The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (64 page)

‘Conaire.’ Eremon tried again. ‘I need your support.’

‘What? I can’t go anywhere; Caitlin has another round coming soon.’

‘Both of you must come – it won’t take long. I think you’ll find this interesting.’

Caitlin ran up, her bow in one hand, and threw herself into Conaire’s arms. Then she hugged Rhiann. ‘Did you see? I won!’

‘Of course!’ Rhiann squeezed her hand. ‘But we need you both to come to the dueling ground now.’

Caitlin’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Eremon, are you going to enter the ring? Who are you challenging?’

Rhiann and Eremon exchanged a look.

‘What’s going on?’ Conaire asked, glancing from one to the other.

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ Eremon replied. ‘Come, let us get this over with.’

Sword fights were by far the most exciting diversion of the day, and it was here, beside a ring of oak stakes, that Calgacus and the other kings sat, watching a sparring pair of warriors from the Taexali tribe. The clash of swords and shouted war-taunts pierced the chatter of the ladies in the audience, and the cries of their men setting bets.

‘I need you also,’ Eremon muttered to Rhiann, as they approached.

‘Me?’ Rhiann looked up at him. ‘Why me?’

‘Because Drust is a coward. He’ll need some incentive to accept my challenge. Shame will do it.’

Rhiann searched his face. ‘I understand.’

‘I knew you would.’

‘Prince!’ Calgacus waved them over to the benches. ‘You’ve missed some fine swordsmanship. Are you going to join us?’

Eremon bowed. ‘No, my lord. I wish to fight.’

‘Excellent! We will be pleased to see the skills of one already named the bane of the Romans.’ He glanced around at the other kings pointedly.

‘Actually, I thought it high time for a challenge between the Epidii and the Caledonii,’ Eremon remarked.

‘Indeed!’ Calgacus looked pleased. ‘Then I shall have to call for my champion.’

‘I have already chosen my opponent, with your leave.’

Calgacus was surprised. ‘By all means, if he accepts.’

Eremon swivelled on his heel, towards where Drust sat near the back, a jewelled mead cup in his hand. The King’s son was dressed in gaudy clothes again, his hair carefully oiled and braided, his fingers flashing gems.

He was staring at Rhiann, suddenly alert, and she returned his interest with a level look.

Eremon raised his voice over the chatter. ‘Then I challenge Drust, son of Calgacus, to a duel. As two princes, we should be well matched.’

There was a ripple of whispering, and all the blood drained from Drust’s face. His eyes darted over his shoulder, only to fall on Conaire, who had moved up to block his way. Then they flickered to Eremon, and finally to Rhiann, where they came to rest. There was a question on his face; or it might have been an accusation.

Rhiann replied with as challenging a stare as she could muster, raising one derisive eyebrow. In answer, the colour rushed back into Drust’s cheeks, and he rose to his feet.

Through all this Calgacus said nothing. He would know that his son was no match for Eremon. But he could hardly admit it; he, the great Calgacus the Sword. Rhiann dared a glance at the King, and saw the grim set of his mouth.

‘Of course,’ Eremon added, ‘I am aware of your
special
position,
prince. If you are not able, perhaps your father can call for his champion after all.’

It verged on insolent, and there was another flurry of whispers. Some people, no doubt, would know that the prince of Erin’s wife had been involved with the King’s son.

Drust’s cheeks darkened to crimson. ‘I accept.’

Two pied bull-hides were staked out on the duelling ground, side by side. Across them, Eremon and Drust faced each other, the sunlight glancing off their swords and painted shields. Whoever drove the other off the hides would be declared winner.

Like Eremon, Drust had shed his fine clothes and was now bare-chested, his checked
bracae
tied tight around the ankle. Comparing them, Rhiann could see that though Drust had the greater height, Eremon’s arms and chest bore the sharp muscle growth of a practised swordsman, and his stance was more sure. The boar tusk around his arm gleamed fiercely.

She resolutely tried to keep her mind on the fight, but it was difficult, seeing them there like that. One of these men she had caressed, stroking his smooth skin. The other slept beside her night after night, and she had only touched his bruises. But she realized now which one drew her eyes, and she glanced away, twisting the braid on her sleeve.

Conaire noticed. ‘Don’t worry.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It won’t take long.’

‘No one is a match for Eremon,’ Caitlin added gravely, ‘except Conaire.’

Rhiann bit back a smile. ‘Yes, I know.’

By now, the news had raced around the encampment, and men broke off their own games to crowd around the two princes. But at last Calgacus raised his hand, and the combatants stepped to the centre of the hides and raised their swords.

Beneath his helmet, Drust’s eyes were narrowed. ‘I know why you challenge me, prince,’ he muttered.

‘Really?’ Eremon shifted his weight on his feet, testing his balance.

Drust smiled. ‘And I just want you to know she’s not worth it: a scrawny, pale thing like that can’t satisfy a real man.’

Eremon compressed his lips, and relaxed his hold on his sword. He would not allow himself to be goaded. One of Calgacus’s cousins now came forward, and began reciting the rules for the benefit of the swelling crowd.

Under cover of the man’s voice, Eremon murmured, ‘As you say, prince. But in fact, I call you out because we know you are a Roman spy.’

Drust turned white, as if a foam wave had rushed over his face. ‘Liar!’

‘I have the proof; someone who saw you with Agricola.’

‘I’ll have you shamed for such an insult!’

Eremon ignored that. ‘Now, you have two choices. If you win, you confess to your father, and submit to his justice. If I win, I tell him, here and now.’

Drust said nothing, but his breathing was harsh. He raised his sword. Then they heard the call: ‘By Taranis!’

It was the signal to begin.

Swift as a hawk plunge, Drust’s sword swept down, and Eremon blocked it with a fierce thrust of his shield, tilted so that it caught Drust’s wrist. It was an aggressive move that he had perfected with Conaire, which left the opponent’s flank exposed. And sure enough, with a thrill of satisfaction Eremon saw Drust drop back and swivel on his heel to defend. As he did, Eremon brought his own sword up for a thrust, which Drust had to catch at an awkward angle.

Eremon leaped for the advantage, his blood instantly alight. With Lorn, he’d had no time for tactics, and as Conaire pointed out, must match fire with fire. Though Drust was no equal opponent, Eremon still wanted a quick, decisive victory, which showed off his own skills, and left no room for foolish errors.

So with Drust still off balance, he began to rain sword blows down on his shield so fast and so hard that the Caledonii prince had no chance to get his sword up again. With every ringing blow, Eremon advanced, relentlessly, and Drust had no option but to retreat, closer to the edge of the hide.

Eremon had practised blows such as these with Conaire. The awesome strength in his brother’s arm called forth an answering strength in his own, but it was the rhythm that was key. His whole torso twisted in a steady beat that gave both speed and power to his arm. His sword was a blur as it glanced off Drust’s shield, again and again, one blow flowing into another so swiftly that Drust could find no faltering gap to exploit.

It was never going to be an even contest. Eremon deliberately drove Drust backwards towards one of the stakes that held the hide, and between one breath and the next Drust was forced to dodge the stake, and in so doing stumbled off the hide, skidding on the wet grass.

The crowd broke into cheering, but it was tinged with disappointment, for it had been too easy.

‘I win then,’ Eremon panted, his sword-tip pointing at Drust’s chest.

‘Wait!’ the Caledonii prince hissed, his eyes burning. ‘You cannot shame my father here, before these men. You have it wrong: I can explain it to him.’

Eremon hesitated, but glancing up, he saw the darkness in the King’s
face, and his heart twisted within him. ‘You have until the end of the games.’

The prince slowly backed away, and without looking at his father, disappeared into the crowd.

Rhiann understood that Eremon gave Drust that time out of respect for Calgacus. And yet she felt uneasy about the wisdom of letting the prince return to the dun alone. Since no one would miss her, she decided to follow him herself, slipping away as Conaire brought Eremon water and Caitlin a cloth to wipe the sweat from his face.

But just as Rhiann approached the dun, a large party of mounted warriors forced their way past. And that was when she felt it: a dark shimmering in the air, and a pressure, like a storm growing.

Her stomach turned, and she peered around. Hordes of people were streaming in and out of the gate, many now cursing as the warriors’ horses neighed and shied. On the far side of the crowd, she glimpsed a black-haired man dismounting, and the pale sheen of white bear-fur over his thick shoulders. But then the shifting mass of people swallowed him up, and Rhiann was nudged along inside the gate.

After pulling free of the press of bodies, she hurried to Drust’s workshed. He was not there. She waited until the steward that looked after the King’s Hall returned from the storehouses, and asked if Drust had returned. He had not. When she insisted, he took her to Drust’s empty bedplace. She then searched the stables and other worksheds, but could find no trace of him.

Cursing, she raced back down to the field, seeking for Eremon.

Drust had vanished.

After dusk that day, as Eremon delivered his unwelcome news to Calgacus, he wished that the King had the time to grieve in peace. But all the tribal leaders had now arrived, and the welcome feast must go ahead.

Calgacus and Eremon were alone in the King’s meeting room, a screened alcove off the second floor gallery. The King sat heavily in his carved chair, the straight line of his shoulders for once broken.

‘He went straight from the dueling ground to the port,’ Eremon said. ‘He must have planned it moons ago, secreting clothes and jewels with someone in the village, who organized a boat to stand by. He must have done it in preparation for such a day.’

Calgacus shook his head, still stunned.

‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Eremon added, for the third time. ‘I challenged him to force his hand, to give him the opportunity to tell you himself. It may have redeemed him.’

‘If he had not run, then I may have doubted your information,
prince. But – gods!’ Calgacus struck the arm of the chair. ‘He confirms his guilt with his own actions.
My son
… a Roman traitor!’

Eremon’s heart ached, but he kept his silence.

After a long while, Calgacus sighed. ‘He was always the first down the pier when the Roman traders came in. The first to sport the latest jewellery, or cup, or bowl …’ He gazed around the room in despair, for among the woven wall hangings and bronze of spear and shield there gleamed the red glaze of Roman pots on claw-foot tables; the glitter of glass goblets and silver wine jugs. ‘He was always asking leave to travel south, to learn the stone carving. I should have seen it myself !’

‘A man should not have to doubt his own son,’ Eremon said quietly.

Calgacus sat up straighter, and got slowly to his feet. ‘Son?’ His eyes were bleak. ‘I have no son. I will never speak of him again, and we will tell no one of what happened here today.’

As they reached the woven screen, Calgacus put a hand on Eremon’s shoulder. ‘Though it grieves me sorely, and though I hated he who brought me this news, if only for a moment, you did the right thing. If my real son had even a grain of your honour in his soul, prince, then this would never have happened.’

The words ‘my real son’ echoed in Eremon’s mind. He looked up into the King’s eyes. ‘It is not a role I was happy to play.’

‘Nevertheless, if he had been here longer, he may have had useful information to impart. As it stands, perhaps his Roman reception will be colder than he hoped, for what can he say? That we meet in council, that is all. If this causes Agricola to fear, it is well. One day he will find the truth on the ends of our swords.’

This halted Eremon. ‘Am I to understand that you will speak in favour of an alliance tomorrow, then?’

Calgacus gave a grim smile. ‘I have placated my nobles enough. The betrayal of my son is a sign that I must rid Alba of the Roman poison. I will overrule my chieftains, and take my chances with their mistrust. Yet I fear it will not be long before our friend Agricola makes his move, anyway, and we are proven right.’

Chapter 64