The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One
Read The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One Online
Authors: Jules Watson
Tags: #FIC010000, #FIC009030, #FIC014000
First published in the United States in 2005 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
Woodstock & New York
W
OODSTOCK
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One Overlook Drive
Woodstock,
NY
12498
[for individual orders, bulk and special sales, contact our Woodstock office]
N
EWYORK
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141 Wooster Street
New York,
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Copyright © 2004 by Jules Watson
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN 978-1-46830-131-1
For Alistair, for Eremon’s eyes, and more
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Prologue: LINNET
Chapter 1: LEAF FALL,
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Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18: LONG DARK,
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Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22: LEAF-BUD
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Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45: SUNSEASON,
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Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55: LEAF-FALL
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Chapter 56: LONG DARK
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Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62: LEAF-BUD
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Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Epilogue
Historical Note
No one can complete such an undertaking alone, and I’d like to thank all my friends and family for their love and support, particularly for not minding that I was only half-there for the last few years, since my other half was off in first-century Scotland.
To the friends who gave invaluable and encouraging editorial feedback, and helped me answer the breeches/trouser question: Amber Trewenack, Tessa Evans, Helen Jamieson, Kathryn Tenger, Claire Hotchin, Lisa Holland-McNair, and Jo Ferrie.
To Amber, who cried in all the right parts and thereby gave me hope. To my big brother Mark Thompson, for beaming with pride and unconditional love at all the right times. To my wonderful agent Maggie Noach, for believing in me so staunchly. To my editor Yvette Goulden, for understanding what I was trying to do, and all those at Orion, for treating my ‘baby’ with such respect.
Patricia Crooke helped me with some ideas for gaelic terms. David Adams McGilp of the Kilmartin House Museum kindly broke away from an audio-visual crisis to talk to me, and in return I promised to tell everyone about his brilliant museum in Kilmartin, Scotland, a stone’s throw from Dunadd.
Great thanks go to Dorothy Watson, who generously gave me a temporary home in Australia. To Claire, Graeme and Cassie Swinney, who took me into their home during the last fraught months of editing: for barbecues, essential gin and tonics, and overwhelming generosity and love when I needed it most.
My biggest thanks come last. To Claire, who sowed the seed, believed in me with unwavering ferocity, and held my hand through absolutely every drop of blood, sweat, and tears.
And to my beautiful husband Alistair: for cooking up the best plot details over many a pint in many a pub, for reading it umpteen times and still getting emotional, for coping with my meltdowns, and above all, for unstinting love and belief. I couldn’t have done this without you.
S
he was the child of my heart, though not of my body.
I remember her as a girl, running up the mountain path towards me with amber hair flying, face twisted with weeping.
I worried about her then, and how the jealous taunts of the other children could draw such tears. I feared she was weak, and would not survive what was coming. For it was both my gift and my curse to see some of her future.
Blood spattering wet sand
.
A green-eyed man in the prow of a boat
.
The sea closing over her head
.
And last, the cries of women on a battlefield, picking their way among the dead
.
I knew she had a greater destiny to fulfil, but how would it unfold? That I did not know. As priestesses, we trumpet our powers of sight, but the truth is that it comes rarely, and never clearly.
I watched the girl closely from the day my elder sister birthed her and died. I remember her grasping my finger, milky eyes seeking my face, the tuft of red-gold hair still damp from the womb … ah, but these are a mother’s musings.
What I did realize that day, was that she was one of the Many-born, who come back to live again and again. And that because of this, her gifts would be as great as her pains.
For this reason I could not help her. She had to grow into her strength. And so she did. Like the fierce salmon, she fought against the currents of people’s jealousy, ambition, and awe. As her legs lengthened, so her face came into its form, losing the softness that had troubled me once. I saw also that she no longer cried – and in my priestess heart I felt relief.
But in my mother’s heart, I wept for her.
I could not speak about her future – the blood, the man in the boat, the battle. My role was not to guide her course, but to build her courage and insight so that she could steer her own way through what would come.
For while we are caught like threads in the Mother’s loom, we still have choice. I loved her more than my life – and so I wanted her to choose her path. Perhaps I would have done differently if I had known how it would hurt.
One thing only I clung to: although my sight hinted that many dark years were coming for the people of Alba, somehow, I knew she was a link to our freedom.
History can turn on many things.
On a word.
On a sword blade.
On a girl, running up a mountain path, amber hair flying in the wind.
