The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy (36 page)

‘Indeed?’ The
gael
held his eye for far too long. ‘Then know that I am Cahir son of Conor, King of Dalriada in Alba, direct in line from Gabran himself.’

Gede was too well-trained to react, even though a bolt of fury and triumph went right through him.
By Manannÿn’s breath and balls
! The
gael
king, fallen into his hands as if from the sky? The gods could not be so generous.

Taran hastened forward. ‘My lord,’ he stammered. ‘I did not know, my lord. He would not tell me—’

Gede silenced him and smiled coldly at this Cahir. ‘You risk much to come to my hall, with the blood of my people on your hands.’

‘No more than the blood of mine on yours.’ He paused as it was translated. ‘And yet once long ago it was all spilled together at the Hill of a Thousand Spears.’

Galan hissed. ‘He speaks sacrilege, my lord!’

The
gael
king continued. ‘I speak only truth. My people were
there.
They fought with the Picts – the Caledonii as you were then known – side by side against the Romans. As our young druid friend can tell you, we have proof of this: that our people and yours were allies once.’

The Pict warriors around Gede muttered.
Allies.
The word thundered in his mind. His men were a dark wall of bodies, gazing at him angrily. Why was he allowing this?

‘The
gaels
infect our shores like creeping mould, like the rotting of flesh in a wound,’ Gede retorted scornfully. ‘They can claim no blood brotherhood with us.’

‘And yet our people died fighting together once. I have proof.’

Gede’s skin prickled, and Taran slid to his side. ‘They have found a stone, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘It is a message stone, and yes, it tells of a binding alliance between an old king of the Dalriadans and …’ he gulped, took a breath, ‘and King Calgacus, my lord.’

‘
What?
’ Galan hissed. ‘That is a forbidden name, my son!’ He glared at his young druid. ‘Was your exile in the mountains not cold enough to quell your runaway tongue?’

Taran went white, as Gede held up his hand. ‘Peace. Whatever he says, it is right he brought the
gael
king and placed him into my hands.’

Then he smiled.

Chapter 34

W
hen they approached the Dun of Bright Water, the sand around the headland was shining wet with the receding tide. Boats were scattered over the beach, with fishermen mending nets and farmers tilling seaweed into the fallow fields behind the dunes.

The defences of the dun itself were formidable. Across the promontory, immense bastions of multiple ramparts had been raised, with deep ditches delved before them. The gates and their rearing towers were painted, gilded and streaming with banners, the rock tunnels they passed through carved with curling designs. The ramparts bristled with spears, as heavily-armed warriors lined all the palisades and towers and paced the walkways, watching the sea and land approaches.

Inside, the enormous fort was on two levels: the lower ringed by high, cliff-top walls that faced out to the crashing waves, the upper crowned by grand buildings and the king’s hall with its soaring roof.

They climbed up wide stairs flanked by armoured warriors and eventually reached the hall, which was draped in gold and blue standards showing a falcon poised for the kill, with outstretched talons and spread wings. Rows of spears in the ground fluttered with pennants of brown and white feathers, and the double doors were hung with bundles of human skulls, yellowed with age.

Minna went to follow Cahir inside, but the Pictish guards at the door lowered their spears to bar her way. She did not think she imagined their expressions, as if she were a deformed thing that had crawled from shadow to sun.

The old druid barked something, and Taran hastily stepped forward. ‘Women are not permitted in the king’s hall except to serve food,’ he said. ‘And certainly not present for matters of state, even if your situation is rather … unusual. You will be taken to the women’s house for now, where servants have orders to attend you.’

She looked desperately to Cahir, but he only nodded with a tight smile. ‘We are protected by the laws of hospitality now, Minna. They are sacred all over Alba. Gede could not harm me at his hearth.’ He glanced at the leering skulls. ‘Even if he wanted to.’

The women’s hall was a small roundhouse with looms set near the door for light, and baskets of wool and fleece by the hearth. Other tools of women’s work were scattered around: spindles, coils of coloured thread, needles and awls, piles of soft leather.

Receiving Taran’s instructions, the three servants inside set aside their sewing and weaving, and bustled back and forth filling a wooden bathtub behind a screen. One pulled the bedraggled twine from Minna’s braids and another went to tug off her filthy clothes. She snatched at each piece as it was removed, self-conscious and then ashamed when the slave-ring came to light. The women peered at it, chattering in their own language, and she dropped her eyes.

One of the women spoke briskly, pointing at her linen shift. She glanced at the steam, her skin suddenly crawling with the film of dried sweat, blood and grime, her hair lank and itchy. At last, staring at the wall, she allowed her dirty shift to be peeled from her.

In the bath they scrubbed her hair and limbs, then rubbed her dry with rough linen so her skin glowed. Then they wrapped her in a thick wool robe, gave her bread and honey, and pointed at the bed before leaving. She bolted the food and nervously curled up. After a short time, even though she grimly fought it, she couldn’t help but fall asleep.

When she drifted into awareness, she knew that dusk was not far away, for though the door-hide was down a hint of rosy light crept under it. She also knew that someone was watching her.

She lay for a moment gathering her wits, then turned on her side with a yawn. The eyes peeping through the wicker bedscreen lowered with embarrassment, before a young woman stepped out into the open.

‘I was just making sure you were rested,’ the woman explained with a flutter of her hand. She spoke the Dalriadan language in a voice so stilted and soft Minna had to strain to hear. She was a few years older than her, with narrow, slightly bowed shoulders.

‘I am.’ Minna sat up with the furs around her chin. ‘Thank you,’ she added politely.

The young woman’s brown hair was caught in a net of gold thread, and her dress was blue and intricately embroidered. Her fingers were twisting themselves into knots, but when she noticed what she was doing she folded her hands. ‘I am Nessa, Gede’s queen.’

‘Oh!’ Minna couldn’t help the exclamation, but she would have imagined someone more haughty as a match for that king.

Nessa seemed to read her mind, her mouth twitching ruefully, which changed her whole face. ‘I did not mean to intrude while you slept.’ She perched on the end of the bed.

‘No … I thank you … for your hospitality.’ Minna wondered how to speak, what to say. ‘It was a very fine bath,’ she offered at last, and could have cursed herself for a fool.

The young queen’s grey eyes were startled, then amused. ‘My women said you were very unusual, lady. They said …’ Nessa paused, then rushed on, ‘that you had hair like the night sky and eyes like the sea.’ She glanced at her as if worried she might have caused offence.

Minna couldn’t hide a nervous laugh, for the directness of Alban women continued to amaze her. And she called her
lady
. ‘My name is Minna. Just Minna.’

Nessa tilted her head. ‘And the servants from the king’s hall heard the druids whispering that you speak with the gods.’

Minna was taken aback, then thought it better this queen swiftly knew some of her strange truth. She touched the tender skin beneath the iron ring. ‘I was captured from the Roman Province, lady, as a slave. In leaf-fall.’

The queen nodded, still scrupulously polite – then Minna remembered she walked at a king’s side now, and this woman knew it. ‘We don’t have slaves: it is a Roman fashion,’ Nessa said carefully. ‘But would it be … presumptuous … to ask where you are from? Only if it causes you no distress, of course.’

She was further disarmed by this respect. ‘Eboracum.’

‘Ah, I have heard of this place – this silk thread comes from there.’ The queen touched her sleeve matter-of-factly, as if she did not value her rich clothes.

Minna, however, was burning with her own questions. ‘Lady, how do you speak the Dalriadan language?’

Nessa smiled. ‘My father rules a dun in the west, and when I was a small child I was taken by the
gaels
after a battle, as a royal hostage. I lived in one of their northern duns.’

‘But that is terrible, to be sent away from your home!’

Nessa shrugged. ‘It was always going to happen, one way or another. My mother is of the Pictish royal line, and so therefore am I. Our noble blood runs through women, not the men as in Dalriada, did you know that?’

Minna didn’t, but she nodded anyway.

‘Then things change – people die, others have babes or lose them – and eventually I was needed back to bestow on a husband, and then a son, the kingship with my royal blood. Not that the
gaels
knew that! My people paid a ransom of gold and cattle to retrieve me. But this is all long ago – there are no hostages now. Just … deaths.’ Minna watched the pain flicker over her grey eyes like clouds.

A knock on the wall outside interrupted them. Taran strode in, hovering awkwardly, glancing with unease at the women’s things scattered about. ‘Lady,’ he addressed Minna. His manner was very different now. ‘King Gede requires your presence in his hall.’

‘Me?’ Minna repeated blankly.

The druid glanced at her, exasperated. ‘Are you not the one who spoke of your visions to me so passionately? Now my king wants to see you.’

‘But … but I have to get dressed.’

‘Then I will wait for you outside. Hurry.’

When he had gone, Nessa looked down at Minna, fear tight around her eyes. ‘I will lend you a dress,’ she offered. ‘You do not wish to feel vulnerable before Gede son of Urp.’

It took Minna a moment to remember she was speaking of her own husband.

Every surface in the Pict hall was painted or carved with wild designs: lines quartering spirals and circles; stags, boars and wolves; salmon and geese alongside unrecognizable beasts. There was a lavish use of gilding, and the hangings and cushions glowed with clashing hues and silver thread. The entire expanse of the encircling wall was covered in shields, spears, scabbards and crossed daggers, fracturing the firelight and the flames of the torches in Minna’s eyes.

Blinking, she sought for Cahir, who was at King Gede’s right hand with a cup of ale in a gold-rimmed horn. He looked grim, his glower only deepening at her appearance. His own men were ranged behind him, while Gede’s nobles took up the ring of hearth-benches. All of them were staring at her.

Minna’s fingers knotted in the crimson folds of Nessa’s dress; her knees, hidden by the heavy fabric, were quivering alarmingly. Then she touched the priestess ring, drawing strength from it.

Suddenly, Cahir broke in. ‘I said this is not necessary.’

The old druid frowned. ‘My king deems it so.’

Taran stepped between them. ‘Lady, this message stone is powerful, as are the forbidden words you have spoken to us. I ask you to state before my king – it was
your
visions that led you to this?’

Minna stared into Cahir’s set face. His eyes ordered her to deny who she was, to protect herself. But the druids wouldn’t believe him without her, they would know.
Jump in
, Mamo whispered.
Jump into the dark water. It will hold you, as will I.

‘Yes,’ Minna said, but her voice seemed faint in the immensity of that hall. Then her glance fell on, of all people, Ruarc. The flickering torches lit up his defiant eyes, and Donal’s thinning pate, and the gold in Gobán’s beard. Ardal raised his chin as he folded his arms. They sought to give her courage, because of their pride in their king which she must sustain.

‘They are my visions,’ she said more strongly. ‘I was drawn to the valley and shown a grave from long ago.’

‘Whose is the grave?’ Gede demanded.

Minna closed her eyes. ‘The child of Eremon of Erin, the Dalriadan king’s most revered ancestor. I saw him place the … the baby there. He put the boar stone on her breast.’

The Picts muttered among themselves as this was translated. Another man spoke up, stocky and brutish as his king was sleek, with ragged dark hair and a beard forked into peaks. ‘And this so-called royal child was laid in
our
territory?’ he scorned.

Minna glanced again at Cahir, his mouth covered by his fingers, his eyes narrowed. She shifted her gaze to a wall hanging, and began to speak as Taran translated.

Cahir tapped the chair with one finger, the only thing betraying his emotion.

The red dress brought a glow to Minna’s skin and a gloss to her dark hair, which was caught back in some kind of gold net. With the donning of the noble clothes, something had come to the fore in her bearing that was hidden before. A bronze belt moulded the cloth to her narrow waist and swelling hips, and Cahir’s desire heated his anger. He wanted to admire her and throttle her at the same time. Even the way she tilted her chin destroyed any chance he had of pretending she was some bed slut who meant nothing.