The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One Page 6

  He caught the eye of the other Epidii guide, a friendlier man than the first. His skin was seamed and burned by the sun, and his face had the characteristic squint of someone who worked on the sea. Perhaps he was a fisherman.

  ‘What island is this?’ Eremon asked.

  The man grinned, pleased to be superior. ‘The Isle of Deer.’

  ‘Ah.’ Eremon shaded his eyes to peer up at the hazels and oaks crowding the island’s glens. ‘I’ve heard of this place even in Erin. Exceptional hunting, I believe.’

  At mention of the hunt, Cù’s ears shot straight up, and he looked at Eremon with a longing that was matched only by that on Conaire’s face.

  ‘Is this true, man?’ Conaire demanded.

  The guide nodded.

  ‘A spot of spearwork with the dog is just the thing to right my belly!’ Conaire crowed, delighted. ‘When can we go?’

  Eremon smiled. ‘Let’s get to Dunadd first.’

  ‘Aye, but I’ll take you soon,’ the fisherman promised, eyeing Conaire’s great arms with ill-concealed envy. ‘There, the boars are so big that even you, young giant, will have trouble pulling them down!’

  ‘You are blessed with riches!’ Conaire exclaimed.

  The man shrugged, his face flushed with pride. ‘We are under the protection of Rhiannon and Manannán both. Rhiannon is the Lady of Horses, rider of the White Mare. She gives us the best mounts in Alba. Manannán fills our nets with fish and brings the traders.’

  ‘We, too, revere our Lord Manannán,’ Aedan put in helpfully.

  The man twisted on his oar bench, sizing him up. ‘Is that so? Though I bet you haven’t seen the Eye of Manannán, as I have, harper! It is close now – perhaps you’ll hear it roar!’

  Aedan’s rosy cheeks paled, and his grey eyes widened. ‘An eye that roars?’ he whispered. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A whirlpool,’ came the devastating reply. ‘It’ll suck you down and spit you out in the Otherworld! You’ll never come back here, to be sure!’

  Aedan paled even more, and Eremon regarded him with frustrated affection. He would have preferred to leave the youth behind, for this was no journey for the faint-hearted. But Aedan leaped into the boat as they fought to leave Erin, and would not be moved. ‘You are going to glory, lord!’ he declared. ‘And I will be there to sing your praises, and to bring your deeds back to Erin, so you are never forgotten!’

  A hail of Donn’s arrows unfortunately cut this stirring speech short, and in the rush to escape there was no time to argue. Now Aedan was here, though, he must do his part. So Eremon stared at him steadily, seeking to put into his eyes what he could not put into words. ‘Aedan, why don’t you go and liven the men up? It will keep their minds off their bellies.’

  Gratefully, Aedan scrambled to his feet and joined Eremon’s men in the stern. Soon the strains of his harp floated across the bow, the playing fine but not up to its usual standard.

  At the first pull on the oar, Eremon’s new blisters broke, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain. Then, just as the boat began to skim over the waves, he felt a queer, tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He threw a glance over his shoulder to the boat just ahead – and saw a white swan’s prow, and beneath, a figure in a blue cloak. Then they cleared the rocks, and the open sea was slapping the bow in the rising breeze, and a cascade of icy water rushed over his hands.

  Conaire was laughing next to him. ‘You know, I could get used to this!’

  Ever since the unexpected arrival of the gaels, Linnet had been withdrawn. Rhiann spoke with her on the beach, but her aunt’s conversation had been desultory, her mind clearly elsewhere. So once the boats were on their way, Rhiann settled beneath the swan prow and retreated into her own thoughts.

  Staring into the water, she wondered again how Linnet could have been excited, of all things. These foreigners had brought Rhiann only fear – she could still feel the aftershock of the trembling in her limbs. And then that lying brute nearly touched her on the beach. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sun on her face, and forced herself to sit a little straighter.

  She could not wait to clear the sheltered bay, for the sea always calmed her. As the crystal water deepened to blue-black, laced with broken kelp, Rhiann drew the salt air into her lungs and slowly let it out, closing her eyes. The control she had to exert in public was becoming increasingly fragile. She longed to be home, where she could bury herself in bed and shut it all out.

  A cry floated down from above, and she glanced up to see a curlew beating its slow way towards the marshes around Dunadd. Its voice was mournful, lonely, and she tried to lose herself in it, to send her spirit up into the air with the bird. For a moment it almost worked, and she started to drift away … away from her body with its hurts …

  Then she realized that her mind was in fact anchored most firmly in her skull, and her eyes were fixed on the boat shooting up behind: the one with the men from Erin. She was close enough to see the copper glints in the leader’s dark hair where the morning sun caught it. And again, she tasted the terror that had clawed at her when he nearly touched her arm.

  A warrior who lied. A child murderer, a violator of women, like all the others.

  Suddenly she saw the man turn, as if he could hear her. Impossible!

  She frowned, twisting away to lock her gaze on the blue haze of the mainland hills, and the sun pouring through the wide cleft that sheltered Dunadd’s plain. When she glanced back, the boats had drawn apart, and the man was no more than a blur of leaf-green and glittering bronze on the sea.

  By the time the fleet neared the shore, Eremon’s boat had slipped to the rear. Dunadd’s port, Crìanan it was called, was no more than a cluster of piers and roundhouses squatting on a spur of rock. To its south, a river unravelled as it reached the bay, slicing the marsh and mudflats into ribbons of dark water.

  But Eremon saw the advantage of its position immediately. Curls of surf showed the swell rolling in from the sea to the north, but the port lay on calm water, sheltered by a curving arm of land. Across this bay, a palisaded dun looked down on it with watchful eyes from a high crag.

  ‘Is that Dunadd?’ Eremon asked.

  The fisherman shook his head, smiling. ‘That is the Dun of the Hazels. Dunadd is up the river; you’ll see.’

  Eremon peered past Crìanan’s piers, the crowding houses, and the curraghs and dugout canoes scattered on the tidal sands. Try as he might, he could not see the royal dun, only wide expanses of bronze sedge and scarlet reeds.

  Dunadd.

  He had heard the name in Erin: it was indeed of some trading renown. What awaited him there? He realized he was on his feet, his muscles tensed as if they wanted to spring. Or run.

  The boat ground against the pier, its timbers slippery with green weed, and his men jostled to get to dry land, Cù in their wake. Eremon let them pass and held himself back, for a sense of foreboding had suddenly come upon him, like a cloud over the sun. Cù checked his headlong rush after the men and stopped, looking back at his master.

  And it was as Eremon stood there, poised between sea and sky, that the icy breath of fate touched him. He suddenly knew, in his heart, it was not a joyous adventure that awaited him here. Something else wanted his allegiance. Something he would not be able to resist.

  He froze. He’d not set foot on Alba yet, so perhaps this fate was not sealed.

  The Epidii guides were throwing rope around pilings, and hailing those who had beached their boats. No one noticed him. He glanced over his shoulder to Erin again, hidden behind the islands, and then back to Alba’s shore.

  Cù whined softly, and Eremon closed his eyes, telling himself he was being ridiculous. The salt breeze ruffled the hair at his temples, and he breathed the familiar scents of dung and peat and baking bread. It was just a place; a place like any other. How Conaire would laugh if he knew his fears!

  Slowly, his breath whistled out through his teeth. Then, without pause, he forced himself to leap on to the pier, and tak
e his first steps on Alba. By the Boar, it’s all nonsense! he chided himself. The sea sickness has addled my mind!

  He broke into a run, cuffing Cù around the ear as he hurried to catch up with his men. Talorc was waiting to take them to Dunadd.

  Eremon’s first glimpse of the Epidii dun was in clear light, so he witnessed the full effect of the gold-thatched roofs on its crest and the flying banners, warmed by the ruby glow of the marshes that surrounded it.

  It was impressive, by design. The King’s Hall was exposed to the full force of the sea-wind, but spectacle was far more important than comfort. Dunadd’s builders well knew how their dun would look from afar.

  The thudding feet and hooves of the party of Epidii nobles ahead raised flocks of teal to wheel in the air, skimming low over the moss and sedge to land in a scattering of marsh pools. The only firm ground was the path that followed the river, which had been laid with hard shell and gravel until it shone pale under the falling alder leaves.

  As the path brought them closer to Dunadd, they could just make out a scarlet banner flying from the highest roof-tree, and when the wind caught it, Talorc cried, ‘See there the White Mare of Rhiannon, emblem of our Royal House!’ Yet Eremon caught the glimpse of a frown marring that bluff face.

  Dunadd’s palisade was broken only where the sheer walls of the crag made attack impossible, and even the pier, tied about with punts and canoes, was built into a whaleback of rock that reached out to the river. This dun was a mighty jewel indeed – and it looked as if it knew this, standing proud and lonely above its marsh.

  ‘Have you seen anywhere placed so well?’ Eremon breathed to Conaire. ‘A single rock bounded by bog, with clear access to the sea?’

  Conaire’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at the rock face. ‘A worthy challenge! We’d be spitted like pigs before we gained the walls!’

  ‘Taking it by force is not what I had in mind,’ Eremon said drily.

  The Trade Path ran up to a gate that was guarded by twin towers. On entering the village, Eremon expected to be engulfed by the noise and smells of a busy dun: the ring of smiths’ hammers and squawking of geese; children crying, women calling. But though there were people about on the pathways, the dun had a subdued air, and there was little evidence of anyone labouring at the granaries or in the multitude of worksheds. The murmuring groups of people fell quiet as the men from Erin passed under the shadows of the gate, and people stared, toddlers hanging wide-eyed on their mothers’ skirts.

  Talorc hurried them past the people clustering by the gate. ‘The stables are there.’ He waved to one side. ‘You’ll find that we are the best horse breeders and traders in Alba: we’ve an eye for fine blood. And there, you see the sheds of the armourers and iron-smiths.’ He stopped and hooked his hands in his belt, cinched under an ample belly. ‘Your sword is very fine, prince of Erin, but perhaps your young lads,’ he smirked at Aedan and Rori, ‘could do with a sturdy helmet or two. You may not find our neighbours so friendly, and some of them can bring a sword down faster than a bull can come, eh?’ He jabbed Rori in the ribs with a forced jollity, and the boy blushed and ducked his head.

  ‘Our own swords are fast enough, thank you,’ Eremon responded firmly.

  ‘Well, here’s the bronze-smith, then. You’re not the only ones with fine craftsmen, as you’ll see.’ He turned to Conaire and clapped him on the back. ‘Maybe you need an amber hair pin for your lady back home, son of Lugaid!’

  ‘I’ll need more than one, then!’ Conaire replied, grinning.

  Rhiann left Linnet at the stables with her mount Whin, and made her way to her own house. Brica was outside, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. ‘I’ve heard about the strangers, lady. Where are they, then? What do they look like?’ She craned her neck, squinting through the gaps between the houses.

  ‘I think they’re down in the village.’ Rhiann lifted the doorcover, and the maid followed her inside. ‘It’s nothing to be scared of, Brica. They’re a trading party, that’s all.’ She unpinned her cloak and drew it from her shoulders.

  Brica sniffed as she took it; the closest she ever came to contradicting Rhiann. ‘Well, Fainne said they were from Erin and had many swords and spears. I wonder what they’re doing here?’ Her black eyes darted about as she hung the damp cloak over the loom to dry. ‘Maybe they want an alliance? Or perhaps they—’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’ Rhiann was suddenly exhausted. ‘The Lady Linnet will be here soon. Have you brewed tea?’

  ‘It’s here.’ Brica bustled around with the iron pot, pouring out two cups and setting it back on its tripod over the coals. The sour tang of blackberries wafted up on the steam. Then she took up a wicker basket. ‘I’ve made mutton stew, and Nera has baked the bannocks. I’ll go and get them and you can eat.’

  At a nod from Rhiann, Brica disappeared outside.

  Rhiann wandered to the hearth, and stirred the cauldron suspended on its chains over the fire. The nobles must be gathering in the King’s Hall now, and soon, too soon, there would be a council.

  But who would be the next man to be declared king, to stand on the slab of rock at the summit, one foot in the carved hollow, the stallion hide around his shoulders? A man from another clan, who forced his ascendancy with bloodshed? Or a son of her own? He would be a baby in the arms of a regent, although still the rightful king. Neither possibility was welcome to her.

  She pulled up her stool and was sitting with her hands around her cup, when Brica burst back through the door, bread spilling from her basket. ‘The watch cry has gone up, my lady,’ she panted.

  ‘What of it? And why have you been running?’

  ‘Everyone is running, mistress,’ Brica gasped out. ‘There is a warrior in full gallop on the south road. From Enfret’s dun, he is, and he bears the banner warning of attack! I heard the watch send a guard to the chief druid!’

  Rhiann caught up her cloak once more and hurried to the King’s Hall. There she met Linnet in the stream of people who were squeezing through the Horse Gate, for though this day they were in mourning for King Brude, news about the gaels had drawn many from their houses. Everyone wanted to see the gold that adorned the newcomers.

  Together, she and Linnet managed to push through until they were close to Gelert and Talorc, who were standing with the men from Erin outside the hall, watching the rider approaching the village gate below.

  As the messenger reined in and leaped to the ground to begin his run up through the village, Rhiann saw Gelert narrow his eyes against the glare of the sun. Declan the seer, hands clasped on his crescent staff, was also frowning. Whatever the message, the seer was worried – it did not look good. Rhiann’s heart started to skip again.

  At last the crowd parted for the man, and he threw himself down on one knee before the assembled nobles.

  ‘Well?’ barked Gelert, ‘What is this haste for? What has happened?’

  The rider could not get his words out, his chest heaving from his run. His trousers were spattered with mud, his tattoos smeared with sweat and dirt. Gelert made a sharp gesture with his hand to still the murmuring of the people around him.

  ‘We have had news from the Damnonii to the south, my lord,’ the man finally gasped out. His eyes were wide with fear.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘It is the men of the Eagle – the Romans!’ the man cried. ‘At last they have crossed into Alba!’

  Chapter 8

  Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Governor of the Roman province of Britannia, was well satisfied.

  The Alban evening was unseasonably fine, and his body slave tied back the flap of his tent so that he could watch the camp going up around him. To an untrained eye, the noisy bustle of soldiers, slaves, carts and mules was chaos. To Agricola, this hive of activity was perfect order.

  Hundreds of leather tents were sprouting up in rows on the plain, and between and about them, thousands of legionaries were unpacking bed rolls, lighting cook fires and digging waste pits. Far off he could
see lines of men, as tiny as ants, hoisting baskets of earth on to their shoulders as they carved the ditch to encircle the camp. Rearing above the columns of diggers, the stakes of a half-complete timber palisade cast long shadows across the turf.

  In the falling dusk, Agricola watched his chief engineer correct the position of a newly-erected tent. The soldier he spoke to shrugged and bent down to knock out the errant tent peg with his mallet, and Agricola’s mouth firmed in approval.

  ‘They’re getting better by the day, sir,’ said the engineer, coming over to his commander. ‘We’ve nearly halved our building time.’

  The man was portly, with a thatch of dark hair that never lay flat, a bulbous nose, and a quivering, extra chin. He was a figure of amusement to the other officers, and only his exceptional technical skills kept him under Agricola’s command.

  ‘Thank you, Didius.’ Agricola scanned the ramparts. ‘Your new gate design is working well – the extra time is worth the added security, and the further north we go, the more we’ll need it.’

  Didius swelled with pride, as Agricola reached behind himself and cracked his knuckles, stretching his shoulders. They were stiff after the long ride, although getting looser every day. He was nearly back to condition. The creeping softness around his waist had been stripped from his lean frame in the first weeks of marching; though not so for Didius. Agricola glanced at the man’s paunch with distaste. It seemed to have a strong tolerance to exercise.

  Now the engineer’s attention was caught by a shout at the camp gate. Some of the mule trains at the rear of the army had bunched up, and were milling around, blocking the entrance. Tutting, Didius hurried away, his scarlet helmet-crest waving in the breeze.

  Agricola closed his eyes and sniffed the heather blanketing the hill-slopes all around. There was something about this land, cold and wet as it often was, that got into the blood, even more than his last posting in Asia Minor.