The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (64 page)

In the days that followed, Rhiann was aware of no one but Eremon: the tilt of his head when he spoke; the dark shine of his hair against the snow; the breadth of his shoulder when he shrugged off his cloak; the movement of tendons in his wrist when he patted Cù.

Rhiann was nearly sick with the wanting of him. And in the darkness of their bed they soon made up for all the moons they had been sundered. Yet despite the opening of their bodies that they could not, and did not want to control, Rhiann was still keeping a secret from Eremon.

For that first night together, as the ecstasy consumed them, she had seen with her spirit-eye the flame of Eremon’s soul spiralling up from his body. But there had also been another light, a cloud of shifting hues that surrounded them both, yet which came from neither.

Now, looking down at her flat belly as she sewed by the fire, Rhiann resisted the urge to touch it. For she was not ready to think about what the light might mean. Not ready at all.

BOOK FIVE

Leaf-bud, AD 83

CHAPTER 58

U
nder a dark sky, the small barge rocked precariously in the tumbling, storm-fed waters of the stream that split the Roman camp by the Forth. From the broad, wind-whipped expanse of estuary, the oarsmen had struggled upstream, obviously determined to deliver their cargo however violent the weather.

Agricola was returning from the bath-house, a heavy sheepskin cloak wrapped around his head and shoulders. When he saw the barge through the obscuring sleet, though, he slid to a halt on the icy path. No vessels were expected up the Forth until full spring, and the first month of it was only dawning now. It was too early in the season to be chancing the seas, surely! Only a madman would do so … or one with urgent news. Agricola’s pulse, heavy and slow from the heat of the bath-house, suddenly pounded harder in his neck.

Samana, her head down as she sought refuge in her own fur wrap, ran right into his back, her feet slipping on the frosted stones. ‘Why do you halt?’ she cried, shuddering with cold. ‘Come, before we are frozen through!’

Her imperious tone slid from Agricola like the drops of melting sleet, for he was too absorbed in the sight of that barge approaching the plank pier on the shingle bank below. What news could be so urgent that a crew would risk their lives to bring it to him by sea? Without a word to Samana, Agricola turned and hastened to his own command quarters. Whatever it was, he would rather receive it at ease in his own chair by the brazier, with a cup of fine wine in hand.

By the time the messenger made his way to the door, both Agricola and Samana had shaken the sleet from their hair, discarded their soaking boots, and were wrapped in dry, fur-lined robes in the outer chamber. Three well-stoked braziers gave ample warmth, and lamps blazed on the map table, the wall shelf and the side tables beside the chairs.

The messenger took in the golden lamp-glow and warming air with visible relief, as rain dripped mournfully from his black hair and the hem of his thick cloak into a puddle around his feet. His face was pale, and one hand hovered over his belly.

With a distinct lurch in his own nether regions, Agricola saw at once that this man was from Rome itself. For Agricola knew him – he was in the pay of the household of Tacitus, Agricola’s son-in-law. Tacitus had spent only one season here on the frontier, but ever since had been Agricola’s most vocal advocate with the emperor.

‘Sir.’ The servant tried to salute in the military way, but was shaken by a terrible sneeze, trailing off into a series of shudders that made his teeth chatter beneath his long tunic and cloak.

‘Warm yourself, man.’ Agricola indicated the brazier and, as the man shuffled to it and spread his hands with a sigh of relief, Samana moved to the map table, with a glance at Agricola of desperate curiosity.

Almost immediately, the servant’s shivering began to calm, and his sneezes faded into occasional sniffles, which he wiped on his sleeve, all Roman fastidiousness gone. ‘Forgive me,’ he managed at last, turning to Agricola and going down on one knee. As he did, he pulled a tube of ivory capped with gold from the belt of his tunic, and from this withdrew a parchment scroll rolled in oiled leather.

Agricola took the scroll, noting with a stab of excitement the wax seal of his son-in-law. In silence he broke it and unrolled the message, unusually informal and hastily scribed.

Greetings to my esteemed father-in-law
,

Forgive me for dispensing with our social niceties, but you will understand when you hear what I have to report, after a frustrating wait of two years. The emperor has enjoyed a major triumph in Germany and, with the resulting consolidation of his forces, I have been able, at last, to prevail upon him the urgency of returning all your forces to you. It has been a difficult road altogether, entailing many tedious visits to his various villas, innumerable boring dinners, and far too much time spent in the company of that odious man. But he has heeded me at last (now that it suits him, of course – I make no claim to have changed his mind) and has become freshly enamoured of the complete conquest of the island of Britain, including Alba. To that end, your men of the Ninth and other legions are being returned, and after a particularly successful deer hunt I even secured four cohorts of Batavian cavalry and two of Tungrians for you, plus the ships they arrive on. The men will be setting out on the Kalends of April, barring bad weather, and I hope you will have them by early May
.

Your official notification will follow, of course, but I decided to send you word early enough for you to make whatever added preparations are necessary. Poor Marcus, I don’t know in what state he has arrived with you, but a trip at this time of year was beyond the call of duty and I hope you will treat him well before sending him home
.

With the proper resources, at last, I anticipate a great increase in the glory of your name
,

Your respectful son-in-law
,

Publius Cornelius Tacitus

Agricola read the letter through once more, and again, then crumpled it on his knee, staring into the brazier.

When it became apparent that he was overcome with some emotion, and was not going to speak, the messenger, ‘poor Marcus’ of Tacitus’s letter, rose to his feet. Drawing his wet cloak from his shoulders, trying to stand straight, he said, ‘Sir, I have another message for you, for our ship put in at Eboracum. I understand you are awaiting some news from there.’

Agricola’s head immediately jerked up, and he fixed the man with sharp, eager eyes. ‘Yes?’ he barked.

Marcus swept his head down gracefully, using the movement to surreptitiously wipe his nose once more on his sleeve. ‘I have the pleasure of informing you that early in the winter your wife was delivered of a son. I am to convey to you that she and he are in good health.’

Instantly, Agricola was on his feet, the scroll falling unheeded to the ground. Samana shot him a black look, but he cared nothing for that. It was as if the coals of the brazier were filling his own breast with enervating warmth, and suddenly he knew that the darkness of the long winter was behind him.

This year
.

The gods had smiled on him, at last, setting their glorious hands over his head, blessing him with luck and joy. They had shown him the fates, they had given him the signs. Five thousand men returned to him, after such a wait. And a healthy son, born of his house, after so many years of stillbirths.

Now, this year, Agricola knew he would find resolution. And the Albans would find death.

None of the women close to Rhiann took notice that, in the first weeks after the longest night, she did not unpack any of the bundles of dried moss from the storage chest on her shelf.

Caitlin’s moon bleeding had not yet returned, as she was still feeding Gabran, and Linnet’s came no more. Eithne and Rhiann’s cycles had once waxed and waned together, yet with Rhiann’s absence over sunseason this pattern had been disrupted. Fola, too, followed her own rhythm.

If anyone thought of it, Rhiann knew that they would assume it was the aftermath of the illness, along with the sudden tiredness which forced her to bed every afternoon. Indeed, Linnet began to peer at her sharply once more, feeling her head, and, to Rhiann’s mortification, even went so far as to send some stern healer’s words Eremon’s way, for their eager nights abruptly slowed into bouts of more tender affection.

Indeed, Rhiann mused if a good sleep was all she needed. Yet somehow, she knew it was more than that, especially when she remembered the other light dancing around her, in the explosive fire of the longest night.

Though the festival of Imbolc was nearly upon them, the weather was still too unpredictable for long gathering expeditions, and Rhiann had little chance for time alone. Yet every now and then, a few bright hours seeped between the clouds which swept across the crag. Then, Rhiann would take Liath and plough through the snow sludge and bare, black woods to the eastern spring above Dunadd, and kneel there on a deer-hide by the frozen fringes of the water.

What she asked then was not something of the Goddess, but something of herself.

Why, she wondered, with Eremon’s seed being spent inside her every night, had she refrained from brewing the womb herbs? It could have been from simple fear of Eremon’s reaction, but after what they shared in the Otherworld, she didn’t think she feared that severing any more.

Sitting there by the spring in the feeble sunlight, among the frosted branches of rowan, Rhiann touched her belly with awe, unable to name even to herself why she had let this be. The apprehension about how it might affect her position had not changed, nor the questionable wisdom of bringing forth a child at this unstable time.

And yet … Rhiann had travelled far to reach Eremon, and she found she could not rid herself of a part of him that had taken root in her. It would be a denial of all they had shared, the value of his pain and hers. It would be sacrilege, not because of the Goddess, or Linnet or Caitlin, or even Eremon, but because of Rhiann herself and the promise she had made, to love him in Thisworld and keep no part of her heart back.

Rhiann now spread her hands fully over her belly, each finger glowing in the weak sunlight. The air was still so cold it felt like a burning on her skin. ‘Hello,’ she whispered, hardly daring to breathe it aloud. And under her fingers, something trembled and was woken, and she knew it was not the child, for it was too early for that. No, it was something in her that had woken, something that quivered with new life, as tiny and fresh as the child itself.

Mother. Me
.

A part of her that had only been sleeping, perhaps; sleeping like the soul of the child had slept in the Otherworld, waiting for her call.

Despite the late thaw, Imbolc dawned clear. The stream of mare’s milk fell straight into the river; a column of polished crystal, gleaming in the sunlight.

This was Rhiann’s first official duty since her illness, for Linnet had led the longest night rites to call back the sun with drum and voice. Now as Rhiann leaned out over the water, tilting the fluted bronze jug, she had the uncomfortable sensation that all the keen eyes of the women were fixed on her belly under the wool dress. With her free hand, Rhiann clutched the folds of her sheepskin cloak closer around her, telling herself she was imagining the sharp edge to their collective gaze.

No one knew. No one could know, so early. Yet she was glad when the river rite was over, and the women all trooped to Aldera’s house for hot mead and gossip.

Aldera had prepared them a special treat this day, slaughtering an old ewe that had been kept alive on dried grass all through the long dark. The meat was roasting over her fire-spit as they all took their places on the benches and chairs, the scent of fat and flesh a thick, greasy mist above the hearth.

It was as the women chatted about their concerns – who was breeding, who was ill, who was lying with men other than their husbands – that Rhiann began to notice the prickling at the base of her spine. She shifted in her seat, narrowing her eyes at the embroidery in her lap. She was embellishing a tunic for Gabran, as he was growing at an increasing pace, and she was just finishing the intricate curls of the hound chasing a boar around the hem.

Then Aldera stood to baste the ewe with fat from the drippings tray, and a rich surge of meat scent flooded Rhiann’s nostrils. She realized she was breaking out in a fine sweat across her forehead and, frowning, she closed her eyes and lowered her face so her hair swung forward to cover it. Yet the prickle in her spine soon swelled into robust life, curling tentacles around into her belly, and she bit down on her lip and swallowed, her tongue thick and slimy in her mouth.

She glanced up to see Linnet looking at her appraisingly, and Rhiann smiled and sat straighter, struggling to contain the turning of her stomach. Yet it was so hot and close, the air heavy with the smells of flesh and sweat and someone’s cloying, imported perfume.

‘Excuse me.’ Abruptly, Rhiann stood, her throat moving. ‘Aldera, I left a brew simmering that I must check.’

That was all she could get out, and ignoring Fola’s sharp glance of concern, she bolted for the door. Outside, the glitter of sun on the icy cobbles was a welcome distraction, as Rhiann ducked around the back of Aldera’s house, past the pig pen, and bent over. Yet her buttocks against the mud wall and the blast of cold air steadied her almost immediately, sweeping away the heavy richness of the fatty meat, and her nausea ebbed.

Thankful that she’d escaped vomiting before every noblewoman in the dun, Rhiann straightened. Yet as she did, her eye fell on the remains of the drain Didius had constructed for Bran so long ago, now filled in with the season’s mud and animal bones. And at the thought of him, and his people, Rhiann’s hand crept across her belly. What was she thinking, to bring a child into the world at this time? It was wrong, it was all wrong.