Free The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson

made her way to her own house. Brica was outside, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. ‘I’ve heard about the strangers, lady. Where are they, then? What do they look like?’ She craned her neck, squinting through the gaps between the houses.
    ‘I think they’re down in the village.’ Rhiann lifted the doorcover, and the maid followed her inside. ‘It’s nothing to be scared of, Brica. They’re a trading party, that’s all.’ She unpinned her cloak and drew it from her shoulders.
    Brica sniffed as she took it; the closest she ever came to contradicting Rhiann. ‘Well, Fainne said they were from Erin and had many swords and spears. I wonder what they’re doing here?’ Her black eyes dartedabout as she hung the damp cloak over the loom to dry. ‘Maybe they want an alliance? Or perhaps they—’
    ‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’ Rhiann was suddenly exhausted. ‘The Lady Linnet will be here soon. Have you brewed tea?’
    ‘It’s here.’ Brica bustled around with the iron pot, pouring out two cups and setting it back on its tripod over the coals. The sour tang of blackberries wafted up on the steam. Then she took up a wicker basket. ‘I’ve made mutton stew, and Nera has baked the bannocks. I’ll go and get them and you can eat.’
    At a nod from Rhiann, Brica disappeared outside.
    Rhiann wandered to the hearth, and stirred the cauldron suspended on its chains over the fire. The nobles must be gathering in the King’s Hall now, and soon, too soon, there would be a council.
    But who would be the next man to be declared king, to stand on the slab of rock at the summit, one foot in the carved hollow, the stallion hide around his shoulders? A man from another clan, who forced his ascendancy with bloodshed? Or a son of her own? He would be a baby in the arms of a regent, although still the rightful king. Neither possibility was welcome to her.
    She pulled up her stool and was sitting with her hands around her cup, when Brica burst back through the door, bread spilling from her basket. ‘The watch cry has gone up, my lady,’ she panted.
    ‘What of it? And why have you been running?’
    ‘Everyone is running, mistress,’ Brica gasped out. ‘There is a warrior in full gallop on the south road. From Enfret’s dun, he is, and he bears the banner warning of attack! I heard the watch send a guard to the chief druid!’
    Rhiann caught up her cloak once more and hurried to the King’s Hall. There she met Linnet in the stream of people who were squeezing through the Horse Gate, for though this day they were in mourning for King Brude, news about the gaels had drawn many from their houses. Everyone wanted to see the gold that adorned the newcomers.
    Together, she and Linnet managed to push through until they were close to Gelert and Talorc, who were standing with the men from Erin outside the hall, watching the rider approaching the village gate below.
    As the messenger reined in and leaped to the ground to begin his run up through the village, Rhiann saw Gelert narrow his eyes against the glare of the sun. Declan the seer, hands clasped on his crescent staff, was also frowning. Whatever the message, the seer was worried – it did not look good. Rhiann’s heart started to skip again.
    At last the crowd parted for the man, and he threw himself down on one knee before the assembled nobles.
    ‘Well?’ barked Gelert, ‘What is this haste for? What has happened?’
    The rider could not get his words out, his chest heaving from his run.His trousers were spattered with mud, his tattoos smeared with sweat and dirt. Gelert made a sharp gesture with his hand to still the murmuring of the people around him.
    ‘We have had news from the Damnonii to the south, my lord,’ the man finally gasped out. His eyes were wide with fear.
    ‘What news?’
    ‘It is the men of the Eagle – the Romans!’ the man cried. ‘At last they have crossed into Alba!’

Chapter 8

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