The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (21 page)

Gelert gripped his oak staff, his hands white over the owl’s eyes. Then he turned for the door. ‘Until leaf-bud, then, prince.’

Eremon watched him go, suddenly sensing Conaire beside him. ‘Should you antagonize him so, brother?’ Conaire asked.

‘He needs to be reminded of his place. An understanding, ha! I will be no man’s hound, to come at his call. Perhaps it is time for him to find out what he took on when he made me that offer.’ Eremon threw his tunic down on the nearest bench. ‘Come! Get your blade. I need to sweat this druid stink out of my skin!’

Rhiann hefted the heavy babe on her hip. ‘Goddess, but he’s a weight. He’s fattening up nicely now!’ She tickled the baby under the chin, and he giggled and butted his head into her shoulder.

‘He is now, thanks to you, lady.’ Aldera, the wife of Bran, the smith, smiled at her son indulgently. They were standing outside the door to Bran’s house.

‘Now, I still want you to give him the powder in mare’s milk every day for one more moon. Brica, have you given Aldera the packet?’

‘I have, mistress.’ Brica was hovering over Rhiann with her cloak, eyeing the new crust of snowfall on the path.

Just then Rhiann caught sight of Gelert coming down through the Horse Gate from the King’s Hall, his face thunderous. Behind him trailed some of the novices in training. As he drew level with them, he slowed his steps.

‘Lord Druid.’ Aldera bobbed a curtsy.

Gelert nodded at the women, and then his sharp glance took in Rhiann standing there with the baby. His eyes roved over her, resting so very deliberately on her belly. Rhiann just as deliberately kissed the soft hair on the baby’s head.

She knew that Gelert missed little, and was no doubt marking her thinness and the worn creases of exhaustion. Yes, the pleased smirk that crossed his face as he kept walking left her in no doubt of that. He wanted to see if she was breeding. He wanted to see how much pain she was in.

Watching his departing back, the white hair straggling over his shoulders, she toyed with the thought of telling him exactly how she was, just to wipe that sly smile off his face. Showing him that his plans had not hurt her would give great satisfaction … but no. It would do neither she nor her tribe any good to unmask her relationship with the prince right now.

As she and Brica said their farewells and headed home, she was struck by the thought that if the marriage tie was severed, Gelert would seek to wed her to another man immediately. And that man would no doubt prove to be more demanding of his marriage rights than the prince of Erin.

That thought kicked her in the belly, and she froze. Brica halted too. ‘Mistress?’

‘I need to go for a walk.’

Brica looked up at the heavy clouds. ‘It will be warmer by the fire.’

‘I don’t want warmth, I want air.’

Brica bit her lip. ‘You must take care with your health, lady. This lack of sleep …’ She trailed off, and Rhiann saw the anger in her sharp face. Brica still slept in her own bed. She, too, assumed that the prince was keeping Rhiann up of a night to satisfy his lusts.

‘I am sleeping more now, and fresh air is as important as rest, as you well know – though delight in ignoring.’ She said it lightly, as a jest, but Brica’s mouth pursed.

The little woman put the pack of herbs on the ground and took off her cloak. ‘At least put this on underneath your own. I’ve only to go a few steps.’

Rhiann complied, chastened. Brica tugged both cloaks closed around her throat and pulled Rhiann’s hood up. ‘There.’

‘Thank you, Brica.’ The wind on Dunadd’s crest would be fierce, coming in from the northern mountains, so she had to admit Brica was right.

She was having to admit all sorts of things about all sorts of people, she realized, as she walked away. And a cold face framed by dark hair flashed into her mind.

‘Cù!’ Eremon whistled, expecting to see the hound racing back through the Horse Gate at his call. But all he heard was a faint yip from the houses below the shrine. ‘Fool dog!’ he muttered, brushing the feathered snowflakes from his eyebrows, thinking of the warm fire behind him, and Conaire waiting with the
fidchell
board. But the hound was still young, not yet running with the king’s pack, and Eremon didn’t want him bothering anyone with his exuberance.

He followed the trail of yelps out of the gate and down between the houses, ducking along unfamiliar paths, slippery with frozen slush.
Then, coming around the curve of a wall, he stumbled across a doorway, its hanging tied back. And this place he did know. He approached silently, almost fearfully, alarmed at the rumbles of Cù’s growls coming from within.

It was his new wife’s house. She was alone by her hearth-place, her back to the door, bent over. Both hands were clasping the end of a linen cloth that Cù was gripping and shaking madly, his tail a blur of grey, a growl punctuating each wrench of his head.

Gods! That was all Eremon needed. He raised a foot to step inside, to take Cù in hand, but then checked himself. For a most unexpected sound suddenly rang out. The princess was laughing.

Instantly, Eremon pressed back against the wall. Cù yipped once more, from the side of his clenched jaws, and pulled harder.

‘You’re a strong lad!’ she chuckled, leaning back on her heels, tugging the cloth. ‘But don’t pull me over!’ It was a rich, throaty laugh, completely at odds with the coldness of her features, the thinness of her body, the way she always hunched into herself.

But the moment couldn’t last; a breath before Cù himself noticed Eremon, she swung around, her face a white oval of shock and dawning embarrassment.

He took a step forward, drawing some dignity around him. She’d caught him spying! ‘I’m sorry if the hound disturbed you, lady.’

Cù dropped the cloth and launched himself at Eremon, his paws landing against his chest and throwing him off balance. By the time Eremon disentangled himself, the girl had retreated to the other side of an oak workbench, set near the wall of healing potions. Her face was tilted, and he could just see the curve of her cheek, flaming a deep red.

He racked his brains for anything sensible to say. ‘I – ah – as it happens, I needed to speak with you anyway.’

‘Really?’ She wrapped the chewed cloth around her fingers and grasped the handle of a steaming pot, pouring what smelled like hot beeswax into an earthen bowl. He thought he saw her hands tremble, just slightly.

‘It’s about these levies,’ he said, stepping cautiously to her fireside. On the hearthstone, close to the coals, barley bannocks were toasting, and he sniffed.

‘Levies?’

‘Don’t tell me the news has not gone around the whole dun.’ He glanced at her, and she lifted her chin.

‘I don’t gossip with the other women.’

‘Yes, I had noticed that.’ He circled the hearth slowly, deliberately avoiding any sharp movements. Cù had by now flopped down by the fire. ‘I’m calling in fifty warriors from each clan to be quartered here, and in the nearby duns. I’m going to train them as one warband.’

‘Fifty each! But that’s five hundred men!’

‘Even that will be no more than a gnat bite on the hide of the Roman army, though it’s a start. They will be here at Imbolc.’

‘Imbolc? But the snows will only just be melting; the storms still fierce!’

On a low shelf near the door he passed a line of squat figurines, ochre-stained. Next to them, a collection of faded shells and dried anenomes. ‘I’m going to clear the King’s Hall and train them inside, in shifts. Any time we can, I’ll train them outside. We’ll need to drill the chariot teams as well …’

‘You are going to train them outside?’ Her voice was incredulous.

‘Yes.’ He reached out to touch the smooth back of a speckled cowrie shell. ‘Armies may not march in the long dark, but we can certainly walk a few steps down to the river meadow.’

She was silent, and he turned, fighting down exasperation. ‘As soon as the weather breaks, the Romans will be on the move again. Do you think they just came here to poke their heads over your border and wave their standards? We must be ready for them. It is the only way.’ He had argued this very point with the council for a full day.

‘You’re right.’ She was nodding. ‘The Romans are here for more than that.’

He blinked, surprised. ‘And how do you know this?’

‘I am a priestess.’

‘You have seen it?’

A pause. ‘My aunt has seen it.’

‘Well.’ That was interesting. ‘Let us speak of this soon. For now, I need you to think about how you’ll distribute the men among the houses, and look to your provisions.’

A spoon clattered to the bench. ‘I?’

‘Yes, who else? You are to all intents the Queen of this dun, are you not? I’ve managed to decipher some of your admittedly strange kin system. And despite the unorthodox marriage that I find myself in …’ At that, she lowered her eyes. ‘Despite this, you are wife to the war leader. I must be able to rely on your support in that area.’

If in no other
. He did not say the words, but the bitterness leaped to his throat, surprising him.

Her head reared, as if she heard him. ‘I will organize which houses will take the men. We were already putting down extra provisions in case of siege or war, but I’ll make sure to store more.’

Some small relief swept through him. She would co-operate, then. ‘Good. And I think that we’ll also need extra clothing.’ He patted his leg, and Cù rose to heel. ‘Thank you.’

His awkwardness had returned, but she was stirring her beeswax
salve, staring resolutely into the bowl. ‘Know that I put my people first. Always.’

As he left her, he wondered if he’d ever hear that laugh again. It would have warmed the hearthside, now that the snows closed in.

Chapter 19

T
he longest night of the dark was seen out with drums and yew boughs, and moon cakes of hazel and roasted acorns. And then, in the midst of a week of sleet storms, a clear day dawned.

Shaking out her riding trousers from the chest where they had lain musty for a moon or more, Rhiann piled on a wool shift and sheepskin tunic, and wound the thongs of her snow boots up her calves. She simply must get out of the King’s Hall. It reeked of old sweat and unwashed male bodies and stew – she was heartily sick of mutton stew! Her eyes were strained and gritty from huddling over embroidery in the firelight, her fingers cramped and clumsy.

When Liath saw her riding cloak, she tossed her head and pawed the stable floor. ‘Are you tired of this, too, my love?’ Rhiann patted her nose. ‘Too much soured barley and too little air. Let’s stretch those legs of yours!’

Despite the clouds there had been little deep snow, and what was left was trampled into a muddy slush that made the going difficult. But Rhiann did not want to keep to the valley paths. She had something else to do. She took the southern trail, and then urged Liath away from it, up the slopes to the east, and into the forests.

There were many places sacred to the Old Ones there, slabs of rock with strange spirals carved on them, and an underground gateway to the Otherworld made of stones. And in a hidden fold of the land, there was a sacred pool, which a spring fed so slowly that the water was always clear and smooth.

Liath plunged gamely through the deeper drifts, her sturdy legs made for such going. Little moved among the ice-rimed branches and pale sunlight, but the robin’s trill still sounded from a high branch, and more bird calls came, carrying far in the crisp air.

Rhiann tethered Liath on a rowan tree by the spring. Tattered scraps of cloth tied around the branches – last year’s offerings – fluttered in the
sighing wind that came down from the heights above. She spread out a hide on the banks of the pool and leaned over the water. The surface was unfrozen, and only a crust of ice frosted the moss.

From her pack she pulled a garland of dried marigolds, gathered in sunseason, and a copper arm-ring. It was Gaulish: she’d been careful to choose something that was not Roman. Lastly, she unstoppered a tiny vial of rose-scented oil. Dabbing it on her spirit-eye, she murmured, ‘Elen, water guardian, I come annointed to your shrine. Hear my plea.’ Then she cast the flowers on the water, and gently tossed the arm-ring into the deepest part of the pool. It spun, over and over, then faded from view.

Now Rhiann took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to empty her mind. She’d deliberately not taken
saor
or any of the herbs of seeing. She wanted to find out if she could do this for herself, to gain some hint of what was in store for them when leaf-bud came.

She remembered the power that surged through her as she looked into the silver seeing bowl on the Sacred Isle … the pillar of light and heat that spilt into the top of her head and poured down her body, as if she stood under a waterfall of light. She ached for it again.

But to find it, she must breathe. And breathe.

Soon, the trickling of the spring out into its stream was dulled. The whoosh of Liath’s breath softened into the keen breeze around her. All she could hear was her heartbeat, and the rasp of her breath, the rush of blood in her ears. ‘Goddess of all, She of the Three Faces, Lady of the Forest. I plead for Your grace. Guide me today in love for Your people. Show me what steps I must make upon the path back to You.’ She opened her eyes and leaned out over the water, holding the steadiness of the heartbeat and the breath in her mind.