The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (17 page)

‘I will sing,’ he announced grandly, ‘the lay of the Sons of Mil, the tale of my prince’s most glorious ancestor, the first Eremon, who conquered Erin with his brothers, vanquishing the faery-people, the Túatha dé Danann. This you will see, is the line of his blood, the most noble line of our most noble island …’

And so on, so on … Rhiann took another sip of mead as the bard launched into his tale.

She had to admit that he had a fine, clear voice. The sons of Mil, among whom numbered the famous bard Amergin, crossed from Iberia to Erin countless generations ago. Rhiann had never heard the story, and despite the fact it was about
his
ancestors, she gave herself up to the bardic rhythm of the voice, and the song of the harp, and drew some comfort from its beauty. People sat silent, relaxed if not always attentive, reaching their feet out to the fire, hands on full bellies, fingers curled around ale cups.

Then, looking around the room, Rhiann’s eyes accidentally caught upon her new husband’s hard profile. He had straightened on his bench, his eyes fixed on the bard. There was something about him of the stag sensing the air, an alertness that had not been there before. Curious.

She brought her attention back to the tale, where the bard Amergin’s powerful words helped the brothers to vanquish the Túatha dé Danann, who retreated to their underground mounds. The sons of Mil then divided up Erin between them.

The bard continued proudly:

And so the warriors,

The great warriors,

The warriors-of-gold,

Gathered about them ten thousand swords each

And ten thousand spearmen
.

Five boars a night they feasted on

And twenty gold arm-rings they gave away
.

But hark! Eremon mac Mil was the brightest

And the fairest
.

And the gold in his hall,

The gold on his walls,

Shone out across the length of Erin
.

The bard’s voice changed, and he paused to execute a difficult flourish on the harp.

Rhiann’s glance now fell on the prince’s hand where it rested on his knee. The firelight glinted off a jewelled ring, as he clenched his fist. Then, she saw him mutter something to Conaire, who muttered something to another of their men, who slid away from the benches into the crowd beyond.

The bard’s voice had hushed:

So began the strife

The kin-strife

The greatest kin-strife Erin has seen

Brother on brother—

Suddenly, his fingers fumbled, and his fine voice faltered. His eyes darted to the prince’s face, and Rhiann, sitting so close, saw those sky-grey pools widen from the dreamy bardic trance into something more like … fear? Just then, the
gael
who had slipped away stumbled out into the hearth-space, clutching another man as if he was falling down drunk. The clutched man swore, and both careened into the bard, knocking him from his stool.

The room erupted into shouts of laughter. The prince waved for more ale, and servants dashed in, breaking up the edges of the crowd. Under cover of a burst of shouted jests at the supposed drunk man, who stumbled off outside, Rhiann saw some others from Erin rush in to help the bard up. By the time he dusted himself down and checked his harp, he’d lost the crowd’s attention.

Some of the Epidii servants had pipes and drums, and they took the opportunity to launch into a raucous jig, and the feasters shouted for more mead, for they would rather talk and dance now, and grope their women.

The prince stood and nodded to her, his face grim, and then pushed his way through the crowd, his brother in his wake. Very curious. There was more to this man’s lineage than he had spoken of, that was clear. Perhaps he was not as noble as his little bard was boasting!

‘It is time to retire.’ Linnet was brushing crumbs from her skirts.

‘I’m staying.’

Linnet searched Rhiann’s face. ‘Then I will stay. I will see you to your marriage bed.’ The line of her mouth hardened.

‘No, go. You are tired.’

‘I won’t leave you here.’

Rhiann put her hand over Linnet’s fingers, and looked in her eyes. ‘It won’t make any difference, aunt. Go. For once, heed me.’

Linnet held Rhiann’s gaze, as all around them the music and the shouting and the jostling bodies swirled. ‘I love you,’ Linnet said.

‘I, too.’

But if you go, I can hide from this fear that chokes me. Go. Please go
.

Chapter 15

T
he moon outside was heavy and low, sinking to her bed. The King’s Hall was hot now, packed to the brim with sweaty bodies, jostling their mead cups together. Another toast, and Eremon had to gulp from his cup for the third time in as many heart-beats.

Out of the corner of his eye, Conaire wove into view, his blond hair a blurred halo. Someone had spilled ale down Conaire’s tunic, and there was a dark patch over his chest. A woman was hanging around his neck, her breasts pushing against her thin gown. Conaire was laughing and untangling her hands, trying to make his way through the crowd.

Eremon swayed back on his bench, desperate for air. By firelight and torchlight, people’s faces swam in and out of focus, sheened with sweat, flushed with drink. Talorc was by the spits with a sick-looking Rori, forcing more mead down the young man’s neck while the other men laughed.

Aedan was nowhere to be seen.

Foolish bard. He’d gone down on his knees outside and begged Eremon’s forgiveness for singing that lay of the murdering sons of Mil, who turned, each on the other, and fought to the death, bringing Erin to its knees. The lay of that first Eremon, who killed his brothers for the throne of Erin. A tale too close to home.

Aedan got so carried away proving Eremon’s lineage, boasting about him in front of these people, that he forgot the very reason they were here, and what they had to hide.

Kin-strife obviously runs in the family
. Eremon swigged mead, and smiled. Ah, the bard was only doing what a bard did. They existed to boast about their lords. Eremon was really only a little angry. After all, who here would make the connection? No reprimand had been required, anyway. Aedan’s shame was punishment enough, and he had crawled off to be alone. Eremon would ask him to write a song about the wedding. That would keep him happy.

In front of him, Finan and Colum were crouched over a
brandubh
board in a cleared space; bets of rings and daggers were being passed furiously back and forth over their heads. The druids were long gone, as were most of the women.

Eremon shifted uncomfortably. His belt was too tight, for he had gorged himself on boar. But he was given the champion’s portion, and could not refuse. He could not refuse the toasts of his new kin, either.
Ah! I should not get drunk, not now. It’s not safe
. He peered at Conaire, willing him to come closer.

Something moved next to him. The girl. His bride. His wife. She had said nothing to him, but remained still and white-faced, rigid in her seat. The people and laughter and shouts, the drunken jests and spilled mead, eddied around her as if she were a pale rock in the middle of a dirty river. He looked at her. Her gaze was far away, locked on some point in the darkness of the roof. Why had she not gone to bed? She did not seem one for feasting like this.

In a sudden burst of bravado, he leaned into her, swaying slightly. ‘I will retire if you wish, lady. It has been long enough?’ With a great effort, his words came out clearly.

He sensed the way she froze, even though she did not move. Living skin became stone, just for a moment. Then she turned her head. ‘No,’ she said, and the word sounded bitten off, her voice harsh. ‘It will never be long enough.’ She turned away again.

He did not know what to say. His brain was stuffed with wool, and nothing, no thought, would emerge clearly enough from the tangle of the rest. He realized, vaguely, that she seemed upset. But why? Most maidens were eager for the marriage bed, few were wholly inexperienced. Or perhaps this one was. She could certainly freeze a man’s balls at a hundred paces. He knew he must do something … must say something …

‘Eremon!’ Conaire’s hand landed on Eremon’s shoulder and he squatted awkwardly by his side, favouring his wounded leg.

‘Where’ve you been?’ He could hear his words were slurred now. He shook his head to clear it.

Under cover of the noise around them, Conaire leaned close to his ear, grinning. ‘Where do you think? I’ve been in the stables tumbling the young lass who spilt her drink on me!’

‘You’re joking!’

‘I’m not.’ Conaire pushed sweaty tendrils of hair back from his face, and then deposited a piece of straw on the bench next to Eremon. ‘She was very sorry for soaking me.
Very
sorry.’

Eremon laughed, then hiccupped. ‘Brother – they’re getting me drunk.’

‘I noticed.’

‘Couldn’t say no, wouldn’t be polite … to my new kin.’

Conaire picked another piece of straw out of his tunic. ‘Certainly not. I’m honoured you’ve made the sacrifice for us.’

‘But it’s not safe. The men …’ He waved vaguely around the room.

‘By the Boar, man! You deserve it.’ Conaire settled his arm around Eremon’s shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’m here. I’ll look after them all, don’t worry.’

‘You … sure?’

‘As sure as the girl was sorry.’

‘You’re a good friend.
A good friend
.’ Eremon patted Conaire’s hand in emphasis.

‘Now, my prince, save all that energy for your lady wife. I’ll see you safe to bed, never fear.’

‘Bed! Ah, bed. I shouldn’t have drunk this much.’

‘Don’t worry, she won’t be expecting a lot.’

‘Hush, she’ll hear.’ Eremon hunched himself around Conaire in an attempt to shield his words.

‘No, she won’t. She’s gone.’

Rhiann lay rigid, ears straining. The apple-wood fire threw off wafts of fragrant smoke, lacing the wattle walls of the hut with shadows.

The bed in which she lay was rawhide over a wooden frame, with a down-filled pallet, soft and springy. The linen sheets were cool on her bare legs, scented with imported lavender. The furs on top were the softest: otter and seal and beaver. No labour had been spared to make this bed a haven of beauty.

Her hand crept again to her waist, to the hard bulge of the priestess pouch. The young maidens who attended her had removed her outer dress, her undertunic, and her jewellery. One of them combed out her hair with a silver and bone comb, until it fell before her eyes in a silken sheet, copper in the firelight. They scented her skin with honeyed oils, giggling all the while. But she batted their fingers away from the lacing of the shift under her breasts, and with a glance at her forbidding face, they let her leave it on. They could think her modest; she did not care. She just wanted them to leave.

Now she lay there, in the half-dark, and did not know what to do.

I’m trapped
.

Her breath came in shallow draughts, struggling to draw air into the heavy flesh that was her body. The detached part of her noted:
You are a noble woman. You are a priestess. You must know what to do
.

But she didn’t. Her thoughts rolled around her head; one moment freezing into blankness, the next tumbling into fire. The moments crawled by, as moments do when they have been a source of dread for
moons. She had avoided this moment, buried the knowledge that it was coming at all, and then, suddenly the time was here, now.

And she must face it. Hiding inside her mind no longer worked, because it wasn’t a case of minds now, of thoughts, memories, fears. It was about flesh, a man’s flesh, his breath, his force.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could leave. But then every reason for marrying him would be meaningless, and her people would be no better off. It wasn’t an answer, no matter how strongly it beckoned.

She must do the only thing she could do, and that was to use the iron-hard priestess discipline she had learned on the Sacred Isle, to wall herself up. The focus that was required for seeing, that she could use; the way of making sure that thoughts and feelings did not intrude. She could do that …

Outside, there was the sound of stumbling tread on the path, and men’s voices.

And all the moments collided into one.