The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One Read Online Free Page B

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Chapter 3

    ‘T he funeral is at dawn in two days.’
    Rhiann felt Linnet, beside her, stiffen at the chief druid’s clipped words. The roof of the druid shrine was open to the clouded sky, and dull morning light striped the rain-soaked earth between the massive oak pillars. But the face of the chief druid – Gelert – remained in shadow.
    He had just performed a sacrifice for King Brude’s soul. Blood streaked one gnarled hand and spattered his bleached robe, and behind a half-circle of other druids, a yearling calf lay across the stone altar. At the base of each oak pillar, the wooden idols of the gods stared down with empty eyes, stained with ochre, wreathed with withered flowers. Dried petals littered the floor around their feet.
    ‘Surely we need time to prepare.’ Linnet’s tone matched the druid’s coldness.
    Gelert dipped his hands into a bronze washbowl held by a young novice. ‘All is prepared. The nobles will journey to the Isle of Deer before first light in two days. We burn him at sunrise.’
    ‘I see grief has not slowed you, Gelert.’
    The druid waved the novice away, moving forward into the sunlight. Rhiann caught her breath, as she always did when she was near Gelert. The fading tattoos on the old man’s cheeks were twisted by the wrinkles that seamed his skin. The flesh of his nose had shrunk away from the bone, and it cleft his face as a prow cuts the waves. Lank, white hair straggled to his shoulders. But it was his eyes that repulsed her, and no more so than when they were fixed on her. The lashes were nearly gone, and the irises were yellow and flat, like those of an owl.
    ‘What is the point of grief?’ Gelert shrugged. ‘I knew he was dying. I, at least, saw it. And unlike you, I have little time to indulge myself in women’s grief.’ Another novice appeared with a wolfskin cloak, andGelert drew it around his bony shoulders. ‘Other matters require my thought.’
    Linnet folded her hands into her sleeves. ‘You mean the rumours of Roman soldiers to the south. But we all know they won’t come into Alba.’
    Rhiann started. Lost in the depths of her misery, she’d not heard any such rumour about Romans. The invaders had been on the islands of Britain for nearly forty years now, so the lore of the priestesses said. Though they advanced north at intervals, they seemed to have stopped, content to sit and bleed their new province dry. But Alba? It was too cold and rugged for them, and the tribes too fierce. This is what Rhiann had heard around the cookfires since she was a baby. Everyone knew it.
    Gelert smirked. ‘Well, I would not expect women to appreciate such matters. That is why they are safely in other hands.’
    Rhiann knew Linnet would not rise to this, for Gelert always spoke so to her aunt. His hatred for those of the sisterhood – those of the Goddess – had been a steady thread throughout Rhiann’s life. The druids drew increasingly close to their sword, thunder and sky gods, although most of them at least still paid their respects to the female face of the Source. But not Gelert. He would sweep the whole sisterhood from the face of Alba if he could. To him, Rhiannon the Great Mother, after whom Rhiann was named, was no more than the ornamental wife of a god.
    Which was even more reason for Rhiann to stop standing there, gawking as if she were a child. She was a priestess, too, and must act like one. ‘What of the symbols for the King’s journey-boat?’ she broke in, returning to the matter at hand. The Romans would remain a rumour, so she put them out of her mind.
    Gelert turned to her, and the power in his eyes was like yellow flame spilling from two oil lamps. ‘All done. While you were off delivering that fisherman’s cub, my brethren were preparing the King’s way. You need only grace us with your presence. Unless you object?’
    She did not reply, only raised her chin.
    He smiled. ‘Ah, yes, our proud Ban Cré, our Mother of the Land. Our