The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (20 page)

The dancing had become wilder now, to chase away the restless Samhain spirits, and Eremon chuckled to see Conaire being pulled enthusiastically into the fray by the girl called Garda. She had been stalking his poor foster-brother for weeks now.

‘My lord.’

He jumped and looked up. There, next to him, was another girl. He’d certainly noticed her around the dun, mainly because of the way that her eyes always followed him. Round, blue eyes, they were, and she had a lush figure and thick, yellow hair. He smiled, not knowing her name.

‘I am Aiveen, my lord, Talorc’s daughter. I have been wishing to speak with you.’

A bold one, she was, then. No woman had yet dared to approach him, though tonight, for the first time, he was ready for them to do so. The mood of the dancing was infectious, and he had not forgotten Conaire’s words on the marsh that day. He took a sip of mead, and then, impulsively, held the cup out to her. ‘Then speak with me, daughter of Talorc.’

She sank down next to him and held her hands for the cup, drinking, holding his gaze while she did so. ‘Are you enjoying our feast, my lord?’

‘Most certainly. And more so now I have some company.’

She dimpled, lowered her eyes with false modesty and turned her cheek away. Ah, there it was. So the games begin. First the coyness, then the suggestive comments, and then her leg would brush his … All of a sudden, he reconsidered whether he could be bothered with the predictability of it all.
And it’s an attitude like that, my lad, that will keep your balls blue for many moons to come
.

His eyes roved down her cheek, to where full breasts swelled against
the neck of her gown. And then, in the light of the nearby fire, he noticed something. The hood of her cloak was fringed with feathers. Swan feathers.

He frowned. ‘Where did you get those?’ He flicked one with a finger.

For the first time, she looked uncertain. ‘My mother received them as a gift for me. I thought …’

Abruptly, he laughed, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘I see.’

So that’s what Rhiann did with his gifts. On the far mound he could just see her, outlined against the fire, still and pale. So far away. Maybe there was no point in trying after all.

Aiveen’s leg brushed his, and he decided to put Rhiann out of his mind. He leaned back, his elbows pillowed on the cold ground by his cloak, and smiled at the girl. ‘The feathers become you very much.’

She dimpled once more, sure of him again. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘And no more of this “my lord”’. He brushed her cheek slowly with a finger. ‘My name is Eremon. You may use it.’

‘Thank you, Eremon.’ She rolled his name around her tongue with obvious relish, and he felt an answering stab of warmth between his legs. She sipped the mead and gave it back to him. ‘So, do you celebrate Samhain in the same way that we do?’

‘Mostly.’ He looked around at the dancing and the firepits, the small bands of musicians. ‘But we don’t have priestesses.’

A frown touched her brow at that; she would not want to be reminded of Rhiann. Cursing himself, he reached out and ran the back of his hand down her arm, and felt her answering quiver. Then she lay back on one elbow, near to the circle of his body. The movement made her breasts press even more tightly against the fine wool of the dress. When he raised his eyes to her face, her saw her knowing smile.

‘And what do you do when the feast is over?’ Her voice was low, throaty.

He knew that note well. This was proving much easier than he’d anticipated. A little too easy, if truth be told, but it made things simpler. If he did not have to win her, then she would expect nothing from him. ‘We honour the gods with our bodies. What do you do?’

She laughed, throwing back her head to expose her white throat. Her teeth were pearly and even in the firelight. ‘We, too, do this.’

‘And how long until such – diversions – begin?’

She smiled and looked at him directly. ‘The women have wondered about you. They said you would be difficult; that you must not like girls.’

‘No one has tried.’

‘Well, I am brave.’

‘Yes, you are.’ He stroked her hand again. ‘And what will you say to these women now?’

‘I will tell them that you don’t like girls, of course.’

He laughed. At least she had some wit; it made things slightly more interesting. ‘You did not answer my question.’

‘And that was?’

‘How long?’

She took the mead cup from him and rested it on the ground, then rose. In her eyes was triumph. Ah, yes. Being the first would matter to a girl like this. For a moment, he wondered about her father, but then put the thought out of his mind. He was a prince: it was an honour for her to find favour with him, and Talorc would be pleased at the connection.

‘Eremon of Erin should wait for nothing.’ Her hand was out, and she pulled him to his feet. ‘Is that cloak of yours warm?’

He leaned in, his hands resting lightly on her waist. He could feel the curve of it, the burning of the skin through the cloth. ‘The cloak is not so, but I am.’

As they left the firelight for the darkness of the valley slopes beyond, Eremon cast one look back over his shoulder. The lonely figure on the mound had not moved, and even in the midst of all that swirling, ruddy firelight and flickering heat, she was silver and still.

‘Eremon.’ The whisper came out of the dark. He turned and followed it.

Chapter 18

LONG DARK,
AD
79

T
here was the taste of first snow in the air on the day they began the curing of meat for the coming season. It was heavy work, and bloody, too, but Rhiann relished the sheer physical effort of it.

She was supervising the women in the curing shed. One side was open to the slaughter yards, and the thin air was filled with the steam of cattle breath, the curses of men and the stumbling and pushing of beasts being driven in from the gates.

‘Here, my lady.’ One of the servants handed her a cloth to wipe her fingers, as she finished pressing a haunch of flesh into a pan of sea-salt.

She didn’t really need to be here. She’d already blessed the cattle for slaughter, and the older women of the dun knew better than she how to cure the meat. But soon the snows would close in, and she would be trapped inside with little but sewing to do for many moons.

She stifled a sudden yawn, and saw the servants looking at her sidewise. The last thing she wanted was to give them more to talk about. The dark rings under her eyes and her exhaustion meant only one thing when one was new-wed. If only they knew the truth.

She barely saw her husband, in between gathering the last berries, skimming and curdling the last milk, and blessing the grain pits as they were sealed with their caps of clay. She ensured that the prince and his men had food, but often did not eat with them, excusing herself to attend the sick in her own house. Even if she did eat in the King’s Hall, she and Brica sat on the women’s side of the central fire, keeping to themselves. It was only at night that he was near her, for they must share a bed in an alcove on the hall’s upper gallery.

But – and she still could not believe it – he never touched her. He never even came close to touching her. After sitting late with his men, he pulled back the screen around their bedplace to find her hunched
against the wall, and in return, when he lay down, he kept close to the pallet’s edge. She could not even feel the warmth of his body.

At first she had lain there awake, rigid with tension, waiting for the hand on her shoulder once more, and not knowing what she would do when it came, for the hall was full of people now. Every night, she heard him shift and turn, and knew that he lay awake, too. But the touch never came. Subsequently, their shadowed eyes and short tempers triggered many knowing glances around the dun, and speculation about what was keeping them awake. It was an unbearable torture for Rhiann, but there was worse.

For now, she really had no choice but to admit to herself that Eremon of Dalriada had some honour after all.

Her eyes were gritty and weeping from the sharp, snow-tainted wind, and now she blinked to clear them. More glances came her way.
Dear Goddess
.

She dipped her fingers into one of the pickling barrels and touched them to her tongue. ‘Maire,’ she said to the servant standing by, ‘add five more ladles of salt. And Anga, we need extra bulls smoked this year: one hundred altogether.’

Throwing down the cloth, she took up her cloak and walked to the gate that opened on to the main village path. Her nose was running, and her hands were beginning to ache from cold.

I’ll get Brica to pour me a hot footbath
.

Just then a sweet scent wafted over the blood and snow, as a jewelled Aiveen and her attendants hurried by. The reason for her haste was soon apparent, for Eremon and his men had entered at the gate. As the group passed her by on their way up the village path, Rhiann saw Conaire say something, and Eremon reply with that sardonic half-smile, and Aiveen throw back her head, fingers pressed to her throat, her high, tinkling laughter carrying over the bustle of the village.

Rhiann grimaced. Honourable the prince may be, but possibly stupid, as well, if such a girl turned his head.

On the first day of snowfall, Eremon received a druid visit in the King’s Hall.

‘No, Rori, duck under, don’t step back!’ Eremon pushed himself away from the roof-post and grabbed Rori’s sword arm.

The boy’s opponent, Colum, rested his sword-tip on the floor, breathless and grinning, as the other pairs continued to spar in the cleared space to the side of the hearth, where the feasting benches had been pushed back. Conaire and Aedan were playing
fidchell
on the far side of the fire, beside a steaming cauldron of venison stew. Under their stools, Cù was tied up, sulking.

‘Watch,’ Eremon instructed Rori. ‘This is the move that Colum
made. I’ll do it slowly. Now, show me again what you just did. You stepped back here and—’ Eremon lunged in with his sword, and brought it up short, with the tip touching the vulnerable skin under Rori’s armpit. ‘See? You exposed your whole flank! Just because he changed his attack, doesn’t mean you abandon that defence I taught you. Does it?’

Rori flushed to the roots of his red hair. ‘No, sir.’

‘Do this in battle and you’ll be gutted like a fish.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The doorway darkened, and Eremon glanced up to see Gelert standing there. He turned back to Rori. ‘Now, do it again. Colum, swap with Fergus. I want to see the lad up against a different fighter.’

He left them and strode over to the druid, who was scanning the room with his sharp eyes, a mantle of bear-fur over his pale robes. ‘You turn our King’s Hall into a battleground,’ Gelert observed.

Eremon wiped sweat from his face with his bunched-up tunic and shoved it under his arm. They had all stripped bare to the waist to train close to the fire. ‘And that is the reason you invited me within it. Will you have some ale?’

The druid waved his hand dismissively, but Eremon accepted a cup from one of the servant girls. He drank it dry, making no effort to put the tunic back on. Gelert eyed his sweat-streaked chest with visible disdain. ‘Belen tells me that while I was away in the north, you badgered the council into supporting a strange plan of yours. Levies.’

Eremon handed the cup back to the girl. ‘That’s right.’

‘This is a delicate matter, prince. We are trying to keep our throne, not invite rival clans to take up residence here.’

‘I gave the council sound reasons, and that is why they agreed. If you wish me to be your war leader, then you must let me lead.’

‘On the battlefield, yes, but—’

‘Lord Druid, I am trying to build you a warband that will be strong enough to take on the Romans. We are not dealing with cattle-raiders any more. Things will need to change.’

Gelert’s eyes flashed. ‘You are dealing with tribal matters. You should have come to me; that was our … understanding.’

Slowly, Eremon rested the tip of his practice sword on the earth floor, leaning on the hilt with both hands. Though the druid did not move, a muscle twitched in his cheek.

‘I
am
dealing with tribal matters, yes,’ Eremon replied. ‘But at such a time, war and politics are one and the same thing.’ He let his eyes wander casually over the shields crowding the walls of the hall. ‘It’s strange but, in Erin, our druids confine their considerable powers to the spirit world. They leave the messy business of war to people like me.’ He fixed Gelert with a cool stare. ‘Am I to understand that things here
are different? If so, I’ll ask Belen and the rest of the council to explain it to me.’

Gelert regarded him for a long moment, his eyes veiled. ‘The sea lanes will be open again in only a few moons.’ The druid’s voice was velvet. ‘I must consult with you on where your father’s dun lies, and how best to get our messenger there.’

Eremon bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I will consider that nearer the time. But for now, there is much to do, and there will be more when the warriors arrive. So if you’ll allow me to get back to my training …’