The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (47 page)

‘I will not,’ Didius replied, but he was looking at Rhiann.

‘Do you need me to go over anything again?’ Eremon stood by Dòrn beneath Dunadd’s gate tower.

Finan shook his head. ‘No, my prince. It is all perfectly clear.’

‘And the scouts are all along the mountains to south and east?’

‘Yes, they’re in place.’

Eremon scanned the party around him with a practised eye. Rhiann was checking her pack once more with Eithne, as Aedan deferentially held her bridle, his harp cradled in one arm. The bard had regained his strength after his recent journey, and although he’d balked at returning the same way so soon, he declared that he had no intention of missing the meeting between two great men.

Caitlin and Rori, both mounted up, were scrutinizing one of Caitlin’s new arrows. Fergus and Angus chuckled together as they took leave of three maidens who wept and held on to their bridles.

There was a detachment of Epidii warriors, and an equal one of Eremon’s own men – ten of each. Just behind him, Conaire sat easily in his saddle, and from his spear swung their new standards: a bristled boar crest on its strip of leather, and the plaited tail-hair of a mare.

In the shadows beneath the tower, Gelert and two other druids sat
atop grey horses. Druids almost always walked on such journeys, but Eremon had asked Gelert to ride so they could reach Calgacus quickly. Surprisingly, Gelert agreed, his yellow eyes glinting with some emotion that Eremon had neither the time nor inclination to decipher. The druid would be under Eremon’s own gaze from now on, anyway. He would have no chance to make mischief.

But just as Eremon swung himself into the saddle, some instinct made him check. He looked out at the crowd who had gathered for their farewell, shading his eyes. ‘And watch that young buck Lorn,’ he murmured down at Finan. ‘Where is he, anyway? I saw him at Dunadd only two days ago … I thought he’d be here cheering, happy to see the back of me!’

Finan also scanned the crowd. ‘I haven’t seen him. Perhaps he’s gone to lick his wounds at home.’

‘Well, watch him all the same. He is a problem I have not yet laid to rest.’ He touched Finan’s shoulder. ‘Farewell, old friend. Look for us in one moon.’

Finan stood back as Eremon nodded at Conaire, and the standard swung through the clear air, the polished spear-tip flashing.

The crowd let out a great cheer, as the horses moved through the gate into the sunshine beyond.

Chapter 45

SUNSEASON,
AD
80

A
fter the steep-sided lochs and wild crags of the Great Glen, the Caledonii lands flowed over the eastern plain like the soft folds of a cloak: fertile, heavy with furrows, the barley high and ripening to gold. The homesteads were so numerous that the smoke from their fires hazed the air with blue mist.

Calgacus had inherited his kingship through his mother, a Ban Cré. She died before Rhiann was born, but her name was known and greatly respected, still, by the sisterhood. A powerful priestess had given birth to a powerful king. It was as it should be.

Unfortunately, their arrival was heralded by a sudden rainstorm that swept down from the western heights in drifting sheets. They pulled up their hoods and hunched over their horses, and were so absorbed in shielding their faces from the rain that they nearly ran into a great stone, which reared up out of the drizzle beside the track.

Rhiann and Eremon, at the front, halted their horses. Scored into the granite was a carving, the height of a man. It was an enormous eagle: its noble head to the west, its eye bold, its beak sharp. But that was not all. The lines of the carving had been filled with molten bronze, and the curves of the great bird’s wings and talons shone through the grey rain, glowing with power.

Conaire, coming up behind, let out a soft whistle.

‘Calgacus’s totem is the eagle, is it not?’ Eremon asked.

Rhiann nodded, staring at the carving.

‘Then this king must have some fine artists. I have never seen such quality.’

Rhiann’s mouth had gone dry, and she swallowed with difficulty. Something rapped, faintly, far at the back of her memory. This carving bore a recognizable stamp.

‘Calgacus the Sword is rich, and powerful.’ They were the first words Gelert had spoken for the entire journey, stooped over his grey pony, face shadowed in his hood. ‘He is no man to treat lightly. You may find you’ve met your match at last, prince.’

Eremon glanced back at Gelert with distaste. ‘This I hope, druid. Perhaps then he will understand the necessity of an alliance.’

‘Perhaps. But even your gilded tongue may not be enough to persuade this king.’

With a sharp movement, Eremon nudged his horse on, and Rhiann followed, shielding her view of the stone with her hood, her mind already slipping past Gelert’s words.

The carving
was
familiar; there was no doubt. Her hands trembled on the reins.

Soon they reached a sweeping bay, and here Calgacus’s stronghold reared up out of the rain, crouched on a headland between a swift river and the sea. From the heights on which it stood, it bellowed out his power and influence over the plain and the port at its feet, clustered with boats.

As Dunadd was impressive to anyone from a small homestead, so the Dun of the Waves was as impressive again. A massive ditch had been delved, shouldered by sweeping banked walls three times the height of a mounted man. The bank was then crowned by a timber palisade and walkway, and lookout towers reared from the breastwork every thirty paces. The oaken gate, the width of four chariots, was flanked by two sturdy gatetowers. Over it all, banners flew, embroidered with the eagle totem, and the posts they hung from were capped with gold so they shone bright in the sun.

Inside was the familiar jumble of squat roundhouses and ramshackle sheds, but everything seemed larger and noisier and more frenzied than at Dunadd. The air of prosperity was tangible. Wooden walkways kept feet free of the mud. House walls were bright with colour, and hung with banners and trophy skulls. The thatch roofs were new and golden.

Once they dismounted and were ushered up the main pathway, Rhiann could see that many of the house posts were carved in the same beautiful designs as the stone they had seen. Unconsciously, her hand went to her belly. She could almost feel the tattoos on her skin burning through the thin cloth. The same hands that drew the designs on her skin carved the stone, and the doorposts. Drust’s stamp was everywhere she looked. But where was he?

Despite being weary from the ride, after they were shown to the guest lodges, Eremon took his men to look at the defences of the dun in the fading light. When he and Caitlin returned to Rhiann at their lodge to
get ready for the welcoming feast, the room was soft with the light of rush lamps and torches.

As Eithne took their cloaks to dry by the fire, and began to cluck at Caitlin about the state of her hair, Eremon reached the screen that hid the main sleeping alcove from the rest of the room. There, he stopped.

Rhiann was sitting on the fur-covered bed holding her mirror before her. In place of wet clothes and bedraggled braids, she wore a gown of green wool edged with yellow flowers, and her hair was piled high in intricate whorls, and gilded with jewelled pins. The gold drew the firelight to her royal torc, clasping her slender neck, and the great brooch of the Epidii glittered on her priestess cloak.

He had never seen her shining so brightly, and to his immense surprise, his body responded. For a moment, he found himself wishing that things were different between them, that he could walk up to her now and take her hand, and see her eyes alight on him with desire. And later, to bury his hands in that glorious hair and tumble it down around his face in the dark, as she called his name …

‘We must look our best.’ Her voice broke in upon his thoughts, as she gestured down at herself, laying the mirror on the bed. ‘They must respect me as a Ban Cré, and then they will respect you.’

A flash of anger instantly extinguished Eremon’s desire.
I can gain my own respect
!

‘I laid out your clothes.’ Rhiann waved at the other side of the bed. ‘I picked your blue tunic.’

As he changed, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she applied a stain to her lips from a small vial. Her hands were shaking.

And this was all to impress a gathering of old men?

There was a rap on the doorpost, and Conaire and the other men piled in. When Caitlin rose from Eithne’s braiding, Rhiann drew a leaf-green cloak over the girl’s borrowed dress and declared that she would make the Epidii proud. At that, Caitlin pulled a face and stuck out her tongue at Conaire, who laughed.

But Eremon saw the way his foster-brother’s eyes followed Caitlin’s shiny, plaited head as they left the house, and he sighed. At least Conaire had some chance of seeing his look returned.

The massive carved timber doors of Calgacus’s house swung open to reveal an immense room, clustered with benches, its roof soaring to the apex, far above.

‘This king has some fine craftsmen,’ Eremon observed again to Rhiann, as they waited in line to be greeted with the other nobles. He was admiring the carvings on the inner posts that held up the upper gallery. Rhiann followed his eyes, and then looked away quickly, a flush staining her cheeks.

What
was
the matter with her?

Eremon’s attention was claimed by a tall man before the central fire, crowned only with a mane of hair the exact shade of the great eagle’s plumage. His face, too, bore the noble stamp of that bird, with a strong, hooked nose, and far-seeing golden eyes beneath straight, fair brows. Eremon noted with approval that the King’s body was well muscled and upright. Though there were furrows beside his eyes, and grey at his temples, he had obviously kept to his warrior life, and not given in to the softness of age.

‘The Lady Rhiann, Ban Cré of the Epidii, and Eremon mac Ferdiad of Dalriada of Erin,’ a steward announced to the room, and ushered them forward to his lord.

Eremon glanced at Rhiann. She was smiling politely at Calgacus, but her eyes were darting around the room, as if she were looking for someone.

Calgacus gave her the kiss of greeting on both cheeks. ‘I remember your mother,’ he said. ‘She was a great beauty. And you are her image, my lady.’

‘Thank you,’ Rhiann replied, bowing her head. ‘So I have been told. It is an honour to meet you, my lord. I understand your mother was also a woman of great ability. The Sisters still speak of her.’

Calgacus smiled and turned to Eremon, looking at him with a speculation that was not unkind. ‘You interest me very much, man of Erin: why you are here, and why you wish to fight with us. I look forward to speaking with you about these things.’

‘As do I, my lord,’ Eremon answered. ‘We have much to say to one another.’ He returned that long, appraising look, green eyes holding gold. And he suddenly realized that no matter how things went, he would value this man as an enemy or friend alike. He knew, in the instant leap of energy between them, that their fates were somehow bound together.

Then Calgacus smiled, seeming to come to the same conclusion. ‘Relax tonight, but tomorrow I will send for you. I am still waiting for my nobles to come in from their duns, so we cannot meet in council for a few more days. But I would like to hear your news myself first.’

Eremon bowed his head, before they were led to one of the benches around the walls and seated.

Though he was soon deep in conversation with the warrior to one side, Eremon remained conscious of Rhiann beside him. Her beauty, which shone this night as on no other, had left him with an awareness of her every gesture. He even caught her honeyed scent when he moved his head to take a draught of ale.

So he noticed when she suddenly tensed, and without breaking off his conversation, he followed her gaze. A young man had entered the house, and was standing with Calgacus in the centre of the room. He
was close to the King’s height, and their faces shadowed each other, though his hair was darker. He moved his hands expressively as he spoke, head held high and bright eyes restlessly scanning the room. His clothes were very fine, finer even than those of Calgacus himself, and coloured with a multitude of hues. Jewellery glittered and shone from every limb, setting off the gold lights in his hair.

Eremon glanced again at Rhiann. Her face had drained of colour, and she had a look in her eyes that he had never seen before. Fear, and something else. Suppressed excitement … tension. No, it could not be what he thought it was. Not desire!

His stomach turned. Before he could stop himself, he leaned into her ear and said, ‘Who is that man?’

She jumped, drawing away. ‘That is Drust, the son of Calgacus.’ She reached for her cup of mead.

Eremon’s companion stopped talking when it was clear that Eremon was paying him no attention, and turned to the man on his other side, insulted. Eremon knew he should get back to his discussion … but the words leaped out of his mouth nonetheless. ‘And you know this man?’

Rhiann took a sip of mead, and spoke reluctantly, it seemed. ‘Yes.’