The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (40 page)

G
ede watched as the
gael
king entered his hall behind Taran. The man betrayed no anxiety about what had transpired. Gede had to admit that everything he had heard about this Cahir was being overturned.

A Roman lover. A coward. A gelding with no will of his own.
That is what people whispered.

But this man had surprised him. There were no fanciful Roman touches about his person, no brooches, no ridiculous attempts at a toga, no perfumes to make him stink of Rome. And nothing obsequious. If there was one thing Gede hated, it was oily words and smiles. The fact this king spoke plainly and his eyes were proud had made Gede – unwillingly – sprout the merest kernal of respect for him.

Or perhaps wariness. This king was a stronger enemy on his flank than Gede had ever supposed, based on their sporadic clashes over the years. Over time the Roman Province had provided far richer pickings, and it had been to this that Gede increasingly applied his resources, merely setting a watch on the
gaels
. He would have given more thought to that defence had he known this Cahir was not the plump, perfumed king of his imagination.

Taran stood by to translate as Cahir took a seat and accepted a cup of ale. Gede gestured to Galan, who rose from his bench.

‘The girl was accepted by the Water,’ Galan stated gruffly. ‘What she saw is known only to the druid-kind.’ He glanced at Gede, betraying anxiety. ‘We accept that what she said is true. There was an alliance between the
gaels
and our people.’

Gede recognized that flicker in Galan’s eyes and was satisfied. A king who instilled fear in his druids was a strong king indeed. He rested his chin on his gloved hand. He had taken his gyrfalcon out to the cliffs this morning, giving himself time to think. A few hours in the cold wind and he had been resolved enough to deliver his verdict. He would not show impatience to this Cahir, though. It would not do to show any emotion at all.

‘And?’ The Dalriadan king’s ale was untouched. He stared at Gede, black brows framing golden eyes with an intensity that was almost disrespectful. ‘This means that you will agree to the alliance I have proposed?’

Gede’s hackles rose at the implicit demand. ‘The stone is a true message, the visions are real, but these are the bond of an ancient king who, though he died gloriously, ultimately failed. Would
you
let matters of state be decided on such evidence? The man is dead, and his cause with him.’ He was deliberately provocative, enjoying the gasps of his druids.

Cahir frowned, and Galan hastily broke in. ‘My king.’ He bowed stiffly to Gede. ‘To the brotherhood, this was a bond sanctioned by the gods, an oath witnessed by the gods. The carving states this alliance was intended to be unbreakable through time.’

‘And what of it? Calgacus is not here now.’

Galan looked perplexed. Gede had not been so aggressive earlier. Well, he believed in keeping people unsettled – it was easier to control them that way.

‘My king.’ Galan summoned his druid dignity. ‘We spoke of this. Among the brotherhood this word
is
sacred, even now. But the fact that the girl was gifted with the secret lore seals it. The gods would not have sent this vision if this lore was dead, if this story was ended. She saw our most glorious king because his word is meant to be heeded, I am sure of it.’

‘
Our most glorious king
?’ Gede raised one eyebrow. ‘Why, Galan, I assume you are speaking of me, your lord?’

Galan’s withered cheeks quivered as he chewed his tongue. Perhaps Gede had made his point strongly enough now. He had only meant to send a message that he wouldn’t be bossed about by druids or cowed by enemy kings.

‘This Eremon of Dalriada and Calgacus rallied troops together,’ Galan ground out. ‘They speak from the Otherworld for one reason only: there is an opportunity here, great king,’ Gede did not miss the sarcasm, ‘to revisit our approach to the question of the Roman kind and the Empire beyond the wall, to go forth in open battle at last, in unity and strength.’ He glanced at Cahir, who was on the edge of his seat. ‘The gods brought the
gael
king to you over mountains and through snow. They demand you heed them!’

Gede flung himself to his feet, trying not to show his agitation.

‘My lord.’ The Dalriadan king was keeping an admirable hold on his temper, and in that moment Gede almost felt kinship with him. They faced each other. ‘Leaving aside all questions of visions and prophecies, it is still very simple. You have raided the Romans for years: why?’

Gede’s eyes narrowed. ‘Plunder. Why else?’

Cahir smiled wolfishly. ‘I do not think only for plunder.’ He took a step closer, and Gede’s second-in-command Garnat moved forward, one hand on his sword, the other forking his black beard. Gede did not flinch. Taran was struggling to translate swiftly.

Cahir dropped his voice. ‘You hate them, and it makes your skin crawl that they hold sway over any part of Alba at all. You know they are hoping to consume Dalriada, and if I have to stand alone, and I fall, you are wondering how long your own lands will stay free.’

Gede drew breath. This was much more interesting than the bleating of druids. ‘You seem to claim a great knowledge of my mind.’

‘I say this because it is how I feel. We are both kings of Alba, we want to keep our people safe. But you restrict yourselves to raiding because as strong as you are,’ he nodded at the lavish decoration, the walls encrusted with swords and shields, ‘you do not have the strength for a full-scale assault on the Wall and the lands below.’

Gede was forced to look up at the taller man. The Picts had attacked the Province only three years ago, but the
gael
was right, damn him. They were all raids, nothing lasting. ‘Perhaps I do have the strength, but have not seen the point, if it would only bring fire and Roman swords swarming over my duns.’

‘You would have done it if you could,’ Cahir persisted. ‘The Picts have never given the Romans quarter, and I admire that.’ He spoke with a dignity that robbed his words of any weakness. ‘What we need is the strength for a strike which knocks out the northern command, to cripple them so greatly they cannot strike back. We need them so terrified, so riven and harried, that they leave Alba for ever. It has happened before, in Germania, when the tribes there repelled Rome. It can be done; we just need the numbers.’ He stepped forward, his eyes blazing with thoughts of war and armies.

Unwillingly, Gede felt himself drawn into that excitement. How the man spoke! What he saw in his face was just what Gede felt when the falcon landed on his arm, screaming to the sky – the same foolish pride he had brought under control on the ride back to the dun. ‘I have allies among the Saxons.’

‘Yes. And I among the Attacotti and in Erin. But never have we all acted together.’ Cahir’s eyes bored into Gede, making it hard to turn away. ‘Never have we acted as one. And this is what I offer you. To set aside our differences and the pain of our past—’

‘You presume too much!’ Gede retorted, gripping the back of his carved chair.

Cahir was relentless. ‘Set it aside
for now
,’ he emphasized. ‘Just long enough to form the greatest army Alba has known – indeed, perhaps that the whole isle of Britain has known!’ He leaned forward, his hand contracting into a fist before Gede’s face. ‘Long enough to
win.
’

The man had taken command of the situation, and Gede would not have it. He strode to the edge of the hall, so all eyes had to follow him. There his gaze roamed over those shields, battered and nicked from fights long past; and the swords, each one a hero’s, polished to a high shine. What else did a Pict king exist for but to fight when a challenge was thrown down? He had come to the same conclusions as this king on the windy cliff-edge, but for slightly different reasons.

For the great Calgacus was still lodged in druid memory, in the memory of the stones,
even though he lost
. Gede, though, would win, and rid this land of the Romans. Then his legend would eclipse that of Calgacus of the Caledonii. Gede would have no other king’s name above his own.

He composed his features and turned, glimpsing a shadow of pain and anxiety on the Dalriadan king’s face. So he had his weaknesses, too. ‘I have thought long on this,’ Gede said, his voice raised. ‘I have consulted my warriors.’ He glanced at Garnat, hungry, too, for war. ‘If I can bring the Saxons, and you can bring the Attacotti and the Erin men, then yes, we will have a force that the Romans cannot repel. This is an opportunity that only a fool would let slip through his fingers, whether it is with old enemies or not. And I am no fool.’

Cahir bowed his head in gracious acknowledgement. But he was breathing hard.

Gede strode back to the hearth, and though it made his flesh crawl – so ingrained was the long hatred of the
gael
– he held out his open wrist for Cahir to clasp. It was a gesture that said the opponent was unarmed; it spoke of trust, however tenuous.

Cahir took the proffered wrist, their arm-bands grating together. Their faces were close, and Gede made sure his eyelids did not so much as flicker. ‘Then you have your alliance, King Cahir. For the benefit of both our peoples.’

Darine’s hut nestled in low dunes by a salt marsh, a dome of branches and earth, its thatch roof weighted with nets and stones. Driftwood branches were arranged in a circle before the door, decorated with strips of seaweed like the banners on a king’s hall. Bird skulls lined the roof, staring down from gaping eyeholes.

Inside there was no lamp, but by the light of a smoky fire Minna saw the walls were stuffed with moss and dried grass, and bunches of herbs were tied to the roof beams. It smelled of salt and fish.

Still muttering to herself, Darine put water on to boil. ‘Get the dried blackberries from that pot there,
gael
child.’

Minna was reaching over the barrels in the indicated corner when she knocked the lid off a tall basket, then exclaimed and stood back. The basket was brimming with bronze torcs, arm-rings and finger-rings, ropes of amber and glass beads. She merely stared, wondering if this was another vision, then clapped the lid back on.

‘You found my treasure,’ Darine said, when she sat down.

‘Yes. You have so much. Are they gifts?’

‘Gifts, yes.’

Darine wore no jewellery but for the pierced shell beads on a thong and the feathers in her hair, but gathered in that one basket was the wealth of a mighty chieftain. ‘You are given valuable gifts.’

Darine’s smile turned sly. ‘I do valuable things.’

Minna thought about that. ‘You mean things people don’t want others to know you’ve done.’

Darine beamed. ‘Quick, too.’ She poked at the tea-pot. ‘The men come to me to curse an enemy, make a woman open her legs, put a poison on their blade. The women come to make a babe nest in the womb – or to rid themselves of one.’

Minna frowned, and Darine laughed. ‘When you open to the Source, girl, you must accept its light and dark both. You want to help people, then you risk the terrible along with the great. There may be beauty, noble deeds and honour, but also guilt, frustration and terror. You can feel the flight, the freedom – aye, I see you have! – but the journey there can wander through some barren valleys. You must be able to push through fear, doubt, illusion and weariness, or you will see no visions. Find your courage, or turn your back on it altogether.’ She cackled, sucking the gap in her teeth. ‘And if so, get fat with puppies instead, mend your man’s shirts by the fire, grind grain until your back bows. It’s your choice.’

Minna’s snatches of vision were full of blood and pain, but she would never forget the love and grief she saw mingled in Eremon’s face as he held that tiny body on the mountain. She knew what she would choose.

Darine poured the blackberry tea into two horn cups, her mossy eyes sharp across the fire. ‘Who are you, then, and why do the voices want you here?’

Minna curved her hands about the cup. ‘I’m from Britannia, not Alba. I was enslaved and sold to the
gaels
.’

The old woman arched sparse, white brows. ‘You bear the blood of the red-crests?’

‘My grandmother said we were of the old blood, too. She taught me how to speak and told me the old tales.’ She smiled encouragingly at Darine. ‘Tales of Deirdre and Cuchulainn of Erin—’

‘Ah, Cuchulainn!’ Darine’s eyes misted over. ‘ “For dread of me,” ’ she murmured, quoting the famous hero, ‘ “fighting men avoid fords and battles. Armies go backward from the fear of my face.” ’

Mamo had told Minna the very same thing. The room was silent as Darine searched Minna’s eyes, and though she felt as she did when Brónach probed her, this was not sickening. ‘Power you have,’ the wise-woman whispered. ‘Aye! The flame is in you, child, burning bright.’ Then in an eerie sing-song, Darine began to chant:

Three times three the king’s sword fell

And bright was the blood on the plain of spears.

One eye taken, one eye blazing

Yet the bard was the blind one

As tears took him