The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One Read online

  For the fifth time, Eremon checked on the three iron-bound chests strapped safely in the hull. These were filled with jewellery gathered in from a handful of secret supporters, when his uncle’s challenge for the throne became a growing threat, but before Donn attacked Eremon openly. Some time before they landed, he would distribute the wealth among his men.

  Safe in Eremon’s leather pack was the gold circlet of his father, with its green jewel that glowed on the brow. That jewel came from a land so far to the east that Ferdiad was forced to trade a sack of gold and his favourite concubine to gain it. And wrapped in oiled hide was Eremon’s own iron and bronze helmet, its crest a bronze boar, the totem of his clan, bristles stiff with attack fury.

  When they were ready, Eremon leaped on to a rowing bench, and surveyed his men with an approving grin. ‘I swear you all look as pretty as maids.’ Then he grew more sober. ‘Unfortunately, though, you must impress as men, not maids, or our lives may be forfeit before we see Erin again.’

  ‘Not without a fight.’ Finan stroked his sword.

  ‘No, not without a good fight. Though a score of men, no matter how fine, cannot stand up to a whole people.’ Eremon stared at each face hard in turn. ‘You know the plan and you must follow it, every one of you. For now, I’m a prince seeking trade alliances. A lie brings dishonour, I know, but Hawen the Boar will forgive us. He wants us alive.’ In a sudden burst of inspiration, he unsheathed his father’s sword and held it aloft. ‘This blade was named by my father, but now I give it another name on Alba’s shores, in honour of Manannán, Lord of the Sea. Like His own sword, I call it Fragarach, the Answerer. And it will answer our betrayal with blood! The blood of the traitors!’

  The men roared, baring their teeth, their worn faces lighting up. Some leaned over to beat a din on their shields, and others spat deadly curses at Donn of the Brown Beard. And then, breathless and fierce, they returned to their benches to row once more.

  Soon the strain of a harp took up the beat of the oars, and in the bow, Aedan began a new song. Aedan’s songs involved too much undying glory for Eremon’s taste, especially when the reality was cold fear, the stench of battle, and a final sword thrust in the gut. And as for the maidens who swanned through the bard’s tales, the reality there was similar. In Eremon’s experience they were twittering birds with a love of finery and jewels; jewels that must be hard won by such as he.

  But as the men relaxed into the rhythm of rowing, Eremon noted their new sense of purpose, a purpose that no storm, no betrayal, could beat out of them. He smiled to himself. The campaign against his uncle had wrought them into a warband to reckon with. Above all, they were intensely loyal – they’d proven this by being willing to follow him into exile.

  Exile.

  He savoured the vile, unavoidable word on his tongue again. If only there’d been more men like this, his uncle’s betrayal would have ended differently. He tested the razor-edge of his sword with a fingertip. Very differently. Then he sighed, sheathed the sword and stowed it, joining Conaire at the oar.

  In his short life, he had learned that men’s hearts are seldom true. Of women’s hearts, he gave no thought.

  Chapter 5

  Brica woke Rhiann and Linnet long before dawn on the day of the funeral, a lamp of tallow-soaked rushes sputtering in her hands.

  By the hearth, the maid first stripped Rhiann of her bed-shift, and then with a mixture of fat and rowan ash, she painted over the blue tattoos that curled all over Rhiann’s breasts and belly.

  All Epidii women were tattooed at puberty, but as the Mother of the Land, the Ban Cré’s tattoos represented the curving lines of power that radiated through the soil and rock, and along the rivers. The designs anchored the divine Goddess to the land and people through Rhiann’s earthly body. Her tattoos were therefore the most beautiful and sacred, and must be protected by the rowan as they sent the King to the Otherworld this day.

  Over a fresh linen shift, Brica dressed Rhiann in an ankle-length tunic of green wool, embroidered with scarlet flowers, fastened on each shoulder by a swan-head brooch. Over that she draped her blue priestess cloak, clasped by the royal brooch of the Epidii: two filigree horses, their eyes set with jewels of amber that matched her hair. Bronze rings glittered on her fingers and white wrists, their chased designs digging into her tender skin. Her twisted gold torc was heavy, and she felt every measure of its weight dragging on her neck.

  Linnet was dressed in similar finery, and when they were ready, she surveyed her niece with approval in her eyes. Rhiann’s answering smile felt bleak. She understood well how such spectacle garnered respect and power, and she was not above using it to her own advantage when needed.

  But deep down, she longed to be barefoot on Liath’s back, with a hot sun above her, and only dandelion seed in her hair.

  ‘It is time,’ Linnet said. ‘We must go.’

  And as they sprinkled the goddess figures with the daily offering of meal and milk, Rhiann thought, Great Mother, though you no longer speak to me, at least give me strength this day. Give me the courage to face what I must.

  By light of moon and flaming torch, by foot, on horseback and chariot, it was a subdued throng of nobles that took the Trade Path downriver for Crìanan, where they would take ship for the Isle of Deer, just offshore. Mist rose in ghostly wraiths from the Add, and hung in pale sheets over the marshes, softening the sound of riffling water. The alders and willows that fringed the banks dripped with dew.

  Gelert had set off leading the King’s chariot and the bier that held the body, so Rhiann let Liath drop back. But, sunk in a chill reverie, she suddenly realized that the chief druid had appeared silently on foot by her side. ‘You should be with your uncle’s body, doing your duty.’

  She hunched her shoulder away. ‘I do my own will, not yours.’

  ‘Always so disrespectful!’ he spat, and grasped her bare ankle in a bruising grip, making Liath shy. In the jostling crowd, no one could see. ‘But not for much longer, girl. I have plans for you.’

  ‘You have no power over me!’ she hissed back.

  ‘You and I both know that’s not true.’ Gelert’s voice was a sibilant murmur. ‘You’re not witless, though you make me believe so. I’ve watched you shirk your duty for too long. You should have given us another heir years ago, instead of sailing off to that witch camp to dig up roots and weave your petty magic.’ He inclined his owl-head staff towards the King’s bier. ‘Now he is gone, and it is time for the snare to tighten on you at last.’

  ‘The people won’t force me to marry!’ Rhiann bit out. But they were only fine words, and her fear was a live thing fluttering in her breast.

  ‘Try them, child! Without a king we are in grave danger from the other clans – and other tribes. Danger makes people think of their own skins, not that of a pale, bony wraith like you.’

  She followed his eyes, seeing the nobles of the lesser clans of the Epidii riding so high on their horses, gaudy with their wealth, proclaiming their power. She knew they were circling for blood, hungering to take the kingship from her royal clan, even as they paid their respects. One of the contenders was right in front of her, a young hot-head called Lorn, with hair so fair it shone silver under the moon. He and his father boldly raked the other warriors over with the same slate-grey eyes as they rode.

  Suddenly Gelert released her ankle, and though it throbbed, she made no move to ease it.

  ‘I am no child, druid.’ She strove for control over her voice. Priestess training was good for some things, that was certain. ‘You cannot force me.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But you always were a dutiful girl. And don’t think that I haven’t sensed the guilt that rides your shoulder. Duty and guilt … a potent mix. One that will do my work for me.’

  He glided away, and she pulled her fur wrap closer about her throat.

  As the wailing of women faded away, and harp string, pipe and drum were stilled, Rhiann stood with Linnet on the beach on the Isle of Deer, the waves lifting the hul
l of the King’s boat as it rolled in the shallows. Gelert’s voice, distorted by his horse-head mask, rang out as he sprinkled water from the sacred spring to the four directions, calling on his gods.

  The sky over the island’s dark slopes was aflame with the approaching sunrise, though they still stood in cold, purple shadow. In the faint light, Rhiann saw a mother hush her babe’s strident demands, and Aiveen, daughter of Talorc, the King’s cousin, smiled slyly at a warrior behind her father’s back. Brude’s tear-streaked daughter rubbed her nose, smearing ashes on her cheek, as her mother, hair cropped in grief, bowed her head.

  Suddenly Rhiann realized that Gelert had paused, and everyone was looking at her expectantly. Talorc now waited by the bier in the boat with the dead man’s sword in his hands. Rhiann stepped forward as if in a dream, taking the great scabbard flat on her palms and wading into the foam to lay it on the King’s body.

  The water was bone-jarring cold, but Brude himself still blazed, with silk thread and exotic cloth, amber, jet and glass rings, his beard oiled and braided, his torc as thick as his wrists. Two gold coins from Gaul lay on his closed eyes. Yet as Rhiann rested the sword across him, her hand brushed his arm, and she jerked back at the chill heaviness of his flesh.

  As Rhiann returned to her place she felt the force of Gelert’s gaze. He smelled her fear, she knew it. She returned his look coolly, but her only answer was the glint from the mask’s eye slits, under a fringe of ochredyed mane.

  When Linnet had laid down the King’s spear, Gelert took up a flaming torch, calling to Lugh of the Shining Spear to light the way to the Blessed Isles. Sparks drifted out over the water, and as the first fingers of sunlight at last spilled over the hills, Gelert bent and lit the pyre beneath the King’s body.

  Flames leaped into the air with a roar, fed by the pitch that soaked the nine sacred woods, and in answer to the hungry tongues of fire, the women’s wailing broke out again, and the harps and pipes skirled into life. Warriors beat their swords on their hide shields, drowning out the druid drums.

  With a wave, Gelert signalled to the curraghs that were roped to the King’s boat in the shallows. The oarsmen rowed hard, and the ropes grew taut as they drew the boat offshore.

  Rhiann’s gaze was fixed on the smoke, unseeing. The King was gone.

  Desperate, she wanted to reach out and pull the boat back, have him sit up again, laugh again, bellow again. He was gone.

  The curraghs cut the ropes and came racing back to shore, and the blazing boat was soon no more than a speck on the water, obscured by smoke. Dread swept over Rhiann then, and with it came a fevered vision of a man, her unknown husband, laying on her, smothering her with his rank beard, stinking of meat and sweat and ale … She swayed in horror. How could she ever face such an attack, night after night, for the rest of her life? She would not be able to bear it.

  I won’t, she thought fiercely. I’ll give them what they want and then I’ll leave. Or die!

  And then, something happened to sweep these bleak thoughts away in one shocking flash of light. Something … impossible.

  A flare of crimson and gold blazed for a heartbeat, cleaving the smoke. Rhiann shaded her eyes. Then the breeze cleared the haze for one brief moment and – there – the flash came again, so brilliant and sharp it hurt. Goddess, what was it?

  Abruptly, the singing and wailing died away, and Declan, the seer thrust his way to Gelert’s side. People were peering out to sea, open-mouthed. The shocked silence lasted only a moment, and then a rustling of whispers began to hiss like foam over the sand. When the flash came a third time, the rustling swelled to a fearful murmur. Time was caught, suspended on the cold dawn wind.

  But death was all around this day, and fear and tension were running high. And so the first cry of terror at last spilled over. ‘The sun rises again in the west! The gods have come!’

  ‘An omen!’ someone else screamed.

  The panic instantly caught alight, blazing through the crowd as a spark lit to dry tinder.

  ‘The gods are angry!’ a young woman wailed. ‘Oh, mercy, save us!’

  Warriors were wrenching spears from their shield-bearers and unsheathing swords, unsure whether they faced a threat from Thisworld or the Otherworld. Talorc, bellowing orders, got the men into a wavering line facing the sea, and the druids clustered closer around Gelert and Declan. But when Rhiann felt Linnet grip her hand, and saw her aunt close her eyes in the seeing way, she did the same, her senses yearning towards the strange light. Please, Mother, just this once, let me see!

  She held her breath … and then a swirling picture flared into life in her mind. The spirit-eye on her brow blazed with pain, and she gasped, trying to hold the scene steady. As she did, the gasp lurched into a cry of shock. For what faced them was not, as the people feared, an Otherworld sun. It was something much, much worse: sunlight reflecting off weapons and mailshirts. A boat full of warriors, shining from head to foot, with the glint of swords in their hands.

  As she registered this, terror coursed through Rhiann’s veins in a bright flood, so intense that she caught her breath. Raiders! How could I let them get so close again! Then a second thought raced on its heels. No! The blood on the sands … the screaming … Oh, Mother, no …

  She heard a low moan, and realized it came from her own throat. Beside her Linnet was swaying, her grip on Rhiann’s hand growing tighter and tighter until flesh lost all feeling.

  The image behind Rhiann’s eyes was now clearer. There was a young man standing in the bow, dark-haired, his skin brown and clear, unmarked by the blue tattoos of her own tribesmen, his face shaven. A gael of Erin.

  The man’s green cloak was swept back to expose an immense gold torc, and under the sleeves of his embroidered tunic, arm-rings shone. The mailshirt over his tunic was burnished so that it glittered, and on his brow blazed a jewel of green fire. In one hand he held an unsheathed sword; in the other a crimson shield, bright-painted with the symbol of a boar.

  At last she dragged her eyes open, daring it all to be a dream. But there it was. Goddess, it was real.

  The boat was so close now that those of the Epidii without the sight could discern for themselves what the gods had brought them: a battered craft with cracked mast, and inside, a score of men with fierce eyes.

  And they were making for the shore.

  Chapter 6

  In an instant, panic broke out on the beach, as women swept up children and raced for the hill-slopes above, old people stumbling after on cold-stiffened legs. Rhiann stood rooted to the spot, her knees weak beneath her. She tried to turn, and faltered, and then Linnet’s firm arms were steadying her.

  ‘It is all right,’ Linnet murmured, as if she was gentling a filly. ‘We are safe, daughter. We are safe.’

  Rhiann tried to gulp a breath, but the panic had taken hold, and it left no room to fill her lungs. The edges of her sight wavered and grew dark.

  ‘Stop!’

  Gelert’s roar split the air, and such was the ingrained fear of him that the tide of people froze. The chief druid wrenched off his horse mask, spilling white hair over his shoulders, and thrust it into Declan’s hands. Then he took back his oak staff and raised it before him. Though old, he was formidable, and for the first time Rhiann felt almost grateful for that daunting power.

  The gael rowers had stilled their own hands, and the boat now hung suspended, the leader’s cloak against the sky like the first spear of grass after snow. And then the man held his hand up, with fingers open in the trading sign of peace.

  ‘Name yourself!’ cried Gelert, raising his staff. His voice carried clearly over the water. ‘You disturb a soul’s journey to the west!’

  ‘I am a prince of Erin!’ the man called. His voice was fair and strong, speaking a language close to Alban, with its own strange lilt. ‘We have come to negotiate a trading treaty, but were caught in the storm. Please, let us land and we will talk.’

  Rhiann’s mind was still spinning, and yet his words penetrated the haze o
f shock around her. These men were not raiders, no matter how well armed. Raiders fell upon people in surprise; they did not approach a shore defended by spears, or exchange fair words. Still, her shoulders trembled as Linnet released her.

  Gelert leaned into Declan and the two druids spoke, heads close together. The chief druid turned back to the boat. ‘You may land, man of Erin,’ he conceded. ‘But only if I bind you by your most sacred oath to do us no harm.’

  Without hesitating, the man laid his sword out across both palms. ‘I swear on my father’s honour, and that of Hawen the Great Boar, god of our tribe, that we will not raise weapons against you.’ He swung the sword back down, and broke into a sudden, crooked smile, startling in the grimness of his face. ‘Be assured! I would not wear such finery to attack, honoured druid. I only seek pardon for disturbing your rite.’

  Around Rhiann, people who had been crying out moments before began whispering again, and now their voices held a note of … admiration?

  Gelert stared impassively at the man, as the boat drifted closer on the incoming tide. ‘So be it, bold prince! Then you’ll hand over your weapons as a surety, until we feast you.’

  The foreigner’s smile faded, and angry murmuring broke out among his men before he silenced them with a curt gesture. Rhiann saw that they obeyed him instantly, even though many were older than he.

  ‘My men will give up their weapons,’ the man agreed, his jaw tight. The crooked grin had fled as instantly as it had come. ‘And you can have my spears – but not my sword. It is worth more to me than my life.’ He sheathed the blade in a bronze-tipped scabbard at his waist. The clink as it slid home echoed across the waves. ‘If I touch it, strike me down. I swear that none of my men will make a move to save me.’

  The other gaels flinched at this, though said nothing – they clearly trusted him. And it was a clever reply. Unprovoked, no Epidii warrior could harm him without losing honour. And men, of course, valued their honour even more than their horses.