The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (12 page)

Yes, he needed a strong man … but not a hero.

Doubt writhed in his heart, until avarice rose, reminding Gelert how powerful he himself was. The prince was a beast that wielded a sword well, that was all. He was merely a warrior. He could be as easily directed as a man directs oxen at the yoke.

And then there was the girl, Rhiann.

Proud and scornful, just like her bitch mother Mairenn, who’d
looked at him with the same contempt when she threw his marriage offer back in his face, all those years ago. And the girl was likewise a priestess, and equally disobedient and wilful, always preening with her so-called goddess power.

Well, he wouldn’t make the same mistake with
her
. She would be yoked to the plough early, for his gods had whispered the source of her suffering, and how to increase it until she could no longer raise her face to scorn him with those blue eyes.

Mairenn’s eyes
.

Ah, yes, the prince could become quite a useful weapon. At this, avarice finally triumphed, and Gelert left, wondering how soon to take the young man aside.

The carvings on the gate that led to the crag flickered shadows across Conaire’s pained face. ‘Take us to your healer’s house, quickly!’ Eremon cried to the Epidii men who took over the litter. He was so intent on ensuring that they did not jostle his foster-brother that he took no notice of where they were going. Then the bearers were laying the litter down on the ground, and he looked up.

They were outside a small roundhouse near the crest of the dun, and a woman was emerging from the covering over the door. Eremon knew that hair, those fine features, from the day of his arrival.

She is the healer
? He should not be surprised; many female druids were healers, after all. But she looked so young and frail; she could not be more than eighteen. Would she be good enough to save his brother?

Without a glance at Eremon, she went to kneel at Conaire’s side, taking his hand. She felt his pulse, sniffed his breath, checked his eyes, and finally peeled back the pad of torn wool, sticky with blood, that covered his groin. The boar’s tusk had in fact just missed Conaire’s most precious organ, and gone deep into the upper thigh instead. At her probing fingers, Conaire stirred and cried out in pain, and his eyes opened.

The woman looked up at Eremon, and in place of the cold eyes on the beach, he saw the professional frown of a healer. ‘How long ago did it happen?’ she asked.

‘Nearly two days, now.’ Then the words burst out: ‘Can you help him?’

Her frown deepened, and all she said was, ‘Take him inside.’

Eremon barely noted what the inside of her house was like, but was conscious somewhere that it smelled different, earthier, the air tinged with the strange, sharp scents of herbs and ground roots.

The woman was confidently issuing a stream of orders to a little, dark serving woman, to put water on to boil, and to gather linseed and moss
and bandages. He helped to ease Conaire on to a small pallet in an alcove divided from the rest of the room by a wicker screen.

It was crowded now, with Finan, Rori and even Aedan milling around helplessly, until the servant shooed them away, scolding like a small, wiry crow. At length, only Eremon and the healer remained by the bedside.

Eremon leaned over Conaire, his hand gentle on his brow. It was the first time his foster-brother had been conscious since crossing the strait from the island, when the boat was tossed by waves, and Conaire, groaning, had thankfully slipped away into a faint.

‘When I said we should prove our strength, my brother, I did not mean that you must try to kill yourself.’ Eremon said it lightly, but his chest was tight.

Conaire tried smiling, his forehead sheened with sweat. ‘I thought something big was needed.’ His voice was hoarse, and he broke into a cough. ‘It was a good leap.’

Eremon squeezed his shoulder. ‘Yes, it was. But now I want you to put the same effort into getting well.’

Conaire could only close his eyes in exhaustion, and Eremon looked up to find the druid watching him closely, as she soaked a cloth in a bronze basin by the bed. ‘You’ve got to help him,’ he said, heedless of the plea in his voice. Let her think him weak; right now he did not care.

She answered him bluntly, but her hands were gentle as she laid the cool cloth on Conaire’s forehead. ‘The wound itself is not serious, otherwise he would be dead by now. But … wounds from the boar often turn bad. I do not know why. This is what we must fight.’

Conaire’s eyes flickered open again. ‘It has been long since I gave to the Boar, Eremon. Perhaps He is angry …’

Eremon picked up the hand that lay limply on the blanket, and held it. ‘Then I will sacrifice for you! I will give him so much that his eye never falls on you again, except with favour!’

Conaire tried to smile, but the smile turned into a wince as the wound cramped again.

‘I will do all I can for him,’ the woman murmured. She hesitated. ‘It is best for him to have quiet now. Go and make your sacrifice. The shrine is at the brow of the hill. And I will pray to the Mother of All, the Great Goddess.’

Unhearing, his eyes still on Conaire’s face, Eremon muttered, ‘I thank you,’ and rushed off as if he did not have a moment to lose.

The night was long, as all nights were when Rhiann had this particular fight to win. The fire, banked higher than usual, threw ghoulish, leaping shadows on to the walls. But she was lost in her own world, and did not
notice Brica replenishing the water, or bringing her more moss pads, or clearing bloody bandages.

This role Rhiann fulfilled gladly. To her healer’s soul, all patients were equally in need of care, even this … this invader, this man. She had only to use her knowledge. She did not need to deal with her heart at all. It was simple. And she did it well, for this skill had been left to her. She still had this.

She murmured the required prayers over steeping golden-rod and yarrow, and sang as she ground ivy in her mortar-bowl. The man, now drenched in sweat, tossed and cried in delirium, giving long, tortured speeches about betrayals, and battles, and Erin. She listened closely, intrigued, but could make no sense of it. Did his wandering mind speak of myths long gone, or his own past?

When the wound was cleaned and packed, she dribbled sorrel in sour milk between his lips, seeking to bring down the fever. She knew that although the poison was bad, this burning was the hungry consumer of men’s souls. She had seen it happen many a time, even from slight wounds.

At least this man was strong. His arms were thick, his chest wide, his midriff lean and packed with muscle. And unlike the men of her own tribe, this man’s skin was smooth and hairless. For some reason this brought her a flash of memory, a memory that had not passed the borders of her mind for many moons.

Few men had she seen like this, and only one had she touched when not a healer, many years ago, back on the Sacred Isle. She felt her face flush. And why did
that
thought arise now, of all times?

She dragged her gaze to her patient’s face instead, pushing the memories away. He was younger than she had first thought him, with only a faint stubble of beard on his chin. In fact, now that he was in repose, he looked little more than a harmless boy, with a soft mouth that could even be called innocent, if she ever thought of men that way.

Then her eyes fell on the white seams of scars on those great arms, and the curving score on his cheek, and she shivered. He was no innocent boy, this one – no poet, no artist, like the man in her memory from the Sacred Isle. This man was a killer.

Just like his prince.

Chapter 11

E
remon hardly left Conaire’s side for days. The only other place he frequented was the small shrine on the crag’s crest, where he exchanged some fine finger-rings for the daily sacrifice of a ram.

It was there that Gelert sought him out in the freezing dawn.

Eremon was on one knee before the wooden image of Cernunnos, his sword across his lap. Clouds crowded in over the lip of the open roof, swelling with rain. He looked up at Gelert’s step and started, before getting to his feet. ‘You do not worship Hawen, our Boar God,’ Eremon said, gesturing to the idol, half-embarrassed. ‘But your druids told me that this is the Lord of the Hunt, and we revere him, too.’

‘Come.’ Gelert threw the tattered edge of his sheepskin cloak over his shoulder. ‘I wish to talk privately, and the view is fine from here.’

The old man led Eremon through an archway opposite the main entrance, and out on to a rock ledge that faced west, towards the sea. They edged past a rough-hewn stone altar, smaller than the one inside the shrine, stained dark with blood that was a black crust in the dank sunrise. There, against the shrine’s outer wall was an oak bench, and Gelert sat himself down and gestured for Eremon to do the same.

The marsh was still floating in mist, and from the exposed mudflats at the river mouth came the lament of a redshank, and a wavering line of geese that rose and flowed southwards. Gelert sat straight and still, so still that the only movement was his breath stirring the wisps of his white beard. Eremon decided to say nothing: the druid could break the silence first.

‘You conducted yourself admirably on the boar hunt,’ Gelert observed at last. ‘Our people cannot stop talking of you – your bravery, your daring. I, however, was particularly impressed by your strategic abilities with the Creones bucks.’

Eremon was taken aback. The last thing he expected from Gelert was
praise. ‘Well, I … it is no more than I was trained to do.’ He was at a loss for anything better to say.

‘Ah, yes, your training.’ Abruptly, Gelert turned to Eremon and fixed him with both eyes. They glowed like coals in the shadow of the pillars. ‘I am no fool, young man. I know very well that you are hiding a secret.’

With every shred of control he possessed, Eremon forced the sudden surge of guilt away from his face, and instead put in place a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Lord Druid.’

‘Oh, I think you do. But, be assured – I am not going to ask you what it is.’

Eremon’s belly uncramped, though he thought it best to stay silent.

‘I can see that you are a noble’s son.’ Gelert waved that away as if it were of little importance. ‘Your skill with weapons, your command of your men – these would be enough, but with my druid eyes I see it written into every line of your bearing, and the pride on your face.’

He said this last with distaste, and Eremon could feel himself bridling at this casual dismissal of his breeding, which he held more important than anything else. For it was, of course, all that he had now. ‘I
am
a king’s son, as I said. And I’m here to trade, as I said, but if your council does not meet with me soon, I will be forced to go elsewhere.’

‘Yes, the question of trade.’ Gelert closed his eyes, gripping his oak staff, and his voice dropped into the sibilant tones that druids used whenever they were pronouncing prophecies. The hair on the back of Eremon’s neck rose. ‘But there is this. You may be a king’s son, but behind you I see a darkness, Eremon of Dalriada. Something that chases you before it, that rides your shoulder like a war crow. A different reason for your arrival on our shores.’ He opened his eyes, and his voice returned to normal. ‘I have not discovered what your secret is yet, but I soon will. You would not like that, would you?’

Eremon’s heart was hammering now, but he only said, ‘I don’t mean to offend, Lord Druid, but I really have no idea what you mean.’

Gelert smiled. ‘I leave the trading to others, boy, but I have a …
proposal
… to make to you. You value your secret very much. And I can promise that not only will I not reveal it to anyone, but I’ll protect you from any attempts by others to discover it. And make no mistake,’ he leaned forward until Eremon could smell his old breath, ‘I am high, very high in the ranks of the druids of Alba. You will find no better ally than me.’

Eremon could not believe what he heard, but if he said anything, he would betray himself. He realized that his hands were clenching Fragarach’s fine scabbard, the chased boar design digging into his skin, and he tried to loosen his grip.

‘And in exchange?’ Gelert answered his own question. ‘Why,
strangely enough, you don’t have to give anything away in this deal, for I am going to give you yet something else. Honour beyond your wildest dreams.’

Eremon had to know. ‘What,’ he said slowly, his tongue dry in his mouth, ‘are – you – talking – about?’

But Gelert was not quite ready to come to the point, and he sat back again. ‘I have a truth to tell you, prince. I was waiting until I saw what kind of man you are. But you will already have guessed. The man we were sending to the west on the day you arrived was our king, Brude, son of Eithne.’

Eremon had guessed, and wondered again why the druid had lied. Kings die – but surely the Epidii already had another king picked out, whoever he was.

‘I did not want you to know this at first, for his death has, alas, made us weak. Four moons ago the warriors of our royal clan were in the south on a cattle raid, when a plague struck. It took our king’s chosen heirs – all of them. There is no man of the royal blood left who can be king – no one young enough, skilled enough, unblemished. If Brude’s line dies, then the rival clans will fight each other for the kingship. My kin, Brude’s kin, will be dispossessed, but even worse, the tribe will be riven from within. We cannot afford that, not now the Romans approach.’