Read Online The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jules Watson
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her limbs. And then that lying brute nearly touched her on the beach. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sun on her face, and forced herself to sit a little straighter.
She could not wait to clear the sheltered bay, for the sea always calmed her. As the crystal water deepened to blue-black, laced with broken kelp, Rhiann drew the salt air into her lungs and slowly let it out, closing her eyes. The control she had to exert in public was becoming increasingly fragile. She longed to be home, where she could bury herself in bed and shut it all out.
A cry floated down from above, and she glanced up to see a curlew beating its slow way towards the marshes around Dunadd. Its voice was mournful, lonely, and she tried to lose herself in it, to send her spirit upinto the air with the bird. For a moment it almost worked, and she started to drift away … away from her body with its hurts …
Then she realized that her mind was in fact anchored most firmly in her skull, and her eyes were fixed on the boat shooting up behind: the one with the men from Erin. She was close enough to see the copper glints in the leader’s dark hair where the morning sun caught it. And again, she tasted the terror that had clawed at her when he nearly touched her arm.
A warrior who lied. A child murderer, a violator of women, like all the others.
Suddenly she saw the man turn, as if he could hear her. Impossible!
She frowned, twisting away to lock her gaze on the blue haze of the mainland hills, and the sun pouring through the wide cleft that sheltered Dunadd’s plain. When she glanced back, the boats had drawn apart, and the man was no more than a blur of leaf-green and glittering bronze on the sea.
By the time the fleet neared the shore, Eremon’s boat had slipped to the rear. Dunadd’s port, Crìanan it was called, was no more than a cluster of piers and roundhouses squatting on a spur of rock. To its south, a river unravelled as it reached the bay, slicing the marsh and mudflats into ribbons of dark water.
But Eremon saw the advantage of its position immediately. Curls of surf showed the swell rolling in from the sea to the north, but the port lay on calm water, sheltered by a curving arm of land. Across this bay, a palisaded dun looked down on it with watchful eyes from a high crag.
‘Is that Dunadd?’ Eremon asked.
The fisherman shook his head, smiling. ‘That is the Dun of the Hazels. Dunadd is up the river; you’ll see.’
Eremon peered past Crìanan’s piers, the crowding houses, and the curraghs and dugout canoes scattered on the tidal sands. Try as he might, he could not see the royal dun, only wide expanses of bronze sedge and scarlet reeds.
Dunadd .
He had heard the name in Erin: it was indeed of some trading renown. What awaited him there? He realized he was on his feet, his muscles tensed as if they wanted to spring. Or run.
The boat ground against the pier, its timbers slippery with green weed, and his men jostled to get to dry land, Cù in their wake. Eremon let them pass and held himself back, for a sense of foreboding had suddenly come upon him, like a cloud over the sun. Cù checked his headlong rush after the men and stopped, looking back at his master.
And it was as Eremon stood there, poised between sea and sky, that the icy breath of fate touched him. He suddenly knew, in his heart, itwas not a joyous adventure that awaited him here. Something else wanted his allegiance. Something he would not be able to resist.
He froze. He’d not set foot on Alba yet, so perhaps this fate was not sealed.
The Epidii guides were throwing rope around pilings, and hailing those who had beached their boats. No one noticed him. He glanced over his shoulder to Erin again, hidden behind the islands, and then back to Alba’s shore.
Cù whined softly, and Eremon closed his eyes, telling himself he was being ridiculous. The salt breeze ruffled the hair at his temples, and he breathed the familiar scents of dung and peat and
She could not wait to clear the sheltered bay, for the sea always calmed her. As the crystal water deepened to blue-black, laced with broken kelp, Rhiann drew the salt air into her lungs and slowly let it out, closing her eyes. The control she had to exert in public was becoming increasingly fragile. She longed to be home, where she could bury herself in bed and shut it all out.
A cry floated down from above, and she glanced up to see a curlew beating its slow way towards the marshes around Dunadd. Its voice was mournful, lonely, and she tried to lose herself in it, to send her spirit upinto the air with the bird. For a moment it almost worked, and she started to drift away … away from her body with its hurts …
Then she realized that her mind was in fact anchored most firmly in her skull, and her eyes were fixed on the boat shooting up behind: the one with the men from Erin. She was close enough to see the copper glints in the leader’s dark hair where the morning sun caught it. And again, she tasted the terror that had clawed at her when he nearly touched her arm.
A warrior who lied. A child murderer, a violator of women, like all the others.
Suddenly she saw the man turn, as if he could hear her. Impossible!
She frowned, twisting away to lock her gaze on the blue haze of the mainland hills, and the sun pouring through the wide cleft that sheltered Dunadd’s plain. When she glanced back, the boats had drawn apart, and the man was no more than a blur of leaf-green and glittering bronze on the sea.
By the time the fleet neared the shore, Eremon’s boat had slipped to the rear. Dunadd’s port, Crìanan it was called, was no more than a cluster of piers and roundhouses squatting on a spur of rock. To its south, a river unravelled as it reached the bay, slicing the marsh and mudflats into ribbons of dark water.
But Eremon saw the advantage of its position immediately. Curls of surf showed the swell rolling in from the sea to the north, but the port lay on calm water, sheltered by a curving arm of land. Across this bay, a palisaded dun looked down on it with watchful eyes from a high crag.
‘Is that Dunadd?’ Eremon asked.
The fisherman shook his head, smiling. ‘That is the Dun of the Hazels. Dunadd is up the river; you’ll see.’
Eremon peered past Crìanan’s piers, the crowding houses, and the curraghs and dugout canoes scattered on the tidal sands. Try as he might, he could not see the royal dun, only wide expanses of bronze sedge and scarlet reeds.
Dunadd .
He had heard the name in Erin: it was indeed of some trading renown. What awaited him there? He realized he was on his feet, his muscles tensed as if they wanted to spring. Or run.
The boat ground against the pier, its timbers slippery with green weed, and his men jostled to get to dry land, Cù in their wake. Eremon let them pass and held himself back, for a sense of foreboding had suddenly come upon him, like a cloud over the sun. Cù checked his headlong rush after the men and stopped, looking back at his master.
And it was as Eremon stood there, poised between sea and sky, that the icy breath of fate touched him. He suddenly knew, in his heart, itwas not a joyous adventure that awaited him here. Something else wanted his allegiance. Something he would not be able to resist.
He froze. He’d not set foot on Alba yet, so perhaps this fate was not sealed.
The Epidii guides were throwing rope around pilings, and hailing those who had beached their boats. No one noticed him. He glanced over his shoulder to Erin again, hidden behind the islands, and then back to Alba’s shore.
Cù whined softly, and Eremon closed his eyes, telling himself he was being ridiculous. The salt breeze ruffled the hair at his temples, and he breathed the familiar scents of dung and peat and
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