The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (7 page)

‘He came to us as the sun,’ a younger one breathed. ‘The gods must favour him!’

Gelert studied the foreigner before taking the ring. ‘We will offer your gift at a sacred spring. The gods will look kindly on you.’ He beckoned one of the novices forward. ‘Take these men to the funeral hut, and send mead.’ He swivelled his eyes to the
gael
leader. ‘We are soon to return home, and have little food to give you beyond cold meat. You can drink, though, and then we’ll speak.’

Wide-eyed, the novice led the men up the beach to a single roundhouse that stood on the
machair
, the flower-starred strip of grassland that edged the sands.

Rhiann watched them pass. Now that they were close, she could see the prince’s clothes, though well-made, were torn and crusted with salt. Yet he held his head as if dressed in the most expensive finery, and now that the crooked smile was gone, his dark braids framed a face that seemed carved from stone. His forehead was a smooth plane, his jaw-line clean, and high cheekbones gave his eyes an exotic, slanted cast. Yet his out-thrust chin was too sure of itself, and the eyes themselves were a glacial green. Then she saw the bloodless lines on his swordhand from clenching hard the horn pommel of his sword.

Ah … he was lying. His face dared someone to see it, as his very hand betrayed it. Someone who could lie and look so fair was dangerous. She wondered if Gelert already knew.

Behind the leader came the largest man Rhiann had ever seen. His mop of barley hair and sky-blue eyes gave him a boyish air, yet his arms were thick as young trees, and a curved scar caught at the corner of one eyelid, pulling it down slightly and scoring his cheek. A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, which broadened when the young women crowded forward to stare at him. Aiveen, Talorc’s bold daughter, was foremost among them, her butter-coloured braids swinging.

And then there came a shy youth, hidden behind a shock of scarlet hair, neck a mass of freckles. Then a bard, pretty as a girl, with cream and roses skin that was bruised along the jaw. He limped slightly, clutching his harp to his chest as if drawing strength from it. Both of these boys were too young, surely, to be away from their mothers! But then Rhiann’s eyes fell on the men who followed: all hard-bitten warriors in their prime, with sinewed arms that spoke of constant swordplay, seamed with faded scars. Likewise, their armour and weaponry shone with careful burnishing, though their tunics and trousers showed the wear of the storm.

Traders. Indeed.

As the Epidii closed in behind the foreigners, Rhiann felt a soft touch on her hand. ‘Come,’ said Linnet, ‘walking will help your body to let go of the fear.’

Until it comes again
, Rhiann thought, but accepted the arm around her shoulders. After a few steps, she glanced up, bracing herself for the pity
in Linnet’s eyes. Perversely, though she yearned for help from her aunt, she hated to be pitied.

But Linnet’s face was white, with bright spots of rose on each cheek, and her eyes had deepened to a stormy grey. She was not looking at Rhiann at all. She was staring out to sea, past the last traces of smoke from the burning, her eyes glazed.

And then Rhiann’s senses caught the smallest quiver of something else in her aunt; something entirely unexpected.

Excitement.

Eremon and his men were left alone in the funeral hut, with only one guard to watch over them. It was clear that guest laws were as sacred in Alba as in Erin. Strangers must eat before discussing their business: it was a rule that every tribe from Gaul to Erin held to.

Cold meat in a cold dawn was not ideal, though better than stale bread. The others eagerly attacked the woven willow platter of deer flesh, but under the piercing black eyes of the warrior at the door, Eremon had little appetite.

The wild blue tattoos curling up the man’s cheeks and around his eyes made him look as fierce as a charging boar. The effect was heightened by the long moustache that drooped over his mouth, and his hair, limed into stiff peaks. Eremon rubbed the stubble on his own chin, which was kept shaven among his people. Those blue markings must inspire fear in battle, but he’d rather keep his own face.

Conaire had no such qualms about eating beneath those fierce eyes. He ripped off huge mouthfuls and chewed noisily, and Rori, Finan and the others followed his lead. Eremon leaned in to pick some pieces for Cù, who was laying under his feet. The hound gulped the meat from his fingers, coating them in drool.

Eremon wiped his hand on his trousers and scanned the room.

Despite his estimation that the Alban jewellery was not as ornate as his, nor their swords as fine, the walls of this hut were painted with beautifully-wrought symbols, and similar forms were sculpted into the roof-posts and beams. Some were animals: he could see the horse, the boar, and the stag, so real that their muscles flowed as if moving. Other symbols were unknown shapes; lines and curves that were also beautiful, yet meaningless to him. The same symbols were painted on a high table by the hearth, scattered with pots of fragrant oils, and dried petals of meadowsweet. There, the bier for the dead person had clearly laid.

The guard moved, and the sunlight from the doorway glinted on his spear. Eremon frowned and shifted, conscious of his own sword’s weight by his side. He’d been furious about giving up their weapons, even though there was little choice. Many spears had been trained on them, and from the size of the warriors they were well within range. If
only he’d seen more clearly through that smoke, perhaps they could have landed somewhere else …

So much for simple fisherfolk.

He gnawed at his lip. It seemed he’d just brought his men from one danger straight to another. It was not the landing he’d imagined at all. And yet, the gods had brought him here, for the boat was driven helplessly before that storm. Were They plotting his glory, or his downfall?

It is a test
, he reminded himself.
The gods demand proof of your bravery. Show yourself worthy, and you’ll be home next leaf-fall
.

The meat was almost gone when, from outside, he heard a burst of singing and crying, a blaring of trumpets, and thundering of beaten shields. The din grew and grew, until it echoed on the walls of the house, and Cù threw his head back and howled, his eyes wild. As the noise died away to a last throbbing drumbeat, Eremon saw the Alban warrior close his eyes and murmur fervently to himself.

He did not need to ask what had happened, for in Erin they, too, drove the spirits of the dead away like this. Now the freed soul would heed the god Lugh’s call to fly away to the Blessed Isles.

Soon after, a shadow blocked the doorway: the old druid who had spoken on the beach. He was followed by a servant girl, carrying a bronze-rimmed horn cup, and the heavy, older warrior who had taken their weapons – a man almost matching Conaire’s size. The servant came straight to Eremon with the cup, its two handles cast as rearing horses. The workmanship was very fine, like that of the carvings, and to Eremon’s surprise the ale within was also good, with a musky flavour he’d never tasted before.

He must have betrayed himself, for the druid was smiling at him. It was not a warm smile. ‘Our women make the best ale in Alba. The heather flowers give it the flavour.’ The druid’s voice belied his age, ringing with power and authority.

Eremon nodded carefully, and the girl took the cup and turned to lift it to Conaire’s mouth. She was pretty, and Eremon saw her start and blush when she caught his foster-brother’s eye. After the cup had been offered to Eremon’s men, the druid wasted no more time. ‘Now,’ he said, gesturing to a screened alcove. ‘I wish to find what you are seeking here. Come, and we will speak.’

Eremon glared at Conaire, who pulled his eyes away from the girl and followed him, wiping the traces of grease from his mouth. They joined the druid and the old warrior, easing themselves on to fur cushions on the alcove’s earth floor.

Eremon began, as was his due as a guest. ‘I am Eremon, son of Ferdiad. My father is King of the great kingdom of Dalriada in Erin.
This is my foster-brother Conaire, son of Lugaid. We come to make new trade alliances with our honoured neighbours.’

‘I am Gelert, man of the oak,’ the druid returned. ‘My cousin Brude, son of Eithne, is King of the Epidii, our tribe. The King is … away, collecting tribute in the north.’

The pause was slight, and Eremon saw the Epidii warrior glance at his druid, before turning to Eremon. Around one great arm was a fox-fur band, the same colour as his hair and moustache, though they were now frosted with grey. But his blue eyes were clear, cheeks ruddy with health. ‘And I am Talorc, son of Uishne, also cousin to Brude.’ He folded his arms on his barrel chest, chin thrust forward. ‘You are right to seek us out, prince, for we are the foremost tribe on this coast, with many riches.’

I did not seek you out, and I see few riches
, thought Eremon, keeping his face still.
And where, in truth, is your king?

‘I am surprised,’ he said out loud. ‘Your death rite was for a man of great standing, it seems – yet your king is not here?’

Gelert’s yellow eyes glinted with anger. ‘You seek trade alliances, you say?’ he barked.

Eremon blinked in surprise, and nodded.

‘Then your storm gods drove you to the right place, prince. Our fortress of Dunadd rules the trade route this side of the mountains. We exchange with the tin tribes in southern Britannia, and those on the Northern Sea. What can you offer us?’

Eremon took a deep breath: at least he was ready for this. ‘The gold you see is only a part of our wealth,’ he explained, throwing open his cloak to reveal his ornate belt and jewelled dagger-hilt beneath his mailshirt. ‘Our rivers run with it, and the hills are seamed with copper. And I have men joining us with more examples of our skill. We will call on tribes all over Alba.’

Talorc’s eyes were resting on the jewelled circlet on Eremon’s brow.

‘Of course, gold is not all,’ Eremon continued, smiling. ‘We have plains of barley and rich cattle herds, for our land is warmed by milder winds than yours. And we make many other things: our craftsmen are famed the world over.’

At this, Talorc could not help himself. ‘So! We have the best deermeat, the finest hunting dogs, and the warmest hides!’ He thumped his chest. ‘Our sheep give much better wool than yours – and our women are, of course, the most beautiful.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ Conaire broke in, grinning. ‘How about I show you the quality of my sword – and your women the fineness of another weapon altogether!’

Talorc’s face twitched, then he chuckled and slapped his leg. ‘You jest well for a
gael
,’ he laughed. His eyes gleamed as he took in the breadth
of Conaire’s sword-arm. ‘I wonder if you can fight as well as you make jokes, young colt! I was cattle-raiding when you were pissing in your
bracae
! What say I give you your sword back, and—’

An abrupt movement from the druid silenced him. Gelert was raising himself to his feet with his oak staff, frowning. Eremon saw the knobbed end was carved as an owl’s head, with eyes of glittering jet, and as the druid leaned on it, two pairs of pupils seemed to fix on the prince. ‘I’m sure my cousin appreciates how little time we have for such … pleasantries. Come with us across the water to Dunadd. There we can feast you, and talk more.’ His cold gaze swept Eremon from feet to head.

Caught in that druid net, Eremon felt a sudden, childish impulse to take his men and run. Run where, though? Such discourtesy would win him nothing except suspicion. No, he was being foolish. He must trust to the Boar. The breaking of hospitality laws was unheard of, and these people were not savages, plainly, no matter what the fisherman had said.

‘Thank you, we’ll come gladly,’ he found himself saying. ‘But … you go by sea?’ He could not hide his body’s sudden remembrance of that roiling hull.

Gelert smiled thinly, as if he sensed the sickness that lurched into Eremon’s belly. ‘This is only an island: Dunadd lies across the strait to the east. We’ll give you guides for your boat, for there are many rocks in the Bay of Isles. Talorc will see to it.’ He turned to go, and then paused. ‘One more thing. We cannot speak of the dead man for one moon. Respect this, and ask no questions.’

Eremon nodded, his face stiff.

Once Gelert was gone, the air seemed lighter. Talorc clapped Conaire on the shoulder and jumped to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. In contrast to the druid, his eyes were guileless; the pale blue of a winter sky. ‘Our servants will make ready for a while yet. Let’s not waste the ale!’

Chapter 7

E
remon was glad the day had unfolded so fair, for his men came close to mutiny when he said they must take to the water again.

‘It is an island,’ he explained, as they clustered around the hearth in the hut, cups in hand. Talorc had left to speak to the Epidii nobles. ‘There is no choice.’

‘How do we know we can trust them?’ This was Finan, gruff as ever.

‘We’re under guest laws now,’ Eremon replied, with more confidence than he really felt. ‘They will hold to this, as we do. And there’s another thing.’ He drained the dregs of his ale. ‘They think I have more men coming, and that my father is a powerful ruler. They wouldn’t risk a blood feud with a king.’