The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (11 page)

Brónach turned, her stern face caught by firelight. ‘For now, stay close to the houses on the crag. You can no longer go where you wish.’

These words were like a douse of icy water. ‘No,’ Minna forced out. ‘No longer.’

Brónach stared at her. ‘You have not long been a slave.’

‘I was stolen.’ Bitterness loosened her tongue. ‘A week ago I was as free as you.’

Brónach’s gaze was fathomless. ‘Life does not always give you what you yearn for, girl, though you sacrifice everything for it and strive with your very bones and blood.’ A tense edge had crept into her voice as she grasped Minna’s face with cold fingers. ‘Now, I will give you a warning. We are not a cruel people and the queen does want your learning. You will find things only go hard with you the next time you use that bold tone or flash those eyes like that.’

Minna swallowed a lump in her throat and, when she was released, dropped her eyes. ‘Of course,
domina.
’

‘And don’t use that Latin on me.’ A hint of grim humour lightened Brónach’s mouth. ‘The queen is a princess of Luguvalium and that’s why it pleases her. I, however, am the king’s aunt, a Dalriadan of pure blood. You may call me lady.’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘If you have any questions, ask the maidservant Clíona. Don’t bother me or the queen – she likes her children tidy and out of sight. Report to me every full moon, no more, no less.’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Come. We will find the girls.’ With an austere nod, Brónach sailed back down the stairs.

In a burst of inspiration, Minna grabbed the doll and tucked it under her arm.

Chapter 10

B
rónach led her back down the first steps from the crag’s crest and stopped halfway. A small platform was scooped out of the turf and Minna thought she must be dreaming, for this was surely a Roman building: a square hut with a pitched roof, albeit thatch, not tiles.

‘The queen’s hall,’ Brónach said drily. ‘She spends her days here.’ Queen’s hall and king’s hall, side by side but a world apart.

They entered a miniature haven of Roman taste, with couches, walls painted with trailing vines and braziers of burning coals. A tiny window set with bubbled glass brought the light across the stone floor. Two children were running circles around the hearth, trailing wool for an unkempt grey puppy that leaped and snapped.

‘Girls!’ Brónach commanded in Latin. The children skidded to a halt, one scooping up the puppy. ‘This is your new nurse and tutor, by order of your mother. Be polite to her.’

Minna was surprised by the look of disdain on Brónach’s face, before the older woman turned back to her with a brusque flick of skirts. ‘What is your name, girl?’

She told her, and Brónach grunted with approval. ‘Something easy to say, at least.’ She spoke sternly to the girls in their own language. With wide eyes they bobbed awkwardly. ‘I will arrange the materials you need,’ Brónach said to Minna on her way out, the grey light harsh in her slate eyes. ‘For now, I’ve told the princesses they must assist you to settle in, and speak Latin. At dusk, seek out Clíona in the hall and she will see to food.’

‘Yes, lady,’ she murmured.

Gathering her cloak about her like wings, Brónach strode away.

Minna’s shoulders lowered, as she regarded her new charges. The taller girl put the puppy down and it ran off around a couch, gripping the ball of wool and shaking it, growling.

As the children continued to stare at her, panic assailed Minna. What she needed was a small space to crawl into and rest her forehead on her knees. But here she had only one chance to secure a relationship with these barbarian children, and if she didn’t, she would find herself in that warrior’s bed. She ground words out. ‘Well, then.’

The elder girl was gawky, with auburn braids framing a square jaw, her green eyes suspicious. The younger took after her mother, with creamy hair and a round face.

The elder crooked her hands on her hips, her little chest pushed out. ‘I am Orla,’ she said in Latin. ‘It means golden princess. And I
am
the first princess, only
she
got the golden hair.’ She pointed at her younger sister.

Minna wavered, but she must conquer this. ‘Hail, Orla,’ she murmured, then crouched down to eye level before the younger girl. She pulled the doll from under her arm. ‘And who is this, then? She said hello when we met.’

The little girl’s face lit up. ‘Anya,’ she whispered.

Orla was scandalized. ‘Finola cannot bring Anya
outside
! Mama said she looks
stupid
with her. She is too old for dolls now.’

Minna gazed impassively into Orla’s sharp face. ‘Well, I have been given charge of you and Finola now, so I might change things a little.’ As Orla’s mouth dropped open, she rolled on. ‘And for now I need Anya to tell me everything about the … dun. I don’t speak your other language, so you will have to teach me.’ She laid the doll in Finola’s outstretched hands.

Orla’s green eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were supposed to teach
us
things.’

‘I am. But before I can do that I need to speak as you do. So you have the first job of being teacher, see.’

Finola beamed excitedly, while Orla scowled. ‘We teach you,’ she repeated.

‘Yes.’ Minna pointed to a spindle on a side table, and a basket of unspun wool. ‘You can tell me the names of that and that and that in your language.’ She indicated a pot of water on a tripod in the coals. ‘And that and that.’

Finola clapped her hands together and pointed. ‘Wool!’ she cried. ‘Fire!’

‘This is stupid!’ Orla pronounced, stamping her foot. ‘I’ll tell Mama.’

‘If you like.’ Minna kept her voice pleasant. Stupid was obviously a favourite word of this child. ‘But we’ll make it a game. Let’s see who can give me the most names. Whoever wins will be shown how to write their name in Roman letters.’

‘So what?’

‘
So
when you know how to write your name, you can sign letters and orders. And …’ she leaned in close and whispered, ‘you can write your name on things
so no one else can take them
.’

Both girls glanced accusingly at each other. Then Finola sidled to her knee, Anya cradled in one elbow. ‘Spoon!’ she cried. ‘Bench! Rug! Wine!’

‘That’s six now, Finola. You’re in front.’

From the corner of her eye, Minna saw Orla’s mouth snap shut. She shoved herself in front of her sister. ‘Let me do it. She doesn’t know
anything
.’

Minna was lulled into a sense of safety by the familiar surroundings of the Roman room, but then she had to brave the dun itself, as Orla dragged her outside.

‘Look!’ the girl cried, pointing west. ‘There’s the marsh, where the birds live, and there’s the sea.’ Far across the plain, the bay where the boat had arrived was silver in the smoky dusk, speckled with black islands. Orla dashed up a small rise below the king’s hall, to a rock slab exposed in the turf. ‘See here, this is the royal footprint where the kings stand when they’re crowned.’ She put her small foot in the carving. With her shoulders back, she gazed gravely around.

Before Minna could do more than glance at the carving, Orla had clambered down the steep steps, crossed the green between the nobles’ houses and raced up on top of the timber palisade that ran around the high crag. Minna followed more slowly. ‘And there’s the river,’ Orla yelled, pointing to the north where the river curved around Dunadd in a wide arc, edged with russet trees.

Finola joined her. ‘And
there’s
the meadow, where the warriors train their horses.’

Grinning, Orla ran to the east, past two burly warriors pacing the palisade. They stopped speaking and stared at Minna. She hunched away. ‘They are my father’s men,’ Orla declared proudly. ‘Though he is
much
taller and his hair is the same colour as mine, and when he walks, they bow to him, and when he looks at them like this …’ her brows drew into an intent frown, ‘then everyone goes quiet.’ She pointed down at the village on the north-east corner, sheltered by the crag. ‘There are the stables, and the storehouses for meat, and the granaries, and the smithy.’ She dashed down the stairs and around the arched gate to tear up the palisade on the south.

Minna noted the stables and wondered desperately if Cian was all right. Taking a breath, she followed the girls. As she did so, a dog in a yard broke into frenzied barking, jumping up at her with snapping jaws, making her leap back. Disturbed by the noise, someone burst out of the house, and she came face to face with a native girl of around her own age.

The young woman waved a spindle threateningly at the dog, cursing, then her glower dissolved into curiosity as her eyes fell on Minna. She had never received such a bold, frank look before. The girl’s fair hair was braided around a proud head, and rings flashed at her ears. She carried herself upright, but not stiff like Roman women, nor were her eyes cast down. Striding forward to cuff the barking dog, this girl walked freely, her arms and legs strong and loose.

‘Minna!’ Orla cried, and she hurried away, the woman’s gaze resting on her back.

‘The druids live there,’ Orla declared, pointing south. Minna squinted through the greyness at the ridge outside the dun scattered with thatched huts. On the flat of the marsh sat a circle of tall posts.
Druids.
She knew that word well, for the barbarian priests featured heavily in Mamo’s tales, with their incantations, prophecies and divinations – and the Roman whispers of human sacrifice and lewd rites.

‘Come,’ Orla cried. ‘There is more!’

Night fell early in the north. As darkness gathered, Minna hovered on the threshold of the king’s hall, her heart pounding.

The great fire roared and torches stuck into the earth floor spilled light over the chaos. Servants rushed past with armloads of firewood, and maids plucked chickens as they gossiped, rubbing them with fat. Others stirred cauldrons, disappearing into clouds of steam when they lifted the lids. People bellowed to each other, kicking squabbling dogs aside as pots and pans crashed.

Minna shrunk back, then forced herself after Orla and Finola. They were hopping around a plump woman of middle age. Her feet were planted at the hearth as if rooted there, and her fair hair was damp from steam. Her finger jabbed about, ordering people, weaving the pattern of dashing servants like a squat, red-faced spider.

The woman paused to grab bowls from a stack and ladle in stew, shoving them at the princesses, who ran off. One gimlet eye swivelled towards Minna, and there was another bowl in those rough, red hands. ‘Here.’ The woman’s voice was hoarse from yelling.

‘Minna,’ she stammered, pointing at herself.

The woman’s eyes were set close together, like matrons gossiping in a doorway, missing nothing. ‘Clíona.’ She mimed eating, as if Minna were an imbecile, before her attention was claimed elsewhere and she turned away.

Minna found the girls on a bench set apart from the bustle. Behind them, the rugs and cushions gave way to alcoves piled with pots and baskets, and pallets of rough hides for beds. She sniffed the stew, relieved to smell fresh beef and thyme.

‘Mama doesn’t eat this.’ Orla’s chin went up, superior. Minna knew she wasn’t a bad-tempered child, for she recognized hurt – as well as the defiance a girl cultivated to cover it. ‘Mama has wine and … and …’ Orla fumbled for the Latin words, ‘
chicken
and
oil
and
walnuts
off the ships, and that smelly fish sauce on everything.’

‘
Garum,
’ Minna supplied, trying to hear through the din. Logs rumbled into wood baskets, and the servants shouted at each other, everyone large and ruddy – even the women. Eventually one voice rose above the others: Clíona. Orla and Finola’s faces fell.

Orla’s voice changed, her lisp deepening into an uncanny imitation of the older maid. ‘Mama has bathed in her hall and she is coming, so the servants must simmer down now or Clíona will box their ears with a spoon.’ She looked at Minna. ‘And we must be up the stairs and out of sight now. We bathe our faces in bed.’

‘Bed,’ Minna repeated slowly. Somewhere that did not shift on the waves, or stink of vomit. Exhaustion suddenly swamped her, down to her bones. ‘How do you say it?’

Orla told her, and Minna placed the word carefully in her mind.

At first Minna found it hard to rest among the unfamiliar smokiness of tanned hides. The bracken mattress crackled, wafting up a pungent herb that she fervently hoped was to keep fleas away. The thatch was oppressively low over her head; she could see each piece of straw gilded by firelight. The girls wheezed and, at the foot of the bed, the grey puppy, solemnly introduced as Lia, whuffled in sleep.

At least the hall was quiet. Orla had explained that her father and brother Garvan were away touring the northern forts, taking oaths of allegiance from the chieftains. When they were gone, her mother banished her father’s bard and warriors and sat with her own advisers, eating on a dining couch.

With only darkness for company, Minna’s chest ached like a festering tooth, but she kept a stony face on the pillow.