The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Read Free Book Online Page A

impassively at the man, as the boat drifted closer on the incoming tide. ‘So be it, bold prince! Then you’ll hand over your weapons as a surety, until we feast you.’
    The foreigner’s smile faded, and angry murmuring broke out among his men before he silenced them with a curt gesture. Rhiann saw that they obeyed him instantly, even though many were older than he.
    ‘My men will give up their weapons,’ the man agreed, his jaw tight. The crooked grin had fled as instantly as it had come. ‘And you can have my spears – but not my sword. It is worth more to me than my life.’ He sheathed the blade in a bronze-tipped scabbard at his waist. The clink as it slid home echoed across the waves. ‘If I touch it, strike me down. I swear that none of my men will make a move to save me.’
    The other gaels flinched at this, though said nothing – they clearly trusted him. And it was a clever reply. Unprovoked, no Epidii warrior could harm him without losing honour. And men, of course, valued their honour even more than their horses.
    Gelert slowly nodded. ‘Then you may land.’
    The line of Epidii warriors fell back as the boat’s hull grated on the sand. Talorc, a thick-set, grizzled warrior who still sported formidable arms despite his age, planted himself before the strangers to take their weapons as they stepped ashore.
    Rhiann drew her cloak closer with trembling fingers, stepping back so that she was further away from these strange men. She saw the prince take a ring from his finger and hold it out. ‘I give this to you for your dead,’ he offered, bowing gracefully from the waist.
    The rustling of approval around Rhiann grew louder. ‘He speaks fine for a gael !’ an old woman croaked.
    ‘He came to us as the sun,’ a younger one breathed. ‘The gods must favour him!’
    Gelert studied the foreigner before taking the ring. ‘We will offer your gift at a sacred spring. The gods will look kindly on you.’ He beckoned one of the novices forward. ‘Take these men to the funeral hut, and send mead.’ He swivelled his eyes to the gael leader. ‘We are soon to return home, and have little food to give you beyond cold meat. You can drink, though, and then we’ll speak.’
    Wide-eyed, the novice led the men up the beach to a single roundhouse that stood on the machair , the flower-starred strip of grassland that edged the sands.
    Rhiann watched them pass. Now that they were close, she could see the prince’s clothes, though well-made, were torn and crusted with salt. Yet he held his head as if dressed in the most expensive finery, and now that the crooked smile was gone, his dark braids framed a face that seemed carved from stone. His forehead was a smooth plane, his jaw-line clean, and high cheekbones gave his eyes an exotic, slanted cast. Yet his out-thrust chin was too sure of itself, and the eyes themselves were a glacial green. Then she saw the bloodless lines on his swordhand from clenching hard the horn pommel of his sword.
    Ah … he was lying. His face dared someone to see it, as his very hand betrayed it. Someone who could lie and look so fair was dangerous. She wondered if Gelert already knew.
    Behind the leader came the largest man Rhiann had ever seen. His mop of barley hair and sky-blue eyes gave him a boyish air, yet his arms were thick as young trees, and a curved scar caught at the corner of one eyelid, pulling it down slightly and scoring his cheek. A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, which broadened when the young women crowded forward to stare at him. Aiveen, Talorc’s bold daughter, was foremost among them, her butter-coloured braids swinging.
    And then there came a shy youth, hidden behind a shock of scarlet hair, neck a mass of freckles. Then a bard, pretty as a girl, with cream and roses skin that was bruised along the jaw. He limped slightly, clutching his harp to his chest as if drawing strength from it. Both of these boys were too young, surely, to be away from their