by Jules Watson
And if he was not, when she would have the opportunity to sway him to her side again.
And if he would not be swayed, when she could have him killed, so that he would leave her heart at peace once more.
Chapter 54
A moon after the attack, the last house at Crìanan was nearly finished. Dangling his legs over a roof beam, far from the ground, Didius looked out over the heads of the busy thatchers, over the lines of oxen hauling timber, over the pits where clay was being mixed, to where the red marsh stretched away under a hot sun.
Beyond the reedbeds, buzzing with midges, the southern hills rose. He twisted on his perch. To the east, more hills; to the north, the valley … and then mountains, marching in craggy rows from horizon to horizon.
Out there in all that wilderness, things lurked. Wolves, and bears … and wild-eyed savages with blue tattoos and long, sharp swords. He shuddered. Jupiter forgive him, but he was too afraid to chance an escape.
What if something caught him, and ate him? What if another warrior found him, and there was no Rhiann to stop him being tortured?
His face flushed with shame, as it always did when he had this debate with himself. But he just could not do it.
Right now, he could almost see the answering sneer on Agricola’s face. He would have broken free as soon as he was captured. But no – he would never have been captured. The commander would have fought with Eremon to the death, that or raised the alarm in the camp.
Ah, and that was the heart of the matter. For even if he did survive an escape, he could not go back. Agricola and his officers knew what he had done, how weak he had been. He would be dismissed, in disgrace, and it would tarnish his family name for ever. His ageing father would not look him in the eye; his mother would weep … better, surely, that they thought him dead.
He caught one of the younger thatchers glaring at him, and he busied himself knocking a wooden peg into the rafter.
It was a miracle they let him up here at all, a miracle the workers on the site had not murdered him, right here where his own people had caused such misery. After all, each house had been built over a sacred pit filled with the bones of the dead. And they could easily have been his bones, for what more fitting offering could there be? But though the men looked long at him, they let him be. They might stare at him, but no one would raise a fist. And all because of the Lady Rhiann.
A woman’s control over such men was not the only thing that had surprised him.
At first, when he was captured, he had existed in a fog of pain and misery, hardly daring to look around him, conscious only of all those harsh voices speaking that tongue-twisting language.
All he remembered were hard eyes, like those of the prince, fixed on him, and the clanking of bright swords, like the prince’s. The gruel they gave him was tasteless, their houses dark and smelly, their men barbarically hairy. They had no fountains, no heating, no lamps beyond stinking seal-oil and torches.
But after the kindness shown to him by the lady, he began to awaken from the fog. With the help of the little maid, he started to distinguish words. And it was then that he stopped seeing them as grunting animals, for at last he could make some sense of what went on around him.
The skills of the big smith impressed him; he possessed all the metallurgical knowledge of the civilized world. But it was in artistic flourish that these people outdid his own. They decorated everything, from scabbards and cauldrons to belt buckles and hairpins. Even horses displayed showy fittings of rare coral and enamel. The handle of a ladle might be laboured over for days, just to get the sweep of a swan’s neck right.
These things were amazing enough on their own, but it was nothing to the understanding that came when he gained a better grasp of the language.
Everyone in the dun was treated well, and none went hungry or cold. Women seemed to be making decisions on their own, and transacting business. He stood by and watched a druid – those monsters that Julius Caesar wrote about – deal out calm justice according to a set of laws so complicated that Didius lost track of what was going on in moments.
At the edges of fires, he sat and was swept away by their music, wilder and less refined than the lyre tunes of his homeland, but filled with passion and soaring beauty. He struggled to follow their story-tellers, but was rewarded with tales of such poignancy and mystery that tears were wrung from his eyes.
Yet the greatest surprise occurred only a few days before. In taking a message to Rhiann, he happened upon the prince debating some decision or another with his warriors. Didius expected him to threaten the men into submission with that sword of his, or perhaps challenge one of them to a fight, like snapping dogs.
Instead, he was astonished to see him listen gravely to each speaker in turn, ask measured questions, and deliver a verdict that, judging by the faces, managed to satisfy all combined.
Perhaps he is civilized, Didius thought, until the prince’s eyes sought and found him in the crowd, searing his skin. Didius put his head down and hastily moved on. Perhaps not.
Rhiann, of course, was another matter. Now Didius paused to wipe sweat from his face, his eyes moistening. As a newcomer, he seemed to contract every illness that passed through the dun. He soon lost count of how many nights he laboured with a hacking cough or streaming nose, aching to the bone.
But his memories of those nights were not of pain. They were the softness of the lady’s hands as she sponged the fever from his face, or held his head to gulp down those horrid potions of hers. They were the lilt of her voice, as she sang over him, deep in the night, and the scent of her hair as she leaned down to check his breath.
She was as skilled as any doctor he had come across. And she cared for him as she cared for her own.
No, life here was not so bad, now that he was near her.
The traders had returned with the sun and calm seas. The river was thick with punts being poled up and down from the port, and the storehouse doors were flung wide to the breezes. The hides and furs, grain and horses left on their journeys north, south and east, and in exchange, the goods of other lands flowed in: tin, silver, jet, glass, rare dyes and cloth, pins and brooches, cups and bowls.
And one day a swarthy trader brought more than amber from the northern sea: he brought the news that a moon past, the Roman fleet attacked two of the southern Caledonii ports, putting the inhabitants to the sword. As to what would be done about it, Eremon had to wait another week for a message from Calgacus himself. This contained both encouraging and frustrating news.
The frustration was that Calgacus’s nobles would not take reciprocal action, beyond closing their ports and moving the people inland.
The encouragement was that Calgacus himself did not believe it was an isolated attack, and was taking it upon himself to call a full council of all the tribes of Alba.
‘It will take many moons to convince the leaders even to come,’ the messenger repeated. ‘Also, there is word that the Romans are already retreating south of the Forth again to their forts in preparation for the long dark. For these reasons, the King has named next Beltaine as the time for the council.’
Eremon gripped his sword harder. ‘So far away! Yet better than nothing. Tell him we will be there.’
While many were rebuilding the port, all the other hands had been busy on the land; the men cutting the barley, the women tying it into sheaves. The threshing floors rang with the thudding of feet, the air was thick with floating chaff. Others laboured to bring in the wild harvest of cherries and brambles and hazelnuts.
And once the fields had been cleared, and fires lit on the golden stubble, the festival of Lughnasa began: a time of rest after the harvest, a time for drinking and music and good cheer. But the feasts that ran late into the warm nights, the dancing in the fields, the breaking of the first new bread; all of these had a subdued air this year. Many were still in mourning for loved ones lost; others scented danger on the wind.
Rhiann had her own escape, for she must sprinkle the field
s with offerings of mead and milk, to thank the Goddess for Her fertility. She liked to do this alone, walking the furrows of an evening, when the sky was the colour of a dove’s wing, and the earth breathed out the perfume of the sun.
One dusk, she stood long by one of the ancestor stones, looking across the stubble and river to the hills beyond, where women picked the heather flowers, now coming into full bloom. Soon, the bracken would die, the leaves would turn, and the earth would enter the dark half of the year, the womb half.
Suddenly, her ears caught the soft crunch of feet in the stubble behind her. ‘You have lived too long among us,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I heard you coming.’
‘Oh, Rhiann!’ The feet began to run, and then Caitlin’s arms came around Rhiann’s waist and whirled her.
Rhiann laughed and disentangled herself. ‘What brings you here, barging into me like a badly-behaved wolf cub?’
In the fading light, Caitlin’s eyes were dancing. ‘I have some news!’
‘It does not involve a certain warrior of Erin, does it?’
‘Oh, how did you know? Honestly, I can never surprise you!’
It was not much of a surprise. A few nights before, Caitlin, in a cart drawn by mares with red-threaded manes, had borne the corn doll aloft around the last harvested field, and then, as harvest queen, led the dancing – with Conaire as her partner.
It was then that Rhiann had seen, though Caitlin still jested with Conaire, she no longer pushed him away. And her eyes held the same light as his, when she gazed at him across the flames.
Now Caitlin clapped her hands. ‘He has asked to marry me! He loves me!’
Rhiann kissed her, smiling. ‘Of course he does! And do you love him?’
‘I think I always did. But I waited, to be sure. He did not seem very constant.’
‘But he has proven himself now? You are sure?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Caitlin’s eyes softened as she gazed out across the heather. ‘Sometimes you look in someone’s eyes and you just know.’
Rhiann wished that were true for everyone. ‘It is clear how much he cares for you,’ she offered. ‘I don’t think he’s ever waited so long for anyone.’
‘And that is why I made him wait! If he were playing, he would have lost interest when I did not fall into his bed!’
Rhiann smiled. Caitlin had her full share of female wisdom. ‘So you will be joining the happy couples next Beltaine, then? I will rejoice in giving you the blessing of the Goddess.’
‘Oh, no!’ Caitlin’s face held consternation. ‘No, once I’ve made up my mind I can’t wait that long.’
‘You wish to marry at Samhain? It is a dark time of year for a wedding.’
‘You got married, then, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but that was different. It was a matter of state, not love.’
Caitlin’s chin jutted out. ‘This is too, is it not? I carry the king’s blood, and Conaire is a chieftain’s son. We are strengthening the ties between Erin and the Epidii.’
‘But don’t you wish to be married under the sun, like other brides? With flowers and light …’
‘Rhiann.’ Caitlin’s dreamy smile was back. ‘If he is by my side, I care nothing for flowers. He brings the sun; he is the light.’
At Crìanan, Eremon took the news with far more discomfort than he could show.
‘She is beautiful, and will make you a fine wife.’ He clapped a glowing Conaire on the shoulder. ‘For a while there, I did not think you would wear her down!’
Conaire grinned. ‘For a while there, neither did I! For one so small, she has a will the size of a bear.’
‘It does seem to run in the family.’
A shadow crossed Conaire’s face. ‘Will the council agree, though, Eremon? With her riding around the borders beside me, I forget her real status. Won’t they make her marry an Alban prince?’
‘They will do no such thing,’ Eremon assured him. ‘We have proven ourselves, and I have gained much of the control that I need. I won’t let them refuse you.’
But Conaire still looked worried.
‘They usually marry their princesses to foreign men,’ Eremon reminded him. ‘You are a chieftain’s son, do not forget. This strengthens their ties with us yet again.’
Conaire chewed over that, and then sighed. ‘You know, brother … I did not expect this. I have never wanted any woman beyond one night! I know you don’t approve, for one day we will leave. But there has never been another, not like this. I will not live without her.’ He raised his chin, and his eyes held a look that Eremon had only ever seen on the battlefield.
A jest sprang to Eremon’s lips, and then he realized the solemn tone for what it was. When a man spoke from the deepest part of his soul, the listener must give the moment its due. He bowed his head, his heart suddenly sore. For an answering part of him wanted that, too – to feel that. Few things would be as great.
When Conaire left, Eremon leaned on the half-built pier, digging his heel into the damp sand. It was one thing marrying for expediency, as he had done. It was another marrying for love. The way the bloodlines ran in this strange country, the Epidii would not give Caitlin up to Erin. And how could Eremon ever do without Conaire by his side?
It was easy to become embroiled in what was happening here with the Romans, but Eremon had never forgotten his ultimate goal. Kingship over his father’s lands was all he had been bred for, all he had thought about his whole life.
It was all that kept him going when they crouched behind that barricade on the beach, arrows falling around them; when they sailed away from Erin’s shores, burning with rage and hurt. And if Eremon could just bring the Epidii through the Roman threat intact, he’d have an army at his disposal, ready to land in Erin and take his own dun back.
In all of that, there was no place for love … and certainly not with a woman who felt nothing in return.
Rhiann.
He kicked the piling on which he was leaning, and Cù yelped and bounded around him, expecting a game. But Eremon had no heart for that.
There was no place for love.
‘You!’ he barked at one of the workers, stripping off his tunic. ‘Help me to haul this post up. Now!’
Chapter 55
LEAF-FALL AD 80
The harvest was barely in when the weather suddenly turned. The wind grew sharper as it blew down from the hills, tugging at the golden leaves of alder and willow along the river, and after a clear night of stars, the first frost covered the ground.
On a day of cloud and stinging rain, Rhiann mysteriously banned Caitlin from her house. Caitlin spent the morning playing fidchell with Aedan, but she was too intrigued about what Rhiann was doing to bother concentrating. Aedan won easily, which stunned him so much he did not speak for the rest of the afternoon.
When Eithne came to get her, her black eyes sparkling, Caitlin leaped up and was down the path at a run.
She ducked under the door cover of Rhiann’s house, straightened, and gasped.
‘Your dowry,’ said Rhiann, half-embarrassed, and Caitlin’s eyes widened.
Stacked on the floor were nests of woven baskets, wooden bowls, bronze cauldrons, and a set of ornate fire dogs. On the bed, piles of bedlinens, furs and tanned hides spilled over wall hangings and bright rugs. On top, a fine linen undershift was spread, and a dress of the softest blue wool, edged with white mink.
Before Caitlin could speak, Rhiann handed her a wooden chest bound with bronze. Inside was a delicate golden torc, the two arms deer heads set with eyes of amethyst. There were also hair pins, and shoulder brooches of bronze and silver in the shape of wolf and salmon and eagle – all the symbols that Caitlin loved.
She shook her head, her eyes bright. ‘How can I accept these? I cannot, I have never—’
Rhiann turned away, straightening the bedlinens. ‘Hush! I am your closest kin here at Dunadd, and in the absence of father and uncles I must furnish your dowry, for I represent the clan.’
Suddenly C
aitlin’s arms wrapped around her, and she buried her head into Rhiann’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, oh, thank you!’
Rhiann looked down at the small, fair head, and her own arms came out to gather Caitlin close. ‘There, there,’ she said, patting Caitlin’s back. ‘This is a time for happiness, not tears.’
Caitlin pulled back and wiped her face, leaving a dirty streak. ‘I am happy! That is why I cry!’ She laughed, shaking her head. ‘It is just that I did not expect such a thing!’
‘If these men from Erin insist on taking royal brides from Alba, then they must not be disappointed!’
Caitlin smiled shyly, and stroked the head of one of the brooches. ‘I do not think he will be disappointed,’ she said, in a low voice.
Rhiann turned away, knowing that he would not.
Two husbands of Erin, yet two very different stories.
Conaire and Caitlin’s marriage took place at dusk on Samhain eve, before the fires were extinguished and Rhiann’s ride to the mound in the valley began.
The ceremony, not being the symbolic union of the Ban Cré with the war leader, did not need to be public, and only Linnet officiated. So it was that the couple’s hands were tied with the red sash before the sacred fire of hawthorn, with only Eremon’s men, Talorc and Belen, and Eithne and Rhiann in attendance.
Throughout the simple ceremony, Caitlin remained calm and glowing in her new gown, while Conaire was all fingers and toes. But when Linnet finally called on the Mother of All to bless the union, Conaire lifted Caitlin off her feet with one arm to kiss her, and his face softened into a look of such tenderness that Rhiann’s breath caught in her throat and she had to look away.
Of anyone she knew, Caitlin deserved love most of all. But that did not stop the jealous ache in Rhiann’s breast. For who would not wish for that?
As she turned her head, her eyes fell on Eremon. He was pale tonight, but the unusual fairness of his skin brought out the crimson of his tunic, and deepened the green of his eyes. He wore all his jewellery tonight, which on many men would appear gaudy, but to her surprise it only enhanced his straightness and the breadth of his shoulders. Draped with the gold and jewels of the civilized, what was raw in him only stood out more starkly.
