The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (23 page)

With so many weapons being oiled and mended and forged, and men walking about in clanking armour, Rhiann felt as if she were living in a war camp. When she closed her eyes she could still see the sun glinting off the spear-tips on the plain; and even in the quiet darkness of the dairy shed, her ears echoed from the din.

Yet her dreams were not of battle, or even of armed men. In the
night, a deeper part of her emerged, and the images that stalked her then were of an entirely different nature: Eremon and Aiveen in the woods, laying in the snow, devouring each other with a hungering need.

One night she jerked awake, still seeing Eremon’s brown hand on the girl’s white skin, still hearing the cries …

Snores and mutters drifted up from the main hall below. Next to her, she heard the deep, exhausted breathing of Eremon in his sleep. Her mind was instantly alert, as if it had been chewing over things for many hours, even while asleep. And with the perfect clarity that comes in those dark hours, she suddenly realized the message of her dreams.

How can he be the weapon in my hand, when I have no control over him? If I isolate myself, I lose my chance
.

For Aiveen was not the only one enjoying his attentions. A few days before, Rhiann overheard Eremon and Conaire joking about the trysts they had enjoyed on their recent visit to one of the northern duns. And every time he lay with those women, they had his ear, and not she.

Well, I can’t go as far as that
.

No, not as far. But his words in her house came back to her, reminding her that she was wife to the war leader. Yes, there was a way forward; her mind pounced on it instantly and held on.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the Goddess had given her the sight that day in the forest after all. Rhiann asked for guidance at the sacred pool. In coming across that scene of lust, Eremon and Aiveen together, perhaps Rhiann had been given that guidance.

So she had lost her deeper spirit powers, and would be no breeding wife to him. But there was one other role to fulfil, perhaps the only role left to her now.

I can’t fight with a sword. But I can use my mind
.

Despite the war-light in their eyes that first day, the young nobles expected only to game and feast and hunt in this season. They grumbled at taking the field, for though fine weather broke through a little more day by day, at any moment the sun could be eclipsed by frozen storms that howled down the glen from the mountains, or blew in from the sea.

And at any opportunity that presented itself, Lorn’s voice was the loudest. Eremon had been declared as war leader, and so never asked for opinions, but nevertheless Lorn disagreed about how many men to train as archers, and how many as swordsmen, and argued that the fighting techniques of Erin did not suit the longer Alban swords. Like a stinging gnat, he goaded the men without ever rebelling against Eremon openly.

Then, after one frustrating day, when Lorn’s men ignored Eremon’s commands and broke the formation he had been teaching them, Eremon’s patience snapped. He would bring this to a head now, on the
ground of his own choosing. Lorn was obviously not a man like Eremon – a man who would reason, or put the good of the tribe first. There would be no other way.

‘Son of Urben!’ Eremon growled, striding across the meadow. ‘I ordered you to practise this formation; practise it until it becomes your second skin! If we were in battle, you would be dead now!’ The silver head jerked up, for Eremon spoke as if to a boy.

Lorn’s eyes flashed. ‘If we were in battle, I would have ten enemy heads on my spear, and you none!’ he boasted.

The lines of sparring men caught the scent of a brewing fight and instantly downed their weapons, racing closer.

‘You teach us to fight like cowards!’ Lorn cried, warming to his theme. He tossed his head boldly and stared down the men at the forefront of the audience. ‘Use this stroke, turn this way, hold your shields like this! We are Epidii, and we fight like champions, from our hearts!’ He thumped his chest. ‘We charge, we dance, we fly! We don’t tramp in lines, like mindless ants! Like Romans!’

Eremon rested the tip of his practice sword on the ground. ‘I teach you to win!’ he shouted for the benefit of the gathered men. ‘Yes, our hearts are the fire in the forge – but Roman discipline is the tempering hammer. We can learn what they will throw against us; and turn it back on them! They fight as one beast: each man part of the leg, the claw, the jaws. We must move together as they do, if we are to defeat them!’

Eremon heard a murmuring at that, but in support or dissent, he could not tell. He rounded on Lorn. ‘And you, son of Urben! I am in command here, no matter what exalted blood runs in your veins! And you will follow my orders or, by the gods, I will throw you out of this warband and send you home to your father with your tail between your legs!’

With a howl, Lorn threw his sword to one side and leaped on Eremon, bearing him to the ground. As he went face down in the freezing mud, Eremon was shot through with a bolt of pure elation, because at last he could let the fire burst free. Howling back, he threw Lorn off and jumped on his chest, landing a blow to his jaw. Around them, the other men erupted into a frenzy of cheering and yelling, and Eremon caught a glimpse of Conaire’s wide arms holding them back, clearing a space for the two scuffling fighters.

That is, until three of Lorn’s cronies broke free, piling on to Eremon’s back where he sat astride Lorn, pummelling his face. The impact knocked the wind from him, and suddenly Eremon was at the bottom of a writhing mound of men, and Lorn’s fist came out of nowhere and slammed into the side of his head.

Stars spun for a moment in darkness, and then from somewhere above there was an unearthly yell, greater than that of all the other men
combined, and Conaire came storming into the fray like a bull on the rampage. Eremon heard the grunts as Conaire laid about him with his huge fists, and the press above him lightened as the men were dragged off one by one and felled with a hammer blow, until only Lorn remained, now pinning Eremon down.

Lorn was cut above one eye, and the blood dripped on to Eremon’s cheek. ‘Yield!’ Lorn screamed, fastening both hands around Eremon’s throat. ‘Son of the bitch of Erin!’

‘Watch your tongue, puppy,’ Eremon gasped, and then twisted to bring his knee up, ramming it into Lorn’s groin. The Epidii youth howled again, this time in pain, and summoning a burst of strength, Eremon took the advantage and threw him off balance until they both fell sideways into the mud. There, Eremon wriggled one hand free, and swinging back his shoulder, punched his fist into Lorn’s mouth. There was another spray of blood, and the hold on his arms slackened for a moment.

They both struggled to their feet. But Lorn had not finished, and he now bowed his legs and curved his arms in the grappling position of wrestlers.
So that’s how he wants to play it!
Eremon took up his own stance, and for a fleeting moment they were still.

However, Eremon had one advantage that Lorn should have considered. From babyhood, his wrestling partner had been Conaire. And to win against Conaire’s bulk, he’d had to train himself to focus on skill, and not brute strength.

So his eye detected the ripple of tension in Lorn’s legs a split second before he jumped, and as the Epidii warrior crashed into his chest, Eremon let himself go slack. This turned the impact into a measured roll, and Eremon used Lorn’s own momentum to flip them both over until Eremon was again astride Lorn’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees.

‘Now you yield,’ he panted.

Lorn’s eyes burned up at him, his fury tangible. For a long moment they held each other’s gaze, and now it was Eremon’s blood dripping on to Lorn’s grazed cheekbone. Finally, Lorn dropped his eyes, and Eremon released him and got to his feet.

Trying not to wince, Eremon straightened and wiped some of the mud from his face, wriggling his jaw to check it was sound. He took a breath. ‘Now, I want you all to try that formation again.’

Behind him, he heard Lorn struggle to his feet. ‘No.’

Eremon turned. Blood was streaming from Lorn’s brow, and his eye was turning a mottled purple. But his bearing was straight, his shoulders back. ‘I won’t stay here to be turned into a Roman!’ He spat a glob of blood and saliva on to the ground. ‘I am a prince of the Epidii, and I fight like my fathers did. Champion to champion! With battle lust and
fury! Not in careful lines, weighing every move like a pack of muttering druids!’

Eremon stood and let the words wash over him. This would not be the last time that he would face these accusations. He could not conquer long-held views overnight. ‘We need every strong arm that we have, son of Urben,’ he said quietly. ‘The Epidii needs us all united.’

Lorn wavered for a moment, before those pale eyes hardened. ‘I serve my tribe well,’ he bit out, ‘by refusing to follow a
gael
and fight like a coward!’ He whirled, striding across the field toward the palisade, his followers taking off after him without a backwards glance. The other men from Lorn’s clan were confused, looking between his retreating back and Eremon, but then one by one, they, too, threw down their practice swords and trailed after their chief’s son.

Soon after, Eremon heard the drumming of hooves on the southern causeway, and glimpsed the glitter of spears as Lorn and his men galloped out of Dunadd.

‘Well,’ Eremon said to Conaire. ‘We are short fifty men. We’ll have to call up more from the other clans.’

But as the last sun caught on that silver head, disappearing down the muddy road, Eremon sighed.
His courage would make him a fine leader. But there can be only one
.

Chapter 21

L
ate that night, as Eremon brooded over the
fidchell
board, a scout arrived from one of the outlying posts, mud-flecked and breathless from riding. He bore ill news along with the scowl on his face.

The Romans were on the move.

Though the large camp remained, parties of soldiers were now marching across the Forth. And even worse, they were building what looked like permanent quarters. ‘They are smaller than camps, my lord,’ the scout reported, ‘but made of wood, with palisades and ditches … the messenger was not exact.’

Once the scout had been fed and sent to rest, the hall fell eerily quiet: the men’s laughter stilled; Conaire and Eremon’s game forgotten; Rhiann and Brica silent over their sewing.

‘Gods!’ Eremon suddenly smacked his fist into his hand, and rose to pace the hearth. ‘I won’t sit here like some duck on the marsh, waiting for the Roman arrow! I must know what they intend – and when they will come for us.’

‘Maybe we can strengthen the scout network,’ Finan put in.

‘We still won’t see them coming until they are here.’ Eremon strode the length of the hearth-place and back. ‘We need more information. I must have more information!’

‘We could raid these Venicones lands ourselves,’ Conaire suggested. ‘Capture a soldier and make him talk.’

Eremon raked back his hair. ‘Romans don’t venture out alone, brother. And we cannot walk straight into their lines.’

Silence fell. Then Rhiann’s slim form stepped out from the dark shadows. ‘What about
through
their lines?’

A host of male eyes turned up to her, surprise etched on twenty faces. Eremon knew his expression must be the most shocked of all: she never spoke to any of them freely, and certainly not about such matters.

Standing there primly, in her robe of green wool, hair unbound, she
seemed very young. Then she looked directly at Eremon, and what he saw in her eyes was not youth, but calculation. ‘You do not have the blue designs on your skin. You can pass as Britons from the south.’

Eremon saw the answering leap of interest in the faces of his men, and raised his hand to object.

‘Yes,’ Rhiann continued, thinking aloud. ‘Your men can pass through the southern lands, as can I. You can be my escort.’

‘And go where?’ Eremon cut in. ‘As wandering strangers, we will stand out as if the marks of the Albans grace our own faces. You are talking of a dangerous proposition, not an adventure!’

Her eyes sparked at him. ‘I have a cousin of the Votadini, at the Dun of the Tree, on the east coast. I have not seen her for many years, but she would welcome a visit from me, I am sure. The Romans have already taken the Votadini lands; her people will know more of them and their disposition, their numbers …’

‘It won’t work.’ Eremon knew he sounded curt. But she treated him with complete indifference for moons, and then here she was, poking her nose into war business. ‘We come through their forward lines, from enemy territory – it won’t work.’ He turned his back, dismissing her.

‘It
will
work,’ she argued, pushing in front of him again. His men glanced at each other, their eyes wide. Then Rhiann took a half-burnt twig that had fallen from the firepit, and began scratching with it on the bare dirt before Eremon’s feet. Amazed, he stared at her for a moment before dropping his gaze to the crude map taking shape in the firelight.

‘We take a boat down this loch to the sea, then land here on the west coast, below the Clutha. From what we know, we will be south of the Roman line at that point. Then we travel up the river valleys, which run down from the high ground – here – coming upon my cousin’s dun from the south. From the territories the Romans have already conquered.’ She dropped the stick and brushed the charcoal from her hands, a challenge in her eyes. ‘I will be a noblewoman from the lowlands, travelling north to visit my family. For Beltaine, perhaps; that would be a good excuse.’ She looked around at them all. ‘If we take a small escort, we can do it.’