The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (75 page)

Conaire flung his hair back, splattering water over Eremon. ‘Well, it took long enough! When they ignored all your dire warnings of marching Romans, I thought we had lost them.’

‘So did I.’ Eremon retreated into the shadow of the lodge wall, the sun too much for his aching eyes. ‘And the thing that changed their minds was Maelchon.’

Conaire grinned. ‘Of course, you don’t actually
know
that Maelchon is in league with the Romans.’

Eremon’s answering smile was grim. ‘No, but he tried to kill us, and I don’t care how I stop him. He is a threat to Alba’s peace, I know that, and if these kings join me out of fear of Maelchon, then I accomplish both aims at once. He sails west here often, Nectan said. He’ll find a different reception next time, I hope.’

They went back inside the lodge, where Caitlin was still rolled up in the furs, deep asleep. Conaire gazed at her for a moment, a smile
curving his mouth, before he scooped some barley porridge from the cauldron into a bowl. ‘I still find it curious that they were more angry about the attack on Rhiann than anything else.’

Eremon sat down on the bench to pull on his boots. ‘It is as Rhiann said: they revere the Goddess here above all gods. And I don’t care how I galvanize them, so long as I do. With some well-placed questions I was able to gauge their numbers, and these people, though scattered, are great. We
must
make them join us.’

Conaire took a spoonful of porridge. ‘What did Nectan say to you when you left?’

Eremon shrugged. ‘That they greatly fear a joining of Maelchon and the Romans, and so are open to my plea – but they do not trust a man of Erin to lead.’

‘No wonder Fergus looked fit to burst! So where does that leave us?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Eremon sighed. ‘Nectan disappeared then, and later I saw him with Brethan’s druid.’

He glanced out into the bright sun. Waiting on Nectan’s word was not the only thing on his mind.

I have heard nothing from Rhiann. Perhaps now that she is here, she will never wish to leave
.

A day later, and Beltaine was here at last. In defiance of Rhiann’s cold fear, a bright sun sailed clear of the early clouds, warming the rocks of the peat hills as she rode across them in the dawn, touching the little lochs with copper, brushing each water reed with gold.

Now she stood on the beach below Kell’s broch, listening to Eremon’s footsteps crunching over the shingle behind her, and with each step, so the beauty of the day seemed to recede.

‘I would recognize you from afar, even without your message,’ he said over her shoulder. ‘But why did you ride straight here, and not come to me at the broch?’

She turned to him, unclasping her fingers. ‘I … I just needed to see it again. The place where it all happened.’

She glanced down the narrow strip of sand, and then back up the glen to the village, where gulls wheeled, crying, and comforting smoke – the cooking kind – curled lazily into the clear air. It was all so serene, and yet she could not look at it without seeing another kind of smoke behind her eyes, the raging, black cloud that screamed out danger and death.

Where the waves hissed over tumbling shells, red boats landed, and Kell’s blood ran in the clear water. And behind her, where the slope steepened, a man’s hand closed on her ankle …

Eremon moved to her side. ‘I am sorry, Rhiann. I wish I could take the memories away from you.’

She shivered. ‘I know you do.’

When he looked away, she glanced at him sidewise. He seemed to be avoiding her eyes, and she detected something that disturbed him; something other than concern for her. ‘Has your reception by the kings not gone well?’

He poked at a half-buried shell with one foot. ‘I think I may be getting somewhere, at last, though they won’t give me my answer until the day after Beltaine.’

‘I am pleased. Nectan believes in you, and though he commands few men, they are hardy fighters, and the best archers on the coast. And he is held in high regard for his insight. Winning him was well done.’

‘And you? Are you enjoying your reunion?’

‘Yes.’ The stilted words sounded so brittle between them.

Because … all she wanted to do was cry,
Eremon, I’m so sorry. I do not wish to do this! It is not me laying with a man. Not me!
But how could she tell him about the rite, which would begin at dusk? He would never understand. He would hate her, because it would hurt him …

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the breeze draw a dark tendril of hair over his cheek. The tiny movement ached in her heart, for she wanted to reach out and tuck it back …

She bit her lip. She could just cope with doing this, for herself. She knew about these rites, what they meant – and did not mean. But he would not know. What if she told him right now?

‘Eremon,’ she said. But he would try to stop her, and the Sisters would be angry, and she would have let everyone down.

He swung to face her, a question in his eyes.

‘I … ah … must be getting back soon,’ she finished, blinking tears away. ‘I have to fast for the Beltaine rite.’

‘Are you participating in this rite, then?’ The ridges of his cheekbones flushed.

‘Yes, with the other Sisters.’

‘Rhiann.’ He took her hand, but kept his eyes on their entwined fingers. ‘You know what you mean to me, don’t you?’

‘Oh, Eremon, don’t, please!’ Guilt washed over her, and she pulled her hand free.

No, he would not understand; he would think the rite barbaric – he might even walk away and not come back.

Eremon’s arms dropped, and a mask fell over his eyes. ‘I will see you tonight then, Rhiann.’

His feet crunched away, and she rubbed her stinging eyes. Here, on this beach, all the tears began. Perhaps here they would end, too. For if she lost what she had with Eremon, fragile though it was, she would never cry again.

There would be nothing left within her to weep.

Chapter 76

T
he hand slid up Samana’s arm, and she shrugged it away and turned back to the camp bed. ‘You’re a fool!’

‘How dare you talk to me like that!’

She whirled on her heel, and fixed the man with a glare. Among the shadows of the Roman tent, the lamp picked out his golden hair and the sheen on his eyes. But they held no charms for her now … if they ever did. ‘I
dare
because I gave you many luxuries in exchange for information. And look what you do!’

Drust strode to the bed. ‘I had no choice! How could I know the Epidii Queen and that Erin cur would have a Roman traitor with them? I
had
to run.’

At the mention of both Eremon and Rhiann, Samana’s rage nearly choked her. ‘I see more than you think, prince; that your loins and your pride rule your head. If you’d kept your trousers on and your sword skills honed you may have been able to help us. As it is, you’re useless to me!’

His fingers closed on her wrist, and his eyes burned. ‘You whore.’

He
was angry!

‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ she spat. ‘You’re in my control! I
am
Agricola’s whore, and you happen to be in his camp!’ She took a deep breath, calming herself. ‘But not for long.’

Drust released her, and now fear leaped into his fine face. ‘What do you mean?’

She rubbed her wrist. ‘What use are you to us now? You’re an exile, so no good as a hostage. And you can give us no information. When you ran from the Erin prince, you sealed your own fate.’

‘Is Agricola … going to send me away?’ Drust clenched his fists.

She sat on the bed and took up her wine cup. ‘Why would he do that, prince?’ She smiled up at him.

The fear turned to terror, and Drust sank to his knees before her.
‘Lady!’ He pressed her hand to his lips. ‘I’ve pleased you before and I’ll do it again. Keep me by you, and I’ll do anything you say!’ His desperate eyes did not raise even a hint of warmth in her.

She turned her face away. ‘I can do nothing for you.’

Agricola glanced up at the sky, pleased to see that it would be a fine day. The line of forts and watchtowers along the Gask ridge were coming along well, but a bout of good weather would hasten their completion.

His horse shifted impatiently beneath him, and he patted its neck. He, too, was getting hot under his heavy parade armour. ‘I thought I gave the order to bring him out!’ he barked to the tribune standing at his ankle.

‘So you did, sir. I’ll just …’

But then there was a stirring of the soldiers around the open gate, and the massed standards of the cohorts waved and dipped against the ramparts. A murmuring began that soon gathered force, spreading among the men as they parted to let the man through. From Agricola’s vantage point, he could see what the soldiers nearest to him were craning to glimpse, and he smiled.

The centurions had done a good job: the Caledonii cur was weighed down with so many spoils of war that he could hardly walk. A garish, checked tunic was topped by a cloak with an ornate fringe that dragged on the ground, taken from the Votadini king, Agricola vaguely remembered. This was pinned with a cartload of brooches, and his arms, tied before him, were encased by rings and gold torcs to the shoulder, the better to keep his neck bare. His hair had been limed into those barbaric peaks, the savage tattoos drawn over in ink.

As the captive stumbled through their midst, prodded along by two soldiers with javelins, the murmuring of the other men grew louder, until it became a chant that was taken up by the steady beat of swords on shields, accompanied by the harsh blast of trumpets.

‘
Galli
!
Galli
!’

Agricola’s smile broadened. Yes, to the legion, this man was not only Alba, but all the barbarian peoples that dared to stand against Rome, with their pride and arrogance, greed and folly. And he sensed that his men’s frustration and enmity, which had, as yet, found little outlet, was being released now.

So the Caledonii traitor had been useful for something, at the last.

Agricola glanced at Samana, seated under her parasol to the side of the field. She feigned boredom, but he saw the glint of her black eyes, fixed on the swordsman waiting before the block.

Now the captive fell on his knees before the executioner, the gold and bronze on him flashing in the sun, and the men’s chanting grew
louder, as the trumpets were joined in their cacophony by the horns, curving through the clear air.

Agricola raised his hand, and watched the sword rise. The headsman eyed his commander sidelong, arms poised. Agricola drew the moment out, waiting until the chanting grew into one great shout, the beating of swords like peals of thunder, the horns like the shrieks of beasts.

Yes, this man is Alba. And like him, it too will fall
.

He brought his hand down, and the sword descended with it.

Rhiann stood at the lodge door and gazed at the rising moon. Faintly, sounds carried on the still evening: girlish giggles, the clatter of pans from the kitchen sheds, the faint vibration of the Sisters chanting.

How many times had she stood here on an evening such as this, filled with excitement for the coming rites?

Then, such festivals meant something different. She had stifled her own giggles, as the novices wove flowers into each other’s braids, while a priestess lectured them sternly on the proper decorum. Then would come the solemn beat of the drums, and her heart stirring at the sight of her Sisters snaking to the Stones in long lines, blue-hooded, their feet in perfect time.

She remembered feeling so close to the Goddess that she could surely reach out a hand, up to the heavens, and touch Her face. When divine words of love seemed to be part of the night air, breathed by the wind. Above all, she remembered being part of something greater than herself.

And here she stood tonight, and she had never felt so alone.

Everything in her cried to run away, far away, so that she would never have to see that look of repudiation on Eremon’s face, or feel the disappointment of those she loved, when they saw her fail.

‘Dearest.’ Fola’s voice startled her. ‘It is time for the
saor
.’

Her friend stood behind her, an earthen cup in her hands, and by her side were the four maidens who had attended Rhiann all afternoon, dressed in white, may blossom pale in their hair.

All that time, Rhiann kept her thoughts desperately guarded, as they bathed her and rubbed her with sweet oils. She was silent as they sang, painting her palms and feet with woad, her nails with berry juice, combing her hair with silver. Nor did she join their chants to the Goddess, the pleas to bless Her Maiden, as they pulled the robe of soft, bleached linen over her shoulders and bound it with a girdle of sea-grass.

Perhaps they just thought her silence a sign of nerves, but now Fola squeezed her hand. ‘Trust,’ she said, smiling. ‘Trust Nerida, and Setana. Trust the Mother.’

Rhiann looked deep into Fola’s dark eyes, and saw a gleam of pity there. Perhaps Fola did know, after all.
Beltaine was a time of life, when the earth was growing ready to fruit and flower, to give of its power, so that the creatures of Thisworld could live.