The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One

by Jules Watson

  But for all these human sounds, she could still see the glimmer of light around their bodies, and feel a last, soft caress as the Goddess left her.

  She looked up into Eremon’s eyes, and he into hers. ‘You,’ she could only say again, and in answer he touched his lips to hers, and in the wake of the urgency and hunger, there was tenderness.

  The moment did not last. A crowd of people swept into the circle to raise them up and pull tunics and cloaks around their nakedness, while they stumbled, still dazed with the saor. Disoriented by the din, the beating of drums, the skirling of the pipes, the massed voices who shouted and cried, they were torn apart, and after their longed-for joining it was agony.

  Rhiann cried out, but no one heard her.

  Eremon grasped for Rhiann, to speak of what had befallen them, to touch her for a moment, but he was being pressed and jostled on all sides by the warriors.

  Then he was thrust, roughly, out of the circle, and he heard a voice – was it Nectan’s? – yelling in his ear. ‘It is not over yet, Stag! You make the sacrifice now, to prove yourself the Consort above all others. Run, and catch Her! To the cliffs!’

  He was pushed again, and he fell, but in a moment he was up. The antlers were unwieldy, scraping on the stones, and feminine fingers clutched at his arms and reached between his legs, hoping for a touch of the fertility that had burst from him this night. Some grasped his legs and feet, seeking to hold him back. Faces loomed up around him, laughing, wild with the night, swimming together as the saor blurred his senses.

  He struggled to shake off the cloying hands, and then he heard Nectan’s clear laugh. ‘Away, away with the Stag!’ The press around him lightened, and he glimpsed Conaire and Fergus and Colum, laughing as they pulled his captors from him. And he forgot that he was the God, and had a role to play. He only wanted Rhiann. He cried her name, but the sound was taken from him in the din of voices.

  Then far, far away, it seemed, he saw her hair shining, and the moon under the clouds over the sea. He must reach her. The thought gave him strength, and he took another breath, and was free and away, with the night air cold in his lungs.

  Behind him Nectan cried again, ‘Run fast for us, our God!’

  Over rocks and slippery turf he flew, sensing the bunching of muscles in foreleg and flank, the deep stirring of forest blood, the power in striking hooves. He raced down onto a spit of shingle where a stream ran, then up, up on to the headland, towards the moonpath on the sea. And there, at the very edge of the cliff he halted, panting, for Rhiann stood, a group of priestesses around her. He did not pause to wonder how she had got there so quickly, for the saor made time move and change, and he had been delayed longer than he realized.

  Gasping, he sank down on one knee.

  When Rhiann felt the Mother come into her again, it was a different sensation from the circle, as if her soul had merely moved aside, yet lingered still within the confines of her body. She could see the glow around her hands, and feel the greater presence within, but when she looked at Eremon, all she could see was his own soul-flame. There was no sign of the God. Was something wrong?

  Uncertainty lurched in her, and shadows gathered, but then she heard the whisper in her heart. Peace, little one, it seemed to say. But be ready, be ready for him!

  The moon was bright above Rhiann now, yet to Eremon her face was in shadow.

  As he sought desperately for her eyes, wanting to speak with her, hands grabbed him from behind and pressed him face down on the ground.

  He knew a moment of fear as his wrists were tied with a rope, but then he made himself relax. It was all part of the rite; Nectan had explained it. The hands turned him upright again, forcing him on to his knees.

  When Rhiann spoke, it was not with her own voice. ‘Are you the one worthy to become my Consort?’ she asked. Her voice was deep, ancient, resounding with power.

  ‘I am, lady,’ he answered, struck with awe by the Goddess light around her.

  Rhiann put out a hand and rested it on his head, between the antlers. ‘And as my Consort, will you vow to uphold the Laws of the Mother? To revere the things She has made?’

  ‘I will, lady.’

  ‘Will you use your sword for justice, and not for greed?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Will you be the first to go cold, the first to hunger, the first to take up arms to defend my people?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And as the King Stag, will you sacrifice yourself for the land? Will you give your blood to keep it safe?’

  He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. ‘I will.’

  Then he felt another touch on his head, grasping his hair, pulling his head back until his throat was exposed.

  There was the cold touch of a stone knife on his skin.

  Floating, detached, Rhiann watched the crowd of priestesses part, and the little figure come forward to take hold of Eremon’s hair. Through the last vestiges of the saor, she struggled to see who it was, for it suddenly seemed important.

  And then her drifting soul registered puzzlement. It was Brica! Why was she here? Why had she not come to greet Rhiann?

  The lurch of unease returned in full.

  She saw Eremon’s throat, long and white in the moonlight against Brica’s rough dress, as she pressed his head back into her chest. She saw Brica raise the black blade of stone that was used for this symbolic sacrifice. And suddenly it all came flooding in, as the hand was raised, as the knife flashed down.

  The knowledge that she loved Eremon. And that he would die.

  It was time for the choice that Linnet had seen.

  Save him! came the cry in her soul, in her mind, shocking her back into her body. The saor fell from her like a cloak flung to the ground, and without thinking she threw herself at Brica and the knife.

  She crashed into the cold hand that clasped the blade, but was not quick enough, though the knife sunk itself into Eremon’s shoulder instead of his vulnerable throat. He cried out in pain, falling sidewise, the blood already pouring over Rhiann’s cloak.

  Brica had been knocked over backwards with Rhiann on top of her, and Rhiann found herself staring into her black eyes, shining under the moon. There was a snarl on Brica’s lips, and Rhiann took in the fanatic gleam in her eye, the burning hatred.

  ‘You wanted this lady!’ Brica whispered fiercely, and it was as if the icy blade had sunk into Rhiann’s own heart. ‘I do it for you!’

  ‘No!’ Rhiann cried in horror. ‘Oh, no! I do not want this!’

  Abruptly, the gleam faded, and now fear leaped into Brica’s face, as the priestesses came to life around them, crying out in anger and confusion, taking hold of them both. But as Brica was drawn to her feet, Rhiann saw her glance darting wildly from side to side, and when the woman wrenched herself free of the arms that bound her, Rhiann heard herself crying again, ‘No!’

  It was too late. With a wild shriek, Brica pulled free and ran for the edge of the headland, before throwing herself off into blackness.

  And Rhiann knew no more.

  When she woke, it was to see Nerida’s face hovering over her. Behind, the night sky was still scattered with stars. People murmured all around.

  ‘Eremon! Where’s Eremon?’

  ‘He is well.’ Nerida spoke soothingly. ‘Though the wound is deep, it is not in a dangerous place. But he is weakened, and the druids have taken him to their lodge in the broch.’

  ‘The lodge! No … no! He should be here, with me … I will nurse him!’

  ‘Hush.’ Nerida took Rhiann in her arms. ‘He shed sacred blood. The druids will care for him well.’

  Rhiann struggled to sit up, but her head was swamped with dizziness.

  ‘There, now,’ Nerida murmured. ‘The shock was too great for you. The fasting, the saor … stay and rest for a moment. We are bringing a litter.’

  Rhiann sank back down, and all of a sudden the events of the night flooded back to her, and she began to shiver uncontrollably. ‘B-Brica?’


  Nerida paused. ‘She is dead, on the rocks.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I do not understand. She asked to wield the knife, and I allowed it because I thought she had a bond to you.’

  ‘She – she wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Yet we have had no true sacrifice for generations. Setana spoke to her family – two days ago Brica began to say that as the danger of the Romans is great, the sacrifice should be real. They did not take her seriously. I fear she lost her mind.’

  ‘No.’ A wave of shudders wracked Rhiann. ‘It was me. I fed the hate … when I was forced to wed Eremon. She drank it in, and in her twisted mind it grew. She must have discovered who the Stag would be. My hate nearly killed him!’

  Nerida brushed her hair back. ‘No, child. For was it not your love that saved him? The bond with him gave you strength, otherwise you would have been too late.’

  ‘Oh, Goddess … I nearly lost him! How many people must die because of me!’ Suddenly, she knew she would be sick. Nerida held her shoulders as she rolled to one side and retched, and then someone was there with a cool cloth soaked in seawater, and they wiped her face.

  ‘Hush, child.’ Nerida rocked her. ‘You speak words of pain, but they are not real, not true. I am proud of you, not ashamed.’

  But Rhiann was swiftly falling again, into a blackness that came upon her in the aftermath of the shivering, the retching.

  At the last, she heard Nerida say, ‘You chose well, daughter. We knew you would.’

  Chapter 79

  Rhiann slept the next day away, so heavily that she did not dream. She woke to soft singing by her bed.

  It was Fola.

  Rhiann opened one eye, blinking, and saw from the light against the wall that the day was far advanced. There was an aching, a soreness between her legs. She shut her eyes again, tightly, so that Fola would not know she was awake.

  Dear Goddess. He had joined with her. A man had invaded her again.

  No … no, not invaded. It did not feel like that at all. She remembered the way she drew Eremon into her, the hunger that consumed her limbs. How could this be the same body that once threatened to kill Eremon for touching her? How could that feeling of degradation exist alongside the yearning?

  Perhaps it was because Eremon was the soulmate, the sword-wielder.

  The dream had not died after all. It lived in them.

  Before she could swallow it, a sob forced its way from her throat, and then another. In a heartbeat, Fola was there, gathering Rhiann in her arms. ‘There, there,’ she murmured. ‘Cry it out, Sister. It will help.’

  She did not know how long Fola held her, as the release of the tears claimed her body, or how long, afterwards, they sat silent, as they had often done in this room.

  But the shadows had moved far up the wall, and the sun-warmth had faded to the cool of dusk, when there was a hesitant tap on the doorpost and Caitlin was filling the room with her smile.

  White gull feathers were tucked into her braids, and beneath her torc, she had strung herself a necklace of purple shells. Her buckskin trousers and scarlet tunic were startling after the priestess robes that had surrounded Rhiann for days.

  Now Caitlin flew to her and hugged her tightly. ‘Cousin, we have been so worried! Every time I asked, they said you were sleeping!’

  With a faint smile, Fola moved to the chair to take up her spinning again.

  Rhiann lay back on the pillow. ‘After such rites, the body needs that sleep. Do not worry; I look worse than I feel.’

  Relief flooded Caitlin’s face, and she took Rhiann’s hand. ‘I tried to get close to you last night, but when I saw the Sisters all around, I thought you would want me to follow Eremon.’

  At the mere mention of his name, Rhiann’s fingers tightened. ‘How is he? No one will tell me anything except that he is well.’

  Caitlin’s brow wrinkled. ‘And I can say little else. I followed his litter back to the broch, along with Conaire and the men. But the druids took him into their lodge, and Nectan and his men set up guard at the door, barring everyone from entering. The kings have come, but even they would not be admitted. Conaire was on the verge of breaking down the door to get to him, but without laying hands on Nectan, he could not.’

  ‘Why will they not let anyone see him?’

  Caitlin shrugged. ‘Both Conaire and I slept outside the door – the druids have been stepping over us all morning! They say he is resting, that the wound is clean and not too deep. They ask us to respect their wishes. What can we do without offending every warrior in that broch?’

  Rhiann slid her legs out of the bed and pulled her shift straight. ‘Then I am going.’

  Caitlin glanced at Fola, who quickly put down her spinning. ‘Oh no, my girl! You are to stay abed. Nerida has ordered it.’

  Rhiann was tugging her dress over her head. ‘No one can order me in this.’ Her face came free, and she blew strands of hair from her mouth and looked at Fola. ‘I love him! He has waited two years to hear me say it, and I’m not making him wait longer. After all the talking and dreaming we did in this very room … will you stand in my way?’

  Caitlin clapped her hands together and put them to her mouth, her eyes shining.

  Fola was grinning at Rhiann. ‘Now that you put it like that, how could I stand in the way of anything?’ She shrugged. ‘Nerida knows well how stubborn you are. She will not punish me for your rebellion.’

  Fola quietly saddled the most placid of the Sisters’ mares, and led it to the edge of the settlement, where the path wound up out of the dell through the hawthorns. Caitlin and Rhiann managed to slip from the house, undetected by Nerida or any of the older priestesses, and when Caitlin led Rhiann away on the mare, no one came rushing out to stop her.

  Or perhaps they expected her to do this after all.

  When Caitlin tied the mare up outside the druid lodge, Conaire hastened to help Rhiann to the ground. ‘Rhiann! We have all been worried about you!’

  Rhiann gave his waist a squeeze, smiling over his shoulder at Colum and Fergus. ‘I am quite well, as you can see – just a little wobbly on my feet. I want to speak to Eremon.’

  Conaire frowned and shook his head. ‘They are guarding him like a pack of wolves.’ He threw a glance over his shoulder, to where Nectan stood before the door with a spear, flanked by two of his men. ‘I knew we should not have trusted that one.’

  ‘Peace, Conaire. I will talk to Nectan alone.’

  When Rhiann approached the door of the lodge, Nectan looked up at her with a touch of defiance, gripping his spear.

  ‘Am I not to be allowed to enter, either?’ She spoke his own dialect, smiling.

  ‘No women can enter, lady.’

  ‘But I need to see him! If not, then tell me why.’

  Nectan jerked his head at his men, and they relaxed their stiff pose and moved to one side, out of earshot.

  ‘Lady,’ Nectan said respectfully. ‘This is a matter for the druids, for the God. For all of us. Your man came for an alliance, and an alliance he will have – if he chooses. But the moment hangs in the balance. The moment must not be disturbed.’

  Rhiann stared at him, a suspicion suddenly entering her mind. ‘Nectan, do you know why Eremon was chosen to be the Stag? A stranger, a foreigner?’

  Nectan’s grin was proud. ‘I did it. The kings were beginning to be convinced, but they did not wish to heed the call of a gael. We only follow our own. I spoke with Brethan’s druid. The druids have seen the signs … they know the Source is disturbed, that danger is near. They saw that the Goddess brought your man to our shores, in the eighteenth year. He, who has shed Roman blood, and had his own blood shed by Romans. He, the bonded man of a Ban Cré. Who else could be the Stag? She had called him. And if he became our God for this night, then perhaps the kings would heed him.’

  Rhiann nodded. Of course! Now, her mind free of the saor, she could see it all. ‘Nectan.’ She bowed her head. ‘You are wise beyond imagining. We have much to thank you for, if what you say is true. B
ut will they follow him? Have they told you so?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On what he says when they give him the choice.’

  In the druid lodge, Eremon lay curled up against the wall, on a bed of soft skins. His shoulder throbbed only faintly, for it had been cleaned and packed with herbs, and the druid healer gave him a draught of something that took the pain away.

  It was not his bodily hurts that kept him huddled as far from the chanting druids as possible. It was his spirit that was utterly overwhelmed, and not just from the power he felt in the stone circle.

  No. It was the moment when Rhiann chose him, when she pulled his mouth down to hers, that would be burned on his memory for ever. Nothing would ever come close to that sweetness … to the feel of her wanting him so hungrily. Nothing.

  If he could have died right there and then, if he could have slipped from his body, and taken her to the Otherworld, leaving everything, he would have done so. Right at that moment, life became as pure as it would ever be.

  ‘Prince.’ It was Brethan’s druid. ‘I would speak with you.’

  Painfully, Eremon turned, shifting his body higher against the pillow.

  The young druid’s eyes were cavernous, burning with excitement. Over his shoulder, other druids kept up that sibilant chanting, and every now and then, one would throw a handful of something on the fire that caught at the back of Eremon’s throat.

  ‘You know why we chose you to be the Stag.’

  Eremon nodded dizzily. ‘Nectan told me.’ He coughed, and the druid handed him a cup of water, and waited while he sipped it.

  Taking it from him, the druid sat on the edge of the bed pallet. ‘And our choice was right. The flowering of the Source was the most powerful we have known for many, many years. You did well.’

  Eremon’s mind was on Rhiann. ‘I am glad. Now, if you’ll just get me my cloak so I can go to my wife …’