The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (13 page)

Eremon was surprised at this tale.

‘I will be blunt,’ Gelert said. ‘I see this darkness of yours, this secret, and I won’t ask you what it is. But you are not here to trade. You have come to win a name, I can smell it. You want to prove yourself, and I will give you the chance. We need your people’s strength against the Romans, and your own at Dunadd to stop our men from killing each other. We need a war leader, a man who can head our clans, who belongs to no clan.’

Eremon felt a rushing around him, and his mind reeled. He could hear, as an echo, what he had said to Conaire:
I don’t want it to happen too fast
.

‘So look me in the eye and tell me this one truth, boy, and I’ll let it be. Do you have the men at arms to help us, as you’ve boasted? Will you give your sword to protect us from the Romans, and keep stability within?’

Never had Eremon’s powers of guile been so tested, as when he had to look into the owl eyes of a druid such as this, and lie. But his life, and those of his men, depended on it.
Hawen, my Lord, please aid me now, if you never do again
!

And the swelling cloud above spilled over, and a few cold raindrops spattered into Gelert’s eye. He reached up to rub them away, breaking their gaze. Eremon took a breath, and focused on the last question, and
he knew he could answer that one truly. For Conaire had said to grasp the chance, and his twenty men, though few, could certainly help against the Romans. His skills could be used to hold a tribe together – it was what he had been trained for all his life!

‘If I so choose,’ he said at last, clear-eyed, ‘I can.’

Gelert had been blinking, frowning, but at Eremon’s words his brow smoothed.

‘You spoke of a reward,’ Eremon pointed out, brushing rain from his own forehead. ‘For supporting you when my own shores are not in danger.’

Gelert’s laugh was a bark. ‘You mean something more than keeping quiet about you?’ He leaned back into the shelter of the pillars, his gaze penetrating. ‘Then apart from my silence, here is the fruit I dangle before you, Eremon of Dalriada. I come here today to offer you the hand of our royal princess.’

At this, Eremon was truly speechless, his mind a blank, frozen rock that could absorb nothing.

‘But wait!’ Gelert added. ‘The king’s bloodline runs through his female kin. You will not be a king yourself: only the sons of a royal woman can be so.’

‘But what about your own princes? Why not choose one of them as a suitor?’

‘We always choose outsiders to wed our royal women. It has been so for generations – it strengthens alliances to other tribes. Brude’s mother was an Epidii Ban Cré, but his father was a prince of the Trinovantes in the far south.’

Something else began to penetrate the shell around Eremon’s mind, and as if he followed his thoughts, Gelert added, ‘Yes, this means that a son she bears you will be king. But he will only be of his mother’s blood: his allegiance only to us.’

A king! Eremon’s heart could not help but leap.

‘Of course, what we want from you is more immediate. The union with our Ban Cré will make you our champion, our war leader, someone to lead us into battle. It is far too dangerous a time to allow the warriors to fight over that honour. But if we install you … our problem is solved.’

‘But … you don’t know my lineage, high though it is. You don’t know my people. How will your council agree to this?’

‘Our need forces us to be less prudent than we would otherwise be. And there is the manner of your arrival. I have convinced them that you were sent here by our gods. And we have seen you fight. It is enough, for now.’

Eremon shook his head to clear it, and Gelert leaned forward. A light drizzle was now falling, catching on his hooked nose. ‘Do you have
many grades of the marriage union, as we do?’ At Eremon’s nod, Gelert went on. ‘Then the ceremony will take place as a binding to the fifth grade only; a year-marriage, a handfasting. It can easily be severed if you prove unfruitful. In leaf-bud, when the sea lanes open again, we can send to your father. If all is well, and we are happy with the confirmation of your lineage and bridal gifts, then we will make the marriage binding, to the ninth grade. A royal marriage.’ He fixed Eremon with one yellow eye. ‘Make no mistake, only the Roman threat would ever make us act in this haste. It took me a long time to convince the council to agree. It was your fighting prowess that turned their hearts, for they are desperate. But we will be watching you closely.’

Eremon was too dazed by what he had been told to wonder why the druid bothered to argue for him at all. ‘What if all does not go well with my kin?’

‘If you have lied, then we lose little.’ Gelert was blunt. ‘We will be stronger then, anyway. And hopefully our royal lady will be breeding.’

Eremon heard a new note in Gelert’s voice just then, a most undruid-like spite, but he was too preoccupied to care about it.
So, they want me for my loins and my sword
. As the druid said, this surpassed his wildest dreams. Had the Boar sent him here for this very reason? It had to be! He desperately wanted to talk to Conaire about it. ‘How long do I have to decide?’

‘A day only. It is a great honour.’

‘And if I say no?’

Gelert pursed his lips, surveying his domain. ‘Then we’ll bid you farewell, prince, and send you on your way.’

Eremon doubted that very much indeed. Gelert would discover his exile, and he and his men would be vulnerable to attack by the other tribes – and even by the Epidii. They had seen his gold, after all.

As he rose, he turned his face from the stinging rain, which had now begun to blow in from the marsh. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow, and no later.’

Once Conaire was out of danger, the Erin men had been moved into the King’s Hall. Brude’s wife had returned to her kin with her daughters, and the house had been purified with sweet oils and fragrant smoke. At the time, Eremon wondered why this honour had been bestowed on them, but after Gelert’s offer, he thought he understood.

That day he chased the myriad servants out of the hall so that he could tell his men what had transpired in the shrine. Conaire, who was resting on a fur-covered pallet by the central hearth, let out one long, low whistle.

‘Well?’ Eremon said.

All eyes turned to Conaire, who shifted his bandaged thigh. A boar tusk gleamed on a thong around his upper arm. ‘It seems that Hawen has given us just the chance we need, brother.’

‘But I’m committing us to fight the Romans!’

‘It will win us more glory than any cattle raid!’ Rori burst out, hardly able to contain his excitement.

‘We’ll be throwing in our lot with one tribe.’

‘You told us that it would be the best thing.’ Finan scratched his head. ‘And kin bonds are stronger than trade alliances. You’ll be able to call on all the Epidii kin bonds, too. Seems a good offer to me.’

‘It means no trekking around in the long dark,’ Colum put in – he was known for his fondness for good food. ‘Who knows how long it will take to forge an alliance with another tribe?’

‘But much more important than that, you’ll be the father of two kings!’ Aedan breathed, his eyes alight. ‘You’ll sire a king here, and another when you take your father’s hall back. A dynasty on both sides of the sea!’

Eremon could see Aedan’s mind scrambling for a song to do justice to such an idea, and despite his misgivings, he felt his own soul stir with the thought. A dynasty in Alba and Erin. Surpassing his own father. And his uncle. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong with this idea,’ he begged faintly. No one heard him, as they fell to wondering about what it would be like to become part of the Epidii.

Eremon gazed around the King’s Hall. It had been built to inspire awe. The roof-cone soared to an apex six spear-lengths above, and beneath it lay the hearth that twenty men could stand in, with iron spits to roast whole boars, and bronze cauldrons as big as bathing pits, suspended on chains. Around the hearth curved an immense ring of benches, on which they now sat, covered in soft furs and embroidered cushions, and bright hangings swept down from the rafters. No man’s heart could fail to swell with the thought of ruling this domain: feasting kings, planning raids …

So what was wrong?

The druid’s offer was the perfect solution to his problem. All he had to do was ensure that Gelert did not discover the truth next leaf-bud. And perhaps it would not matter, then. If he was in a strong enough position, perhaps he could weather that particular storm. After all, the old man might die. The girl might be barren.

And there was a thought – he had not seen her yet! Among all this talk of siring and kin bonds, he would be getting
married
. To another person. Someone he had to share a house with, a bed. No one seemed to have thought of that. It was easy for them to apportion him out as if he was a fine stallion. What would he have to say to a
wife
?

Conaire caught his eye. ‘It is the chance we were looking for,
brother.’ His face, which had been pale since his illness, was glowing. ‘The Boar provides. And Manannán brought us here on the storm! It is the best thing for all of us.’

The best thing for all of us
.

Yes, that was what mattered. ‘I suppose you are right,’ Eremon conceded. ‘It’s not a trap, after all, is it?’

‘No! The betrothal can be broken, once we don’t need it any more.’

So Eremon agreed with his men that he would take the hand of the Epidii princess.

Whoever she was.

Chapter 12

‘W
e wish to marry you to the prince of Erin.’

The words crashed into Rhiann’s skull, and were tossed from side to side as if in a whirlwind. She stared up at Belen from her hearth-stool, nerveless fingers dropping the heavy spindle into her lap. At the grain quern, set on the floor by the door, Brica stopped grinding and knelt back on her heels.

Then Rhiann’s eyes fell on Gelert, stooping to enter her house, and she saw triumph chasing eagerness across his face – an eagerness to see her pain. She would not give him that. She rose, clumps of unspun wool falling from her skirts. ‘And when will this marriage take place?’ Her voice hardly betrayed her, as she gripped the edge of her loom.

‘In three days,’ came Belen’s devastating answer. He checked at her expression, and added hastily, ‘It is to the fifth grade only, lady. When the sea paths open, the prince will send to his father, and at year-end we will conclude the full rites then, if you are willing.’

Outrage replaced the fear in her heart. ‘And when exactly were you going to tell me?’

Belen paled slightly beneath her glare, and gulped nervously, his eyes straying to Gelert.

‘My lady is aware of the urgency to strengthen our position,’ the chief druid put in smoothly, leaning on his owl staff. ‘You are overdue to be married; you know we have only been debating where to bestow your hand.’ He smiled.

‘But you do not even know this foreigner, this
gael
!’

‘We know he is a fine fighter and leader of men, lady,’ Belen offered awkwardly, spreading his hands. ‘We know he has many riches. The druid confirms he is who he says he is.’

The loom dug into her hands. ‘But … but you did not consult with me! I do not know what kind of man he is!’ She saw the blankness on Belen’s face: he, like all the elders, would think this of no consideration.

‘We deem this man worthy of your rank,’ he answered, frowning. ‘And most importantly, he has the abilities and men-at-arms that we need so sorely. We don’t only have the Romans to contend with, as you know, lady. The other clans will come baying for the kingship soon. We are desperate.’

This tug on her guilt was enough to dampen Rhiann’s anger, and she found her mind stumbling, yet again, over what was best for the people.

Duty. Fear. Pain.

Then one thought of self-preservation came clearly through the rest:
You must appear to agree
.

She bowed her head. ‘I will make my preparations,’ she murmured, not looking up until the door cover fell back into place. Then she gasped for breath, pushing her forehead into the sharp talons of the carved eagle on her roof-post.

‘My lady!’ Brica cried, jumping to her feet. ‘The Goddess will have Her vengeance if they force you! In the old days the queen would choose her consort, and then another if she wished …’

‘But it is not the old days any more.’ To her own ears, Rhiann’s voice sounded dead, and far away. The next thing she knew she was on her way to the stables, and the healer in her realized that she was in shock, real shock, for this was what the numbness was.

Distantly, she heard the cries of children playing in the tanner’s yard, and from behind the forge came the squealing of a pig, the sound abruptly cutting off. She stumbled through the dyer’s shed, sharp with the smell of urine, and then she was at Liath’s stall.

She had no riding trousers or cloak, but it did not matter – before she could form a coherent thought, she was on the mare’s bare back and nosing her through the outer gates of the village. No one stopped her, but again she felt their eyes.