The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (22 page)

The surface of the spring shimmered with colour, and shifting shapes. Were there red cloaks there, swords, a ship? Her throat caught, as she leaned closer, closer, to the shining water …

Yes, yes
…
I see
…

But at the last there was nothing: only her own face, the sun a nimbus around her hair, the branches of the rowan a mocking crown. She sank back on her heels, and bit her lip at the sharp flood of hurt.

It was a slow ride back, Liath stumbling now when before she had been so sure-footed. Rhiann was so sunk in her despair she did not notice the mare leave the path that led back down the slope. But suddenly she reined in, disoriented. ‘Liath, where are we?’

The horse whinnied in reply, and shook her mane. Rhiann turned in her saddle in all directions, looking for a landmark. The melting snow and branches stretched out in all directions, but thankfully, without the obscuring leaves, she could just make out the top of a great rock slab that thrust out from the slope. She knew that; it was a lookout for the scouts.
She had just come a little too far north, that was all. If she made for that and cut directly downhill she would hit the main track back to Dunadd.

Long after, she wondered at the compulsion that took her to the rock that day. If the sky had not been clear, or if she had ridden out later, or if Liath had not left the path, she would not have seen what she did.

First there was the scent of smoke. She pulled Liath up. There was movement at the base of the rock: it must be the lookouts, with their fire. She would pass by and see them, ask if they had any news to relay to the dun. Why, then, did she not call out? Why did she slip to the ground silently, and walk closer? Why?

Near the rock, she saw the horses. One of them was a big, black brute called Dòrn – the Fist.

The tribe’s wedding gift to her new husband.

There was a fire under the shelf of rock, on the ground where no snow lay. Close to it, a deer-hide was spread, and a man and a woman were locked in an embrace, oblivious to the bite of the air, oblivious to Rhiann’s pale form standing by a tree on the edge of the clearing. The woman, yellow hair spilling over the roan hide, was Aiveen. And the man’s arms around her were Eremon’s.

Stricken though she was, Rhiann could not make herself look away. She seemed to have lost all control over her eyes.

They lay bathed in the weak sun, close to the fire, moving together as sinuously as otters in a stream. Rhiann had never seen two people twine together in this way, like one being. Around the dun she witnessed rushed encounters against walls, in the stables or granaries. But as for the rest, it happened under cover of darkness, and the moans that came from people’s beds always sounded painful to her.

She stared, burning with shame and fury, yet torn by an awful fascination. The kisses and caresses in the clearing grew more urgent, and she saw the girl’s round breasts emerge from her tunic, saw them covered by Eremon’s hands, shockingly brown against Aiveen’s white skin.

A sickness stirred in Rhiann’s belly, as the kisses became ever hungrier. And then Eremon pushed the girl back on the hide and edged her dress higher, and that part of the act Rhiann knew all too well. With the slapping of naked flesh, and the cries, sharp in the thin air, Rhiann’s own newly-awakened memories rushed in. The same hoarse thrusting and grunting, the crying of her own voice in pain, the smell of old fish on the breath of the black-haired man …

Disgust roiled in her guts like curdled milk. She wanted to run before she was sick, before the dark memories came fully to life. Yet still she could not draw away. It was as if her feet had been frozen in place, imprisoned by the snow.

Aiveen whimpered and moaned again, and this time a deep instinct
told Rhiann that this cry was different to her own a year ago. It was low and throaty; not high and sharp. Not pain: pleasure. Rhiann’s spirit was too naked and raw to deny it.

Abruptly, the old trauma faded into the pale-washed sky, and the scene before her leaped out in minute detail. Instead of the rough, red skin of her own attacker there was Eremon’s strong, brown arms, glistening with sweat, Aiveen’s hands spread protectively over tight muscles. Instead of coarse black hairs there was Eremon’s tawny fuzz, glinting in the sun, and his dark braids falling into Aiveen’s eyes.

The moans were growing louder and the thrusts faster now, and Rhiann felt her own breath coming shallow in her breast. And then at last, Eremon let loose a great wrenching cry and collapsed on to Aiveen’s writhing body, and mercifully, it was over.

Rhiann’s feet were released.

She stumbled back to Liath, heedless of the cracking twigs, a sob growing in the back of her throat. After flinging herself into the saddle, she wheeled the horse around, urging her off through the trees, away, away from the sickening scene behind her. But where the slope deepened, and Liath’s hooves began to skid on loose mud, Rhiann suddenly pulled the mare up again, throwing herself to the ground, falling to her knees. And there she vomited in the snow, retching again and again, until all that was left was the spasm.

Shaking, she wiped her mouth, tipping back on her heels against Liath’s leg. The mare leaned down and butted her with concern, and Rhiann twined fingers in the wind-knotted mane, her eyes unseeing.

The forest was silent around her.

All the birds had fled.

She rode back to Dunadd in a daze, now blind to the beauty of the day. The last sun was spilling through a rent in the clouds, slanting low over the ground, picking out each rock and tree branch with gold.

She saw none of it. The fury had cooled to dull anger, though she tried to hold on to its fire. In its place, ice ran in her veins. Eremon could do what he wanted. He had no tie to her. His taste was questionable, but then what more could she expect?

Yet all the while this monologue trailed on, against the backdrop of her mind … through her mind … tumbled images; visions of a clarity she had wished to see in the sacred pool. But they were not pictures of the man with black hair, and dirty nails. They were not the bunching of Eremon’s back as he thrust, the white globes of Aiveen’s breasts, yellow hair spread across the hide. They were images of a far more disturbing nature. And try as she might, she could not exorcise them from her mind.

Eremon’s hands, caressing the girl as gently as he would still a filly.
Eremon’s fingers, running tenderly from Aiveen’s waist along one flank. Eremon’s lips, lighting on her shoulder, bare from its dress, as a butterfly lights on a flower.

Rhiann had felt such things with Drust on the Sacred Isle, when he painted her. But that was long ago.

Before the darkness came.

Chapter 20

A
t the rites of Imbolc the women offered to Brigid, goddess of leaf-bud, pouring pale streams of ewe’s milk into the Add and burying kegs of the first butter deep in marsh pools.

And as the goddess heeded their call, and woke the land, the levies of men began arriving.

On a day weeping with sleet, Eremon lined the new arrivals up on the plain by the river, to see what this army of his was made of. There were young boys clutching their bows, their cheeks smooth, their eyes wide; there were thick-set warriors with scar-seamed hands, and cynical mouths; and finally a brace of chieftains’ sons, with bright-checked cloaks and gold torcs, their chins jutting with pride. They watched Eremon – and each other – with hawk-eyes, and he knew why they had come. They were here to take his measure as much as he was theirs, to report back to their fathers what kind of man this
gael
was.

Eremon, too, had dressed in his best, bearing every arm-ring and brooch he possessed, his boar-crest helmet, and his bright shield. Fragarach was in his hand, the sleet-glare catching on its hilt as he spoke.

Balanced on Talorc’s chariot pole, he explained in rousing terms why he had called them all in. He told them of the voraciousness of the invaders – and exaggerated their riches. He said that he would forge them into a hammer, which could fell the Romans with one blow. He told them they could become the strongest, most valiant, and most lauded tribe in Alba. That few generations had been given the chance to make such a name as they could make now; a name for the bards to sing of for ever.

And as the wind cut across the meadow like a knife-edge, and the melting flakes caught in shaggy, sheepskin cloaks and froze the mud on cowhide boots, he saw the light begin to kindle in the men’s eyes. They nodded and grunted, and inside he permitted himself a sigh of relief.
They would go along with him, then, and watch and wait. He had some little time to win them over.

Just then there was a shout from the river ford, and every head turned. Across the meadow, through the sleet, a careering chariot had appeared. Drawn by a pair of black horses, which seemed to fly through the whirling white, the chariot bumped and swayed dangerously on the rutted ground. The driver yipped and slapped the reins across the black beasts’ backs, and they raced faster and closer, making no effort to slow as they neared the crowd, but swinging out in a wide arc. The wicker sides of the chariot and its iron wheels were painted scarlet, and against the grey sky and pale meadow it was a splash of blood on snow.

From his own height, Eremon watched this display with a frown. No one could bring a chariot over land in this weather. It must have been carried – carried! Whoever the owner was, he intended to make an impression.

The chariot executed a wild, sharp turn, but the warrior standing behind the driver kept his feet, and then the gathered levies were forced to scatter as the vehicle came to a skidding halt before Eremon, the horses rearing up in their traces.

With one lithe movement, the warrior leaped from the chariot, and stood looking around with challenging grey eyes. He was of an age with Eremon, taller, though with less breadth at the shoulder. His hair marked him from afar, for it was so fair as to be silver, and acted as a fine foil for the expensive, purple-dyed tunic. His torc was twisted gold and bronze, and his cloak was braided with the four stripes that denoted a chieftain’s son – though this was apparent enough in the set of his chin.

He raised his eyes to Eremon. ‘Are you the son of Ferdiad?’

Eremon stared him down. ‘I am. And who are you?’

The man grinned, but topped by those glacial eyes, it was a baring of teeth. ‘I am Lorn, son of Bettna. My father is Urben of the Dun of the Sun.’ He shook his spear. ‘I come to aid in my tribe’s defence.’

‘I thank you for joining us,’ Eremon said.

‘I thank
you
for joining us,’ Lorn replied pointedly. ‘Your sword arm will be valued in our fight against the Roman dogs.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Eremon watched the other chieftains’ sons. He saw a mixed reaction. Some were absorbing Lorn’s challenging tone, and turning bolder eyes up to Eremon. Others were regarding the new arrival with bristling wariness. He was reminded of the way dogs circle each other, their legs stiff and hackles up. Quite the normal greeting among young warriors, then. He relaxed.

‘Your druids thought so when they made me war leader,’ Eremon rejoined. He had given this young cock enough attention; he did not wish to lose those men whose hearts had begun to turn to his words. He surveyed the crowd.

‘And make no mistake, it is my fight, as well as yours!’ he cried. ‘I am your brother-in-arms, and on the day I took the hand of the Ban Cré, I pledged myself to your service. There will be no “yours” and “mine”. I will share the same food, and laugh through the same hardships and – if Manannán wills it – shed the same blood! We have one enemy only, and that is the Roman empire. Side by side, we can beat them into dust!’

Most of the men howled and cheered and spat curses at the Romans, and as they broke and filtered back through the village gate for the welcome feast, they were already jesting and cuffing each other. Lorn, though, strode with the sharpness of anger, and about him other chieftains’ sons gathered closer, dark as crows.

‘We must watch that one,’ Conaire murmured at Eremon’s shoulder.

‘Yes.’ Eremon’s eyes followed the silver head until it disappeared among the houses. ‘I feel he will not be cowed by words.’

‘Good,’ Conaire growled. ‘Then he will have a chance to meet my fists.’

But Eremon needed to know more. ‘Who is Lorn, the man with the fair hair?’ he asked Rhiann the next day, as she left the dairy shed with a keg of butter in her arms.

She ducked her head, not meeting his eyes. ‘Lorn? His clan is the most powerful after our own – when our own was powerful,’ she amended.

‘And this means …?’

‘It means that he was the strongest contender for the kingship, and his clan had high hopes of installing him so.’

In the weeks following, the plain below the dun echoed with the clamour of swords and hoarse shouts of men-at-arms. The Trade Path was alive with racing chariots; the air filled with whines and thuds as archers and spearmen practised on hide targets.

The hard work made hungry bellies, and Rhiann ordered a line of great pit-ovens to be dug, for baking whole pigs, and stone-lined water troughs for boiling joints of beef. Each woman’s hearthstone was kept hot for bread baking, her cauldron full of barley porridge. The King’s Hall stank of male sweat and rang with male voices. Only at night did the levies disappear to their host houses in the dun, the village, and surrounding farmsteads.