The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (39 page)

Linnet’s face had drained of colour. ‘Where, exactly, is she from?’

Rhiann thought hard. ‘She told me that her home is hard under the Maiden’s Hill, near the Loch of the Beacon.’ Puzzled, she looked down
at Caitlin, now striding happily away with the foot warriors, and back to Linnet. ‘Do you know her? I feel that I do, more so now that we’ve scraped off that dirt. But she’s never been here before. There is some question over her parentage …’

‘Question?’

‘A mystery.’ She attempted a smile, alarmed at Linnet’s pallor. ‘Actually, everything about her is a mystery! You’ll like her, she—’

But there she broke off, for Linnet abruptly turned away, pulling her hood around her face, though the day was warm enough. ‘I must go.’

Rhiann’s priestess ears picked up the control that Linnet was exerting over her voice. ‘Aunt, what is it?’

She reached out a hand, but Linnet edged away, her face hidden by the folds of the hood. ‘Leave me be. I must go.’

Rhiann frowned, as Linnet pushed through the cheering people on the palisade and disappeared down the stairs to the ground. Baffled, she turned back to the warband, but Caitlin’s small figure was now lost in the ranks of marchers, and only the battle trumpets floated back on the wind.

Chapter 37

T
he stone had been digging into Eremon’s ribs for hours. But he had other things on his mind, so he only shifted on his belly so that the stone began to dig in somewhere else. ‘There, do you see?’ He kept his voice to a murmur.

The Damnonii chieftain, lying next to him on the ground, shifted his aged bulk more uncomfortably. ‘Yes, I see.’

They lay among the trees at the crest of a low hill. Across a stream that fed into the River Clutha, a ridge rose in terraces of oak and elm. Crowning the bare ridge-top, the half-built palisade of the fort stood out against the sky like teeth in an antler comb. Men and oxen crawled up and down a narrow path, hauling logs from the woods below.

‘Every day is the same,’ Conaire put in. ‘As soon as it is light, they go to the river bottoms for timber. It will be finished within a day or so.’

Eremon flashed a grin at the Damnonii chieftain. ‘We have you to thank for getting us here, Kelan, before their defences were complete.’

The old man licked sweat from his lip. ‘I told you when we met that my people seek revenge. When the eagle-men began this fort, so close to our villages, we could stand no more.’ He shook his shaggy head. ‘The people still needed a prince’s call to act. A call our own princes would never give, now that they have been bought with Roman silver.’

‘Cowards!’ This was muttered by a younger warrior lying next to the chieftain, a battered helmet pulled down so far that only his dark eyes glittered from beneath it.

‘Peace, nephew,’ the chief replied. ‘Save your fire for when you lead the men in my name. Make me proud.’

‘We will all be proud,’ Eremon assured him. ‘Agricola’s boot seeks to crush us. But we will only hack it off at the ankle, again and again, until he seeks no more.’

They wriggled on their bellies away from the hilltop and out of sight,
before rejoining the other men. To avoid detection, the warband had been broken into many groups, which now lay hidden among the trees.

‘So,’ Eremon said, when the leaders of each troop were gathered around his map, scratched into the hardened river mud, ‘I have watched as long as I dared, but we must act now, before they finish their walls.’

‘Do we have the numbers?’ Finan asked, leaning on his sword.

Eremon nodded. ‘We match their numbers, since Kelan here managed to gather so many Damnonii men. Now, is everyone clear on the plan? This is our last chance to speak.’

As he said this, his eye fell on Lorn, whose cheeks darkened with a betraying flush. Eremon had not given him the command of any wing, yet he attended such meetings as if he had. ‘I don’t understand why we need this trickery,’ Lorn declared. ‘If our numbers are even, then our charge will be enough!’

Eremon breathed out silently. ‘I’m not arguing this again. You are going to follow my plan to its last detail, or you don’t join the raid.’

Lorn’s chin jutted out. ‘I command my own men, and you cannot stop me from joining the fight.’

‘Yet I command the warband, so you follow my orders. You and your men look to Kelan’s nephew, understand?’

In answer, Lorn clapped his helmet on his head. ‘I will see you at the gates.’

Later, Conaire and Eremon lay hidden in a thorn thicket on higher ground far behind the fort. ‘You take a chance with that Epidii cub,’ Conaire remarked, fingering the tips of his throwing spears.

Eremon hefted his boar shield, craning to see through the branches. ‘I know, brother. But I seek to keep the peace after this raid, and I’ve tried to give him the most harmless of roles.’

Conaire snorted. ‘Harmless, him? As harmless as a trapped wolf, he is. Those jaws can still snap.’

Eremon’s eyes followed the distant figures digging the fort ditch. ‘So long as they snap at the Romans, and not at me.’

‘My lady!’ Brica hurried into the stable, her hands tucked in her cloak. She stopped before Rhiann, the shuffling of her feet betraying her distress.

‘What is the matter, Brica?’ Rhiann ducked under Liath’s neck and waded through the straw to the stall gate.

The little woman took a deep breath. ‘My lady, I know that I should not be speaking with you here. But – I must.’

‘Yes, Brica. Slow down now. What is wrong?’

Brica shook her head, and wisps of black hair escaped her head scarf. ‘When you were forced to take
him
, I held my tongue, I did. I vowed to
serve you, and you are She. But all the men … so many men! Blood-letters, killers … they reek of it!’

The woman had spoken of little but the forced marriage these last moons, but Rhiann had no idea she was so deeply affected. ‘Yes, I know,’ Rhiann said gently, resting the horse-comb on the paling. ‘But we must make of it what we can, and–’

‘No!’ Brica was trembling now, and Rhiann suddenly realized it was not with fear, but fury. ‘I cannot! And now the prince of Erin has brought this murderer … this child killer … here. A Roman! And he is in my house!’

Ah. Rhiann nodded. ‘I know this must be of concern to you, but really, he is harmless. He is not even a warrior.’

‘No!’ Brica dropped her eyes. ‘No! I cannot be near these men any more. This prince. For nearly two years I have served you, but the Mother would not ask this of me now, I know it!’

‘Then what are you saying?’

Brica seemed to gather herself. ‘I must return to the Sacred Isle, mistress. I have been thinking of it for some time, and now I … know … that I can serve you no longer.’

‘I see.’ Rhiann looked at the woman more keenly. ‘Brica, I would never keep you here against your will. You have served me well.’

‘Thank you, lady.’ Brica spoke stiffly now. ‘A trading party leaves tonight. I can go with them as far as Caereni territory. There, I have kin who will take me home to the Sacred Isle.’

Rhiann nodded. ‘Then go, with my blessing. I would give you gifts to take to the Sisters, to Nerida and Setana. Will you carry them?’

‘Yes, lady.’

Rhiann was thoughtful as she walked back to her house, but she could not pretend that she would miss Brica. The woman treated Rhiann as if she was the Goddess herself, rather than a person. This often made living with her less than comfortable.

Rhiann sighed. She would need a new maid then, someone young this time, perhaps. Rhiann had offered Caitlin a bed in her home when she returned from the raid, realizing that she had no kin, and a household consisting of one Roman and a half-wild woman warrior would test even the stoutest heart. She needed someone with courage. Who would complement such a group?

And then she had it. Of course – Eithne! The daughter of the fisher family.

The women of the dun would expect her to choose someone of a higher rank, perhaps, as a maid and companion; one of the craftsmen’s daughters – the bronze-smith or the master-carpenter. But Eithne was quick and clever, and not as serious as Brica. Yes, she would be a fine choice.

Her mind made up, Rhiann turned back to the stable. She would take Liath and go to ask Eithne herself right now. It was a fine afternoon for a ride. And soon, she really must visit Linnet. There had been no explanation of her sudden departure, nor had she returned to Dunadd.

That it was to do with Caitlin was obvious. But what it could be was as much a mystery as the girl herself.

‘By the great Mars, what is that?’ The auxiliary raised himself in his saddle for a better view, peering past the oxen teams lumbering up from the river.

His companion pulled his horse’s head shy as a pair of unburdened oxen, tossing their horns, squeezed past a loaded team. ‘It’s a herd of cattle, sir. A large herd!’

‘Those cursed Damnonii said they’d given up all their surplus cattle!’

The second man nudged his horse to the edge of the path. ‘They’re driving carts, too, sir. Barley, no doubt, or rye.’

‘They said they had none of that left, either!’ The first man, the decurion, frowned. ‘We need that food. How many warriors guard it?’

‘They are ranged around the herd … but at least thirty.’

‘Thirty! They are not supposed to travel in such groups.’ The decurion turned his horse. ‘Pull half the century off guard, and half the diggers, and get them down here after me. I want those cattle!’

‘Who speaks for you!’ The decurion, barking out his demand in British, reined in just where firm ground gave way to mire. The cattle were plunging through the mud, lowing and milling around in great confusion, and the native warriors had worked their horses and carts around to the other side of the herd when they saw the infantry troop advance.

One of the natives wheeled his restive horse. ‘I do!’ he cried over the bawling cattle.

‘These beasts are the tribute that we demanded, and were not paid,’ the Roman continued. ‘Drive them to the fort, now.’

The native smiled, his dark eyes glittering with defiance. ‘If you want them, Roman dog, then come and take them!’ From somewhere near his saddle he pulled a naked blade and swung it high, letting loose an ear-splitting war-cry that was taken up by his men.

With a sharp command, the decurion ordered his men forward, and they marched around the edges of the milling herd, pulling up in lines, shields overlapping, javelins poised for launch …

Then the cattle themselves seemed to rear up with slicing blades, as scores of wild-eyed savages with blue tattoos burst from the cover of the herd, shrugging off hide cloaks to free their deadly swords.

‘Hold!’ the decurion cried, as the screaming horde hit the lines of shields with the impact of a fist. ‘Hold!’

By the time the rest of Eremon’s warband came hurtling down on foot from the higher ground, another hundred of the Romans in ditch and on rampart had downed tools and run to defend their stricken brothers on the plain.

Even as he raced, legs pumping, sword heavy in hand, Eremon’s cool head registered the hail of arrows from his archers, arcing in from two sides of the fort, and his heart swelled so much that the war cry burst from his throat: ‘The Boar! The Boar!’

His lines held their wedge, driving right at the gate, and didn’t splinter into wild disorder. Taken by surprise, those defenders who were left could only turn and fight on the spot.

Eremon struck down two soldiers in his initial rush, but the Romans were now outnumbered three to one, fighting in knots before the gate and stumbling in the ditches, and in only a few breaths he could pause to look down on the river plain.

What he saw struck him like a blade to the chest. The Romans below were supposed to be chasing the cattle party, lured to follow them away from the fort by a false retreat. This would engage most of the soldiers, giving Eremon a chance to defeat those who guarded the fort. But instead, the sun flashed on swords among the milling cattle, and from afar he could just hear the war cry of the Epidii.

And now, faced with such fierce fighters, all of the Romans were retreating, streaming back towards the fort. Towards Eremon’s men.

‘Gods, you dog, Lorn!’ he cried. But there was no more time, for the retreating Romans were now pouring up from the river path, shouting commands to re-form as they realized that their fort was under attack. Suddenly, the odds had switched, and they came at Eremon’s men like a hammer blow.

Cursing Lorn with every slice and thrust of his sword, Eremon’s mind raced to find a way out. Around him, Epidii and Damnonii warriors both fell under the onslaught of the returning soldiers, who worked in unison to pin Eremon’s men against the palisade.

The tip of a blade burned a trail across Eremon’s arm, but as he turned to defend with his shield, Conaire had already despatched the attacker. Then there were two more coming at him, and his sword glanced desperately off tightly overlapping shields, before he threw himself into a roll and thrust upwards. One man screamed and fell as his groin artery was slashed, his blood drenching Eremon’s eyes, blinding him, while the other tripped over the tangle of limbs. Conaire stabbed him before he could rise, and pulled Eremon to his feet.