The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (8 page)

‘They will when they find out there’s no king.’ Colum rubbed ale-foam from his stubbled chin.

‘Then we make sure they don’t find out. Look, without allies, the Boar knows how long we might remain fugitives, fighting for our lives instead of building our strength. How can I win my kingship back then?’ His eyes rested on them all, one by one. No one argued.

They left the hut and crossed the sands to their battered boat, past the suspicious eyes of the Epidii warriors, and the speculative looks of their women. On the way, Eremon’s attention was caught by a bloom of flame along the dark rocks that cupped the bay, and he stopped as his men carried on without him. The painted
curraghs
were being burned!

Though born and bred a warrior, Eremon had always had, in his father’s eyes, an unmanly attraction to the mysteries of the druids. If he’d been a commoner he might have followed that path, though any such tendencies had been driven away by Ferdiad’s beatings. So he stood and watched the burning for a moment, intrigued that something so beautiful was being destroyed.

Suddenly he became aware of another standing nearby who also watched; someone with the unmistakable air of a druid, draped in a
sapphire cloak, its hood up. Struck by an impulse, he opened his mouth to ask what the symbols on the boats meant, and why they were being burned.

But before he’d uttered a word, the druid whirled to face him, and he saw snapping blue eyes, huge in a white face, and a nimbus of the most extraordinary hair. ‘Keep your hands off me, man of Erin!’

Her voice cut through him like a shard of ice. No one had ever looked at him like that, with blazing eyes in a face of such tense coldness. Women did not look like that. Not at him. Gaping, he stood there like a fool, as she clutched her cloak closer and hurried away.
By the gods, have I insulted a druid? How? Why?

Conaire was suddenly by his side. ‘Eremon, I’ve been calling! We have our guides and we’re waiting for you.’ A loud belch sounded in Eremon’s ear, and then Conaire paused, watching the slim figure retreating down the beach. He cocked his head at Eremon and chuckled. ‘You don’t waste time, my brother.’

Eremon shrugged helplessly, and put the encounter out of his mind as he followed Conaire to the water. Their boat was already afloat in the pale shallows, and one of the Epidii guides was directing some of Eremon’s men to hold it steady while the others boarded.

A pack of curious children jostled each other in the foam, and further back, young women eyed Eremon with interest, whispering behind their hands, as he waded through the water. He placed his sword carefully in the boat and hoisted himself in, and the women’s murmuring grew louder. One of the Epidii guides shot him a sullen look.

‘I am not used to your local speech.’ Eremon’s voice was friendly as he stowed his blade and settled to the oar. ‘What are they saying?’

‘They call you mac Greine, lord.’ The man’s voice held a hint of scorn. Plainly, he thought little of the women’s fancies.

Mac Greine. Son of the sun. Eremon did not know whether to be flattered or embarrassed, for that was a name given to the god Lugh of the Shining Spear. Then he shrugged to himself, practicality winning out. If they were in awe of him, that was no bad thing.

And, though he was sorry for startling the druidess, if some were afraid of him, then that was no bad thing either.

The Alban boats were timber built, as sleek and curved as spear points, with painted animal prows. The horse was foremost among the carvings. What had Talorc said over the ale?
We are the People of the Horse
. It was a noble creature indeed – Eremon just hoped that this tribe lived up to its totem.

Despite his concerns, he could not help but feel excited. Behind him lay great darkness, and he would have to face the pain of it all soon. Too
soon. For now, though, they were on an adventure in an unknown land, with a new day’s sun in their faces and swords by their sides. The Boar knew what glory might come his way here; what paths might open …

Steady on, my boy. Just focus on getting home
.

His eyes were drawn west, to where Erin lay over the horizon … Erin, his land, his love, with her rounded, lush hills and soft winds. A stab of longing pierced him, but then he shut the door firmly in his mind. He could not go back, not yet. The time would come, one day, and it would be the right time, under the right circumstances.

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 take 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.