The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (5 page)

Eremon, son of Ferdiad. Rightful King of the people of Dalriada, in Erin.

The corner of Eremon’s mouth lifted bitterly.
King of nothing, and no one
. He glanced at the huddle of men in the stern. Well, King of twenty good men, at least.

Over their heads, he squinted across the waves, now only rocking the hull with light, insistent slaps that nudged them shoreward. Another day and night after the storm, it was only clear now that they’d been swept north along the Alba coast, and not out into the trackless reaches of the Western Sea.

The sharp tang of brine was strong on the west wind now, but in the still air before dawn, he’d caught the scent of wet pine and mud. Earth; good, solid earth.

He idly fondled Cù’s ears, too weary and heartsick to appreciate this good fortune. Then he was struck by a new thought, and sat up a little straighter. Against all odds, they’d come through the storm and were close to land. So perhaps Manannán had sent it to
test
Eremon, to know that he was worthy to take back his father’s hall and rule the people of Dalriada. Maybe he could earn the blessing of the gods after all.

Eremon’s hand stilled on Cù’s warm head, his eyes glazing over. The storm was the first test, then – so there would be others. And he would pass every last one of them, until he returned to Erin to kill his usurper uncle, Donn of the Brown Beard. He lost himself for a moment in a dream of a blazing sword, and the expression on his uncle’s face when it bit him through the neck.

‘Wake up!’ Conaire waved a hand before Eremon’s eyes, and squatted down, passing over a hunk of damp bread. Cù thumped his tail
on the deck and raised his head for a sniff, then flopped back in exhaustion.

Eremon patted him, eyeing the crumbling bread with sudden, ravening hunger. After all, there had been nothing in his stomach for two days now. He tore off a chunk and chewed in silence.

‘So we are near land after all,’ Conaire offered. He paused. ‘You were right about the oars.’

Eremon snorted, picking barley grit from his teeth. The memories of the storm were now just a hazy blur of rain, wind, and terror. He knew they had come close to passing over to the Otherworld, and even though the druids said this was nothing to fear, he’d realized just how much his body wanted to stay right here. Trust Conaire to forget it all so quickly.

Then Eremon cast another glance at his men, chewing their bread. They were worn and wet, with new bruises and oar blisters. And yet, they’d somehow made it through the storm alive. He should be thankful, and leave it at that. He cocked his head at Conaire. ‘You admit that I’m right, do you, brother? Did the mast catch your head as it fell?’

Conaire grinned in answer, and stretched his long legs out along the rough-hewn planks.

The two men were an unlikely pair. Conaire had been a giant even as a babe, with hair that shone like ripe barley, and the wide, blue eyes of his people. Next to him, Eremon always felt too dark and lean. His own eyes were a shifting sea-green – the legacy of his Welsh mother, along with his hair, the deep brown of a mink’s pelt. Both had marked him as different when he didn’t want to be.

As a boy, Conaire had raced around in a storm of yelling and running and laughing. That exuberance did not come easily to Eremon, and less so when he realized he was a prince, and must learn how to be a king. Conaire’s sire was only a cattle-lord, and Conaire could fulfil
his
expectations easily. Be as quick to fight as to jest. Hold a man’s fill of ale and boar. Oh, and bed a woman as soon as physically able, which in Conaire’s case was before his eleventh birthday.

But Conaire had a sense his bluff father would never have appreciated – he always knew when Eremon was brooding. So now he brushed the crumbs from his thighs and clapped Eremon on the back. ‘What say we get some earth under our feet then, brother? My balls are turning bluer by the day, I swear!’

The thump set Eremon choking, and it took some moments of coughing and laughing before he could reply, by which time the dark hurt of betrayal and home had fled. Donn and revenge could wait a little while; there were more pressing issues to take care of first.

‘Now that you’ve woken me up,’ Eremon cleared his throat, ‘we need to find out where we are.’

‘Right.’ Conaire leaped to the oar benches, and in three hops was standing over the fisherman, who was gnawing half-heartedly at a hunk of bread.

Eremon watched the ease with which his brother moved, despite his great bulk. Sometimes, just sometimes, he longed to be like Conaire: to follow some other man’s orders, to ride into battle behind someone else’s flying banner, giving no thought to strategy, just to fighting. Ah, to fight and become lost in blood and heat and the glorious surrender it gave …

He took a breath. That was not for him, especially not now. He must be a leader from the moment they landed in Alba. A prince, not – Hawen forbid – an exile.

He followed Conaire, pausing to check on Aedan and Rori as he passed. Rori was thin and pale, his freckles standing out like spots of blood on his white cheeks. Aedan was drawn and bruised, and his grey eyes were shadowed. Yet both youths straightened bravely when their prince touched their shoulders.

Then Eremon was staring down at the mottled top of the fisherman’s head, which was burned the deep colour of skin that lived in the sun. Conaire was standing over him with hands on hips; plainly, he’d got nowhere.

‘Where are we?’ Eremon demanded.

The fisherman squinted up at him sourly.

‘Answer the prince, man!’ Conaire growled.

The other dropped his gaze. ‘Aye, it smells like Alba’s air, all right. But not the Misty Isle, we’re north of that. Where, though, only Manannán knows.’

Eremon met Conaire’s eyes. They must go ashore sometime soon, for they were running out of water. Chances were that they’d arrive on an island of poor fishing folk, anyway. This would suit him well, for they could rest and get their strength back before seeking out the local chieftain.

‘We’ll row this coast until we find a safe landing; somewhere with few people. We can hold out another day or so.’ Eremon then addressed the fisherman. ‘And as I promised, I’ll find you a boat to return you to Erin.’

‘Good!’ the man spat through rotting teeth. ‘Savages, the Albans are. You’ll probably all be eaten alive come night—’ He was silenced by the crunch of Conaire’s great hand on his shoulder, and he gulped and slipped into more respectful silence.

No matter who they first met, Eremon knew they must make a show of strength. News travelled fast among the islands, and the more fear and awe they could inspire at the outset, the better. The tale would grow in
the telling, and by the time it reached the local ruler’s ears he would think twice about attacking them.

Or so Eremon hoped.

At the very least, they should not look like the sorry pack of refugees that confronted him now. So as they rowed towards the distant coastline, the men took it in turns to clean their weapons and faces, and comb and braid their hair. Shields were polished and tied in lines down the flanks of the boat, and spear-tips, helmets and mail shirts were burnished.

For the fifth time, Eremon checked on the three iron-bound chests strapped safely in the hull. These were filled with jewellery gathered in from a handful of secret supporters, when his uncle’s challenge for the throne became a growing threat, but before Donn attacked Eremon openly. Some time before they landed, he would distribute the wealth among his men.

Safe in Eremon’s leather pack was the gold circlet of his father, with its green jewel that glowed on the brow. That jewel came from a land so far to the east that Ferdiad was forced to trade a sack of gold and his favourite concubine to gain it. And wrapped in oiled hide was Eremon’s own iron and bronze helmet, its crest a bronze boar, the totem of his clan, bristles stiff with attack fury.

When they were ready, Eremon leaped on to a rowing bench, and surveyed his men with an approving grin. ‘I swear you all look as pretty as maids.’ Then he grew more sober. ‘Unfortunately, though, you must impress as men, not maids, or our lives may be forfeit before we see Erin again.’

‘Not without a fight.’ Finan stroked his sword.

‘No, not without a good fight. Though a score of men, no matter how fine, cannot stand up to a whole people.’ Eremon stared at each face hard in turn. ‘You know the plan and you must follow it, every one of you. For now, I’m a prince seeking trade alliances. A lie brings dishonour, I know, but Hawen the Boar will forgive us. He wants us alive.’ In a sudden burst of inspiration, he unsheathed his father’s sword and held it aloft. ‘This blade was named by my father, but now I give it another name on Alba’s shores, in honour of Manannán, Lord of the Sea. Like His own sword, I call it Fragarach, the Answerer. And it will answer our betrayal with blood! The blood of the traitors!’

The men roared, baring their teeth, their worn faces lighting up. Some leaned over to beat a din on their shields, and others spat deadly curses at Donn of the Brown Beard. And then, breathless and fierce, they returned to their benches to row once more.

Soon the strain of a harp took up the beat of the oars, and in the bow, Aedan began a new song. Aedan’s songs involved too much undying glory for Eremon’s taste, especially when the reality was cold fear, the
stench of battle, and a final sword thrust in the gut. And as for the maidens who swanned through the bard’s tales, the reality there was similar. In Eremon’s experience they were twittering birds with a love of finery and jewels; jewels that must be hard won by such as he.

But as the men relaxed into the rhythm of rowing, Eremon noted their new sense of purpose, a purpose that no storm, no betrayal, could beat out of them. He smiled to himself. The campaign against his uncle had wrought them into a warband to reckon with. Above all, they were intensely loyal – they’d proven this by being willing to follow him into exile.

Exile
.

He savoured the vile, unavoidable word on his tongue again. If only there’d been more men like this, his uncle’s betrayal would have ended differently. He tested the razor-edge of his sword with a fingertip.
Very differently
. Then he sighed, sheathed the sword and stowed it, joining Conaire at the oar.

In his short life, he had learned that men’s hearts are seldom true. Of women’s hearts, he gave no thought.

Chapter 5

B
rica woke Rhiann and Linnet long before dawn on the day of the funeral, a lamp of tallow-soaked rushes sputtering in her hands.

By the hearth, the maid first stripped Rhiann of her bed-shift, and then with a mixture of fat and rowan ash, she painted over the blue tattoos that curled all over Rhiann’s breasts and belly.

All Epidii women were tattooed at puberty, but as the Mother of the Land, the Ban Cré’s tattoos represented the curving lines of power that radiated through the soil and rock, and along the rivers. The designs anchored the divine Goddess to the land and people through Rhiann’s earthly body. Her tattoos were therefore the most beautiful and sacred, and must be protected by the rowan as they sent the King to the Otherworld this day.

Over a fresh linen shift, Brica dressed Rhiann in an ankle-length tunic of green wool, embroidered with scarlet flowers, fastened on each shoulder by a swan-head brooch. Over that she draped her blue priestess cloak, clasped by the royal brooch of the Epidii: two filigree horses, their eyes set with jewels of amber that matched her hair. Bronze rings glittered on her fingers and white wrists, their chased designs digging into her tender skin. Her twisted gold torc was heavy, and she felt every measure of its weight dragging on her neck.

Linnet was dressed in similar finery, and when they were ready, she surveyed her niece with approval in her eyes. Rhiann’s answering smile felt bleak. She understood well how such spectacle garnered respect and power, and she was not above using it to her own advantage when needed.

But deep down, she longed to be barefoot on Liath’s back, with a hot sun above her, and only dandelion seed in her hair.

‘It is time,’ Linnet said. ‘We must go.’

And as they sprinkled the goddess figures with the daily offering of meal and milk, Rhiann thought,
Great Mother, though you no longer speak to me, at least give me strength this day. Give me the courage to face what I must
.

By light of moon and flaming torch, by foot, on horseback and chariot, it was a subdued throng of nobles that took the Trade Path downriver for Crìanan, where they would take ship for the Isle of Deer, just offshore. Mist rose in ghostly wraiths from the Add, and hung in pale sheets over the marshes, softening the sound of riffling water. The alders and willows that fringed the banks dripped with dew.

Gelert had set off leading the King’s chariot and the bier that held the body, so Rhiann let Liath drop back. But, sunk in a chill reverie, she suddenly realized that the chief druid had appeared silently on foot by her side. ‘You should be with your uncle’s body, doing your duty.’

She hunched her shoulder away. ‘I do my own will, not yours.’