The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (15 page)

The Samhain festival was close: the end of the old year and the start of the new, when the long dark drew in and the land went to sleep in the Mother’s womb. And for a new year, perhaps it was time for Rhiann to throw off the fear and weakness that had infected her for this last wheel of the sun.

Samhain was also the time when the fabric between the Otherworld and Thisworld grew thin, and the powers could cross between worlds more easily, tormenting the living with apparitions. An Otherworld marriage, then … a dark marriage.

I also do this for the Mother
, Rhiann thought, winding her icy fingers in Liath’s mane.
And if I suffer it well, and am strong, perhaps She will forgive me for not being strong enough to foresee the raid, for not being strong enough to save my family. Perhaps then she will let me see again
…

No one stopped Rhiann as she entered the village gates, but all those hurrying along the paths, and loading and unloading carts, and hovering in doorways, fell silent, staring. She sensed Linnet glance at her, and she kept her back straight, and Liath stepped proudly.

Brica welcomed her back with a tirade of renewed anger about the marriage. ‘The lord druid is furious!’ she cried, taking their cloaks and laying them out near the fire. ‘He has had to put a good face on it for the
gaels
, but they must know something is wrong! The council guessed where you’d gone, but they argued about whether or not to force you. Belen said if you were so unwilling, to leave you be.’

‘Did he? I’m shocked.’

‘Everyone is talking,’ Brica rattled on. ‘Oh, my lady, you have caused a stir!’

Rhiann glanced at Linnet, and smiled. ‘Good! Now Brica, I have something to tell you. I am going to marry this prince tomorrow, as planned.’ She held up a hand as Brica’s mouth opened to protest. ‘It is my duty as Ban Cré – you must understand that. We’ll have to see something of him,’ she repressed a shudder, ‘though I’ll make it as little as possible, you can be sure. The provisions for the feast are on hand? Good. Help me off with my shoes, and then go and tell the cooks to have it ready tomorrow eve. Come straight back – and don’t speak to anyone, mind. I’ll let the council know my decision in my own way.’

She sat down on the hearth-bench, and Brica bent to unlace the thongs of her leather boots. Linnet and Dercca were unrolling their packs in the guest alcove, behind a wicker screen.

Brica looked up at her mistress, but Rhiann’s gaze was on the flames, trembling in the draught that came under the door. ‘The Goddess has given him to me, Brica, and I’ll use him for Her glory. And when he is no longer needed, then he can return from where he came!’

She said the last under her breath, for her own ears only, but she saw Brica cock her head.

Eremon had taken to watching the sunrise with Cù from a high, bare hump of rock that reared up just outside the Horse Gate, near the King’s Hall.

From his perch that morning, wrapped in his cloak, he watched the chief druid leading the sun greeting outside the shrine with a great deal more grimness than usual, his face belying the soft, fine dawning of the day. Below Eremon’s lookout, the dun burned with gossip. The princess of the Epidii, whom Eremon still had not seen, had apparently disappeared when told of the marriage.

Eremon could not understand her behaviour. His men had theories of their own, from Eremon’s poor reputation in the bed-furs, to his prominent lack of beauty, but they quieted when he pointed out that if the bargain fell through, they would be cast out to wander Alba alone in the long dark. No, the Boar was looking on him kindly the day He brought them to these shores. Surely this chance would not slip through his fingers. She must come back, she must.

The Epidii had hunted again to stock up the larders for a wedding feast, and the surrounding nobles of the royal clan had arrived from their duns in the hills. Eremon had been fitted for a new green tunic, and it was hastily being embroidered in gold thread by Talorc’s wife. He also considered his jewellery stores, and picked a delicate silver necklace of his mother’s as a wedding gift. A more lavish bride price was expected to come from his kin in time.

His kin
. He fingered the other tusk from Conaire’s boar, now tied around his upper arm, against his skin. Ah, he was playing a risky game,
he knew that. But when someone like his uncle changed the rules, a man must adapt, or die.

At times the guilt of his deception pricked at him, but he had been trained to be ruthless as well as practical, and to limit his attachments to those he must use. And although his men came first, he also knew that with them, and his control over the Epidii warriors, he could keep to his end of the bargain. That would weigh against the lie, in the eyes of the gods.

He would be a strong war-leader for the Epidii. He would be all they needed.

This day, he and Conaire were called to break their fast with the council again, but the thick porridge stuck in Eremon’s throat as much as it had on the last two mornings. Glances darted around the ring of benches in the King’s Hall, from elder to elder, eyes catching each other as the cold light from the open door shone on their rings and furs. No one seemed to have anything left to say. Well, not in Eremon’s hearing, anyway. Conaire and Eremon’s eyes met, too, but Conaire just pursed his lips and shrugged, stretching his sore leg to the fire.

Then a shadow darkened the door, and a slight, black-haired servant was standing there, curtsying stiffly. She looked familiar, but Eremon couldn’t place her.

‘What is it, woman?’ Gelert said irritably, his mouth full of bannock.

‘Pardon, my lords, but the Lady Rhiann is here.’

There was an explosion of crumbs from Talorc, and mutters from the others. To Eremon’s further surprise, the servant shot one venomous look at him, but before he could wonder why, she turned, and a girl – no, a woman – was standing outlined in the cold sunlight spilling through the doorway.

Belen was on his feet in an instant, as were all the others, except Conaire.

The woman glided forward. She was dressed in a tunic of saffron, and her hair was unbound to her waist. Eremon could not see her properly until she walked into the pool of firelight by the hearth, and then he reeled, for the wide, crescent-shaped eyes, high forehead, and amber hair were those of the healer. This was his bride? Into the shocked silence, Eremon blurted, ‘But you are a druid!’

The girl turned those arched eyes on him, and he saw some strong emotion there which chilled his blood. She swept him with a glance. ‘No, I am of the Goddess. You do not have priestesses any more in Erin, do you?’

She had not addressed him with his title, and he felt an odd surge of anger.

Gelert stepped forward. ‘Prince, this is the Lady Rhiann, daughter of Mairenn, who was sister of Brude.’ He paused. ‘Our Ban Cré.’

The girl bowed a graceful head, but when she straightened, there was a sardonic tilt to her smile. ‘And you are Eremon, son of Ferdiad, King of Dalriada in Erin,’ she recited. ‘I apologize if I have inconvenienced you.’

With no more than that – no muttered excuses or embarrassed wringing of hands – she turned to the elders. ‘The wedding feast will be ready as arranged.’ Then she addressed Gelert, not hiding her distaste. ‘The Lady Linnet is here to lead the wedding rites with you. We will be ready by noon tomorrow.’

Eremon’s alarm was growing. During her healing of Conaire, he discovered her name but barely spoke with the girl, worried as he was for his brother. Now he racked his brains. Did he say something then to offend her? Impossible: they only ever talked of Conaire, and only in passing, for she left every time Eremon appeared at the door.

He was assuming that his bride’s disappearance was a last attack of girlish nerves. But the remote face before him seemed to hold no fear, only contempt. Surely she welcomed the match? After all, he was comely, wealthy – what more could she want? Then he was struck by a new thought. What if she had bestowed her heart elsewhere? Perhaps she was one of those noble women who harboured dreams of marrying for love. Well, herders’ daughters could do so, but not princesses.

He glanced at Conaire, confused. Politics he understood, but dealing with a woman like this was something else altogether. If they were to forge some sort of partnership, they were getting off on the wrong foot entirely. So he tried the only thing that occurred to him, and gave her his most encouraging smile. But she turned away before she caught the force of it, sweeping out into the morning.

‘Prince,’ said Gelert, ‘when the sun is at its highest tomorrow, we will perform the rite. Bring your men to the forecourt before the shrine.’ The elders followed the druid out until only Eremon and Conaire remained.

Conaire let out a whistle, kneading the healing scar on his thigh. ‘Hawen’s balls! The Boar certainly gave you a beauty, brother, but she never looked that way at me when I was in her sickbed! Let’s hope your reputation in the furs holds up, for she’ll be using those claws of hers on you if it doesn’t.’

Chapter 14

B
y the middle of the next day, a merciful haze had settled over Rhiann, as a cloudbank from the west settled over the sun, plunging the crag into gloom.

She stood by her bed as the young noblewomen hummed around her like a swarm of bees, Linnet directing them with her firm voice.

Arms up, stiff as a corn-doll, and a fine linen shift floated over her head. Arms down, and sharp fingers pulled the embroidered sleeves to her wrists, and tied the gathering under her breasts. Arms up, and they eased the sleeveless undertunic over her shoulders; arms down, and it fell to the floor in a drift of green silk. Arms out, and they drew on the heavy, embroidered robe of crimson wool, pinning it on each shoulder. Arms in, and they flitted around her, tugging a bit of cloth here, settling a fold there.

Talorc’s two daughters were hovering over her hair, braiding the lengths into fine plaits, weaving gold thread in among each braid. They chittered and breathed on her neck.

‘That’s my thread, Aiveen!’

‘No, it’s not, you gnat. You’re taking too much hair!’

‘Girls!’ Linnet nudged one out of the way, and her soft fingers touched Rhiann’s skin as she continued to weave. ‘Breathe now, child.’

Rhiann nodded distantly, but she’d forgotten how to breathe. She didn’t know what it felt like, what lungs were. She did not have a body, she was just a wisp of air, hardly chained to Thisworld any more.

This feeling was mostly due to the
saor
– the sacred herb draught that freed her spirit from her body. She took it whenever she was acting as the Goddess in a rite. Normally, it brought warmth and light-headedness, as if, every time she tried to move, her body lagged behind for a moment. In some dim corner of her mind, though, she knew this was a different haze today; warm still, but heavy, an escape rather than freedom. But she did not care. If it dulled the fear, then that was all that
mattered. She’d drunk a double draught of
saor
, just to be sure, though Linnet did not know that.

She comforted herself with the fact that this was a public rite, not a private joining. It was not Eremon mac Ferdiad wedding Rhiann of the Epidii; it was the war leader joining with the Land. She was bestowing sovereignty – however temporary – on him with her hand, until a king could be restored, and in return he had a sacred obligation to protect and serve her people in war.

She wondered if anyone had bothered to explain that part to him.

On the other side of the bedscreen, the girls’ mothers rustled their dresses and gossiped by the fire, already shrill with the warmth of the mead. The highest ranking women were supposed to have a hand in her preparations, to bind them to the Mother. So far this had been perfunctory, sharp hands straightening a bit of cloth here and there, before they went back to their drinking. But when it came to her finishing finery, they crowded forward eagerly. She caught a glimpse of Aiveen with her mother, both faces bright with avarice.

A golden girdle, alight with garnets, went around Rhiann’s narrow hips. Bronze arm-rings came next; snake-coiled on one wrist, deer-headed on the other. Her priestess ring shone on the third finger of her left hand; her others were left bare. Her braids were tipped with tinkling gold balls, which pulled at her scalp. At last, Brica put her priestess cloak around her shoulders and fastened it with the Epidii royal brooch, and then Linnet was before her with the matching royal torc to replace Rhiann’s own. The eyes set in the mares’ tossing heads were cold dewdrops of garnet, and as it clasped her neck, so Rhiann, her body reeling with the effects of the
saor
, felt as if she were sinking into the ground under all the weight of wool and linen, gold and bronze.

Perhaps she really would sink, she mused, and could rest at last as the dead rested, in the cold of the earth.

But a horn was blowing, and the seated women rose excitedly, their calls raucous to Rhiann’s ears, scattering mead cups in their wake.

Linnet’s gentle hand came to rest on Rhiann’s shoulder.

Under a glowering sky she looks up at the prince’s face, swimming above her like a pale moon through cloud, a green jewel blazing on his brow. Gelert’s voice drones on.