The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (59 page)

Cahir turned slowly to each direction one by one again, scenting the ash and cinders, the burnt flesh and roasting meat, and the gods knew what else that was being destroyed. And he thought of the glassy eyes of the Roman child, the way she swung on the well’s bucket.

At last, walking purposefully, he went down to his warriors. He wended his way between the thousands of raucous campfires of Dalriadans on the north side of the army, and the Attacotti warriors mixed in with them, small and dark, singing at the top of their voices. But as he neared his own campfire, he was surprised to see his close comrades quiet for once.

Some of his men had their heads down, resting against their packs. And then, between a great yell from one fire and a burst of singing at another, Cahir caught a snatch of Davin chanting a lay.

He paused in the shadows of a hawthorn brake, listening. The song was entirely new – he could tell by the way Davin stumbled over the strings, stopping and starting, changing his mind. At first Cahir thought it was a song about the warriors of legend. He took a step towards the fire and then stopped, his feet sinking into the damp ground. The lay was about him.

Mac Greine! Son of the sun.

And sun he was in his mail of bronze

His eyes ablaze

His helm a torch against the dark of Rome.

Three wheels of five score years

Since the god walked the battlefield of blood.

And now Dalriada comes in swinging

Their swords singing

And among them he is a towering tree

Crowned with sun-gold

Cahir son of Conor.

So the red-crests fall back from his gaze

And he strides among them

His sword a tongue of light in his hands …

The song died away, leaving Cahir’s chest tight as a drum. They sang for Eremon, and now they sang for him.

He emerged from the shadows, and Davin saw him and fell silent with a last chord. Heads turned, and space was made for the king on the logs and rocks. He sat down among his commanders and looked at Davin. ‘Sing me the Hill of a Thousand Spears.’ Davin looked perplexed, for it was a long composition. ‘Just the end,’ Cahir added. ‘Tell me again what happened when they charged, what Eremon did.’

Give me Eremon
, was what he longed to say, only no one would understand what he meant. Eremon and Conaire were gloried and sung because they fought like gods, despite defeat – and now Cahir could stand proudly by their side because he had
won.
So why, now the battle fury had faded, did he no longer feel as if a great bird lifted his heart in its wings? Instead he only tasted ash on his tongue from the death pyres.

He knew what his Erin ancestor would say. The burden of leadership falls more heavily than the exultation of triumph because, no matter what happened, men had died this day by his order. There were gaps at the campfires, and hard sorrow on many blood-stained faces.

Davin was straightening, readying himself, when Ruarc broke in. ‘I must get you an ale, my lord, to toast our great victory!’

‘Aye!’ Mellan crowed. ‘Twice we’ve smashed them now. Let the Emperor stick
that
up his purple arse!’

There was a smatter of jubilant assent, and Cahir mustered a smile. ‘Afterwards,’ he said softly. They had fought like princes, and deserved their pride.

Davin began to sing, and Cahir stared into the flames, picturing that ancient battle day. The last thing Eremon said to Calgacus was a blessing from Hawen, and Calgacus replied by saluting Eremon with his sword. ‘To Alba!’ he cried in the song. ‘She thanks you for her deliverance.’ And as Eremon galloped down the hill, the war chants surged like a storm sea, swords beating on shields, crying,
Alba
!
Alba
!
Alba
!

Cahir’s eyes glazed, his heart wandering far from his thoughts. Suddenly he saw in the rippling flames not Eremon but the face of the slaughtered child, her hair black tendrils on her white cheeks. So like Minna’s hair. Abruptly, he stood up.

After one look at his king’s face, Davin’s voice trailed away. ‘I thank you,’ Cahir said gruffly to his bard. ‘All of you. But the moon is rising, and a council has been called. Mellan, Ruarc and Ardal, come with me – and bring your swords.’

Chapter 55

I
n the centre of the army was the command tent, a dome of goatskins, roof raised with hazel saplings. When Cahir entered the other kings were already there drinking ale, a few camp-whores lounging with them. Gede sat on his Roman camp stool, setting himself above the others who sprawled on cushions. His facial cut had been crudely sewn, and there was blood on his tunic. Next to him squatted his second-in-command Garnat and the young druid Taran.

In the middle the bare earth was piled with stones and a fire set there, the spitted bones of a hare sticking out of the flames. The plundered Roman lamps swung in the draught as Cahir entered, Ruarc, Mellan and Ardal joining the other guards behind their lords.

‘You’re late, brother!’ Fergus’s nose was already as red as his wild hair. And why would he not be drunk? He had dealt the Count’s killing blow, and been crowing about it ever since. He waved a bannock at Cahir, the gold brooches and rings that festooned his checked clothes flashing in the lamplight. ‘Where’ve you been? Working that battle gorge out between some tasty, white thighs, eh?’ He leered at the fair girl beside him, her hands in his lap.

Cahir smiled politely. ‘No, brother. I had business with my own men, that is all.’

The stocky Saxon king, heavy cheeks trailing a blond moustache, was still clad in his jerkin of studded leather and bird-winged helmet. Now he barked something to a salt-stained little trader who acted as his interpreter. The man said to Cahir in awkward Dalriadan, ‘My lord Cerdic say he happy at battle victory. He honour all kings.’

Cerdic bared his teeth in a smile, and raised his drinking horn. Cahir took the proffered cup from Fergus and nodded back. ‘Tell your lord that the battle was won by his arrival. We salute his men’s bravery.’

Through all this Gede stared at Cahir, unblinking. Now Taran rose. ‘King Gede requests that I act as interpreter,’ he said. ‘I can speak on behalf of the Picts as well as the Dalriada, Erin and Attacotti kings.’ He bowed to Cahir, Fergus and Kinet, who sat cross-legged and contained, feathers wound in his black hair. ‘That only leaves my lord Cerdic, and his man speaks Pictish better than the western tongues of Dalriada. Is that acceptable?’

They all nodded. Taran began. ‘My king says that this second victory has, thanks to the gods, struck a final blow for the Roman army in Britannia.’

Cahir leaned his cup on his knee. ‘Our armies were courageous, and fought brilliantly, there is no denying. The results have exceeded our expectations. However, it has been six weeks since the northern battle. Even now, the Roman Emperor will be gathering greater forces to repel us from over the sea.’

There was a moment of muttered translation. ‘That is no doubt true,’ Taran said. ‘Which makes the next part of my lord’s plan that more urgent.’

‘Plan?’ Fergus dragged his attention back from his whore’s breasts. ‘What plan? We’ve driven the Romans to their knees, and I’ve taken enough plate and coin to sink my ships. I’ve got what I wanted and lost a good many men doing it. It’s time for me to return home.’

Gede rapped something out, and Taran turned to Fergus. ‘My lord says that is a … somewhat limited view. We have been given this opportunity by the gods, who have provided two stunning victories, with little loss of life. He says it would be foolish to turn our backs and let the gifts of the gods slip through our fingers when we have come so far.’

‘What opportunity is he talking about?’ Fergus said testily to Cahir, his hand dropping away from the girl’s rump.

Kinet broke in smoothly, his eyes jet beads. ‘We talked only of crippling the Romans to free Alba,’ he reminded Taran.

‘And make ourselves richer along the way,’ Fergus added.

Taran paused. Priests, Cahir mused with a swig of ale, might go weak-bellied at the stench of armies, but they understood a good pause.

‘My lord Gede feels that we must push on to the uttermost end of Britannia, take all the lands from sea to sea, and banish or slaughter every man, woman and child of Roman blood.’

Fergus gasped, and Cahir set down his ale.

‘The Roman army has crumbled,’ Taran went on, ‘and the roads are open now to the south coast. In our path lie villas and towns beyond counting.’

Fergus blinked and sat back. ‘And what if Cahir is right? What if we get trapped down there in the south when the Emperor’s army arrives from over sea?’

‘We won’t,’ Gede said through the druid, his gaze hooded. ‘There are too many of us. The Romans will flee when they see us coming. We take the plunder, plant our seed in the women, man the Roman forts on the shore and repel any army that comes from Gaul.’

‘I admire your courage,’ Cahir interrupted, ‘but that is a foolish idea.’ He ignored Gede’s piercing glare and spoke to Fergus, Cerdic and Kinet. ‘We have enjoyed our successes because of surprise and weight of numbers. The first battle knocked out control in the north; the second was won by the Saxons landing. But by the time we march south, the Romans will have had time to regroup and defend their walled towns. They will also be more desperate. Do you honestly believe you can hold all those towns with the Emperor’s army coming on your rear? And to plunder such an area you’ll have to split your men, and that will weaken you.’

As Taran finished Cahir’s words, Garnat’s face suffused with blood. He leaped to his feet. ‘You call my king foolish? I call you coward!’ Taran winced at this, but duly translated. ‘This opportunity will never come again, never,
gael
! We will take Britannia back for its tribes – my king has already sworn this to us, in the blood he shed this day!’