulets of rain ran down his wolf cloak, clumping the surface of the fur. ‘I won’t know any details until I speak to Calgacus. It doesn’t matter how we do it, anyway, so long as we launch an uprising that draws the Romans from their bases.’ He grinned suddenly in private amusement. ‘Imagine: Ferdiad’s son, a common rebel!’

  ‘Hardly common.’ Rhiann blinked away drifting drizzle, desperately trying to commit every curve of his cheeks and jaw to memory, as if it would keep him nearer over the coming moons. He was freshly bathed and shaved, and after a season of good food, as strong in body as he could ever be. Yet as she gazed up at him, another image was suddenly overlaid on this one, just as she had once seen Gabran’s features shift from babe to king. Eremon’s same dear-loved face looked back at her, but for a moment it was pale and blood-streaked, sheened with sweat, and so hollow-cheeked he looked like a death-wraith.

  Rhiann started, stifling a cry, and Eremon’s hand closed over her own on the bridle. ‘It will be well, a stór,’ he murmured. ‘I will see you again.’

  She bit her lip, not meeting his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she forced out, cupping her elbows with her hands. ‘I will see you again.’

  He smiled with relief, but there was a tightness around his mouth that had not been there before. ‘Well, priestess wife, I am glad you think so.’

  Yet she couldn’t smile back, and despite the men murmuring among themselves, the clanking of armour and impatient stamping of horses, Eremon leaned down to stroke her cheek. ‘Cariad,’ he murmured, his voice thick with concern. And so Rhiann raised her face, straightening her shoulders, forcing strength and boldness into her eyes. The dream called them both: he had his role to fulfil, and she had hers. That’s all there was.

  ‘The Goddess bless your sword arm, husband.’ She smiled. ‘I will be watching over you, and sending you all my strength.’

  A war horn suddenly blew from the gate above, answered by another at the head of the warband, and only the warmth of Eremon’s fingers stayed with Rhiann then as the horsemen and foot warriors marched over the causeway, to be swallowed by the curtain of drizzle and mist, their shouts echoing faintly back along the palisade.

  Rhiann remained still, her fingers pressed to her mouth. She was the Ban Cré, and as she’d told the women that there was no need to fear, so then she must show no fear. A tiny fist batted her arm, breaking into her thoughts, and she caught Gabran’s hand in her own. Holding him, Caitlin pressed her cheek into the back of her so
n’s head and met Rhiann’s eyes.

  ‘Come.’ Rhiann drew a determined breath. ‘It is time to plan my own leave-taking.’

  CHAPTER 31

  A sudden rash of leaf-bud fevers kept Rhiann and Eithne busy, and Rhiann’s sailing was delayed further when Linnet herself took a chill that settled in her chest, and proved difficult to shift.

  ‘I tell you I do not wish you to go to the Sacred Isle without me! There is danger around … and a dread in me, daughter, a sickness …’ Linnet’s head tossed restlessly on her pillow, her unbound hair lank and damp from sweat.

  ‘The poppy brings such dreams, aunt, and the sickness in the belly.’ Holding a bowl of bruised coltsfoot leaves and cup of linseed tea, Rhiann drew a stool to the bed with her foot. ‘And you cannot go; it is too risky for your chest.’

  Linnet swallowed with difficulty, her breathing shallow, as Rhiann peeled back her shift and began smearing the coltsfoot poultice over her breastbone. ‘If I can’t go,’ Linnet whispered, ‘then you must not. I feel a … a wrongness …’

  Just then the door-hide was flung up as Eithne entered with another armful of floor rushes from the saddles of the pack ponies. The morning sun spilled over the bare floor, laying a bright slice across the fading blue blanket on Linnet’s bed.

  Rhiann lowered her voice, wondering how to impart what she herself felt in her belly; that Eremon was riding into true danger, and for Rhiann that outweighed all else, even Linnet’s fevered dreams. ‘The danger you sense is all around us,’ she murmured, binding linen over the poultice, ‘and I will not sit here and do nothing while it draws closer. The rites with the Sisters will strengthen our men, and thereby keep us all safer, and they need my connection to Eremon to direct the Source. As a priestess, you must understand.’