Daughters of Fire (30 page)

The subject was contentious. Discussion at the council meetings under the great oak tree in the forest had raged back and forth between the petty kings of the tribes, their advisers and their most experienced warriors. The Roman legions had invaded the south coast and the question was simple. Did they go south and fight, or did they wait? If the legions defeated the Cantiaci and the Catuvellauni would they then turn their attention further north or would they settle down content with the richer land and the wealth of the more compliant southern kingdoms?

‘They will not be satisfied until they have conquered all the Pretannic Isles!’ Her brother was beside himself with impatience. ‘How can you imagine otherwise? They have crossed the ocean! The last defence that divides us from Gaul. The gods did not stop them and now there is nothing to keep them from our doors unless we fight.’

‘There is a lot to keep them from our doors.’ It was his sister who retorted before the others had time to open their mouths. ‘The tribes of the south and the middle lands and then our own mountains. We are Brigantians; the warriors of the high places. They will not defeat us, unless -’ she raised her hand in his face as he took a deep breath to shout her down,‘unless we come down out of the hills and expose ourselves to them. Their armies fight best in the flat lands.’

‘Who told you that?’ His eyes were hard and angry.

‘I have seen them.’ She held his gaze defiantly. ‘I have seen them in the waters of the sacred well, with their armour and their shields
and their great eagles. Thousands of them, drawn up in squares across the land.’

He swallowed his retort. He too often forgot that his sister was a seer, training as a Druidess as well as a princess of his own blood. Visions such as hers could not be gainsaid. ‘Even so,’ he continued to glare at her sulkily,‘they are not unstoppable. They can be sent back where they came from. We have done it before.’

‘He speaks the truth, Cartimandua.’ Venutios had been standing nearby, watching her face with a quizzical sneer. ‘I would have thought it was obvious. If the tribes ally we can defeat them. Send them back to Gaul.’

‘And have them return with even more legions and greater determination still?’ Carta snapped at him, his patronising tone instantly goading her further. ‘You do not understand these people.’

‘And you do, little sister?’ her brother put in, smirking beneath his moustaches. ‘You turn your face against war because you lost your husband in a skirmish and it’s turned you lily-livered. You know nothing of the subject!’

There was a moment’s intense silence. Carta tensed, aware of Venutios’s eyes on her face, waiting with a half-smile to see how she handled Triganos’s deliberate cruelty. Taking a deep breath she ignored the jibe. ‘I understand war, brother, because I listen to the Druids who have colleagues all over the Empire, because I listened to Lugaid of the Votadini and because I listen to the gods. They send us warnings, and if we disregard those warnings it is at our own peril.’

‘There are Druids who advise resistance,’ Venutios contradicted at once. ‘Our advisers are not all of the same mind over this.’ He raised an eyebrow in Triganos’s direction. ‘I don’t understand my friend, why you put up with these arguments from your sister. You would do better to send her packing to the women’s fireside! She is better fitted to gossip about her lust for meaty thighs than political realities.’

Carta clenched her fists. ‘He puts up with me, Venutios, because he knows that my advice is sound,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘I don’t think so.’ Venutios retorted. ‘The man is in danger of being pussy whipped by his own baby sister. Tell her, Triganos.’

Triganos shrugged. He glanced warily from his sister to his friend and back. ‘She does know about these things, Venutios,’ he conceded carefully. ‘There are two sides to the argument.’

‘So, while the Druids dither, we wait for defeat?’ Venutios was suddenly beside himself with impatience, striding a few paces away from them and then back again.

‘And the gods? They dither too, I suppose?’ Carta was furious.

‘The gods never seem to agree on anything, to my mind.’ Venutios scowled at her. ‘The Romans, after all, now say that their gods have given them the world. Do their gods fight with our gods? Do they fight with the gods of Greece and Egypt and Libya? The gods of Scandia? Of Ind and far Cathay? Of the lands across the seas far beyond Erin? Or this new god the Druids tell us about who challenges those of the Romans in Palestine? I don’t think so! Do they parcel the world up between themselves but allow us mortals to work out the borders? Of course they don’t. They leave it to us!’

Carta hesitated. Venutios was clearly better informed than she had given him credit for; better informed by far than her brother. She gave him a calculating glance from beneath her eyelashes. ‘Our gods, the gods of Brigantia would expect us to protect the lands they have given us,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But they would not expect us to fight without thought or reason.’

‘Well spoken.’ Artgenos had joined them unnoticed. He stood leaning on his staff. ‘To behave like hot heads is to risk losing your best men for no reason. Be canny. Don’t rush in like fools …’

Viv started violently and the scene vanished as her brain had kicked in with sudden infuriating logic. It was that list of places that had done it. The known world. Scandinavia. Ultima Thule. Egypt. Libya. Palestine. Cathay. West beyond Erin - surely that wasn’t, couldn’t be, America? Who knows, perhaps the Celts had found Australia too and the deep snows of Antarctica. After all they had sophisticated knowledge of astronomy which the whole world respected. They could navigate. They knew the world was round. Get the notion of primitive small islanders out of your head, Rees! That was the kind of history that Hugh still embraced. Primitive Celts against sophisticated Romans. No. No. No. That was believing the propaganda. She gave a grim smile.

In the corner of the room, Carta was waiting. A shadow. A thought form. A ghost. She was growing stronger and she was growing impatient.

‘You’ve got to do some hefty fence-building. Viv’s on the point of giving up on the play completely.’ Cathy stood staring down at Pat as she sat before her laptop in the living room. The book on the coffee table beside her had sprouted red Post-its on dozens of pages, and the sheaf of papers scattered about her on the carpet was liberally marked with yellow and pink marker pen.

Pat looked up over spectacles which had slid down her nose. ‘I half expected that. It makes it easier for me.’

‘No. You don’t understand. She doesn’t want it to go ahead at all.’

Pat shook her head. She was typing again, her fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘She can’t do that.’

‘It’s her book.’

‘Not by the time I’ve finished with it. We can alter the wording on the contract. Or take her name off the play all together.’ Pat paused, squinting at the screen then backspaced a few places. She glanced up. ‘I’ll ring her.’

‘I think you’d better.’ Cathy sat down heavily. ‘You can’t just take over her project, Pat.’

‘Why not?’ Pat took off the specs and stretched, flexing her fingers wearily. ‘She was going nowhere without me. I am going to conduct some auditions and we are going to get this show on the road. All Viv’s trances and dreaming and rows and contradictions have been getting in the way of what we’re about here. Daughters of Fire needs to establish a reputation for fantastic drama documentary, slick production, and efficient scheduling.’ She glanced up. ‘I’ll need to borrow your printer again, Cathy, then I can show her these new scenes. I think you’ll find she’ll change her mind about it when she’s read them.’

Privately Cathy doubted it. She raised an eyebrow. ‘There seems to be an awful lot there.’

‘There is.’ Pat glanced at the pile of typescript already sitting on the corner of the table. ‘It’ll have to be cut. And probably changed as we work on it. Don’t worry. I’ll sort Viv out. There is stuff she can do. Ideally I would like her to read the narrator’s role if she’s up for it. I’m waiting to see how she performs on TV tomorrow.’

She glanced round cautiously. ‘Talking of performances, where’s the psychic child prodigy?’

Cathy grimaced. ‘Hopefully getting ready to go to Sweden for the holidays.’

‘Go on, you’ll miss her.’

‘Probably.’

‘Pete will, certainly.’

Cathy nodded.

‘Do you think she really did see Viv’s alter ego?’ Pat closed the laptop at last and leaned back against the cushions.

Cathy shrugged. ‘Of course not. She’s pretty acute. She’s capable of picking up on what’s going on and using it to stir things up.’

‘But her description -’

‘Could have come from anywhere.’

Pat stared thoughtfully into space in front of her. It had not taken very much fishing to find out from Cathy the full extent of Viv’s involvement with this strange world she was inventing for herself. She glanced up at Cathy. ‘You know I’ve been dreaming about this stuff as well.’

Cathy stared at her. ‘Oh, Pat. Come on.’

Pat ignored the reproach in the tone. ‘The thing is,’ she folded her arms,‘should I worry about it?’

Cathy scratched her head. ‘I think you both need a bit more exercise!’

‘So you don’t rate the possession theory?

Cathy studied her face. ‘No, I don’t. And I don’t believe it’s reincarnation, either.’

‘And you reckon Viv is just being obsessive.’

‘She’s finding it hard to separate herself -’

‘Yes, you said that before. And what’s my excuse?’

‘You think you’ve found a storyline that will upstage Viv’s.’ Cathy grimaced.

‘So why am I dreaming it and not just writing it down?’

‘Maybe because you have a guilty conscience. You are trying to sideline her and steal her play.’ Cathy stood up. ‘Think about that.’

Pat gave a humourless grin. Maybe Cathy was right.

Two days after her chains were removed and she was given the free run of the villa during the daytime, Medb stole a bodkin from the
dressmaking room. The guard on the door of the slaves’ quarters died before he was properly awake, his life bubbling from his throat in a small pool of frothy blood. For several seconds Medb stood looking down at him debating whether to seek out Lucilla for the same treatment. The villa lay in darkness, passages lit here and there by oil lamps. The guards were lazy. It would probably be easy. But it was an unnecessary risk. If she was caught wandering around she would be flogged and shackled; once they found the guard she would be put to death. Better to get out now while she had the chance. On tiptoe she made her way over the mosaic floors and out into the villa kitchens. There she helped herself to bread and biscuits, cheese and cold meat, wrapped them in a linen cloth and stowed them in a bag she found hanging on the back of a door. Then she let herself out silently into the summer night. Creeping through the gardens she unbolted the door in the wall. She was away from the fields and into the forest before daybreak. She had not brought Sibael with her, a calculated decision. Sibael would slow her up, would have had qualms about murdering the guard. She could fend for herself.

Medb travelled by night under the stars and the thin slivered moon, making steady but slow progress, hiding during the day, keeping away from roads and habitation. She eked out her store of food with birds’ eggs and stolen milk and fish she charmed with gentle fingers from the streams where she stopped to drink, con-stantly heading north-west towards the coast.

Once or twice in the first days she thought she heard hounds baying in the distance. Grimly she slipped into the river to wade downstream, losing her trail in the water. After that she didn’t hear them again.

Scrying in a dark pool of stream water she watched Carta leave Dun Pelder. There was no sign of a baby. Thoughtfully she scanned the brackish depths trying to hold the vision as it wavered in the shadows. There were horses and wagons, many people with her. Where would the nurses travel? If there were nurses.

Then she smiled. Her curse had worked. The baby was lost. She leaned closer to the water, watching grimly, a lock of her hair trailing like pale weed across its surface. So, where was Cartimandua going with such a large entourage? She tried to see if there were any landmarks but the woman rode in a watery world of shadows and reflections. No matter. She had an ocean to cross before she need worry about finding Cartimandua.

Thoughtfully she let the vision go and moved away from the water’s edge. The sun was rising as she slipped back into the forest out of sight and a white mist rose to cover the stream.

The sacred well was dark after the sunlight and silent save for the dripping of the water. Leaning towards the surface of the spring, Carta made offerings to the goddess.

Vivienne?

She whispered the name into the green depths.

Vivienne. Where are you?

There was no response. Outside a breeze touched the trees in the fold of the hillside above the beck and rustled the leaves. She heard the sound above the drip of the water and frowned. The hillside was speaking to her.

Vivienne?

Far away, in another time, Viv struggled to reply, but no sound came.

Triganos, Bran and Venutios had ridden onto the moors that morning with their companions and a troop of warriors, leaving the township all but unguarded. They had not invited her to join them.

Watching them leave, she had been overwhelmed without warning by a wave of misery and loneliness. She fitted nowhere here. At the discussions beneath the sacred oak, only Artgenos and his fellow Druids respected her opinions. The men, following the lead of Triganos and Venutios, resented the fact that she was there at all and argued with her or teased her constantly. Only elderwomen had wisdom and experience. By virtue of her youth she had neither. And if she went to the women’s hearths she was treated with suspicion and reserve, fitting in neither with the younger maidens,
nor with the married women who had husbands and children about whom to gossip. More and more she found herself riding alone or walking with Conaire through the forests or in the chariot with Fergal at the reins.

Riach was there in her dreams. Aching with love and loss she would hold out her arms to him, begging him to come to her and smiling, he would move towards her; then as she ran into his embrace he would be gone, withdrawing into the mists, leaving her to weep into her pillow alone.

‘Riach!’ She cried his name into the wind. ‘Riach! Wait!’

She never saw her baby in these dreams at all.

Vivienne! Help me. Is my baby reborn? Is he with his father? Tell me where he is!

But the goddess was silent. Leaning again towards the spring, Carta saw the splash of her tears like raindrops on the water, then they were gone.

It was then in the depths of the pool beneath the rocks near the bank that she saw the face, the pale hard eyes, the long fair hair trailing amongst the ferns.

Medb of the White Hands had found her.

Shit!’ The scene had gone. The drip of the water in the well chamber had receded.

Medb.

Medb was there. She was spying on Carta. And Carta was afraid!

Viv’s head was spinning, her body stiff and exhausted. However much she wanted to return to the scene she couldn’t; however much Carta invaded her head she was too tired to go on. Staggering stiffly into the kitchen, she began opening the cupboards and the fridge. She couldn’t even remember when had she last been shopping. Going back into the living room she grabbed her purse and keys.

Sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table with her takeaway half an hour later, she scanned her notes whilst she ate. Whatever
she had said to Cathy, she was still thinking about the play. And Medb. Perhaps Pat was right and there was a small place for Medb in the story as a focus point of tension. It would make it more exciting. Heaping rice and chicken Madras onto her fork she leaned forward, shuffling through her notebook. The food was making her feel better. More focussed. There was so much to do. She needed to reread her draft of the play and at the same time choose passages to talk about on TV tomorrow; decide at what point she was going to produce the pin. Finishing the curry and rice she reached for a poppadum as her notepad filled page by page.

It was very late when at last she put down her pen and stretched her arms, yawning. Climbing to her feet she picked up her plate and headed for the kitchen. Gathering up the empty foil containers she dumped them in the bin, switched off the lights and went into the bathroom. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and all she wanted now was to sleep. Turning on the taps she hunted on the shelf over the bath and found some exotic bubbly stuff to swirl into the steam. Undressing slowly she turned off the taps at last and was about to step into the water when she decided to bring some music into the bathroom.

The living room was dark, the window still open on the warm night air. Outside the sounds of the street had died away. An occasional car, its tyres rattling over the stone sets in the High Street, broke the silence, then it was quiet again. Reaching for her CD player she was about to turn back towards the bathroom when she caught sight of a movement in the doorway to the hall out of the corner of her eye and she became suddenly acutely aware that she was naked.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She was clutching the disc player against her breasts. At this time of year the sky had a luminosity which reflected down even into the wynds and closes of the old town. It gave the room a faint glow as her eyes attuned. She held her breath. The room was completely silent now. But it was a strange silence. Thick. Impenetrable. Self-conscious. All she could hear was her own heartbeat in her ears. She wanted it to stop so she could listen; she wanted it to stop so she couldn’t be heard.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered. More tentatively this time.

The wedge of black where the half-open doorway led into the hall was dense and unmoving. Cautiously she stepped towards the rocking chair. Setting down the player she grabbed the sweater
which lay thrown over the chair and pulled it quickly on, then with a swift movement she reached for the light switch. The room in the harsh light of three lamps was empty as she had known, in some deep core of herself below the irrational panic, that it would be. She moved towards the door, then she paused. A fresh damp waft of air came to her from the hall. She reached to turn on that light as well, afraid suddenly that the front door was open onto the cold stone of the winding stair, but it was closed and locked and almost as soon as she had registered the smell it had gone.

She shivered. It had been the smell of the dales and the Yorkshire moors.

‘Carta?’ Her whisper was hesitant. She did not want an answer.

‘Carta? Is that you?’ Carta was angry; impatient. She wanted Viv to go on.

But whatever gateway might have temporarily opened between Carta’s world and Viv’s had closed. The fresh air of the Brigantian hills was once more locked away into the past and she was left with an empty flat and the faint smell of the curry she had eaten only a few short hours before.

With a scowl Hugh turned his back on the dripping garden and walked back to his desk. He glanced at the transcript of his review lying beside the keyboard and read it through again while he drank a mug of black coffee. At best Viv’s book was a jolly romp through a historical theme. A slow and careful reading of the full text hadn’t changed his mind. Sitting down, he stared at the computer monitor. Either way the book was a disaster and not something he wanted either his own name or that of his department associated with.

The offending book itself was sitting on the far corner of his desk. Like Pat’s copy it was bristling with Post-its but in this case every one represented an inaccuracy or a guess. Every one flagged an insult to historical truth. Just as well they had sent him this second copy after he had handed his first to Steve or he would never have read it; never have had the chance to accept the
Daily Post
’s
invitation to review the book and to do it properly with a full range of damaging quotes, emphasising particularly the travesty she had made out of the role of Venutios in her story. Venutios, who was one of the greatest leaders of the period, outshining even Caratacus.

Well, she couldn’t claim he hadn’t given her the chance to retract. Or withdraw it. Or pulp it. Whatever one did with unwanted books. He had warned her; he had begged her and she had remained adamant. Whatever happened now, it was her own fault. He picked up the mouse and called up his e-mail. One click and the review was on its way.

He frowned. The day it appeared, he realised abruptly, Viv Lloyd Rees would be a public laughing stock. Did he really want that?

He sat for a moment staring at the screen.
Message sent
. Not too late to change his mind. He could withdraw it. Poor Viv. Alison would have hated him for this. But if Alison was still there he probably wouldn’t have done it. He was more mellow in those days. More tolerant. Probably, he had to admit, a nicer person. But then he wasn’t doing this to prove his niceness or otherwise. He was doing it to maintain the integrity of his department and everything he believed in, in the field of research. In the long run this was in Viv’s own interest. Some day she would even thank him for it. Flipping open the book’s cover, he sat staring at her photo inside the jacket. For a moment he wondered if he should ring her; warn her what he had done. He put his hand out to the phone then he withdrew it again. Tonight she would be appearing on TV to talk about the wretched book and presumably produce the stolen pin in full view of the whole world. It would be even more important after that for him to distance himself from her.

Standing up, he went back to his survey of the wet garden. He hadn’t told the police. Of course he hadn’t told the police. Not yet. He couldn’t do that to her.

Cartimandua’s pin.

No. Venutios’s pin.

He frowned uncomfortably. Where had that thought come from?

With a sudden bolt of irrational fear he knew that he was about to hear the brazen note of the carnyx even before it was there, echoing across the garden, drowning out the sound of the rain.

‘I’m not stopping long!’ Pat waved a paper bag enticingly as Viv opened the door. ‘Peace offering. Doughnuts! Can I come in?’ She shook the rain out of her hair.

Viv stepped back and led the way into the living room. She had slept heavily, still swathed in the jumper and had woken with a headache which a shower had done little to dissipate. She had also changed her mind about Medb.