Daughters of Fire (12 page)

Guilty because she was the cause of the war.

Guilty because she had betrayed her people.

Hugh frowned and took a deep breath, clenching his fists on the blotter in front of him. He had done it again. For one frightening moment he had confused her in his mind with the woman who had owned the brooch nearly two millennia before.

‘Be careful, Hugh,’ Meryn had said quietly as they had sat together before the gently smouldering fire in the cottage in the Pentland hills. ‘Don’t let yourself identify too closely with Venutios. I don’t know why yet, but his link with that brooch was only too real.’

Hugh had laughed.

The sun had risen out of a bank of opal mist. Above it scraps of pink cloud floated like spun gauze in the clear blue bowl of the sky. The sea slumbered still, the colour of knapped flint, save where a path of light, carbuncle red, led towards the shore.

Her horse’s rein over her arm, Carta stood on the clifftop watching. In a moment the gauze would be too flimsy, the sun’s brilliance too strong and she would have to avert her eyes. The sweet symbol of the goddess of fire who hung her cloak upon its golden rays and whose warmth would sustain and comfort them through the summer would in a moment remind her of its implacable strength.

Dropping the rein she waited, ignoring the animal, who wandered a few paces away before beginning to graze, then as the crimson sliver broke through the mist she raised her arms in greeting.

She could feel the goddess’s kiss of warmth on her skin. Feel her power touching the land. As her gentle fingers touched the horse’s flank it raised its head and in turn it whickered greeting and acknowledgement before dropping its head once more to the grass.

The time of her marriage was coming close. Carta was a woman now. Several moons ago her bleeding time had started. There was a celebration for her in the women’s hall and a blessing. The king’s Druids and the king and his sons had met and messages had been sent to her father, recently elected high king of Brigantia. Her marriage portion had to be agreed and brought to Alba and her father and mother would come to celebrate the Beltane feast with gifts and feasting. Her husband was chosen and she was happy - so happy.

Were it not for one deep cloud like that which hovered across the sea and now covered the great rock out there amidst the gathering sun paths through the mist. Someone who did not want her to marry. Someone who had cursed her.

She shivered. The night before it had been the turn of Carta’s bard, Conaire, to sing. He had risen to his feet and with a bow to the king reached for his small harp. The song he had sung was one of Carta’s favourites. It told how she had raced across the moors against her three brothers and won. It told how well she rode, how
she was one with her pony as it galloped through the Setantian mists. It told how she had won her name.

The men and women in the crowded hall listened as they lounged round the fire glancing from time to time at Carta who sat next to Riach, with Mellia beside her, the girl’s eyes fixed on the young man’s face with adoration. The servants and slaves had cleared away the dishes and the food. Fresh logs had been thrown on the hot ashes and mead and wine were being passed round the assembled company as, outside, the heavy spring rain watered the growing crops of the farms which spread out across the plain below the high terraces of the fort and drenched the roofs of the round houses, splattering on the mud beneath the eaves.

Carta stared down at her own small goblet, half embarrassed, pleased by the looks of admiration being cast in her direction. She was glowing with pride.

The music was slowing. Conaire drew his fingers across the strings in a vivid, dramatic chord.

His voice rang to the roof timbers.

There was a dramatic pause, then a gasp spread around the great chamber. The words of the bard implied that the sacred vow of hospitality and friendship had been violated. Such an accusation was unheard of, but the accusation of a trained bard had the blessing of the gods as his words came direct from them through their inspiration. It had to be heard.

The king rose to his feet and silence fell on the company. Carta could feel her cheeks flaming. She did not dare to look around at the faces of the king’s family, her foster family. Beside her Mellia was holding her breath.

‘You make a grave accusation, my friend.’ Lugaid’s voice was calm. ‘And you make it in a public place.’

Conaire bowed. He set his harp down at his feet. ‘I speak the truth.’ His voice was quiet, but it carried to every man and woman there.

Carta found the courage to look up at last. Her eyes met Medb’s.
The king’s youngest wife was white to the lips, her eyes radiating anger and hatred. Carta looked away. Somehow she forced herself to stand up and face the crowds in the room. The silence was intense. ‘I don’t know what I have done to earn such dislike,’ she said, her voice ringing out clearly,‘but I am sorry for it. I would have hoped to be a sister to every woman here.’

There was a second gasp and a rapid murmur of voices ran round the fire. She had added her support to the accusation; and she had confirmed that her enemy was a woman.

Truthac, the king’s Druid leaned forward and murmured in his ear. Lugaid nodded and sat down as Truthac rose in his place and stood, leaning on his staff. ‘This must be spoken about further. But for now I would invite our own bard to sing us another song; perhaps a song about Carta’s family and her heritage of courage and dedication.’ He smiled gravely at the silent crowd, his eyes resting for only a fraction longer on one face than on the others. His gaze was met by stony defiance.

By the fire Carta resumed her seat on the cushioned bench, so close to the woman who was her enemy. The nervous thudding of her heart had subsided a little. She glanced at Conaire as Mellia slipped away from her side and made her way towards him, shyly touching the young man’s shoulder in a gesture of support. Carta hadn’t realised he knew what was going on, but the gods had chosen to speak through him and all she could do now was to wait patiently and see what Truthac and Lugaid advised, and in the mean time she would pray to her goddesses to help her.

‘Strong Lady of the sun; Sweet Lady of the moon; guardians of this place; spirits of this land; keep me safe. Shield me from her curses. Turn them back as arrows to her heart. Tell me what to do -’

‘Viv? Are you asleep?’

The voice beside her made Viv jump violently. Heather was standing in the doorway with the coffee jug in her hand. ‘I thought you might like a top up. You’ve been up here for ages.’

Outside her office the sun had moved on round. The bench where Hugh had been sitting was in deep shadow. And empty.

Viv stared at it for a moment, numb with shock, her heart thumping under her ribs. Carta had gone. Vanished in an instant in the middle of her prayer as though a door had slammed, separating
them so abruptly that the shock she felt was like a pain. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Heather and somehow she managed to pull herself together, forcing herself to concentrate on the present and put the dream behind her. Her first coherent thought was of the professor. ‘Is Hugh here?’

‘Yup. In his office. He’s got a meeting with Hamish later.’

‘I think I’ll go home, then.’ Viv reached for her mug and held it out. Her hand was shaking. ‘Thanks, Heather. Just half. Then I’ll go and work at the flat for the rest of the week. Keep out of his way. If you need me give me a call.’

The vision had come without invitation. Suddenly. Completely. For over an hour she had been sitting there in another world, unaware of anything around her. Not even hearing the door open. Aware of nothing until Heather spoke to her. Slowly she began to pile books and folders into her bag, realising as she did so that her hands were still trembling.

‘There shouldn’t be any problems. All the exam papers are marked. I don’t think there will be any queries. There aren’t any resits this year, thank goodness.’

After Heather disappeared she stopped her frenetic activity for a moment and took a deep breath. She mustn’t forget the dream. She had to fix the details in her mind. The sounds and smells of the feasting hall, the haunting beauty of the song, the background noise and then the total silence, the bolt of fear that had shocked Carta as she sat and listened to the prophecy. Somehow she had to find her way back to the scene as soon as possible. As soon as she reached the privacy of her own flat.

Her desk cleared, she let herself out of her office and stood for a moment on the landing, listening. Hugh’s door was closed. The building was silent. Holding her breath, she tiptoed along the corridor, pausing as the floor creaked beneath her feet. The last thing she needed now was another encounter with Hugh and the discussion which would surely follow about the Cartimandua Pin.

Heather was right. She needed to chill.

She had made her escape, pulling the heavy outside door behind her when, only a few paces from the building, a voice accosted her. ‘Hi, Viv.’

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

It was Steve Steadman. The bag on his back hung open to reveal several books and files. ‘I’ve just been to the library.’

‘So I see.’ She did not stop walking so he fell in step beside her, his long strides adapting at once to hers. He was smiling, his pleasant face relaxed and friendly.

‘When are you planning to go home to Yorkshire?’ She glanced across at him, pleased suddenly to have his cheerful, straight forward company.

‘Next weekend.’

‘You must be looking forward to it.’ She was making conversation to compensate for not stopping; for walking so fast. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and the office and Hugh as possible.

‘I am.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll probably stay there for a bit over the summer and give them a hand on the farm. I can come back up to the library if I need to as I work on my thesis. So, might I see you down there?’ He gave her his usual relaxed grin. ‘It would be great if you could visit us.’

She hesitated. ‘You know, I might. It’s very tempting.’ Tempting and frightening. To see Carta’s home. The scenes of her early childhood. What would happen if she went there? They paused to wait for the traffic lights before turning into Forrest Road. She glanced at him in time to see his eyes fixed on her face. He looked away at once, as though embarrassed to be caught staring. Could he see something odd about her, she wondered. Sense the aura of the past which she could still feel hanging around her? She hoped not. She shivered. The street was busy, and for a moment the noise of a lorry changing gear beside them almost drowned out the quiet voice which spoke unexpectedly in her ear.

‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, has Mr Steadman been giving you his opinion of your book?’

Viv gasped audibly. Hugh Graham had walked up behind them, unnoticed. She faced him, her heart thudding. ‘Indeed he has. He liked it.’

‘Did you?’ Hugh turned to her companion and peered at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘Well, you’re inexperienced as yet.’ He smiled. ‘I had hoped to see you in the department, Dr Lloyd Rees.’ He paused, scanning her face . ‘I would have appreciated the chance to speak to you alone.’ He glanced at Steve, then he went on,‘But as you are here now, I may as well tell you. Amongst other things, I have been looking over the timetables for next year. Assuming you are still with us.’ He paused for a fraction of a
second, his eyes fixed on hers. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of hesitation there, but if there was it was gone so fast she might have imagined it. He went on implacably,‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see you’ve been given more time to lecture the new intake of undergraduates. I think your approach to history will intrigue them. The second years, where the standards of teaching are so much more important, will be supervised by Dr Grant. As you know Dr Macleod has resigned as from the end of this academic year to start his well-earned retirement, and I have decided that I will give the Readership to Dr Grant as a reward for his hard work and loyalty to the department.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction as the lights changed once more and the traffic surged forward. ‘He hasn’t published as much as you, but his work is sound.’

Viv stared at him, dimly aware that Steve had moved closer to her and reached out to touch her elbow in a quiet gesture of support. For a moment she was too stunned to speak. When at last she managed to open her mouth it was to stutter,‘You’re right. This is hardly the place to discuss this, Hugh!’

He shrugged. ‘Why not? Surely you don’t mind Mr Steadman knowing. Everyone will soon enough. As I warned you I have reviewed the situation and I have now made the right decision. We are a small department. I am afraid there is very little room for promotion and when a position does come up, it must go to the strongest candidate. The most reliable and honest candidate.’