The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (25 page)

And at Dunadd, in the firelight, Caitlin held Rhiann with great tenderness as she retched over and over into an earthen basin. Eithne’s soft hands were there too, mopping her lip and brow, pushing a whining Cù away as Didius built up the fire.

And Aedan sang softly by the door, a slumbering song for the guards outside, who perhaps had never heard such singing in their dreams before.

Rhiann had used a great amount of the ground spores and, after the constant stress of the past moons, the reaction of her body was ferocious, and frightening for all those with her.

By the time dawn came, her watchers were hollow-eyed with fear and lack of sleep, and Rhiann still lay curled by the crackling fire, her back against Didius’s solid knees, her robe soaked with sweat even as her shoulders shook with chills.

Eithne had been dosing her with mint and tansy, but she could not keep anything down, and when she said, ‘It is time,’ through gritted teeth, Eithne laid a timid hand on her forehead. ‘Lady,’ she whispered, ‘You must rest now. Let me—’

‘No!’ Rhiann struggled to sit up, reaching for the child in Caitlin’s arms. She held her sister’s eyes. ‘I did not go so far, at such great cost, to risk his life now!’

Caitlin’s cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, but at last she handed the baby over, carefully resting him across Rhiann’s knees.

‘Bring me the poppy tincture,’ Rhiann instructed, her voice hoarse and cracked.

While they all gathered close, Rhiann rewrapped the baby’s linen swaddling clothes, binding his arms and legs to his body. Then, wiping her sweating face on one shoulder, she trickled the merest drop of the poppy into his soft, sucking mouth, as Caitlin’s hand cupped his head. His eyes, deep and colourless in the firelight, tried to focus on Rhiann, and she stared back, cradling his soul with some wordless reassurance.

Then Rhiann heard the rhythm of Caitlin’s breathing falter, and she glanced up. ‘It will be well, love, I swear. It’s just enough to keep him sleeping; just enough for a little while, to keep him quiet.’

‘The milk has come,’ Caitlin murmured under her breath, her anguish plain. ‘What will he eat?’

‘Linnet can find goat milk,’ Rhiann soothed her. ‘It can be done. He is strong, remember?’

In answer, Caitlin pressed her lips to the crest of hair sticking up at the crown of the baby’s head.

As the day lightened outside, Rhiann murmured a blessing over the child, her eyes on the figure of the mother goddess Rhiannon on the darkened shelf above the hearth.

The warrior sleeping outside Rhiann’s door squinted one eye up at Eithne as she stepped over him, the food basket balanced on her hip. She was a pretty little filly, he thought, with her dark hair and flashing black eyes, though she had been looking peaky recently.

The girl blushed at his direct regard and glanced down at the covered basket. ‘I need to get the food from Aldera now, for she will be leaving the dun early to get herbs for my lady.’

It was barely light – the sky still grey, the air chill – and the guard sighed, before throwing back his damp blanket. Then he heaved himself from his bed roll and followed the girl, stretching his arms as he buckled on his sword.

At the Moon Gate, another two of Urben’s spearmen, unaccustomed to such an early awakening, grumbled at Eithne and spoke idly with the first guard about meeting for dice after breakfast. As they did, they caught the pretty maid’s eye and completely failed to see that when the smith’s plump little wife gave the food over and walked back down into the village, she still had a basket balanced on her hip.

The warriors at the village gate were even more disgruntled, but at the scolding they got from the smith’s wife, who had been charged by the Ban Cré to gain some rare dawn plant, they fell over themselves to open the oak crossbars. After all, the warriors depended on Bran the smith to repair their weapons, and it wouldn’t do to attract the ire of his formidable wife, or suffer the lash of her sharp tongue any longer than they needed to.

High on Linnet’s mountain, the guard across her door had to rise in the dawn light to pass his own water, and it wasn’t until he walked back inside the hut, yawning and cricking his back, that he noticed there was only one dark shape lying in the bed against the far wall. He cursed in fright and sudden anger, leaping over the other men sprawled on the floor to wrench the bedcovers back.

The dark shape rolled over, and Dercca the old maid smiled up at him, the gaps in her teeth clear in the sun’s first rays.

And in the shadows of a secret glen, where a stream formed a tiny pool known only to the women of the dun, Aldera uncovered the basket and the sleeping baby.

‘Lady,’ she whispered, bowing her head and holding out the basket.

A sliver of sun broke over the far hills, reaching through the shadows of the whispering birches to light the face of the priestess, who waited, hooded and silent.

Linnet smiled, and held out her hands. ‘Welcome, grandson.’

CHAPTER 21

T
he news of Linnet’s escape, Rhiann judged, would reach Dunadd by the middle of the day. She kept Caitlin to her bed, behind the wicker screen, and again sent Didius and Aedan to Belen. Didius refused to leave her unprotected, and was so distraught that tears nearly came to his eyes, but she was implacable. When Urben’s wrath fell, she wanted it to be on her and her alone.

Only Eithne remained, grinding barley in the light of the doorway. Rhiann was proud to note that, tired as the girl was, she did not falter in her rhythm when Lorn appeared. Rhiann was setting out the goddess figurines on the hearth-stone, the offering of milk in a bronze bowl by her knees.

Lorn waited for her to raise her face, and when she did not, he strode to the hearth. ‘I am here to enquire after the child.’

Cù growled and edged towards Lorn on his belly, but Rhiann merely clasped her fingers in her lap and bowed her head to the goddesses, murmuring under her breath. With a muttered oath Lorn took a step towards the bedplace.

‘No!’ Suddenly Rhiann was on her feet before him, calming Cù’s frenzied barking with her hand. ‘Caitlin is not well.’

Lorn glared at Rhiann, the high colour of his cheeks stark against the pale gilt of his unbound hair. ‘My men say they have heard no cries this day.’

Rhiann said nothing and, to her surprise, Lorn crossed to her and gripped one arm. ‘I have also just been informed that the Lady Linnet has escaped our protection – as you will be pleased to know. Now, by the Mare, you will tell me about the child!’

Rhiann raised her chin, meeting his pale eyes. ‘He is dead.’

‘Dead?
’ Lorn’s face blanched, which only ignited Rhiann’s anger.

‘Yes, last night. The lack of food and air made Caitlin’s milk weak.’

Lorn clenched his fists, and before Rhiann could stop him he tore back the screen hiding the bed. Caitlin cried out and curled up under the covers. With a sharp word Rhiann ordered Eithne to control the hound, then pushed past Lorn to stand with her hand on her sister’s shoulder.

Silently, Lorn gazed down at Caitlin, at the tear-swollen eyes and anguished, drawn face that she did not need to feign. Then he stared at Rhiann, and he was breathing hard. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Rhiann passed a weary hand over her eyes; her head ached so much she could hardly focus. ‘Can you not leave us alone, out of pity if nothing else? Only yesterday we gave him to Aldera to bury outside the dun.’

At this, Caitlin gave in to a muffled sob, burying her face in the checked wool blanket. Yet Lorn’s eyes never left Rhiann. ‘I don’t believe you. He lives, doesn’t he? You got him away.’

Rhiann stayed completely still, though the fingers tangled in Caitlin’s loose hair trembled. She was surprised, though, to see something flash deep in Lorn’s eyes that was not the anger she was expecting. At last the tense, feline spring in his muscles slackened, and he turned on his heel for the door, sweeping past Eithne, who was crouching with her arms around Cù.

‘Ladies,’ he said over his shoulder, his arms braced against the door-post, ‘I sorrow for your loss, and will convey the news to my father.’

To Rhiann’s relief, there were no reprisals from Urben or Gelert. Whatever plans Urben had for Rhiann and Caitlin, the child was not part of them, and no reaction was forthcoming from him. However, on her circuit of the walls late that afternoon, Rhiann saw a considerable detachment of warriors ride out from the dun, the golden light glittering on their spears as they broke into parties heading north, south, east, and west towards the sea. Urben might be willing to bide his time for the child, but not for Linnet.

Rhiann stood there while the sun slid lower, spilling fire into the far glimpse of sea, the marsh darkened by the shadow of the headland. And she prayed that Linnet’s horse was swift, that the land itself, the Mother, would hide her. For Rhiann had done all she could – they would know no more until Eremon came home.

Eremon
… As the whisper of his name touched her lips, all the tension and pain Rhiann had been keeping at bay caved in on her heart with a thundering rush. She’d had no choice – she’d
had
to stay strong for Caitlin, for them all.

Yet now the babe was safe, and Caitlin healing, Rhiann would at last allow herself to hear the cries in her own heart.

Every day for the next week, Lorn appeared at Rhiann’s door, and every day all inside ignored him. Soon even Cù stopped growling when he came. The Epidii lord sat on a hearth-bench and watched Rhiann pound herbs, strain honey and steep heather flowers for ale and dyes, and all the while he said nothing.

As day followed day, Rhiann’s tension began to grow to an unbearable pitch, although neither she nor Lorn would break the silence. It was a game of wills, after all. A game she intended to win.

Early one morning she’d managed to coax Caitlin, who was suffering her son’s loss greatly, to sit in the sun outside with Eithne. The lack of a sucking babe had brought the milk fever to Caitlin’s poor, swollen breasts, and she lay in bed most of the day with compresses of wood sage strapped to her chest. Yet Rhiann wanted her to get some air, and Aedan soothed her when he made up ditties about the great deeds Caitlin’s son would do when he came to manhood.

This day Rhiann noted with a grim smile that Aedan did not soften the sound of his current song; about the king Caitlin had birthed, and what a warrior he would be, and how he would smite his enemies with a great sword. Lorn knew the baby was not dead, after all, though neither he nor Rhiann had mentioned it again.

It was a warm morning. Rhiann, pulping more sage flowers and leaves at her workbench, kept wiping her sweating face on her shoulder, conscious of Lorn’s gaze on her. As usual she was ignoring it, when Lorn abruptly broke his long silence.

‘Why do you continue to invite my displeasure this way?’ His chin was shoved broodingly into his hand.

Rhiann scraped mashed leaves from her fingers and wiped them on the rag on her belt. ‘Why do you invite mine?’ Today she wore only a rough, stained robe, and she was barefoot, her hair carelessly bound up. The very way she dressed was a deliberate signal to him, that he meant nothing to her.

‘You hate me.’ Lorn’s voice was flat, expressionless.

Rhiann snorted. ‘Oh, and you expect me to flutter around you, do you? Ask if you would like an ale, my lord, a mead? Or one of these bannocks here, my lord,
my king
!’

Lorn’s spirit had always been fiery, and even in his dark mood he could not resist such jibes. He sprang to his feet. ‘I do not expect you to welcome me, but by the Mare you will give me some respect – and listen to what I have to say!’

Rhiann laughed bitterly. ‘Listen to you now, after all these moons? You certainly took your time.’ Suddenly her laughter died in her throat. ‘And why now, then?’ She caught the betraying quiver in Lorn’s cheek, and her mind and heart leaped at the knowing. ‘You’ve heard something, haven’t you? About Eremon!’

When Lorn didn’t answer, Rhiann flung the rag to the workbench and strode around it to grasp his arm. ‘Is he alive? Is he coming?
Tell me!
’ Lorn didn’t have to speak for her to see the truth in his eyes, and she nearly cried out with relief. ‘So that’s what this is! You’re afraid, aren’t you,
my lord
!’

He shook off her arm. ‘Stop calling me that!’

‘And what would you rather I call you, son of Urben!’ Rhiann thrust her face closer. ‘Traitor, perhaps? And now the wolf returns to his den, and you are afraid!’

Lorn flinched. ‘My first loyalty is to my father.’

‘Your loyalty is to your people! And you gave your allegiance to Eremon because you knew that he was their best hope. So you do not only break faith with him, but with them!’

Lorn backed up until his calves collided with the bench. ‘And what would you have me do?’ he hissed, trying to lower his voice. ‘By the Mare, he is my father! For the last two years my clan has expected me to take the kingship. They are my kin!’

‘And their blood will flow the same colour as yours when the Romans overwhelm us.’

Lorn’s head reared up at that. ‘Do you think your lord is the only man who can save us? Can I, too, not command our people?’

‘Your impulses put men in danger!’ Rhiann cried. ‘Yes, you are a fine warrior, and that is why you are able to make good your mistakes of judgement. But lead us to safety? Join all the men of Alba under one banner? That you cannot do!’

Abruptly, Lorn grabbed her wrist and pulled her close in his rage. ‘And why not? Why can’t the son of Urben lead us to glory?’

Deliberately, Rhiann curled her lip. ‘Why indeed?’

Lorn’s pale eyes blazed a handspan from her own, before he flung her away. Rhiann clasped her workbench for support, pulling herself upright, breathless with triumph. Lorn was a man of impulse, acting first, thinking later. But not now. She’d goaded him to rage, plucking at his pride, and he’d wanted to strike her, she saw it. Yet he didn’t. He mastered the rage, fought for control and won. He must feel something for Eremon, then, and for her, for them all.

She dropped her voice, panting. ‘You can answer your own question, Lorn, though it might have been better for you to seek my insights long ago. So listen now: if you try to lead our army, the other Epidii clans won’t join you. You’ve shown that you can take the kingship by force, so do you think the other clans won’t try the same? And while Epidii warrior fights Epidii warrior, weakening everything that Eremon has built, the Romans will be getting closer, day by day. And when they get here you will be too busy arguing over that Hall up there to notice when they burn it around you!’ Rhiann reached out to touch Lorn’s arm, but he averted his face, and she could only see the pulsing of blood at his throat. ‘You are a fine warrior, one of our finest. But Eremon has shown he can bring all the clans together. He has made an ally of Calgacus, the most powerful of kings! The Caereni and Carnonacae have sworn to him as their Stag, their war leader in spirit as well as in blood. Can you say the same? Can you draw on such allegiances to protect us?’