The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (11 page)

‘Curious,’ Gelert observed, ‘how you and your man strive against our dreaded enemy and yet keep one of them here as your hound at heel. Anyone would think you had something different in mind than mere defence.’

‘They
are
our enemies, and remain so,’ Rhiann replied coolly, turning back to him. ‘Didius is a prisoner, as you well know.’ She was belatedly conscious that Didius was also best away from Gelert’s attention.

Gelert eyed Didius’s unbound wrists and legs with the same derision with which he’d studied her belly. ‘A prisoner, or an envoy? It is remarkable how such things can be easily mistaken.’ He glided away towards the shrine, his pale robe blending with the mist.

Rhiann held her tongue for a moment, breathing steadily through her nose. Then she smiled wanly down at Didius. ‘I am sorry.’

Didius was looking after Gelert like a stiff-backed hound, his body trembling, and Rhiann laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep away from him,’ she murmured. ‘Do not let his eye fall on you for any reason. He bears me no love, and extends the same to those I care for.’

A flush of surprised pleasure warmed Didius’s cheeks, and he dropped his eyes to his feet.

Rhiann smiled. ‘You are part of my household now – I extend that care to you.’

The kettle was steaming when Rhiann and Didius went back inside the Hall. Rhiann poured tea for both of them and took hers back to bed. Eremon stirred when she eased under the covers, flinging an arm out over her thighs, but he did not fully awaken.

Rhiann held the cup to warm her fingers, gazing up at the hanging on the wall by the bed, seeing with her eyes only dark shapes against light, yet knowing every thread of it better than she knew her own face. Her mother had woven it before Rhiann was born, and it depicted the goddess Rhiannon on her White Mare. The mare’s sides were so pure they shone almost silver, and Rhiannon’s blue cloak trailed stars. The scene glowed with power, the power of woman and the Goddess, the Great Mother. And Rhiann had not only been named after this Goddess, but was also She incarnate, the Mother of the Land for her people.

So how can I let myself fear Gelert so?
Rhiann grumbled to herself, burrowing deeper into the warm nest of furs.
I am my mother’s daughter. She faced him and scorned him, and I can, too
.

But her mother was long dead now, taken to the Otherworld by Rhiann’s birth. Safe from the reach of one such as he.

CHAPTER 8

O
n the hills east of Dunadd, looking out over the marshy plain, Eremon’s black stallion, Dórn, snorted and pawed the muddy ground. In the two weeks since Rhiann and Eremon’s return, leaf-bud had strengthened its hold, and the marsh and crag below were hazed by a pall of cooking smoke that hung low and still in the sun-warmed air.

‘He’s eager for home,’ Conaire remarked, flexing the mailshirt stretched across his massive shoulders.

Eremon patted Dórn’s arched neck. ‘Eager for honey and mash, more like.’

‘We all need to be home.’ Lorn crossed his hands on his own reins. ‘I must fly now to my father’s dun, to deliver this news myself.’

Eremon glanced at the young Epidii lord, resplendent in a scarlet tunic and checked trousers, a hardened leather jerkin he had freshly greased, and over it a new-dyed green cloak. Lorn didn’t look as if he’d just ridden hard over the mountains and slept for a week on the ground with the scouts, chewing dried venison and hard-baked bread. His silver-gilt hair was neatly tied back with a deer-hide thong; Eremon had watched him comb it from the corner of a half-opened eye that morning. Lorn had even shaved, so the rearing bear tattoo – Urben’s totem – was clearly outlined on his cheek. Eremon, in contrast, probably looked as he felt, and he rubbed his temples now in an effort to soften his headache.

‘There’s no need to alarm your clan,’ he replied, squinting in the bright sun that spilled over the heather slopes. ‘I don’t want any rumours spreading that the Romans are marching this way, because at present they are not.’

‘Not yet,’ Lorn corrected. ‘But my father must know they have left their camps, for we command the southern defences, in case you have forgotten.’

Conaire, watching Lorn with veiled eyes, made a sound deep in his throat.

Eremon sat back in his saddle. ‘No, I had not forgotten,’ he answered dryly. They had seen nothing of Lorn or Urben, until Lorn turned up unexpectedly with a hundred of his own warriors, to continue their training as part of the warband. Nothing had been said, either of Eremon’s return, or Urben’s reaction to it. For the moment, Eremon had decided to let this lie, for he needed the men, and the cohesion of the tribe, and keeping an eye on Lorn was easier with him close by. And though Eremon wasn’t thrilled to admit it, Lorn was a fine warrior.

‘All we know is that there is a greater movement of Roman soldiers across their frontier,’ Eremon added patiently, scratching his sweaty neck above his own mailshirt. ‘In the absence of other information, this means little; I don’t want to cause unnecessary panic.’

Lorn tossed his fair hair in a gesture Eremon had only seen Caitlin use. With her, it was amusing and endearing; with Lorn, strangely irritating. ‘They are moving,’ Lorn emphasized, ‘and this means a change. If they come suddenly west, then by the Mare it will be my people who die first.’

‘Eremon’s chain of scouts works perfectly,’ Conaire pointed out, yet Eremon sensed the effort of his even tone. ‘We would know of their approach long before, leaving enough time to move your clan.’

Lorn turned glacial grey eyes on Conaire. ‘As the Damnonii knew, son of Lugaid? As the Selgovae knew?’

Conaire flushed, and his head dipped bullishly between his shoulders. ‘The Selgovae didn’t have Eremon. The Damnonii didn’t either, until we went to help them.’

Eremon shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for this reminder of the Damnonii brought back the shame. He had helped them to destroy a Roman fort two years ago, but Agricola’s retaliation had been more brutal than any expected, and now the Damnonii were a scattered people. It was not a success he wanted to repeat; if he hadn’t offered his help, perhaps those warriors would still be alive.
And Roman slaves
, he reminded himself sharply.

‘Son of Urben,’ he said to Lorn, ‘alert your father, but at this stage, not your other chieftains, and don’t allow the rumours to start. Your defences are enough for now, until we know more. Agreed?’

Lorn raised his chin, nodded sharply and wheeled his horse, a bay larger than Dórn and with red-painted hooves. Sketching a wave, Lorn took off down the slope at a reckless speed into a thick bank of woods, his green cloak flying.

Conaire let out a strangled grunt, shaking his messy halo of gold hair, which could barely be tamed into braids. Why did he bother swearing to you as war leader if he argues about everything?’

Eremon rubbed his stubbled chin ruefully. ‘He swore to support me against his better judgement, because he felt the gods were telling him so. But it makes him angry, all the same, and he must release that somehow.’

‘I’d rather he release it on my fists,’ Conaire grumbled. ‘Or better yet, my sword.’

Eremon glanced at him, but he knew Conaire wasn’t serious. A breach in the Epidii now would threaten everything they had worked for. As it was, they were fighting hard to bring all the tribes of Alba together; they had at least to hold their own as one. That was the reason for putting up with Lorn – the only reason.

Conaire saw the look and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, brother. I’ll keep my head. Although,’ he pursed his lips thoughtfully, ‘next time I train beside him I
could
slip and thump him with my hilt. Accidentally, of course.’

Eremon laughed, and the heavy veil that had clouded his heart this last day lightened. ‘If he thinks it accidental, too, then go ahead. He is a mighty test of my patience.’ They nudged their horses on. ‘Remember, brother, that he said his oath stands until the Roman threat is over, and I fear it has only really begun.’ Eremon shrugged. ‘I think we have little to fear from Lorn beyond hard words, for now. He is loyal to his people – frustrated, yet loyal.’

The gait of their mounts shifted as they edged down the slope and into the woods, yet as soon as they broke free of the undergrowth into sunlight they heard a high yip, and glimpsed another rider thundering towards them along the wide cart track that ran to Dunadd. The sun struck sparks from his red hair.

‘My lord!’ Rori cried, bringing his horse to a halt with an unnecessary flourish. Eremon saw Conaire hide his smile behind a sudden cough. ‘My lord, we have some new arrivals!’

Eremon spurred Dórn towards his youngest warrior, brushing hazel catkins from his hair. ‘Well, put us out of our misery, then! Who is it?’

Rori was agog, his red freckles blending into one great flush across his face. ‘Warriors have just this day come from the Caereni. From a chief called … Nectan.’ He swirled the unfamiliar name on his tongue. ‘My lord, is this the man who helped you after the wreck? Who made the druids honour you on the Sacred Isle?’

Eremon’s chest was suffused with a warm relief. ‘Yes, indeed.’ He and Conaire exchanged looks of surprise and pleasure. ‘So who has he sent?’

Rori’s grin was brighter than the sunlight.
‘Archers!
’ he breathed. ‘The finest I have ever seen! They have yew bows and beaded quivers and they wear odd clothes and they are so dark and small and you can hardly see them until they move and they are dressed all in skins and everything is a colour that doesn’t show up against rock or tree or grass …’ He broke off suddenly, blushing furiously. ‘Of course, you know all this. You were there.’

Eremon smiled, and leaned out to rest his hand on Rori’s shoulder. ‘You can hear any such good news more than once. They
are
fine archers, the finest. Nectan does me great honour to send them.’ He looked again at Conaire, a question on his face. ‘Yet the Caereni chiefs told me they would only send men in the event of battle. I was not expecting any aid now.’

Conaire drew a hunting spear from his saddle pack and hefted it idly, testing its weight. ‘Rhiann was always saying that Nectan is far-seeing. Perhaps he knows we will need men soon.’

The dark spectre of the Romans flitted across Eremon’s mind once more. Yet he could not deny the excitement that rose behind the cloud. ‘Brother,’ he said to Conaire, ‘with the other kings set against the alliance for now, Calgacus and I don’t have enough men to challenge Agricola openly. But we can ambush and stalk – and for that, a set of fine Caereni archers will be very useful!’

Rhiann paused in the sun at her own doorway to brush the dew from her skirts.

Just inside, Eithne was scouring the iron cookpots clean with fresh sand. Like all young things she had recovered from her shock quickly, and Rhiann saw that her black hair and eyes were gleaming again, and the bony angles of her body were already filling out. She was growing up so fast, and into a beauty, Rhiann suddenly realized, as Eithne jumped up to relieve her of the gathering basket and digging stick.

Once inside, Eithne set before Rhiann an alder bowl of water with soaproot, to wash the dirt from her hands, and a drying cloth, and knelt to unlace Rhiann’s muddy boots.

Rhiann looked around her little house with a relief that it had been put to rights again. The pot by the door was full of water from the well. The basket by the hearth was overflowing with roasted barley grains from last year’s harvest, ready for grinding, and there was a fresh joint of beef hanging among the herbs on the rafters. The goddess figures were lined up on their shelf, and the bright cushions and rugs had been beaten, aired and set neatly around the fire pit.

‘The early sun has brought out the dog roses,’ Rhiann told Eithne.

Eithne was now sorting through the basket, carefully brushing dirt off the roots, leaves and flowers, and laying them on the workbench under the herb shelves. Rhiann joined her there.

‘I do not yet know this one.’ Eithne held up one plant with spreading, pleated leaves.

‘This is lady’s-mantle; I went some way to find it. And you know feverfew.’

Eithne’s brow creased as she repeated the names. ‘But what are they for?’

‘For pregnancy.’ Rhiann busied herself pulling out the other bundles of leaves, so Eithne would not see the concern in her face. Caitlin was feeling worse, not better, and Rhiann was determined to try everything she could to ease her way. ‘Did you sit with Caitlin, then?’

‘Yes, lady. I helped her bathe, but then she wished to sleep, so I went to the well and came back here to boil water and wait for you.’

This pregnancy at least was timely, Rhiann thought, reaching up for a basket of the dried red haws. The festival of Beltaine was over, and the longest day still some weeks away, so there were no major rituals to organize. The sun’s warmth was melting away the fevers and hacking coughs of the long dark. Offerings were required neither for planting nor harvest; the barley fields around the dun were blessed and sown, and sprouting strongly. The cattle from surrounding homesteads had been driven up to sunseason pasture in the hills, and the ripening of fruits, berries and nuts was still moons away. The heather was not yet blooming, for ale; the honey was not yet flowing, for mead; and it was too early to take the oak bark, wild onions and woad leaves for dyes.

Rhiann’s floor rushes had needed changing after the long dark, but the cutting and hauling and strewing had only taken the women a few days, and then the only thing left to do was gather herbs. All the new leaves, buds and early blooms were strong in their first growth, reaching to the sun.

When the brew was ready, Rhiann and Eithne took a covered pot to Caitlin, who was up and squatting by the hearth in the King’s Hall, kneading some barley dough on the warm stone.

Eithne took over the baking of the bannocks while Rhiann checked Caitlin’s pulse, eyes, breath and tongue, as she did every day. And as she did every day, Caitlin rolled her eyes at Eithne when Rhiann was peering in her mouth.

Rhiann closed Caitlin’s mouth with a tap on her chin. ‘You can squirm and complain and protest all you like, but it won’t make me leave you alone.’ She reached for the cooling brew and horn cup, glancing sidewise at Caitlin with a smile. ‘Anyone would think you ungrateful.’