The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (9 page)

‘Have you seen anywhere placed so well?’ Eremon breathed to Conaire. ‘A single rock bounded by bog, with clear access to the sea?’

Conaire’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at the rock face. ‘A worthy challenge! We’d be spitted like pigs before we gained the walls!’

‘Taking it by force is not what I had in mind,’ Eremon said drily.

The Trade Path ran up to a gate that was guarded by twin towers. On entering the village, Eremon expected to be engulfed by the noise and smells of a busy dun: the ring of smiths’ hammers and squawking of geese; children crying, women calling. But though there were people about on the pathways, the dun had a subdued air, and there was little evidence of anyone labouring at the granaries or in the multitude of worksheds. The murmuring groups of people fell quiet as the men from Erin passed under the shadows of the gate, and people stared, toddlers hanging wide-eyed on their mothers’ skirts.

Talorc hurried them past the people clustering by the gate. ‘The stables are there.’ He waved to one side. ‘You’ll find that we are the best horse breeders and traders in Alba: we’ve an eye for fine blood. And there, you see the sheds of the armourers and iron-smiths.’ He stopped and hooked his hands in his belt, cinched under an ample belly. ‘Your sword is very fine, prince of Erin, but perhaps your young lads,’ he smirked at Aedan and Rori, ‘could do with a sturdy helmet or two. You may not find our neighbours so friendly, and some of them can bring a sword down faster than a bull can come, eh?’ He jabbed Rori in the ribs with a forced jollity, and the boy blushed and ducked his head.

‘Our own swords are fast enough, thank you,’ Eremon responded firmly.

‘Well, here’s the bronze-smith, then. You’re not the only ones with fine craftsmen, as you’ll see.’ He turned to Conaire and clapped him on the back. ‘Maybe you need an amber hair pin for your lady back home, son of Lugaid!’

‘I’ll need more than one, then!’ Conaire replied, grinning.

Rhiann left Linnet at the stables with her mount Whin, and made her way to her own house. Brica was outside, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. ‘I’ve heard about the strangers, lady. Where are they, then? What do they look like?’ She craned her neck, squinting through the gaps between the houses.

‘I think they’re down in the village.’ Rhiann lifted the doorcover, and the maid followed her inside. ‘It’s nothing to be scared of, Brica. They’re a trading party, that’s all.’ She unpinned her cloak and drew it from her shoulders.

Brica sniffed as she took it; the closest she ever came to contradicting Rhiann. ‘Well, Fainne said they were from Erin and had many swords and spears. I wonder what they’re doing here?’ Her black eyes darted
about as she hung the damp cloak over the loom to dry. ‘Maybe they want an alliance? Or perhaps they—’

‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’ Rhiann was suddenly exhausted. ‘The Lady Linnet will be here soon. Have you brewed tea?’

‘It’s here.’ Brica bustled around with the iron pot, pouring out two cups and setting it back on its tripod over the coals. The sour tang of blackberries wafted up on the steam. Then she took up a wicker basket. ‘I’ve made mutton stew, and Nera has baked the bannocks. I’ll go and get them and you can eat.’

At a nod from Rhiann, Brica disappeared outside.

Rhiann wandered to the hearth, and stirred the cauldron suspended on its chains over the fire. The nobles must be gathering in the King’s Hall now, and soon, too soon, there would be a council.

But who would be the next man to be declared king, to stand on the slab of rock at the summit, one foot in the carved hollow, the stallion hide around his shoulders? A man from another clan, who forced his ascendancy with bloodshed? Or a son of her own? He would be a baby in the arms of a regent, although still the rightful king. Neither possibility was welcome to her.

She pulled up her stool and was sitting with her hands around her cup, when Brica burst back through the door, bread spilling from her basket. ‘The watch cry has gone up, my lady,’ she panted.

‘What of it? And why have you been running?’

‘Everyone is running, mistress,’ Brica gasped out. ‘There is a warrior in full gallop on the south road. From Enfret’s dun, he is, and he bears the banner warning of attack! I heard the watch send a guard to the chief druid!’

Rhiann caught up her cloak once more and hurried to the King’s Hall. There she met Linnet in the stream of people who were squeezing through the Horse Gate, for though this day they were in mourning for King Brude, news about the
gaels
had drawn many from their houses. Everyone wanted to see the gold that adorned the newcomers.

Together, she and Linnet managed to push through until they were close to Gelert and Talorc, who were standing with the men from Erin outside the hall, watching the rider approaching the village gate below.

As the messenger reined in and leaped to the ground to begin his run up through the village, Rhiann saw Gelert narrow his eyes against the glare of the sun. Declan the seer, hands clasped on his crescent staff, was also frowning. Whatever the message, the seer was worried – it did not look good. Rhiann’s heart started to skip again.

At last the crowd parted for the man, and he threw himself down on one knee before the assembled nobles.

‘Well?’ barked Gelert, ‘What is this haste for? What has happened?’

The rider could not get his words out, his chest heaving from his run.
His trousers were spattered with mud, his tattoos smeared with sweat and dirt. Gelert made a sharp gesture with his hand to still the murmuring of the people around him.

‘We have had news from the Damnonii to the south, my lord,’ the man finally gasped out. His eyes were wide with fear.

‘What news?’

‘It is the men of the Eagle – the Romans!’ the man cried. ‘At last they have crossed into Alba!’

Chapter 8

G
naeus Julius Agricola, Governor of the Roman province of Britannia, was well satisfied.

The Alban evening was unseasonably fine, and his body slave tied back the flap of his tent so that he could watch the camp going up around him. To an untrained eye, the noisy bustle of soldiers, slaves, carts and mules was chaos. To Agricola, this hive of activity was perfect order.

Hundreds of leather tents were sprouting up in rows on the plain, and between and about them, thousands of legionaries were unpacking bed rolls, lighting cook fires and digging waste pits. Far off he could see lines of men, as tiny as ants, hoisting baskets of earth on to their shoulders as they carved the ditch to encircle the camp. Rearing above the columns of diggers, the stakes of a half-complete timber palisade cast long shadows across the turf.

In the falling dusk, Agricola watched his chief engineer correct the position of a newly-erected tent. The soldier he spoke to shrugged and bent down to knock out the errant tent peg with his mallet, and Agricola’s mouth firmed in approval.

‘They’re getting better by the day, sir,’ said the engineer, coming over to his commander. ‘We’ve nearly halved our building time.’

The man was portly, with a thatch of dark hair that never lay flat, a bulbous nose, and a quivering, extra chin. He was a figure of amusement to the other officers, and only his exceptional technical skills kept him under Agricola’s command.

‘Thank you, Didius.’ Agricola scanned the ramparts. ‘Your new gate design is working well – the extra time is worth the added security, and the further north we go, the more we’ll need it.’

Didius swelled with pride, as Agricola reached behind himself and cracked his knuckles, stretching his shoulders. They were stiff after the long ride, although getting looser every day. He was nearly back to
condition. The creeping softness around his waist had been stripped from his lean frame in the first weeks of marching; though not so for Didius. Agricola glanced at the man’s paunch with distaste. It seemed to have a strong tolerance to exercise.

Now the engineer’s attention was caught by a shout at the camp gate. Some of the mule trains at the rear of the army had bunched up, and were milling around, blocking the entrance. Tutting, Didius hurried away, his scarlet helmet-crest waving in the breeze.

Agricola closed his eyes and sniffed the heather blanketing the hill-slopes all around. There was something about this land, cold and wet as it often was, that got into the blood, even more than his last posting in Asia Minor.

And things were progressing better than he’d hoped. The Emperor had just this month sent new orders for Agricola’s push into Alba – an imperative if they were to call the whole island of Britannia their own.

Ah, and wouldn’t it be fine when it was theirs? It had taken thirty-six long years to subdue the wild British tribes, and with the fall of Wales, the land from east to utter west was Roman. Now it was time for the north. Leaving it to the barbarians would be a thorn in the Emperor’s side; it was not to be borne.

So in one rapid strike, Agricola had penetrated deep into Alba, the spear thrust of his attack reaching as far as the River Tay, before he pulled back to the friendlier shores of the Forth inlet. Behind this line, the tribes were subdued. Only the Selgovae tribe had resisted, until the ballista bolts did their work on their great hillfort in the south. It fell with few Roman lives lost; a satisfying result.

For the rest, the ambitious Alban woman who had offered herself to the Roman cause had ensured an easy advance. Under her influence, the eastern tribes surrendered to their new ruler, and opened their lands for his armies to march straight through. Now 5,000 of the best Roman soldiers were camped on this bay, gaining their strength, for the conquest from here on would not be as easy.

‘Father!’ came a voice from his tent. It was his son-in-law, Publius Cornelius Tacitus. ‘Come back in! I’ve only got as far as your advance on the Ordovices. They would not come down from their western mountains, so you went to them … and then what?’

Agricola remained at the door, leaning on the tent pole. The soft evening beckoned, its warm breeze nudging away the sudden memory that blew in with Tacitus’s words: of freezing winds and whirling snow during that long winter campaign, two years before. ‘We killed them all. You know this already.’

‘Yes, but it may end up as the only record we have, so I need detail. Did the chiefs really have enemy heads on their spears? How close was the fight? How did you win?’

At last Agricola turned, regarding the youth with impatience. Tacitus was seated on Agricola’s camp stool, feet on the folding map table, scribbling on a pile of vellum sheets. One finger was black with ink.

‘We killed them all.’ Agricola ran a hand through his clipped hair. ‘That is as accurate as I can be.’

‘Oh … very little fighting then.’ Tacitus sounded disappointed.

‘All the better, since it freed me to turn my attentions to the north.’ Agricola came to the table and began flicking through an untidy pile of letters. ‘And here we are. So, now you’re back in the present you can get down to real business. You offered to be my secretary, I recall.’

Tacitus sighed, and uncurled his body to dig through the letters, before proffering one to his father-in-law. ‘Here is a dispatch from that fat old man at Lindum. He says that construction of the forum has been delayed by rain.’

Agricola raised an eyebrow, fingering the broken wax seal, and Tacitus held up his hands. ‘I know, I know! I should not speak of our learned procurator so. But honestly, Father, it rains all the time in this country – since when did that hold anything up? If it did, nothing would get done. He’s just wasting too much time with that German whore of his.’

‘As you pointed out, don’t speak so of the man.’ Agricola read the letter.

Tacitus threw the other dispatches down with a sigh, then gave Agricola a winning smile. ‘Can we eat now? I’m starving. I’ll go through the rest of these later.’

‘So long as you do it tomorrow. I’ll not have you getting behind.’ Agricola beckoned to the slave lighting an oil lamp by the camp bed, for within the tent, it was growing dark. ‘Send a message to the legates that I will dine with them tomorrow, and order us some food. And find the lady – I wish her to join us.’

The slave bowed and left, and Agricola turned to catch a frown on Tacitus’s face. ‘Don’t look at me like that, boy! You know why I entertain her. She’s the reason we’ve conquered these lands so easily.’

The youth’s frown deepened. ‘She’s a witch, not a lady,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t trust her. And I don’t—’ He caught himself, compressing his lips to stop the words.

‘You don’t like me laying with her?’

Tacitus shifted uncomfortably; Agricola let him. He never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, and he was not about to start. The youth would have accepted his argument that the dalliance with the woman was wholly political, and gave them valuable information about Alba, for he shared Agricola’s passion for conquering the north – or at least for writing a glorious tale about it. Tacitus would not understand the other reason, though: that these northern witches provided a relief
Agricola’s wife could never give him, Juno bless her. And this one was better than any he had come across.