Daughters of Fire (24 page)

It was after they had finished supper that Viv noticed a book on herbs pushed in on the shelf amongst the well-thumbed cookbooks.

‘It’s something else to do with my research,’ she explained. ‘I
wanted to find out what sort of potions would have been used to prevent someone miscarrying a baby.’

‘Oh, Mum can help you with that,’ Steve said with a tolerant grin. He put an arm round his mother’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘She’s more or less the local midwife.’

‘Really?’ Viv was astonished.

‘No, not really.’ Peggy was firm. ‘I sometimes lend a hand when no one else can get here, that’s all. The hill farms get cut off in the winter sometimes.’ She glanced at her husband. Some of those times had been by order of the government. He had left the table and was shrugging on his jacket, the two dogs milling round him, tails wagging, and did not seem to have heard. ‘Come with me.’ She touched Viv’s arm. ‘We’ll look it up. You go with your father, Steve.’

Peggy watched the two men leave the kitchen then she led the way down the long flagged passage and into a dark shelf-lined back room. Some of the shelves were laden with books, others with jars and bottles. In one corner was an old kneehole writing desk, in another a couch covered by a brightly coloured throw. ‘My still room.’ Peggy waved her in and closed the door behind them. ‘This was my mother-in-law’s room when I first came here. She taught me everything she knew about herbs. Sit you down, love.’ She smiled. ‘This is a woman’s room. I don’t allow Steve or Gordon in here.’

Viv hitched herself up onto the couch and sat, legs swinging like a child. ‘It smells wonderful.’

Peggy smiled. ‘That’s the herbs. I used to use the kitchen for making remedies and things, but since the B&B I have to be a bit careful. I prefer to be private.’

‘Regulations?’ Viv raised a sympathetic eyebrow.

Peggy nodded after a moment. ‘Regulations. Poor Gordon. Forgive his little rant out there at supper.’

‘It must have been awful beyond belief. He’s so lucky to have you there.’

‘It’s what wives do.’ Peggy tightened her lips for a moment. ‘Now, let’s see about your miscarriages.’

‘Perhaps it’s easier if I tell you what I think was used. This was in the Iron Age. The woman was threatening to miscarry at I think about five or six months. I made some notes of the names and had our Celtic language expert check them for me and she came up
with what she thought they were in the Gaelic.
Copan an druichd
which I believe is dew cup or lady’s mantle;
muca faileag
which are briar rose hips;
sgiteach
- haws,
preas subh chraobh
which were rasps or raspberries and
seilleach
which is willow.’

Peggy nodded. ‘Couldn’t have prescribed better myself. Three textbook herbs, raspberry leaves, rather than raspberries, with willow bark, that’s the origin of aspirin, as a pain killer.’

‘And would they have worked?’

Peggy shrugged. ‘It depends why the woman was threatening to miscarry. If there are contractions and too much bleeding it is probably impossible to stop it, even today. Rest. Sedation. Something to soothe the cramps and relax the uterus. That’s all you can do. Haws are a tonic; wonderful relaxants. Lady’s mantle wouldn’t be so good to try and stop the miscarriage, but once it was underway it would make things less painful, and the same with raspberry leaves which are one of the herbal remedies people still remember today. Roses are good for the female system as well. It sounds as though your Iron Age herbalist knew what she was doing.’

‘It does, doesn’t it.’ Viv sat for a moment lost in thought.

‘Did they find archaeological evidence of those remedies?’ Peggy leaned against the desk, arms folded. ‘They’ve been finding some amazing things at the hospital they are excavating up at Soutra, I believe. Steve told me about it.’

‘That’s more a medieval site.’ Viv frowned. ‘This is earlier. Much earlier.’

‘They’ve found Roman remedies too,’ Peggy prompted. ‘Jars which still have traces of cream. That sort of thing. Haven’t they?’

Viv nodded. ‘But this is actually conjectural,’ she said slowly. ‘To be honest, with you, I -’ She hesitated. ‘I sort of dreamed it.’

‘Sort of?’

‘I’ll tell you about it some time.’ Viv stood up.

‘Fair enough.’ Peggy scrutinised her face for a minute. Her eyes were no longer soft. They were uncomfortably piercing. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay with us, love. Ask me if you need anything at all and make yourself at home.’ As they walked back in towards the kitchen Peggy paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘Don’t go up to the fort on your own, will you. It’s very wild up there. Easy to fall and even easier to get lost.’ She hesitated a moment as though about to say something else, changed her mind and walked back into the kitchen.

The city was basking in the glorious sunshine. It was the kind of day which made one glad to be alive and Hugh was sick with worry, thanks to Viv. Someone greeted him as they walked past. He hadn’t recognised them; hadn’t even seen them to be honest. Stopping, he turned and looked back. Amongst the crowds he recognised no one.

There had been no reply from Viv’s flat, either on the phone or when he had climbed all those millions of steps and knocked on the door. Hugh frowned as he walked back down the High Street, past the High Kirk of St Giles, with its wonderful crown spire, past Parliament House and the Heart of Midlothian, dodging the dawdling tourists without really seeing them.

Making up his mind abruptly, he changed course and headed towards the department. To his surprise Heather was there even though it was Saturday. Greeting her with a smile he made his way up to his office. There he closed the door and stared round the room suspiciously. Someone had been in there. He could feel it. Walking across to the desk he scanned it carefully. Since his tidy up he could tell at once if anything had been touched. It was all exactly as he had left it. Meticulous. Organised. He pulled open the top drawers. Nothing had been moved, as far as he could see. He straightened and stared round the room again, then shaking his head he walked to the door and pulling it open strode down the landing.

‘Heather?’ he bellowed from the top of the stairs.

Her face appeared at her office door, and she looked up apprehensively.

‘Has anyone been in my room?’

‘No, Professor. No one.’ She stepped out into the hall. ‘Is anything wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Don’t worry.’ Turning abruptly he found that Mhairi Mackenzie had opened her door and was peering out at him. A pretty mousey-haired woman, she found Hugh terrifying at the best of times. Her face was white as she stared out at him. ‘Is everything all right, Professor?’

He nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone else was here. Mhairi, did you see anyone going into my room?’

She shook her head adamantly. ‘No one. I’d have heard them if they went past my door. It’s been quiet as the grave.’

‘How apt!’ The Professor’s tart comment made her shrink back as he strode past her towards his office. With a quick look after him she retreated and closed her door.

Back in his study Hugh stared round again with a wave of apprehension. He could sense someone there and yet he could see no one. Not daring to move, he scanned the room. There was nowhere to hide. Next to the filing cabinets? Behind the door? Under the desk? Every space was crammed with things. Books. Boxes. Files. Chairs. The old fashioned curly-armed coatrack held only an old scarf, dropped by one of his students and never reclaimed.

Taking a firm grip on himself he walked over to the desk and sat down, gripping the edge with whitened fingers. It was then he heard it again. The distant call of the trumpet, and he was sure, the sound of horses hooves. Dear God, he was going mad!

Pushing back the chair he shot to his feet and going to the window threw it open. Leaning out he took a few deep breaths of fresh air, feeling the sweat cooling on his face, then he turned back into the room, slamming the window down behind him and was brought up short by a wave of anger.

He reeled back. What the hell was going on? Throwing himself into his chair he felt a film of sweat break out on his forehead again. This was because of the stolen pin. It was Viv’s fault. Well, he had given her every chance. If he called the police now she only had herself to blame. Without giving himself time to think he picked up the phone.

High above a skylark was singing as early sunlight slanted across the soft tussocky grass. Wrapped in her jacket and scarf, Viv had woken early and now sat cross-legged in the lea of a stone wall, her notebook open on her lap. She was writing fast. In her head it was the end of June as well. The soft warm wind from the west contained the scents of summer two thousand years ago as surely as they did in her waking life.

Carta stood staring up at the great cliffs which guarded this side of her hilltop home and beyond them to the stone ramparts with their entry gatehouses, one here, to the north, the other two out of sight behind the flat plateau on the high hill where she had been born. She was listening as the echoing cry of the horn announced her arrival. Behind her the wagons and chariots of the men and women who accompanied her and all her belongings were strung out some mile or so along the trackways which traversed the territories of her father the king. Her fists were clenched on the guardrail at her side and she braced herself easily as the chariot, driven by Fergal, lurched over the rutted ground, following now the steep stony roadway which wound up the sloping side of the hill towards the walls.

Physically she had recovered quickly from the loss of her baby, and as far as those around her could see she had put the event behind her. That she still mourned Riach with a bitter intense sorrow and anger perhaps only four people guessed, Mairghread and Gruoch, who had both elected to return with her to her father’s kingdom, Conaire, her bard, and Fergal at whose side in her chariot
she spent so much time as she grew stronger. She had been away for some six years and the young woman who rode now into the hilltop fortress of the Setantii was an educated, self-possessed, more thoughtful version of the wild untameable child who had ridden out at the age of twelve.

As she stepped down from the vehicle in front of her father’s great round house he was waiting to greet her with arms outstretched, Fidelma beside him. But his welcoming hug though warm, was feeble and she could see at once that something was wrong. The strong vital man who had attended her wedding was gone. His face was thin, his hair greying, his arms beneath their gold bracelets feeble.

Kissing her mother, Carta was surprised to see her turn away and walk back towards the women’s house. Two tall, handsome warriors had taken her place at the king’s side, their very vitality, their virility seeming to emphasise his weakness. One, Carta’s eldest brother, Triganos, surreptitiously took their father’s arm as soon as they turned towards the great house and once there, helped him to his seat, the other following closely behind. Carta frowned, resenting the presence of the stranger who had almost elbowed her mother away on such a special family occasion. She subjected him to a searching stare, meeting his eyes coldly and realising with a sudden shock of recognition that it was Venutios who stood there. The boy who had plagued her as a child was now, it appeared, chieftain and king in his own right of their neighbours, the Carvetii. He was a man in his prime, his face adorned with blue swirls and flourishes, his eyes still the deep rich agate which had seemed so hard and resentful when they were children and which, she saw wryly, were hard and resentful still. Whilst her brother and her father were smiling, he looked at her with nothing but hostility and challenge.

Tearing her eyes away from his with a shiver of distaste, she stared round as the dark round house filled with men and women. He was not alone in his resentment, it seemed. Instead of the unrestrained welcome she had been expecting, the atmosphere throughout the township was tense. It was Triganos who now stood to welcome her officially, Triganos’s bard with his branch of silver bells, the symbol of his office, who spoke the words of praise and joy and welcome that she should have returned to her father’s roof. Her father said nothing. Neither did Venutios.

At the feast which followed, amidst the noise and bustle and music she watched her father closely. He ate almost nothing. Her
mother did not reappear. Only the next day did she find a chance to speak to Triganos alone. ‘What has happened to him? Why was Mama not at the feast? Why is no one pleased to see me?’

Her brother looked down at her sadly. ‘We are pleased to see you, Carta. Do not doubt it. It is just that father’s health is failing. He was ill some four months ago with a bad fever and he has not properly recovered. On top of that, when we were out hunting only a fortnight ago he was gored by a boar. Not badly, not enough to hurt him seriously, but it has left him scarred. We all hoped he would get better, continue to be our king, but it is not going to happen as we would wish it. The elders of the Setantii and of the Brigantes as a whole, feel a new king should be chosen. It is time. Mama does not agree. She is angry. That is why she didn’t come to the feast. The worry of all that has distracted us from the welcome we should have given you. I’m sorry.’

Carta slumped down on the bench nearby. ‘Poor Father.’

‘He can no longer claim the respect of his men, Carta. He can’t lead them any more. It is time to stand back and enjoy the pleasures of old age.’ He shrugged. ‘Talk to him. He’ll tell you, he doesn’t want to fight the decision. He is prepared to stand down at Samhain. And in the meantime his chosen successor will lead the men should the need arise.’

‘And his chosen successor will be?’ Carta raised an eyebrow.

‘Almost certainly me. There is no one else in contention.’ Her brother grinned at her. He was a tall, well-built man, handsome, unscarred, exactly the choice the gods would make. And the people.

‘So, your dream comes true.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘What about Fintan, or Bran or Oisín? Do they agree?’ Their brothers or the son of their father’s sister were all of the royal blood, all eligible for choice. The Setantii would want the best man of the tribe to lead them, but to lead the whole confederation? That was different. ‘What about the leaders of some of the other tribes?’ she asked quietly. ‘They will have a view. After all, it does not follow that the leader of the Brigantes should come from the Setantii.’ She looked up at him quizzically.

‘No, but it helps.’ He grinned.

‘What about Venutios? Why is he not back amongst his own people?’ She studied Triganos’s face, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

The young man raised an eyebrow. ‘You remember him then?’

‘Of course I remember him!’ she replied hotly. ‘How could I forget! Why is he here?’

Triganos shrugged. ‘He visits from time to time. Perhaps he’s come to greet you.’

Carta snorted. ‘I don’t think that is likely. Perhaps he has another reason. Perhaps he wants to become high king.’

Triganos shook his head. ‘He knows the position is mine.’

Carta nodded doubtfully. Perhaps he was right. Her own childhood dream to be a queen had died with Riach. Had he been chosen to succeed his father as leader of the Votadini she would have been his consort, his senior wife, his only wife - he had sworn it - and his queen. But that was not to be either. Not now. Folding her arms across her chest she half turned away from her brother. ‘And what will become of me?’ She hated saying it. It was weak. To her own ears her voice sounded pathetic, almost pleading.

Triganos stared at her in surprise as though the answer was too obvious to need voicing. ‘It will be for me to find you a new husband, sister.’ He followed her and gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll find you someone special, sweetheart. A lusty chieftain. Perhaps even a king. We’ll draw up a shortlist and you can choose. You know I wouldn’t force you to take someone you didn’t like.’

‘Indeed you won’t!’ She spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘For that would be against the law.’ Extricating herself from his arms, she went to stand in the doorway. The chieftain’s house was shadowy and empty at this time of the day. The sun had moved on and the low south-facing doorway no longer caught the long warm rays. Only the fire, smouldering gently in the centre of the floor, glowed with gentle light. Outside, the township was quiet. From the forge came the sound of hammering and from the stonemason’s house on the far side of the township the regular sharp chink of chisel on rock. A group of women were sitting with their querns in the sunshine outside or spinning and sewing as they chatted and sang. Most of the male population were out, far away from the hill, working in the fields or with the slaves in the lead mines, or with the cattle and sheep on the surrounding moors. The warriors were practising their skills with sword and bow and sling. The men and women of her own train had dispersed, some to the horse lines, some to the men’s lodgings, some to the servants’ quarters.

Carta was not staying in her father’s house. She had been given one of the largest guest houses as her own. There with Mairghread
and Gruoch and her closest attendants she would settle for the time being. Around the circular stone walls of the house were the small private rooms much as there had been at Dun Pelder. Her father’s township was shabby though, in comparison. In places the walls of the houses were crumbling; the thatch pulled by the birds; the great rampart walls falling down. She stared out across the compound with a sinking heart. A flock of small chickens were scratching in the dust. Nearby a dog slept in the sun, ignoring them. She frowned at the sight. The animal reminded her of Catia. It was probably related to Catia. Her heart ached for a moment for the faithful dog which had been such a friend to her. There had been no animal since to fill that special place. She loved all her dogs and horses equally but there was no hound now constantly at her heels or sleeping across her threshold. She had been content with Riach’s dogs and they had stayed behind.

‘What’s happened, Triganos?’ She turned back inside. ‘Father may be ill, but he is High King of the Brigantian peoples. He is rich in cattle and gold. He has a dozen high forts to choose from, so why stay here?’ This was a place she had loved, the home of her own special goddess, but there was no disguising the shabbiness and lack of care.

‘We are here only for the summer.’ Triganos shrugged. ‘Father has ordered the building of a great new township at Dinas Dwr at the other side of the mountains. The roofs are being replaced and the walls refurbished and the place extended as a trading centre. We will go there before next winter.’ He seemed a little uncertain; he had not looked at his home before with such a dispassionate eye. As long as it provided food and shelter and sport it served him well enough.

Carta stared at him. ‘And in the meantime this, the great township of the king of The Setantii, Dun Righ on Pen y Righ, the king’s hill, looks like a cluster of peasants’ hovels!’ She frowned. ‘Are you saying that father has allowed everything to fall into this state?’

Triganos shrugged sulkily. ‘It’s not his fault. The cattle did not breed well this year. The gods did not watch over us and father has lost their favour.’

‘Then it is his fault.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And it is for you,’ she added tartly,‘to win their favour back.’ She could feel her old impatience with her brother returning. The streak of indolence, of lazy arrogance, was still there.

‘I’m doing so.’ He looked angry. ‘I am waiting for the advice of
the Druids. I have asked what sacrifices the gods need and while I await their deliberations I am making plans of my own.’ He pulled her away from the doorway and lowered his voice. ‘I am planning a raid on the territory of the Parisii. They are rich in cattle. They wouldn’t miss a few head.’

‘They are our allies, Triganos!’ Carta was shocked. ‘They are part of the Brigantian federation. Or they were under father’s rule. You will not succeed if you alienate our closest friends. That is foolish. And these cattle raids are senseless. Better far to trade new stock if it is needed.’

‘Nonsense!’ he contradicted her scornfully. ‘They will enjoy a good scrap as much as we would. There’s nothing like a battle or two to get the blood moving!’ He did not see the tactlessness of his remark, or the pain in his sister’s face as almost on cue a group of young men passed the doorway on their way to the training ground, their cheerful shouts finding their way into the silent room.

‘And what about trade. How is that?’ Carta was tight-lipped. ‘The Brigantes control the routes bringing gold and slaves and dogs from Erin into our Setantian harbours and rivers. We produce lead in the fells and dales and corn from our fields. We should be rich!’

‘We are rich.’ He was very much on the defensive now. ‘Father has ordered all this work to be done at Dinas Dwr - and some building here, too. That is expensive. And the chieftains resent paying too much in taxes. It is hard to collect from them if they don’t cooperate.’ He turned and headed towards the door. ‘Leave it, Carta. It is enough that you are home. Don’t stir things up. Everything is in hand. Come. You haven’t yet met my wife, Essylt. It is time you greeted her.’

She followed him, her heart sinking. Of course he was married. How could he not be? Yet no one had told her. Another wave of loneliness swept over her as they entered the room where Essylt was sitting beside the fire, a baby at her breast. Younger than Carta by some five years, with pale, almost white hair hanging in heavy plaits and eyes of soft cornflower blue she smiled a welcome. ‘Greet-ing, sister. I have so looked forward to meeting you.’ Her voice was gentle and shy. ‘Come. Kiss your new nephew.’ Detaching the child she held him out.