The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (24 page)

Eremon was silent, determined not to get into a haggling match with his wife in front of his men. And yet, as he listened, he had to admit that it could work. It was daring … but just the sort of thing that would impress the Epidii. If he was successful, he would gain more power, and more status among the new levies. And sitting here doing nothing was just as risky – no, riskier. If only he had thought of it. He glanced at Conaire. An unspoken message passed between them.

‘I think it is a good idea,’ Conaire declared, as if trying to convince him. ‘We know that the Romans passed through those lands quickly, so
they must be at peace now. A small escort with – as you say, lady – no Alban markings, would attract little notice.’

‘You are forgetting something.’ Eremon folded his arms. ‘Yes, the Romans passed through these lands quickly – but this means that these tribes are sympathetic to their rule. How else did the Eagles not meet with greater resistance?’

‘That may be true,’ Rhiann returned swiftly, ‘but we won’t know exactly what happened unless we go. Perhaps the Votadini did give in to save themselves. But my cousin is of the sisterhood, and she will support us, no matter what betrayals the men of her tribe have committed.’

Eremon was silent. What she said intrigued him, despite his misgivings.

‘Don’t you see?’ Rhiann broke in again. ‘This is the only way to get the information that you need. It is a perfect plan. I say you should be thanking me, not arguing with me!’

Eremon noticed Finan and Colum biting down smiles, and Conaire sported a distinctly amused turn to his mouth. Rori was looking from Eremon to Rhiann with shocked eyes.

‘The chance of success is high, despite the danger, brother.’ Conaire spoke seriously now. ‘The Romans will take little notice of a few lightly armed men and one noblewoman.’

‘Well,’ Eremon said at last, allowing Conaire to convince him. ‘We cannot sit here, waiting for the snare to tighten. We must take action, for the sake of the Epidii. I say we go.’ He smiled magnanimously at Rhiann, but she just frowned, irritation written into every line of her body.

Good
, he thought.
That will teach you exactly who leads this warband. My lady
.

‘Rori, Colum, Fergus and Angus, you will come with us,’ he added briskly. ‘And Finan, you will stay here and continue the training in my stead. Whatever we discover on this journey, I want the men in some sort of fighting order before sunseason arrives. That is, if we even have that long.’

Rhiann may have won over her husband, but the council of elders reacted with horror at news of her plan. Tharan, the eldest, declared it madness, and even Talorc was unusually implacable in his refusal to let her go.

‘Lady,’ Belen said, ‘our Ban Cré should not be riding around the mountains on some dangerous escapade! She should be here …’ he trailed off, but Rhiann did not miss the glance at her belly.

Yes, the murmuring had already begun, for she had been wed for six moons now, and still no sign of a babe. Which gave her another reason
to press for this journey, for news of the Romans would keep the council’s attention away from her. For a time.

She dragged her gaze to Eremon, who now broke in smoothly to say that he and his men could accomplish the same goal without taking her, and in fact would prefer to not do so. At that, she had to bite down the urge to slap the smug smile from his face.

In the end, support came from the most unexpected quarter.

The meeting was in the shrine, for the day was fine, the air carrying a hint of the warmth to come. And lurking in the shadows of the pillars, it was Gelert who said they should go. ‘It is as the Ban Cré said: the Romans will not touch her. They do not have enough men to keep peace themselves, but rely on winning local chieftains to their side, bribing them with wine and oil. When they feel secure, they move forward. For this reason, the prince and his lady wife will meet few Roman soldiers in the conquered lands. And her status will protect all of them among the tribes. She must go.’

‘You – you support this escapade, Lord Druid?’ Belen sounded amazed.

‘Most certainly.’ Gelert stepped forward, drawing himself up to his fullest height. The morning sun was dazzling on his white robe and hair. ‘The Romans will roll forward until they slaughter our babes in their beds. We must do anything to prevent it.’ His voice rose to the commanding pitch of druid pronouncements. ‘The gods cry out for Roman blood! We must give it to them, or feel their wrath ourselves!’

This proclamation had no effect on Rhiann, but she saw the fear ripple over the faces of the elders.

‘The gods wish us to let them go?’ Talorc spoke gruffly, to hide his discomfort.

Gelert whirled, and opened his arms before the altar. The robe spread out into wings to either side, and the sun poured through the thin wool. ‘They speak to me,’ he hissed. ‘They speak to me in the fire. They say that the journey will safeguard our tribe!’ He spun back, and the robe fluttered out and then was still. ‘The Ban Cré must do her duty, and the prince fulfil his oath. I have spoken.’

Gelert’s words overrode the council’s reluctance, and when the sun was high, the vote was cast to let the party go south.

As she left the shrine, Rhiann threw a look over her shoulder. Gelert was turning back to his altar. He paused and caught her eye; the curve of triumph in his crooked smile was unmistakable.

He had said nothing of their own safety.

Chapter 22

LEAF-BUD
AD
80

F
ar away, on the Orcades islands off Alba’s northern tip, a king sat brooding in darkness, alone. The wind blew around his hall with a steady roar, as it had all through the long dark, sweeping in from the north across the flat plains around his dun.

He had a shaggy thatch of dark hair and black eyes, like all men of the Orcades. But when his subjects were brought to stand before him, they saw another kind of darkness in his face, and the fire in his eyes burned with no warmth. He had the girth of a bull, and around his shoulders he wore the pelt of the great white bear that ranged the ice lands of the far north.

This king was powerful, and held all of the islands and many leagues of the mainland coast in his iron fist. However, it was not enough.

It seemed to him as he sat there in his dark hall, lit only by a single, sputtering torch and a smoky peat fire, that he was not powerful at all. What he wanted was the warm vales of the mainland, the tall forests and lush pastures, the rich pickings of the trade routes.

He clenched the fist that rested in his lap, and stared into the dirty glow of the fire. He – Maelchon, son of queens – had to dangle here on the edge of the world, scrabbling for the scraps to fall from the tables of the high and mighty tribes of Alba, like a lowly, slavering hound. Take that Caledonii King, Calgacus, arrogant upstart, lording it over them all, flashing his jewels and his horses and his cattle …

Maelchon hitched up his belt as he shifted on his throne, and then, suddenly, he smiled to himself. They were all in for a surprise. Soon, no king or anyone else would look at him with anything but fear and awe.

This thought brought the now-familiar surge of heat to his loins. Every time he gnawed on his plans, he could hardly keep still. But he had to wait, to put them in place with patience, so that nothing would
go wrong. It was hard, so hard to hold himself back. It was not his nature.

Maelchon’s excitement was pressing on his trousers now, and he knew he had to get up and move, before this need for slowness drove him mad. He could call for his wife, pitiful creature that she was, but useful for some things … or he could call for his druid, and go and see his broch tower.

He glanced at the dim light creeping under the musty door hanging, and beckoned to the guard waiting in the darkness behind his throne. Judging by the light, it appeared he had time for both. There was not much else to do in this accursed, blasted land.

Kelturan the druid came quickly, as always. He was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and sparse hair, and deep-set eyes that missed very little. He wielded his oak staff of rank, but it was an old stick from the days of his youth. No tree of that lineage grew on these islands – only stunted, hardy rowans that could cope with the endless wind. ‘You will be wanting to start the work teams again, lord.’

Maelchon smiled, for the druid had read his mind, which was why he kept him by, and no other. ‘I do. I have heard that the Caledonii King is considering his defence against the Roman invader. A change is on the wind, Kelturan. Unstable days may be coming.’ He took a gulp of ale, regarding the chipped whalebone cup with distaste. Where were the gold goblets, the bronze-rimmed horns, the jewels? He knew well the answer to that: hoarded by men such as Calgacus, in their lowland duns.

‘It would be better to be within stout stone walls,’ Kelturan was saying, although he knew, as did Maelchon, that the islands had always been protection enough. ‘I shall call the teams back tomorrow.’

‘I want to go there now,’ Maelchon said. He could see the druid thinking about the winds outside, but when he looked into the King’s eyes, all protest died on his lips. As it should.

‘Yes, my lord, but pray, let me get my cloak.’

‘You will come with me now, Kelturan.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

They emerged from the hall into the dank, stinking village, washed with a dull light that crept from behind heavy clouds. Maelchon was followed by two guards, although they were for show, not protection. Here, in his domain, he need fear no attack. His people were spineless. They bowed and scuttled away as he strode down between the scatter of rude houses to the beach.

There, rearing from the shore like a grim, grey crag was the skeleton of a broch, a round tower four times as high as an ordinary house, with immense walls as thick as a man is tall. Its shell was almost complete, except for one wide cleft, and as yet it was roofless. Within the cleft, the stairs and galleries that led from the ground to two upper levels could
clearly be seen. Soon the timber for the floors would arrive from the mainland, the wood costing more than anything Maelchon had ever traded for. But it did not matter.

The broch’s stout walls, its grim heights, spoke of Maelchon’s power. They proclaimed that he was no provincial king to be ignored and scorned. And when his plan was complete, then he would have the gold and the goods to carve and clothe and furnish the broch with rich decorations, until it was a kingly dwelling to rival any in Alba. There he would sit in his majesty, and gather the princes of Alba, and dazzle them. And someday after he would cross over and take all the lands down to the Forth itself: Caledonii lands, Taexali lands, Vacomagi lands. And any bride he wished, of the highest blood.

His heart fed on these thoughts, gloating over them as if they were hoarded gold in a deep chamber of his house.

‘Master?’

The druid’s voice shook him out of this pleasant reverie, and Maelchon waved his hand. ‘I will go up alone. Wait here.’

He started up the stairs of the broch, moving heavily but easily, for age had not as yet dimmed his vigour, and the feeling of these walls, of owning these walls, gave extra strength to his step. He came out on to a stone ledge, one of the cross slabs that formed a gallery, and looked over the unfinished walls, to the sea.

He gripped the rough stones and felt their strength, and savoured the knowledge of his dominion over them. He ordered that they be set just so, and they were. All things could be ordered, men most easily, but many other things as well. Even his druid could be controlled – a man of magic, supposedly. Ha! A true king had no time for druid power. For him there was only one kind of power – that over life and death.

He crossed to the landward side of the broch, and gazed down at the people in his village, going about their rude and pointless existence. And as always, anger at them grew within him.

They were good for few things, these island people, providing food and tribute, but little else. Their sheer baseness seethed within him. One day he would take his proper place among the nobility, and he would be lord of all those who thought they were greater than him.

Then it will be different
, he thought.
Then I will do as I wish
.

Chapter 23