The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (17 page)

A long pause, before Garvan answered, head down, ‘I want this.’

Maeve’s breath hissed out. ‘Good. Then you
will
learn the Latin. We will just have to be more circumspect about it. I would rather have avoided the risk outside the dun, but there are people in the port who can be more prudent, and secretive.’

‘What would you have me do then?’ There was sullen defeat in Garvan’s voice.

‘You will do as I and the Lord Oran say, with no complaint. You must be ready, when the time comes.’

‘Time?’

‘For your accession you must always be ready. Life is so … uncertain.’

*

In the great fort of Cilurnum on the Wall, Fullofaudes, the Dux Britanniarum, strode across the courtyard of the headquarters building, mud splashing up his riding boots. His junior officer dashed along behind him, trying to dodge puddles. He had just dragged the lad from his bed, and he was not yet uniformed, but that was the way it was.

There was never any time to waste on the northern frontier. It was a substantial responsibility, and Fullofaudes was the most active dux for years, forever in the saddle. This life had made him lean and wiry, the deprivations stripping any portliness from his slight frame. Now, only a thatch of iron-grey hair and weather-worn face spoke his age.

Fullofaudes tugged on leather riding gloves, squinting as the first rays of dawn penetrated the gloomy rows of barracks, storehouses, stables, yards and granaries. Around him the streets were dark, but in the bakehouse the ovens were glowing, smoke curling into the still air. A cockerel crowed in the
vicus
, where the civilians and camp followers stirred. ‘Make it brief and blunt,’ he said to his officer, acting as his scribe. ‘There is no point vacillating with savages.’

The younger man was awkwardly balancing a wax tablet on his forearm, clutching a stylus. Fullofaudes could have done this in the warmth of the command headquarters, but he’d ridden in late at night and now it was dawn and already time to go.

‘Write this: “Greetings to Cahir, son of Conor, King of Dalriada, so on and so forth. The office of the Dux Britanniarum demands your presence at a council of the Wall tribes to take place at the fort of Fanum Codicii at the next full moon. The council is for the purpose of discussing the situation of taxes, in order to continue providing protection to your trade routes. We look forward to your attendance.” You know how to sign off.’

‘Demands, sir?’ His officer tucked the stylus in his mouth as he negotiated a pile of horse manure outside the stables. ‘Is that not a little … strong?’

Fullofaudes sneered. ‘Our friend Cahir looks dangerous, but his father toed the line for so many years his tribe is used to compliance. He’s merely a sheep in wolf’s clothing, not the other way around – another petty little ruler playing at war.’ He snorted, his breath steaming on the dawn air. ‘They put a foot wrong and I’ll give them war.’ He resumed striding. ‘I want the message in Luguvalium today and on a boat to Dunadd tonight.’

His scribe’s eyes lit up as he hurried on. ‘Sir, if I understand correctly, because the tribes north of the Wall in the lowlands have been so thoroughly subdued, we could have an army at Dunadd in days, couldn’t we? Does this mean … is it possible I will get to see … Dalriada?’

Fullofaudes smiled grimly, glancing at him. These young pups, still scrubbed and shiny from the baths in Eboracum, had not yet faced down a tide of screaming blueskins, or felt the sting of their daggers. Once he had, this one would stop looking for glory and become like all the others: hard, resigned, bitter. Bitter at the endless wind, the sheets of rain, the bleak land. Bitter at the expectant silence of the moors that ate into the bones so a man could never sleep another restful night. Sometimes, when he was wearied, he found himself longing for the flat, soft greenness of Belgica, his homeland, as if he could almost taste it, scent it. ‘You might see Dunadd, though I hope you’ll escape that dubious honour.’

Fullofaudes strode out through the arches of the southern gate, to where his guard milled about, already mounted. Their horses stamped the white grasses while streaks of dawn gilded helmets and lit up the clouds of warm breath. The northern hills rolled away like endless breakers on a sea, crested with hoarfrost.

The Dux turned with one hand on his bridle as his guard came forward to help him mount. Let this fresh boy hold his illusions for as long as he could. ‘Know this. The barbarians don’t have the same wits we do. This King Cahir doesn’t even realize how close we have crept to his borders. He’s benefited from our alliance through increased trade, and we’ve managed to install the Carvetii princess as his wife – in short, we’ve got him trussed tight as a chicken, for blood ties are vital to these people, oaths are everything.’ Fullofaudes laughed, though his throat was dry from the cold. ‘It’s a good thing we don’t have the same scruples.’ He leaned his foot on his guard’s cupped hands, swung into the saddle.

The young officer tucked the tablet under his arm. ‘Will
we
be attending this council in the west, sir?’

So he was also excited at the idea of sharing sour ale with hairy barbarians. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t deprive you of that.’ The Dux took his helmet from his saddle and settled it on his head. Encased in cold strips of iron across cheekbones and brow, he felt himself again.

He was made of iron, too, and would never give in. Where once Rome marched into Alba with enormous armies, only to be beaten by rain and mountains, now he played a slower game.

But he would still win.

Chapter 16

C
ahir watched the Roman messenger eat by his hearth-fire, though he himself could not touch food. He had listened to the man’s news in private, and now anger sat thick as any gruel in his gut.

He could have tried to hide this from his nobles, but that would be disastrous. Too many wolves in Dunadd were waiting for him to stumble. They must hear this from the messenger himself at a public feast in the hall.

Maeve, of course, was beside herself, fluttering her fingers for more wine, tilting her head. Cahir eyed her. Fifteen years ago he had found her plump creaminess appealing enough, although she came as a treaty bride, and he took her to his bed unwillingly, surly at being forced by his father. Mutual anger had furnished fleeting passion between them, and at first she had responded to the frustration he worked out between her soft thighs. For even then her body had seemed the image of Rome to him, treacherous with luxury, growing fat on the toil of his own people.

Maeve didn’t know what tenderness was, so she’d never understood what was missing between them. By order of both fathers Dalriada needed an heir, which she dutifully produced. Soon afterwards, she began to change. She did not grow more used to life here, but less. After every visit home to Luguvalium she came back plumper, scented by the luxuries of her father’s house, her eyes sharpened by gossip. She grew more bitter at life in rainy, barbaric Alba. When Garvan turned out so much like her, in pain Cahir tried for another son and, after Orla, another. After Finola’s birth he could not face Maeve’s bed again.

So be it. His father sold him into Roman slavery. His own son ran to it with open arms. Only Cahir struggled between the dictates of reality and his own heart.

He glanced down at the untouched ale-cup in his tight fingers. Perhaps if he allowed himself the release of drink for once his headache would go away. He drank.

When the Roman messenger put his platter aside, Davin’s music faded and Cahir got to his feet. He waited until the voices of his nobles and their wives died down. ‘The Dux Britanniarum has sent us an important request that I must attend to before the long dark. It has gone out to the Carvetii, my wife’s people, as well as the remnant chiefs of the Maetae.’

He nodded at the messenger, who wiped grease from his mouth while Cahir sat back down, holding tight to the arms of his chair. The man’s Dalriadan speech was stilted as he read out the summons. Afterwards, silence fell. It was so quiet Cahir heard the logs in the hearth settle and the growl of a hound.

‘More taxes,’ one of the older nobles repeated in a harsh voice. ‘Another increase, when we have had such terrible harvests for three years now? When even the grain stores are being emptied?’ In the ensuing pause, the tension in the room rose.

The messenger glanced at Cahir. ‘My commander decrees this for your own good. You enjoy our army’s protection, and the Dux has determined that more ships are needed to guard your sea-coast from Pictish raiders sailing around from the north-east, and your mountains from their riders. Hence, taxes need to be raised to build and equip them.’

As the silence stretched out, Maeve swiped up her wine goblet. ‘Of course we will pay this. Why, with safer sea-lanes we’ll be able to increase our trading wealth tenfold.’

‘More so, I would say,’ Oran cut in smoothly.

Cahir’s anger was building, though he could not afford to give it life. He had to walk a narrow path to keep his people safe. He knew only too well that the power of the Maetae and Novantae kingdoms near the Wall had been crushed by Rome long ago, one reason his father signed the treaty to protect Dalriada. But in Cahir’s boyhood a dispossessed Maetae prince had mounted a final rebellion against Roman rule – and Cahir was there when his father’s men cut the Maetae warriors down from the trees and gave them a fiery funeral. The southern Alban tribes were broken people now, shadows among the hills.

Harsh words were threatening to break out now, judging by the scowls. Swiftly Cahir said the messenger had suffered a long journey and must be tired; there was a guest bed waiting for him in one of the noble houses. The man bowed, glowering, and left.

As soon as he disappeared, Oran jumped in again. ‘With more southern forts and more Roman soldiers we can stop the Picts cutting us off from the Province,’ he wittered. ‘Ships will more easily be able to sail all the way from Gaul with tin and gold, and from the Saxon lands with amber.’

Cahir’s head whipped around. ‘And do you advise us to build a Roman fort in
our
lands, my Lord Oran?’

As Oran’s thin lips chewed on a reply, someone cried, ‘Hawen’s balls, we will
not!
’ Cahir glanced up. Ruarc was on his feet, blazing with a fury as bright as the gold torc around his neck. ‘They are traitorous words, beneath anyone of true Dalriadan blood!’

Oran regarded Ruarc with irritation, like a whining fly. ‘Which is why those of a different blood have more sense! We’re talking trade and money, boy, not bard’s tales of mindless battles.’

This remark inflamed all of the blustering youths, the mutterers who diced and lounged on the walls. They jumped up and began yelling that there would be no forts, no towns, and that the Roman army could shove their tithes back down their gullets. Cahir struck the arm of his chair. ‘Sit down!’ he bellowed. No one listened.

Maeve’s mouth dropped open. ‘This is the only sensible course, you fools,’ she screeched. ‘These things must be left to those who
rule
, not their witless bloodhounds!’

The uproar grew. Cahir looked over at his own guard, the only ones he trusted. Steady Finbar, Donal and Gobán were older than him, his father’s men. Tiernan and Fergal were Cahir’s age, his own sword-mates who had sparred with him as children. They were all men with years on their brow and fights on their belt.

Responding to his glance, Donal strode to Ruarc’s flame-haired friend Mellan, who, after another taunt by Oran, was stabbing the air with a finger, shouting. Despite Donal’s bald pate, lumpen nose and ruddy hair sprouting from brows and ears, he was respected by the young ones for his sword prowess. He put a steady hand across Mellan’s chest. ‘Hold your tongue for the king, lad,’ he said quietly.

A shudder went through Mellan, and he looked down at that calm hand before drawing a breath. ‘Aye, all right, Donal.’ When the older man just stared meaningfully at him, Mellan shrugged him off. ‘It is well, man, leave me be.’

In the silence, Cahir propelled himself from his chair and turned first to Maeve. ‘My lady,’ he ground out, ‘it should be no foregone conclusion of
yours
that we will come to the Roman heel when called, like a mangy cur. Conn is right: the harvests have been bad and we are low on the grain the Romans desire for their armies.’

He stared at the wrathful Ruarc, for a moment regretful.
Ruarc, bright flame.
Cahir was often angry at this boy, and yet he understood him. For Ruarc was an image of his own younger self, the prince before he became a king. The unfettered warrior living in a simple world of fighting, riding, raiding and bedding. ‘You and your sword-mates must understand something: this is no simple duel, no game of war. I ask you to keep your sword honed for such things and your temper for diplomacy.’ He spoke firmly, but not to shame. These youths were fine fighters, and as yet Cahir did not have a rebellion on his hands, a challenge to his kingship. Not yet. Cahir and Ruarc’s gazes locked, but Cahir would not let his eyes fall. At last Ruarc shrugged angrily and turned away.