The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  Unhearing, his eyes still on Conaire’s face, Eremon muttered, ‘I thank you,’ and rushed off as if he did not have a moment to lose.

  The night was long, as all nights were when Rhiann had this particular fight to win. The fire, banked higher than usual, threw ghoulish, leaping shadows on to the walls. But she was lost in her own world, and did not notice Brica replenishing the water, or bringing her more moss pads, or clearing bloody bandages.

  This role Rhiann fulfilled gladly. To her healer’s soul, all patients were equally in need of care, even this … this invader, this man. She had only to use her knowledge. She did not need to deal with her heart at all. It was simple. And she did it well, for this skill had been left to her. She still had this.

  She murmured the required prayers over steeping golden-rod and yarrow, and sang as she ground ivy in her mortar-bowl. The man, now drenched in sweat, tossed and cried in delirium, giving long, tortured speeches about betrayals, and battles, and Erin. She listened closely, intrigued, but could make no sense of it. Did his wandering mind speak of myths long gone, or his own past?

  When the wound was cleaned and packed, she dribbled sorrel in sour milk between his lips, seeking to bring down the fever. She knew that although the poison was bad, this burning was the hungry consumer of men’s souls. She had seen it happen many a time, even from slight wounds.

  At least this man was strong. His arms were thick, his chest wide, his midriff lean and packed with muscle. And unlike the men of her own tribe, this man’s skin was smooth and hairless. For some reason this brought her a flash of memory, a memory that had not passed the borders of her mind for many moons.

  Few men had she seen like this, and only one had she touched when not a healer, many years ago, back on the Sacred Isle. She felt her face flush. And why did that thought arise now, of all times?

  She dragged her gaze to her patient’s face instead, pushing the memories away. He was younger than she had first thought him, with only a faint stubble of beard on his chin. In fact, now that he was in repose, he looked little more than a harmless boy, with a soft mouth that could even be called innocent, if she ever thought of men that way.

  Then her eyes fell on the white seams of scars on those great arms, and the curving score on his cheek, and she shivered. He was no innocent boy, this one – no poet, no artist, like the man in her memory from the Sacred Isle. This man was a killer.

  Just like his prince.

  Chapter 11

  Eremon hardly left Conaire’s side for days. The only other place he frequented was the small shrine on the crag’s crest, where he exchanged some fine finger-rings for the daily sacrifice of a ram.

  It was there that Gelert sought him out in the freezing dawn.

  Eremon was on one knee before the wooden image of Cernunnos, his sword across his lap. Clouds crowded in over the lip of the open roof, swelling with rain. He looked up at Gelert’s step and started, before getting to his feet. ‘You do not worship Hawen, our Boar God,’ Eremon said, gesturing to the idol, half-embarrassed. ‘But your druids told me that this is the Lord of the Hunt, and we revere him, too.’

  ‘Come.’ Gelert threw the tattered edge of his sheepskin cloak over his shoulder. ‘I wish to talk privately, and the view is fine from here.’

  The old man led Eremon through an archway opposite the main entrance, and out on to a rock ledge that faced west, towards the sea. They edged past a rough-hewn stone altar, smaller than the one inside the shrine, stained dark with blood that was a black crust in the dank sunrise. There, against the shrine’s outer wall was an oak bench, and Gelert sat himself down and gestured for Eremon to do the same.

  The marsh was still floating in mist, and from the exposed mudflats at the river mouth came the lament of a redshank, and a wavering line of geese that rose and flowed southwards. Gelert sat straight and still, so still that the only movement was his breath stirring the wisps of his white beard. Eremon decided to say nothing: the druid could break the silence first.

  ‘You conducted yourself admirably on the boar hunt,’ Gelert observed at last. ‘Our people cannot stop talking of you – your bravery, your daring. I, however, was particularly impressed by your strategic abilities with the Creones bucks.’

  Eremon was taken aback. The last thing he expected from Gelert was praise. ‘Well, I … it is no more than I was trained to do.’ He was at a loss for anything better to say.

  ‘Ah, yes, your training.’ Abruptly, Gelert turned to Eremon and fixed him with both eyes. They glowed like coals in the shadow of the pillars. ‘I am no fool, young man. I know very well that you are hiding a secret.’

  With every shred of control he possessed, Eremon forced the sudden surge of guilt away from his face, and instead put in place a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Lord Druid.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. But, be assured – I am not going to ask you what it is.’

  Eremon’s belly uncramped, though he thought it best to stay silent.

  ‘I can see that you are a noble’s son.’ Gelert waved that away as if it were of little importance. ‘Your skill with weapons, your command of your men – these would be enough, but with my druid eyes I see it written into every line of your bearing, and the pride on your face.’

  He said this last with distaste, and Eremon could feel himself bridling at this casual dismissal of his breeding, which he held more important than anything else. For it was, of course, all that he had now. ‘I am a king’s son, as I said. And I’m here to trade, as I said, but if your council does not meet with me soon, I will be forced to go elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes, the question of trade.’ Gelert closed his eyes, gripping his oak staff, and his voice dropped into the sibilant tones that druids used whenever they were pronouncing prophecies. The hair on the back of Eremon’s neck rose. ‘But there is this. You may be a king’s son, but behind you I see a darkness, Eremon of Dalriada. Something that chases you before it, that rides your shoulder like a war crow. A different reason for your arrival on our shores.’ He opened his eyes, and his voice returned to normal. ‘I have not discovered what your secret is yet, but I soon will. You would not like that, would you?’

  Eremon’s heart was hammering now, but he only said, ‘I don’t mean to offend, Lord Druid, but I really have no idea what you mean.’

  Gelert smiled. ‘I leave the trading to others, boy, but I have a … proposal … to make to you. You value your secret very much. And I can promise that not only will I not reveal it to anyone, but I’ll protect you from any attempts by others to discover it. And make no mistake,’ he leaned forward until Eremon could smell his old breath, ‘I am high, very high in the ranks of the druids of Alba. You will find no better ally than me.’

  Eremon could not believe what he heard, but if he said anything, he would betray himself. He realized that his hands were clenching Fragarach’s fine scabbard, the chased boar design digging into his skin, and he tried to loosen his grip.

  ‘And in exchange?’ Gelert answered his own question. ‘Why, strangely enough, you don’t have to give anything away in this deal, for I am going to give you yet something else. Honour beyond your wildest dreams.’

  Eremon had to know. ‘What,’ he said slowly, his tongue dry in his mouth, ‘are – you – talking – about?’

  But Gelert was not quite ready to come to the point, and he sat back again. ‘I have a truth to tell you, prince. I was waiting until I saw what kind of man you are. But you will already have guessed. The man we were sending to the west on the day you arrived was our king, Brude, son of Eithne.’

  Eremon had guessed, and wondered again why the druid had lied. Kings die – but surely the Epidii already had another king picked out, whoever he was.

  ‘I did not want you to know this at first, for his death has, alas, made us weak. Four moons ago the warriors of our royal clan were in the south on a cattle raid, when a plague struck. It took our king’s chosen heirs – all of them. There is no man of the royal blood left who
can be king – no one young enough, skilled enough, unblemished. If Brude’s line dies, then the rival clans will fight each other for the kingship. My kin, Brude’s kin, will be dispossessed, but even worse, the tribe will be riven from within. We cannot afford that, not now the Romans approach.’

  Eremon was surprised at this tale.

  ‘I will be blunt,’ Gelert said. ‘I see this darkness of yours, this secret, and I won’t ask you what it is. But you are not here to trade. You have come to win a name, I can smell it. You want to prove yourself, and I will give you the chance. We need your people’s strength against the Romans, and your own at Dunadd to stop our men from killing each other. We need a war leader, a man who can head our clans, who belongs to no clan.’

  Eremon felt a rushing around him, and his mind reeled. He could hear, as an echo, what he had said to Conaire: I don’t want it to happen too fast.

  ‘So look me in the eye and tell me this one truth, boy, and I’ll let it be. Do you have the men at arms to help us, as you’ve boasted? Will you give your sword to protect us from the Romans, and keep stability within?’

  Never had Eremon’s powers of guile been so tested, as when he had to look into the owl eyes of a druid such as this, and lie. But his life, and those of his men, depended on it. Hawen, my Lord, please aid me now, if you never do again!

  And the swelling cloud above spilled over, and a few cold raindrops spattered into Gelert’s eye. He reached up to rub them away, breaking their gaze. Eremon took a breath, and focused on the last question, and he knew he could answer that one truly. For Conaire had said to grasp the chance, and his twenty men, though few, could certainly help against the Romans. His skills could be used to hold a tribe together – it was what he had been trained for all his life!

  ‘If I so choose,’ he said at last, clear-eyed, ‘I can.’

  Gelert had been blinking, frowning, but at Eremon’s words his brow smoothed.

  ‘You spoke of a reward,’ Eremon pointed out, brushing rain from his own forehead. ‘For supporting you when my own shores are not in danger.’

  Gelert’s laugh was a bark. ‘You mean something more than keeping quiet about you?’ He leaned back into the shelter of the pillars, his gaze penetrating. ‘Then apart from my silence, here is the fruit I dangle before you, Eremon of Dalriada. I come here today to offer you the hand of our royal princess.’

  At this, Eremon was truly speechless, his mind a blank, frozen rock that could absorb nothing.

  ‘But wait!’ Gelert added. ‘The king’s bloodline runs through his female kin. You will not be a king yourself: only the sons of a royal woman can be so.’

  ‘But what about your own princes? Why not choose one of them as a suitor?’

  ‘We always choose outsiders to wed our royal women. It has been so for generations – it strengthens alliances to other tribes. Brude’s mother was an Epidii Ban Cré, but his father was a prince of the Trinovantes in the far south.’

  Something else began to penetrate the shell around Eremon’s mind, and as if he followed his thoughts, Gelert added, ‘Yes, this means that a son she bears you will be king. But he will only be of his mother’s blood: his allegiance only to us.’

  A king! Eremon’s heart could not help but leap.

  ‘Of course, what we want from you is more immediate. The union with our Ban Cré will make you our champion, our war leader, someone to lead us into battle. It is far too dangerous a time to allow the warriors to fight over that honour. But if we install you … our problem is solved.’

  ‘But … you don’t know my lineage, high though it is. You don’t know my people. How will your council agree to this?’

  ‘Our need forces us to be less prudent than we would otherwise be. And there is the manner of your arrival. I have convinced them that you were sent here by our gods. And we have seen you fight. It is enough, for now.’

  Eremon shook his head to clear it, and Gelert leaned forward. A light drizzle was now falling, catching on his hooked nose. ‘Do you have many grades of the marriage union, as we do?’ At Eremon’s nod, Gelert went on. ‘Then the ceremony will take place as a binding to the fifth grade only; a year-marriage, a handfasting. It can easily be severed if you prove unfruitful. In leaf-bud, when the sea lanes open again, we can send to your father. If all is well, and we are happy with the confirmation of your lineage and bridal gifts, then we will make the marriage binding, to the ninth grade. A royal marriage.’ He fixed Eremon with one yellow eye. ‘Make no mistake, only the Roman threat would ever make us act in this haste. It took me a long time to convince the council to agree. It was your fighting prowess that turned their hearts, for they are desperate. But we will be watching you closely.’

  Eremon was too dazed by what he had been told to wonder why the druid bothered to argue for him at all. ‘What if all does not go well with my kin?’

  ‘If you have lied, then we lose little.’ Gelert was blunt. ‘We will be stronger then, anyway. And hopefully our royal lady will be breeding.’

  Eremon heard a new note in Gelert’s voice just then, a most undruid-like spite, but he was too preoccupied to care about it. So, they want me for my loins and my sword. As the druid said, this surpassed his wildest dreams. Had the Boar sent him here for this very reason? It had to be! He desperately wanted to talk to Conaire about it. ‘How long do I have to decide?’

  ‘A day only. It is a great honour.’

  ‘And if I say no?’

  Gelert pursed his lips, surveying his domain. ‘Then we’ll bid you farewell, prince, and send you on your way.’

  Eremon doubted that very much indeed. Gelert would discover his exile, and he and his men would be vulnerable to attack by the other tribes – and even by the Epidii. They had seen his gold, after all.

  As he rose, he turned his face from the stinging rain, which had now begun to blow in from the marsh. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow, and no later.’

  Once Conaire was out of danger, the Erin men had been moved into the King’s Hall. Brude’s wife had returned to her kin with her daughters, and the house had been purified with sweet oils and fragrant smoke. At the time, Eremon wondered why this honour had been bestowed on them, but after Gelert’s offer, he thought he understood.

  That day he chased the myriad servants out of the hall so that he could tell his men what had transpired in the shrine. Conaire, who was resting on a fur-covered pallet by the central hearth, let out one long, low whistle.

  ‘Well?’ Eremon said.

  All eyes turned to Conaire, who shifted his bandaged thigh. A boar tusk gleamed on a thong around his upper arm. ‘It seems that Hawen has given us just the chance we need, brother.’

  ‘But I’m committing us to fight the Romans!’

  ‘It will win us more glory than any cattle raid!’ Rori burst out, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  ‘We’ll be throwing in our lot with one tribe.’

  ‘You told us that it would be the best thing.’ Finan scratched his head. ‘And kin bonds are stronger than trade alliances. You’ll be able to call on all the Epidii kin bonds, too. Seems a good offer to me.’

  ‘It means no trekking around in the long dark,’ Colum put in – he was known for his fondness for good food. ‘Who knows how long it will take to forge an alliance with another tribe?’

  ‘But much more important than that, you’ll be the father of two kings!’ Aedan breathed, his eyes alight. ‘You’ll sire a king here, and another when you take your father’s hall back. A dynasty on both sides of the sea!’

  Eremon could see Aedan’s mind scrambling for a song to do justice to such an idea, and despite his misgivings, he felt his own soul stir with the thought. A dynasty in Alba and Erin. Surpassing his own father. And his uncle. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong with this idea,’ he begged faintly. No one heard him, as they fell to wondering about what it would be like to become part of the Epidii.

  Eremon gazed around the King’s Hall. It had be
en built to inspire awe. The roof-cone soared to an apex six spear-lengths above, and beneath it lay the hearth that twenty men could stand in, with iron spits to roast whole boars, and bronze cauldrons as big as bathing pits, suspended on chains. Around the hearth curved an immense ring of benches, on which they now sat, covered in soft furs and embroidered cushions, and bright hangings swept down from the rafters. No man’s heart could fail to swell with the thought of ruling this domain: feasting kings, planning raids …

  So what was wrong?

  The druid’s offer was the perfect solution to his problem. All he had to do was ensure that Gelert did not discover the truth next leaf-bud. And perhaps it would not matter, then. If he was in a strong enough position, perhaps he could weather that particular storm. After all, the old man might die. The girl might be barren.

  And there was a thought – he had not seen her yet! Among all this talk of siring and kin bonds, he would be getting married. To another person. Someone he had to share a house with, a bed. No one seemed to have thought of that. It was easy for them to apportion him out as if he was a fine stallion. What would he have to say to a wife?

  Conaire caught his eye. ‘It is the chance we were looking for, brother.’ His face, which had been pale since his illness, was glowing. ‘The Boar provides. And Manannán brought us here on the storm! It is the best thing for all of us.’

  The best thing for all of us.

  Yes, that was what mattered. ‘I suppose you are right,’ Eremon conceded. ‘It’s not a trap, after all, is it?’

  ‘No! The betrothal can be broken, once we don’t need it any more.’

  So Eremon agreed with his men that he would take the hand of the Epidii princess.

  Whoever she was.

  Chapter 12

  ‘We wish to marry you to the prince of Erin.’

  The words crashed into Rhiann’s skull, and were tossed from side to side as if in a whirlwind. She stared up at Belen from her hearth-stool, nerveless fingers dropping the heavy spindle into her lap. At the grain quern, set on the floor by the door, Brica stopped grinding and knelt back on her heels.