The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (50 page)

He laughed softly, a purring sound. ‘Would a moonlit walk on the walls suit you better?’

‘Yes,’ she managed to get out, and he took her arm and led her up to the walkway once more. The moon had now paled from bronze to silver, and the plain below was glowing with fires, like bright coals in a darkened hearth.

Drust turned to her, and the warm breeze ruffled the hair at his brow. Her fingers remembered the exact thickness and weight of that hair, and ached to bury themselves in it again. When he shifted closer, his shoulders caught on the wool of his tunic.

‘I noticed you the first night, at the feast,’ he was saying.

She dragged her attention to his mouth, trying to listen to his words.

His lips softened. ‘You are the most beautiful woman here, by far.’

His words, which she had longed to hear, sounded thinner than she remembered. She hardly heard them. Instead she found herself musing on how that mouth would feel on hers …

‘I had heard much of your beauty, of course, and longed to see it for myself. I love beautiful things.’

She looked into his eyes, startled. ‘But it has only been seven years. Have I changed so much?’

A frown touched his brow, and then it cleared. ‘Why, you have only grown in beauty, my lady.’

But Rhiann’s heart was sinking. ‘You do not remember me.’

She saw him searching for words, but before he could speak the lie, she cut him off. ‘You came to the Sacred Isle. We spent a week together.’ She wanted to say,
You painted me, you caressed me
… But of course, he was a tattoo artist: he painted many girls. And how many did he touch in that way?

Foolish woman
! Stung, she turned away, rubbing the pebbled skin on her bare arms.

‘Rhiann.’ His breath brushed her ear. ‘Forgive me. I do remember. It has been a long time.’

When she did not answer, he moved around in front of her, gently taking her arms. ‘Rhiann! When I left, you were going to be dedicated to the Goddess. I did not think of you that way because I was leaving, and you were going to be out of reach.’

She searched his eyes, wanting to believe him. Suddenly, he smiled in
that boyish way of his, which tugged at her heart just as it had before, and ran his hands down her arms to her fingers, before pulling away. His touch left flame in its wake. ‘What does it matter now, anyway? You
are
the most beautiful woman here. We can walk and speak of the old days, surely?’ He waved carelessly. ‘All this talk of war and Romans bores me.’

An image of Eremon’s face, lit up with the fire of his dream, flashed across Rhiann’s mind. She felt herself go stiff. ‘I am here because of the Romans.’

He shrugged. ‘That is for my father and your husband to debate. They can frown and mutter like two old men. In the meantime, we can make the most of the fine weather. I have many stone carvings to show you.’

He reached out to flick a braid from her shoulder, and in doing so, touched her neck. All protest at his words died on her lips. In this moment, she did not care that he had not remembered her. It
had
been a long time. And everyone else managed to live and laugh while going about the business of war, even Eremon. Why not her?

Her wiser side was hammering out a warning in her mind, but she ignored it. Dear Goddess, she was standing here with a handsome man under a full moon. If she was ever going to kiss someone, it should be now. And if she could just get it over with, perhaps then she would start to feel normal. Like other women.

Sensing the indecision in her body, the touch of Drust’s fingers changed. His thumb began to make soft circles on her skin, and gradually his hand moved around her neck until he cupped the back of her head.

It was not her mind hammering now, but her heart, and the throbbing warmth she had last felt seven years ago was a hot flood, loosening her thighs. Drust smiled, his pupils huge and dark in the moonlight. She closed her eyes.

His lips were cool and dry, not warm as she had expected. But then she felt the muscles of his chest brush her breasts, and that burned. He pressed even closer, his tongue parted her lips …

… and then she felt the hardness between his legs.

A wave of fear washed over her. She pulled back, feet tangling, both hands pressing against his chest, as if warding him away.

‘Lord Drust?’ The brisk voice came from the gate tower, schooled into that blandness that servants perfect. Rhiann swung away, hiding her face.

‘Yes?’ Drust was breathing hard, and he ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Your father asks for you.’

‘I will come.’

Drust cursed under his breath, but looked at Rhiann with a smile. ‘Duty calls. Perhaps we can continue our reminiscing another time? After the hunt tomorrow, I ride south to visit one of the nobles who is too ill to attend the council. I will be back the day after.’ He brushed her lips with one finger, regretfully. ‘Meet with me again.’

Rhiann could not think straight, could only look down at her feet, but Drust took that as agreement, and left her there with a sure smile.

When he had gone, she took a shuddering breath, leaning against the palisade. Tears of shame pricked her eyes, as she remembered how she pulled away. Perhaps she was too damaged after all, even to enjoy a man’s kiss. Perhaps she would never be a real woman.

She glanced down at the fires, and saw the shapes of the people moving around them, heard the snatches of wild music. Down there was warmth and cheer and laughter. And here she was, alone again. Despairing, she made her way back down to the main path, and thought about curling up in her cold bed.

No. No more
.

The warm light beckoned through the open gates. She would go back to the fires, and have a cup of mead, and smile at Conaire’s bad jests, and listen to Aedan’s sweet voice. And she would sit with her shoulder touching Caitlin’s, and talk to Eremon of the council.

That is what she would do.

Chapter 48

I
n a fine dawn heavy with dew, the nobles set off for their hunt the next morning along a wooded path that wound up a glen north of the dun. Eremon rode with Conaire at the rear of the party, behind Drust.

‘Brother.’ Conaire kept his voice low. ‘I found out what you wanted to know.’

‘Yes?’ Eremon stared at the back of that dark gold head in front.

‘The King’s son paints the tattoos, on women mainly. At their first moon bleeding. The tattoos are sacred in some way.’

Eremon gripped his spear harder. ‘Go on.’

‘Although he is the King’s son, when artists show their talent early, they are taken for some kind of druid training. It is probably the best thing he could do, since he cannot be King.’

And I imagine that hurts
, Eremon thought.

He did not see anything sacred in this man. Indeed, looking at him now, riding out on a carefully brushed stallion, dressed in bright clothes, he seemed nothing more than a strutting capercaille, all shiny plumage and strident cries.

When Drust reappeared at the fire last night he stood by his father’s side, but Eremon watched closely, and saw him paying far more attention to the pretty women there than to what Calgacus was saying. Shortly after, Rhiann also appeared. When she sat down on a bench next to Caitlin, he noticed how flushed her cheeks were.

Now, the memory made him feel sick all over again.

He could not understand Rhiann’s interest. She did not suffer fools – how could she not see what was so apparent to him? Then he thought of Samana, and how he had been blinded by her.

But that was because of the demands of my body
.

Abruptly, he yanked the horse up. Did this mean that Rhiann had succumbed to Drust? No, surely not! It was impossible. But was it? Here
he was thinking she did not want any man … when perhaps it was just that she did not want him.

His sinking heart suddenly made the connection. Rhiann said that she met Drust on the Sacred Isle. And there, he must have painted her when she had her first bleeding. That meant that this man had seen her naked, and put his hands on her breasts, her belly. Perhaps he had even raised passion in her, when all Eremon had gained was her dislike.

He kicked Dòrn, and the stallion broke into a trot. When he drew level with Conaire again, his foster-brother glanced at him from the corner of his eye. But Conaire knew that set of his mouth, and let him be.

Not long after, the hounds brought the boar to bay in a shadowed hazel thicket. The nobles sat their mounts a safe distance away, breathless from the chase, as two Caledonii princes advanced on it with their spears raised.

The beast was enormous, with spittle running from its gaping mouth, which was framed by curving tusks, stained and yellow. Its tiny black eyes were full of rage. Eremon wished he had been the one to bring it down so that he could sink a spear into something. Then he became aware that Drust had nudged his horse up next to him.

‘Prince,’ Drust said in greeting. Eremon nodded, watching the boar and the figures advancing on it.

‘I hope you are enjoying your stay with the Epidii,’ Drust continued, brushing dried mud from the gilded harness of his horse.

‘My marriage has brought me much joy, yes.’

‘Ah, your wife. She is most beautiful. I have spoken with her. You are a very lucky man.’

‘I think so.’ Eremon breathed through his nose, striving for calm.
You have done more than speak with her
!

Drust paused. ‘My father said that you met with Agricola himself. That he offered you allegiance.’

‘An offer I refused.’

‘But did you not think of joining him, even for a moment? I mean … it must have been a difficult decision for you.’

What was this? Calgacus’s son, intrigued by Romans? And if so, how dangerous to betray this to Eremon! But then Eremon realized that this man had never had to learn the art of politics, born as he was with all the trappings of a prince, but no threat to those who desired the throne.

One of the Caledonii princes launched his spear, and it pierced the boar’s eye. The flame of animal rage faded to the black of death. Eremon turned his horse to return to the dun, and Drust kept pace with him.

‘Difficult?’ Eremon said at last. ‘On the contrary: I would not wish to
be a Roman slave.’ He finally looked Drust in the eyes – which soon fell under Eremon’s stare. ‘I value my freedom as much as I value my wife.’

All of the Caledonii nobles had arrived, and at last Eremon had a chance to put his case forward. For the first time in days, Gelert emerged from his deliberations with his brethren, and appeared at the council with Calgacus’s chief druid, a tall, stooped man with grey hair and dark, piercing eyes.

Before a ring of full benches in Calgacus’s hall, Eremon told what he knew of the Roman advance. But as he spoke, he saw with leaden heart that the rows of faces remained unmoved. The objections, when they came, were familiar.

‘The Romans own the south and have for generations,’ one gruff warrior said. ‘They don’t come north.’

‘I’ve seen tents in vast rows, like sprouting barley,’ Eremon replied, sweeping his hands out. ‘I’ve seen swords and spears for all those men in all those tents. Agricola has assembled an army the likes of which you have never seen. Did you not hear what I said? He wants Alba.’

Another noble shrugged, his torc clanking on his shoulder brooches. ‘What he says and what he does are different things. Of course he’ll boast to you – he knew you would spread his words. Words meant to quash our courage.’

Eremon bit his lip in frustration. ‘He has already come farther north than ever before. You know that.’

‘This is true,’ another man put in. ‘But we have the strength to resist him. The mountains are our first defence, and our warriors the next. Look to your own lands, and we’ll look to ours.’

‘Have you ever seen twenty thousand men in one place?’ Eremon rapped. ‘When you have, you will know that no mountains can stop them. They will pour over your plain like a great sea-wave.’

‘They won’t stay,’ the first man stated flatly.

It was as if they could not hear him.

‘I saw the forts he is building,’ Eremon said, striving for patience. ‘Some are as enormous as his camps. This Roman won’t retreat south in the long dark, as before. He builds permanent bases. They are staying.’

There was a shifting of feet, and a murmuring that swelled like a rising stream. Louder it grew, and from snatches, Eremon knew that he was already losing their attention. Then Calgacus raised his hand.

‘I have gained my own information,’ he declared, leaning forward in his high carved chair. His cloak was edged with otter fur, and on his head he wore a gold circlet. ‘The Roman leader did advance rapidly, but then stopped. So far, he meets my expectations.’

Eremon turned to Calgacus. ‘Your information is correct, lord, but I have spoken with someone close to Agricola. This person told me that
the only reason the advance halted was because the emperor died. The new emperor, Titus, is busy in the east, and Agricola has orders to stay where he is. But it is only a matter of time. When Titus secures his borders, his attention will return to us. I am sure of it.’