The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  The people cried out in surprise and dismay, but the Epidii princess’s voice came again, carrying over the mutters of men stumbling to their feet. ‘Fear not.’

  The chieftain sank back on his bench, his old heart thundering, as his wife’s small hand came out to grasp his shoulder.

  The drumming began again outside, but this time it was a compelling beat that seemed to reach into the chieftain’s chest and shake it. There was a rustling at the door, and a single voice broke into a high chant that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. In the dim light of the coals, something pale entered and circled around the edges of the room.

  The clear, piping voice continued to rise and fall in the wordless song, and in the chieftain’s mind he was soaring over the mountains like an eagle, and then out to sea and back again. Another sound at the door, and then a second voice joined the first, then a third, and more and more, until the room shimmered with a veil of sweet, shifting notes, as pale wraiths glided around in the shadows.

  He had rarely been so frightened or excited. Who knew what priestesses could do? His wife’s hand grew tighter on his shoulder, as the sound swelled until it echoed off every beam of the roof, the pillars, the shields on the walls, even the cooking pots and cauldrons. And just as his heart could pound no harder, nor his wife grip any tighter, the sound abruptly ceased.

  Before the chieftain could react, a circle of flame flickered into life around them. Peering at the edges of the room, the chieftain saw girls, dressed all in white, and behind every second girl, a Caereni warrior holding a burning brand.

  The Lady Rhiann stepped forward into the cleared space before the door, and turned to face her audience. Immediately, most of the girls sat down in a circle around her, their fingertips touching, while several remained standing. The seated girls began another song, but this was a low, breathy chanting that wound soothingly among his people, and the chieftain felt some of the tension leave him in a rush, as he slumped back.

  Now the Lady Rhiann was raising her hands, and her rings and bracelets sparkled in the flames as her cloak fell back from her arms. Higher and higher came her hands, her sleeves spreading out to either side like wings, and all the while the chanting continued.

  ‘My lords!’ The Lady Rhiann’s voice was no longer soft, but strong and fierce. ‘We have a tale to tell you, to sing you, to show you. Listen well, for the Sisters do not need your food or shelter, but your vengeance!’ She flung out her hand to one of the white-robed girls, and the maiden drew closer. Here are the innocents whose lives were bloodied that day by the red invader. The others cannot sing to you, for they are dead, but let our song and tale speak for those who have no voices! Listen well, for they beseech you from the grave!’

  And when the maiden came forward into the pool of torchlight, and began to speak of what she had seen, the chieftain was stirred by a terrible pity and horror.

  One after the other, the standing girls spoke, and each seemed to him to have a sweeter face than the last, and eyes that swam with tears, and words that plucked at his heart. But when the Lady Rhiann at last took the floor herself and described, with the grace of a born storyteller, what she had seen, well, by then his wife was openly sobbing into his shoulder, as were all his women, and even he could not breathe past a choked throat.

  At long last the priestesses fell silent, and all the chieftain could hear was the snap of a dying coal in the hearth. Those monsters, these Romans, had killed women like this, defenceless, peaceful women who made beautiful sounds and spoke beautiful words. Something had to be done about it.

  The chieftain’s reverie was shattered by his eldest son, who, with an oath, leaped to his feet, nearly knocking his own wife to the ground. This is not to be borne!’ he cried, his face alight with fury. If it’s vengeance you wish, lady, then vengeance you will have!’

  The chieftain opened his mouth to protest, for he knew his hotheaded progeny well, but the Epidii princess was already smiling at his son. ‘Last year your king refused an offer of alliance with the Epidii and the Caledonii,’ she cried. ‘But if the tribes had united then, this outrage would not have happened, and your priestesses – your birthright – would still be alive. I come here today to urge you to petition your king, to beg him night and day to join the alliance! Together, we can defeat the Romans, but only together!’ She spread her arms, the gesture taking in all the girls arrayed at her feet, and standing by her side. ‘Protect our land so that innocents like these, like your own children, can prosper in peace. Join with us!’

  She held out one elegant hand to his son, the light glittering on her rings, and every other young warrior in the hall leaped to his feet, shouting curses at the Romans, and oaths to join the fight. Their women chattered excitedly and the hounds, disturbed by the noise, began to howl.

  ‘Wait!’ the chieftain roared, for he knew his king well, and that he had been fixedly against this alliance for the last two years. ‘Heed me!’

  Yet his son was before him, sword unsheathed, joy in his face. ‘Father! Let us set out for our king’s dun tomorrow, at first light! Let us lead the fight against the Romans – us, the foremost clan among the Creones!’

  And the chieftain knew then he had lost, and sat down heavily on his bench as his wife threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. With a rueful smile he pinched her under the chin and then sighed, feeling every one of his old, aching bones, as the hall erupted around him with a youthful clamour that could not be denied.

  The Epidii princess was smiling broadly now, and though it was not a cruel smile, there was no sign of the sweet and innocent, either.

  High in the mountains, the sun could be fierce in this season when it blazed free of the clouds, and Eremon had taken refuge from its midday heat under his tent canopy.

  He’d informed his men before that he would not be hunting this day. Bewildered, they had left him in a whirlwind of shouting, whistling and clattering spears, and it was only as peace fell that Eremon realized his true motive for forgoing the outing: to shave, and therefore to think.

  As he scraped the dagger blade over his skin, peering into the untarnished side of a bronze pot, Eremon’s thoughts could range far and undisturbed.

  Despite the rough conditions of the camp, he undertook this ritual with soaproot and dagger every few days. It was not for vanity, or even because he found beards itchy and breeding grounds for lice. Unshaven cheeks were a custom of Erin, and for some perverse reason he wanted to hold to his traditions, even in the midst of an Alban battle camp. Or perhaps that’s exactly why he did it – he was war leader of an Alban tribe, married to an Alban princess, a close ally with the most powerful Alban king. He had to be stamped with something of Erin, and it would be his face, which he showed to the world. And when he agreed to be tattooed on the Sacred Isle he had insisted that the tattoos not include his face, for in Erin a king must be unblemished.

  So he told himself then, but now? After three years away from his homeland, Erin had gone from being his reason for living to a background desire that no longer seemed to have much to do with day-to-day concerns. Abruptly, Eremon paused, the blade dripping water into the wooden bowl balanced on his crossed legs. Now that was a strange thought, for he remembered as if it were yesterday the fire that had driven him to take the boat from Erin, to keep his men alive. All he had wanted was to gain support for himself in Alba, and then return home to claim his Hall.

  Yet somewhere along the way, without his realizing it, that fire had merged into another: to save the people of Alba from the Romans. When had the change occurred? He stretched his chin up to tighten the skin, spattering himself with water.

  In these past years, he had sent no messengers to Erin. At first he’d been afraid to alert his uncle to his whereabouts, but now Eremon was powerful and secure. He need not fear his uncle any more – Donn might even be dead. So what held him back?

  The blade hovered. Conaire would say it was his methodical nature, for he hated leaving things undone a
nd had not yet reached the end of his Alban road. It would not be over for him until he drove Agricola out of Alba, or died trying.

  And yet … for a moment, Eremon’s heart ached with a longing for his own valleys, greener than any in Alba. He wiped bristles and soap on his trouser leg, closing his eyes as the breeze gusted the tent edge back, spilling sun over him. Perhaps when he was back at Dunadd he would at last send someone to see what had befallen his homeland. For he felt in his bones that this struggle between Agricola and Alba could not go on for more than another year. Perhaps it was time to give some thought to what should happen afterwards. After, when there was peace … peace to …

  No! He would not think of home and hearth! That meant Rhiann, and memories of her were continually slipping under his defences, however carefully he guarded his heart against it.

  At least the hurt had cooled after the lightning raid on the plain, when those few Roman soldiers came crashing through the undergrowth after them. It had been both easy and satisfying to fly at them from the damp shadows, striking down and then running, dodging trunks and leaping fallen logs until he and his men thought their lungs would burst. And then, the exultation of flinging themselves into the icy waters of a mountain stream, which seemed to carry away the shame along with blood and dried mud. Eremon had thought then that he had mastered his pain, pushing Rhiann into a more contained place in his soul.

  That was until he received her news, two days ago.

  Eremon had listened to Nectan’s man with the silence of utter disbelief. Rhiann was not at Dunadd, but travelling through the mountains with the priestesses. She was winning over the chieftains, they were falling to her words like a scythe through grain, the messenger reported happily. Eremon had dismissed him at last, the shock seeping through him. And beneath that was fear for her – pride in her, yes – but hurt, too, all over again. It was not only that she had undertaken this mission alone, without his consent, counsel or help. If she was in the north, too, then why had she not come to him, to show him that she still loved him?

  And why would she? his conscience taunted now, as it had been doing ceaselessly since he received this news. You acted as an angry child, not a man …

  Irritated with this turn of thought, Eremon’s hand jerked too quickly and the blade nicked his jaw. ‘Hawen’s balls!’ He clapped his palm to his bleeding face, just as he heard a discreet cough behind him. It was one of Calgacus’s men.

  ‘Prince,’ he said deferentially, ‘Gerat’s band has returned from the southern mountains. They have a captive with them who demands an audience with you.’

  ‘Demands?’ His finger still pressed to the cut, Eremon fished a rag from under his knee and wiped the last stubble from his chin. Has your lord Calgacus been informed yet?’

  ‘My king has met the captive and determined that you are the best man to deal with the situation.’ The man jiggled back and forth on his heels.

  Eremon rose. ‘When you say captive, do you mean this man is a Roman? A soldier from the army? That would be a catch indeed.’

  The man pursed his lips, his eyes on the leather roof. Oh, it’s a catch all right, sir.’

  ‘Well, where is he?’

  ‘At Gerat’s campfire. Shall I have the captive brought here, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Eremon dabbed ineffectually at the cut, which was still smearing his fingers with blood. ‘I need to clean up first. I’ll go there myself. Thank you.’

  After staunching the blood with a scrap of fleece, Eremon made his way through the camp, which tumbled down the steep valley. After the attack, he and Calgacus were waiting to see what the Romans might do, so the Albans were not preparing for battle, but snatching some much-needed rest. Some were lounging by their cook-fires in the shade, mending harness or polishing weapons. Others were practice-duelling on the flatter banks of the stream that carved the valley, or washing off their stink in its deeper pools.

  Eremon had to ask twice where Gerat camped, but eventually was directed to a small knot of men standing in the middle of a crescent of hide and brush shelters. As Eremon approached he heard a shout of laughter. He quickened his step, hoping that the captive had not been beaten in such a way as to render him incapable of giving information.

  He was only a few steps away when one of the warriors saw him and muttered to the others, and they all peeled back from the object of their scrutiny.

  Eremon’s steps faltered and stopped, his curious smile fading as he saw what manner of captive had been brought to him.

  Samana.

  By all the gods … his breath slammed against a wall in his chest, and his hand came out to grasp something, to steady himself, but there was nothing to lean on. The last time he saw her, hatred had coursed through his veins, as hot as his lust had once been for her body. And despite the passage of more than two years, those feelings spiralled up even now, twisted together into an indistinguishable tangle.

  At sight of him, Samana raised her chin. Her wrists were tied by a scrap of crowberry rope, her once-fine green dress caked with mud and what smelled like horse sweat, yet still she stood for all the world as if she were a queen expecting homage from these men. From him.

  ‘My lord.’ The man called Gerat stepped forward, his own pleased grin freezing when he saw the shock in Eremon’s face. ‘This … lady … was travelling close behind the Romans. She said you would know her, that we must ask for you.’

  Yet his question trailed away unanswered. For Eremon had not acknowledged him, and was staring at Samana as if no one else was there.

  CHAPTER 47

  Samana had only remained silent because she could not gain her breath; it fluttered and leaped wildly along with her pulse, making her dizzy. She’d been certain she was ready to see Eremon, after seven nights with these rough men, stopping her ears with her fingers to block out their crude jests. All that time she had thought only of the Erin prince, and what she would say to him. And now, she found she could say nothing.

  The magic she wove to draw him into her bed two years ago had somehow ensnared her as well as him, yet nevertheless it should have worn off long ago. And yet, he looked more beautiful to her than ever: older and harder; his cheekbones burnished by the sun; his green eyes standing out against his tanned skin. Beneath his sleeveless tunic the faint hairs on his arms were tawny, and his legs were lean in their muddy trousers. Even his dark hair curled just the same over his temples.

  Just like the morning he came from my bed, Samana found herself thinking, and was appalled at her weakness. Yet how could she help it? He stood there dusty and sweaty and sunburned, blood beading on a cut on his jaw, yet still he managed to shoot a barb through her formidable defences, a finely tuned bolt of exquisite lust that sang along her veins.

  She could not make out his expression clearly. After his first shock, he looked as if she were a loathsome insect that had just crawled out from under a rock. But there had been a flash of something else there too, far back in his cool eyes. Something she could work with.

  ‘Come.’ Eremon seemed to collect himself, stepping forward and grasping her elbow with a bruising grip. ‘We will speak in my tent.’ He turned to the man Gerat and his men, who were all staring with intense curiosity at the little scene. ‘You have done well, and King Calgacus and I both owe you our thanks. For this woman is the whore of Agricola himself.’ Samana saw the slight curl of Eremon’s lip. ‘You could have captured no higher informant. I will see you gain an extra ration of ale for this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Gerat replied, his eyes flicking back and forth between them.

  Eremon firmly turned his back then and half dragged Samana all the way up a winding path, between clusters of tents, men, horses and bundled weapons. As soon as they were out of earshot, she hissed, ‘You’re hurting me!’

  Yet he only glanced down at her with bright, hard eyes, and said nothing.

  Then Samana was out of the harsh sun, and into the coolness of a tent. Immediately Eremon flung her from him as if she burned.
Samana stumbled in the sudden gloom, tripping over a bed roll before sinking on to its hide cover.

  When she looked up, Eremon was leaning against the pole that held the shelter, his hands folded tightly over his chest. Is this a trick? A joke?’

  Samana twisted her sore wrists, breathing hard. Do you think I would allow my men to be slaughtered, my own person to be hauled through the mountains for a week by soldiers, like a sack of grain, without decent food or a bath or bed, for a trick?’

  ‘Nothing you do would surprise me, Samana.’

  ‘I was captured! And my hands are hurting. Could you at least get rid of this?’ She held up her bound hands, and after a pause Eremon unsheathed the dagger at his waist and cut the rope with one swipe, making sure he did not touch her. Samana rubbed the indents on her skin, and then her pounding temples, muttering a curse under her breath. It was Agricola who had put her in this position, damn him!

  Eremon’s ears were keener than she’d realized, for he uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. ‘Agricola?’

  Samana smirked. ‘Save your gloating – he’s well out of your reach now.’ Yet she could have bitten off her tongue when Eremon abruptly straightened.

  ‘Agricola does not lead this army?’

  Samana clamped her lips together, as he stored that snippet away with some pleasure. Curse him! She was used to being the interrogator, not the interrogated. It was the tiredness, that was all.

  Eremon squatted down a handspan from her face. And how could your enamoured suitor bear to be parted from you, Samana? Leaving you without a single Roman guard?’

  She’d thought of many ways to approach this, but she had first to see how he reacted to her.

  ‘Could it be’, Eremon continued, ‘that Agricola grows tired of your diversions? Could it be you are no use to him any more?’