The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (30 page)

She was alone
. Her arms fell to her sides. She could run – she knew that’s what Cahir had meant when he asked if she would be here. She raised her face to the weak sun and, as always, the knowing came to her heart there, as if drifting down in the dust motes. She would be haunted if she left now. Something tied her here, bound her soul, and she must find out what it was, to be free of it for ever.

As a child she had been afraid of the deepest pool in the river, and so one day Mamo stepped into it and held out her arms. Minna hovered on the bank, her toes curling into the mud.
Jump, and you will see it for what it is
, Mamo gently called. It took some time, but at last Minna jumped. The water went up her nose and she snorted and spluttered, but after a moment she and Mamo were laughing, water streaming from her black hair.

Minna opened her eyes, her throat tight at the memory. But her courage had always been stronger than her fear.

On the ride back, Cahir thought hard. If no one knew where he was going, the safety of Dunadd would not be weakened, but strengthened. He might be gathering an army, treating with the Romans, forming alliances with other tribes. He didn’t trust Maeve and oily Oran, and there were perhaps many others he could not trust either, but fear of what he intended and where he might suddenly reappear would give them all pause for thought. A long enough pause to go and … well, to find his fate.

The ponderous words made him smile, trotting along the road in spring, sun in his face.

At Dunadd, he announced he was undertaking a diplomatic mission, but did not specify where he was going or for how long. At first Maeve wheedled, trying to extract the truth, but when he remained impassive she grew suspicious and then angry. In the end she screeched all manner of hateful things that left him completely unperturbed.

He left Finbar and a band of loyal warriors in charge of Dunadd. That only left the decision of which men to take with him, a small party who could move swiftly. Donal must come, of course, and Gobán, Fergal and Tiernan. But he wanted young men with him, too, the restless ones. It was a gamble, but he’d rather have them where he could see them. So Mellan came, with Ardal and Brogan – and Ruarc.

The attraction of a mystery adventure served to silence their questions. Provisions were packed – trailcakes of fat, berries and dried meat pounded together; strips of dried beef and fish; hard cheese; flasks of ale – along with sleeping hides, furs and winter clothes. Maeve watched these preparations through slitted, furious eyes.

A day later they were back at the hut. Relief swamped Cahir when Minna appeared at the door, her head high and wary on its slim neck, like a deer. Ruarc gaped at her.

‘We will leave tomorrow,’ Cahir said swiftly. Let the young cockerel be surprised for once. ‘Tonight, we talk.’

And what was he to tell them? As night fell, they gathered around the fire. Their damp clothes stank as they dried, their boots and legs and shoulders crowded the hearth, and their spears and swords cluttered the walls. Minna stayed back, crouched on the bed.

Cahir gazed around at his men’s faces, which were suspicious, eager and expectant in turn. Then he met Donal’s gaze, his bulbous nose and lumpen ears defying his sharp, swift skill with a sword. Those mild, blue eyes were encouraging.

Could he really tell them about visions, dreams, prophecies?

‘Some information has come into my hands,’ he began at last. ‘I cannot reveal it all to you now. But this is the heart – I need to cross the mountains into Pict lands. There is something there I must find.’

‘The Picts?’ Ruarc’s voice was eager. ‘Another raid?’

‘No, it is not about fighting the Picts; indeed, I hope we do not have to. I intend to do this without them knowing we are there.’ He met Ruarc’s eyes. ‘It is about the Romans.’

A pregnant silence fell. ‘What about them?’ Mellan asked at last, puzzled.

Cahir’s pulse raced, and he stood up. ‘I am reconsidering my position on our Roman … entanglements.’ He spoke briskly, injecting power into his voice, then gave them the barest of facts: that there was some link to their ancestors and Rome in enemy land. And he had to find it.

The older ones accepted his will, but the younger still looked suspicious, and he had to have them all on side. He realized he must show them who he really was after all – there was no other way. He braced himself.

‘In vision, dream and voice, the gods have been calling me to take a new path for a long time – though they have not revealed their full purpose. Now, they have sent me an undeniable sign, something known only to me and my father, and all the kings before him.’ They were hanging on every word. ‘It is dangerous, though. If you will not come, I will go alone.’

Ruarc spoke up. ‘So you want us to trek through the Pict mountains on the order of the gods, not knowing exactly where to or to what purpose? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I am saying it is what I must do. I am asking you to provide the strength of your sword-arms. But it is your choice.’

‘And this is about the Romans,’ Ruarc persisted. ‘Resisting them.’

Cahir had not voiced that thought so baldly to himself, for it set off an earthquake inside. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Though I do not know how.’

Everyone was surprised. Ruarc’s brows rose, as a smile broke over his face. ‘Well, well. A chance to stretch our legs, skewer some Picts and thumb my nose at Romans is enough of a draw for me.’

The other young ones grinned, and Cahir’s tension began to melt.

‘But what about her?’ Ruarc asked, indicating Minna. ‘What’s
she
doing here?’ He glanced mockingly at her. ‘Though I have heard she is handy with a blade.’

Cahir had nearly forgotten about Minna, intently listening on the bed, her face growing red at Ruarc’s words. Though there was no way to explain what they had shared, his people were long used to believing such things as sight and foretellings: it was part of their soul, their stories. ‘She is of the old blood, a dreamer. She was sent the greatest vision for me, and I need her for guidance.’ At the uneasy and speculative glances, Cahir added sternly, ‘This is my will: let that be an end of it.’ He took up something from the hearth and squatted in the middle of them. In his hands was a strip of smoothed birch bark, on which he and Minna had scrawled a line map from her recollections, that first night. ‘Here is the great glen, slanted north and east.’

Dour Góban pointed a finger at it. ‘The Picts use the glen all year around.’

‘Yes,’ Cahir agreed. ‘So we cannot take that trail, though it would be easier. This is what I propose instead. We follow the Loch of the Waters east and north towards Cruachan, then the glens to its south that lead over the dead moors, and across to the lochs and mountains on the other side.’

There was a pause. ‘How far?’

‘Where the mountains close in the north there is a particular ridge. Minna saw it; we will find it.’

Tiernan, a bluff, blond man with drooping moustache, sat back and took from his mouth the twig he’d been chewing. ‘That’s right through the most rugged country, Cahir.’

‘I know, but there are advantages in that. One, it’s inhospitable, so there are few Pictish homesteads. And two, this path is harder to travel than others, so we should be able to avoid their warriors on higher ground. The worst weather has passed now. It is possible.’

‘Of course it’s possible,’ Ruarc said forcefully, his head down. ‘I just hope it’s worth it.’

Shivering in the sea-wind, Keeva hurried to keep up with Lonán as he strode into the port, which was propped high above the marsh on its rock.

After the nut cracking she’d certainly landed her fish, she thought, as the smith’s apprentice glanced at her shyly. She wished he’d been a little harder to catch, but no matter. She’d discovered these last few days just how pleasing a smith could be in the bed-furs – strong muscles matched with clever hands.

‘‘I told you it was too cold for you to come,’ Lonán ventured, in his slow, considered way. ‘You’re such a little thing.’

‘Don’t call me little.’ Keeva ducked around a cart tied up by the pier. ‘You know I don’t want you fawning on me like I’ll break at any moment.’

Lonán smiled fondly at her retorts, which made her think she was getting more in him than hard, young arms and, one day, fine dresses and bronze rings. ‘When we are wed, I can fawn all I like,’ he said, with a surprising twinkle in his eye. ‘I can do what I like as well, and you cannot gainsay me. Ever.’

Keeva exclaimed and slapped him. ‘Don’t go getting any such ideas, my lad! That’s not part of any bargain we’ve made.’

Grinning, Lonán rubbed his arm even though Keeva wouldn’t make a dent in it if she used all her force. ‘Then I might have to think again. Elva might be a more compliant wife: I’m sure she said so.’

Keeva went to strike again, and, chuckling, Lonán took off at a run, his blond braids bouncing on his wide shoulders. There weren’t many people out on this bitter day, only a few men carrying sacks and baskets on their shoulders from carts to sheds. It was still too early for ships, for the seas would not be safe for many weeks yet. Fintan the blacksmith had sent Lonán to see if there were any last stores of tin to buy from the overwintering Roman traders.

The tin forgotten, Lonán ducked in and out of the carts with Keeva behind him, both of them screeching like children. She’d just get near enough to grab his tunic when he’d dash down a different path, weaving between the houses.

Keeva had just caught up with him in a quiet backstreet when a door-hide nearby was flung back and two men strode out. Just before Keeva barrelled into them, Lonán whisked her out of the way into a nearby alley. He laughed and pulled Keeva into his arms, his lips lowering to hers, then paused when she paid him no attention. Instead, she was gazing over his shoulder, panting.

‘What?’ Lonán whispered. Keeva waved him into silence. The first man was that Lord Oran – Keeva distrusted his snaky eyes. Behind him was another man almost completely hidden in a cloak and hood. Keeva caught a glimpse of his face as he turned to murmur to Oran. He had pale eyes and a shaved forehead, now almost covered by his hood. A priest, here? The king would have a fit.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lonán whispered again, and this time, to keep him quiet, Keeva did kiss him. Their lips met and Lonán closed his eyes. Keeva, though, kept one eye open.

So she saw the woman leave the house, her stained cloak held tight about her face, her head down. Despite her plain clothes, Keeva knew the ring on her finger: a carved carnelian from Roman lands. It was Maeve.

Keeva’s thoughts tumbled, her mouth moving woodenly beneath Lonán’s.

What was the queen doing in hiding, with the king away on his mysterious mission? He had told his daughters that Minna was still very sick and being nursed at the Dun of the Rock, but Keeva didn’t believe it. Minna was with him, her heart told her, astonishing as it seemed. And when Brónach returned she had shut the door of her house and would see no one. Something odd was going on, Keeva could smell it. She was Attacotti, after all, and their blood was the oldest in Alba. Suspicion, worry for Minna, and a pang of loyalty for the king assailed her.

The Lord Oran clasped the priest’s wrist – not very religiously, she thought – and there was a clink of coins being passed between them. Breathless, Keeva broke Lonán’s kiss.

She had never heard that Christians paid priests for their god’s word.

Chapter 28

M
inna had never thought it possible to be so cold.

The winds funnelled down the hill-slopes straight from the clouded peaks, as the horses stumbled forward on frozen tussocks of sedge and heather. The bleak expanses of red moorland were dotted with black pools, their surfaces feathered by bleached grasses.

Bundled in sheepskins, she clung to her pony. Though she was too tired to walk she no longer ached, for she had much else to fill her, her senses heightened by the air on the back of her throat, in her nose.

Always her eyes were drawn to Cahir riding at the head, his chin high as if straining forward, his reins held easily in one hand. He did not seem to notice the icy wind tearing back his dark hair. The years had been stripped from his face. He blazed, his eyes on fire with fierce hunger, every movement imbued with a new power.

All the men followed that fiery light, even the younger ones responding to his commands instinctively because they were delivered in so sure a manner. They were baffled by this new king but infected by his excitement, and the mood was swift and light despite the clouds and glowering mountains. It was Ruarc’s curiosity that mainly drove him, though, and he was still wary.

After a week they were in Pictish lands and moved more stealthily, the young men scouting the ridges during the day, while the others kept to the rocks and bare woods. At night they huddled in rock shelters with no fires, chewing strips of dried meat and trail cakes. The men ignored Minna as if they did not know what to do with her, sending cautious glances her way when she wasn’t looking. All except Donal, who winked as he passed over her food.