Daughters of Fire (15 page)

Vivienne

Viv tensed. The voice was in the room.

Vivienne. Tell me what to do.

Pat was flipping through the first few pages of the manuscript.
She gave no sign that she had heard anything out of the ordinary. ‘Here. From this point we want the voice of the narrator.’ She marked the page and held it out. Viv didn’t move.

‘Viv?’ Pat stared at her.

‘Did you hear it?’

‘What?’ Pat put the pile of manuscript down on her knee.

‘The voice.’ Viv closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, of course you didn’t. It was in my head. I’m sorry.’

Pat studied her face. ‘What sort of voice?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t describe it. A woman. No. No, it was nothing. Probably a gull. You hear them a lot up here.’

‘Then it wasn’t in your head.’

Viv returned her gaze steadily. ‘No.’ It wasn’t Medb. She wanted to shout the words out loud.

It wasn’t. It was Carta. She needs me.

She gave a watery grin. ‘Sorry. Last night. Whatever it was, it spooked me a bit. I didn’t sleep very well.’

‘Do you want to put this off -’ Pat gestured at the sheets of paper on her knee.

‘No. No, I want to get it finished as soon as possible.’ Viv sighed.

Think about the play.

Bring Cartimandua’s voice alive. Allow her to speak for herself.

Fact.

Not fiction.

Concentrate. Think about what Pat was saying. Walking over to her desk she picked up a pad and pencil and returning to her chair she sat down and began to doodle on the paper.

By the time Pat left at about five Viv had a pounding headache.

‘Same time tomorrow?’ Pat slung her bag on her shoulder.

Viv nodded. All she wanted was to be alone.

Shutting the door behind her she took a deep breath, closing her eyes, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. The phone rang and she sat listening as the answering machine clicked on. ‘Viv? It’s Steve. I just wanted to make sure you were OK. Ring me if you want to.’ He paused, giving her a chance to respond, then hung up.

She didn’t move.

The room was very still.

Vivienne

Carta was there, waiting.

Vivienne

I have brought offerings. Help me, Vivienne. Tell me what to do
.

All Viv needed to do was to ask what had happened and the story would unfold; a story unknown to history. The story about which she already knew more than any other person alive.

Or guessed.

Or imagined.

Fiction.

Not fact.

Can’t be fact.

Wrapping her arms around herself she shivered violently. Push her away, Viv. That is what you should do. You are sick. Hearing voices. Mad.

Vivienne, receive my gifts
.

I have brought you milk and honey. Help me!

‘Go away!’ Viv cried out loud. ‘Please, go away. Leave me alone!’

She paced round the room a couple of times.

But she wanted to know what was happening. She wanted to know so badly. Would it really do any harm? As long as she kept a firm grip on reality. As long as she knew this was a day dream.

Fiction.

Not fact.

Carta was standing looking down into the grave, tears pouring down her face. How was she going to live without her friend? How could she live with the guilt of knowing that Mellia had been killed because of her? She had never felt more alone.

As Carta’s friend Mellia had been given a formal ceremony and interred with her broken spindle, her comb and mirror, her favourite strings of beads and bangles and a flagon of mead. With her went prayers and exhortations to the gods to guide her to the land of the ever young.

Now it was over, as they stood around the grave in one final moment of silence after the eulogies ended, Carta raised her eyes
to those of the woman who was watching her across the freshly piled soil. Medb of the White Hands was smiling.

In her private bedchamber, one of many portioned off with wattle screens inside the wall of the women’s house Carta set up a new little shrine. Her belongings were comparatively few. Beside the bed box filled with softly scented, tightly packed heather, topped with linen sheets and soft beautifully cured fur covers, there were two chests containing her personal possessions. Her jewellery, her clothes, folded away clean with dried wormwood and sweet gale and wild mountain thyme to keep away moth and mildew. Her mantles and cloaks hung on pegs on the wall. Her comb and mirror lay on a small table with the lamp by whose light she went to bed. Now on one of the coffers she placed a figure of the goddess, carved in holly wood, a silver bowl in which she piled her offerings and the bundle of little carved ogham staves which she used for divination when there was no fire and there were no clouds and no birds to speak to her of the omens.

Her Druid instructors had been thorough. She was a good reader. She could write and speak Latin and write in Greek reasonably fluently now as well as writing the Celtic language of her own people using both alphabets. She could recite poetry and sing and she knew something of the magic of the Druids, studying healing, divination and law.

‘You are one of us, Cartimandua,’ Truthac had said. ‘By birth and by blood, you are of the royal house, a descendant of warriors, a daughter of kings and queens, and of the line of Druids. You have been more than thrice blessed. Your destiny is written in the stars which later you will study, and in the rocks and in the waters which circle this land. You are a daughter of Brigantia. A daughter of fire. The portents at your birth were favourable and the auguries now speak of great futures and fame for all time.’ He laid a cool hand on her head. ‘You will outshine me, child. When my name is forgotten yours will echo in the words of the bards. It is not for me to tell you how to avenge the death of your friend. Consult the staves; through them consult your gods; listen to what you are told. But be sure that you divine the truth. Remember, what is done cannot be undone.’

Rising from the stool on which he had been sitting he paused for
a moment, looking down at her as he leaned on his staff and he nodded sagely as he saw the loss and misery in her eyes. ‘You are no longer a child, Carta, you are now a woman. The rising sun is behind you, the setting sun many moons in front. It will take courage to tread the path you feel is right. But you have that courage.’ Gravely he nodded once more. ‘You have more courage than anyone I have taught, Cartimandua. All you need to do is summon it.’

She watched him walk away, dumbfounded. He had taught the king and the king’s sons. He was senior tutor to the Druid school. He examined bards and seers and Druids on their long journey to wisdom. And yet he thought her brave. She remembered her tears and her face burned. He didn’t know how frightened and angry and lonely she had felt; still felt in the secret dark of the night.

And he must never know. No one must know.

Except perhaps the goddess who knew everything and would give her courage.

Carta stood for a moment longer before the shrine she had created. She was frowning. Sometimes she was so sure the Lady had heard her and would help. Other times it felt as though there was no one there. No one at all.

It was late. Viv sat at her desk, writing without a break as the sun moved across into the west and sank out of sight. Outside it grew dark, and the street became more and more noisy, then quiet again as one by one people began to make for home. In her room Viv put down the pencil and stretched cramped fingers. Somewhere far below her windows a man shouted a drunken obscenity in the deep crevasse of the narrow wynd as he relieved himself against the wall. Behind him a group of young people, cheerfully rowdy from the pub, jeered and someone threw a bottle. Viv heard nothing. She was watching Carta. Who was watching Medb of the White Hands.

Medb was nervous. It had seemed so easy to torment the king’s latest fosterling. Her naturally acerbic temperament and resentful nature had sought someone to pick on since the day she had arrived at Dun Pelder, the daughter of one of the king’s best warriors. At
first it had been assumed that she would marry his son, Riach. Then the king himself had chosen her. It was a great honour.

It was not what she wanted.

No one would force her into marriage. That was against the law, but who would want to refuse to mate with a king? The contracts were drawn up, her marriage portion stacked in the house the king gave her for her own and, save for the fact that there had been no children so far of the match, in her own way she was content. Until she realised that Riach was to marry someone else.

The king’s senior wife was under no illusions about Medb. At first a little resentful herself that he was looking for younger flesh she had resigned herself to the situation with pragmatic grace. She had her sons and her two daughters to comfort her, she had her husband’s respect and generosity. She could put up with his frequent absences from her bed, but she would not tolerate the young woman’s vicious temper and her spiteful treatment of slaves and servants and the other women in the household. She did not know about Medb’s latest vendetta. Medb was too clever for that.

It was easy to kill the dog. She had hidden wolfsbane in a lump of fresh venison and put some leftover gravy from the kitchens in the bowl for luck. The animal had swallowed it without hesitation. She was almost sad to see how it suffered, but Carta’s pain more than made up for it. Medb was astonished how satisfied it made her feel.

Killing Mellia had been a spur of the moment action, not planned in any way. She had walked around the house on the cobbled path which led towards the kitchens and seen the woman standing there on the terrace at the top of the flight of steps, staring out across the fields, singing quietly to herself as she twisted the woollen threads between her fingers. Mellia had half turned and smiled at her. The smile had died on her lips as she saw Medb’s face and read her fate in the other woman’s eyes.

Medb would have to be careful how she dealt with Carta. People were suspicious now, the bard had seen to that, and Carta herself was wary. Medb saw the way the young woman looked at her. She read suspicion and angry resolution where once there had been nothing but open friendliness and she began to be afraid. But her hatred and jealousy did not abate. If anything they grew as she saw how the family of her husband, King Lugaid, who should be supporting and loving her, closed instead around this young
woman, consoling her for the death of a mere servant and a dog. Month after month, year after year when she had failed to conceive, the king had frowned, and shrugged and patted her stomach and assured her that one day soon his seed would take root. That was all the comfort he gave her. He had sons and daughters already. It did not matter to him whether or not he had more. He did not recognise her gnawing pain or her loneliness. Nor did he see her jealousy of Carta growing.

Nurturing her bitterness, she went to see Aoife, the spell maker, and demanded a lead token on which a spell had been inscribed. ‘I will write the name of the recipient myself.’

Aoife was affronted. ‘The spell will not work unless I cast it fully, lady.’

‘The spell will work.’ Medb fixed her with a cold eye. ‘Or it will rebound on you. And as it is the spell of barrenness you would do well to see that its power is correctly directed.’ She stared at Aoife’s belly, visibly swelling beneath her gown.

The seer turned white with fear as she stood transfixed by the other woman’s hard gaze. ‘It seems to me, lady,’ she stuttered,‘that you have no need of my skills.’

‘Maybe not. But I choose to do it this way.’ Medb stretched out her hand for the amulet. The implication was clear. If the charm failed Aoife would be blamed. If it succeeded and there were repercussions the seer would be blamed equally.

Aoife went straight to Truthac. He listened to her story thoughtfully. ‘You did right to tell me. It is every man and every woman’s right to curse an enemy. If there is an enemy and if it is fully justified, but to do so out of mere spite or jealousy, that is a different matter. Was the amulet empowered?’

Aoife nodded miserably. ‘She made me do it.’

‘But was it properly done without the name of the person to be cursed written on it, that is the question.’ The old man sighed. ‘Even now sometimes I question the logic of the gods. Are they so easily won over, so easily bribed?’ He smiled ruefully at Aoife, noting the hand resting protectively over her belly. ‘Let us bless this child and ask for its safety. That will be a good place to start. Then we will ask the gods about the other matter.’ He knew who the recipient of Medb’s spite would be, and so, he guessed, did Aoife.

*

Viv stirred uncomfortably. Outside a seagull was calling in the luminous night sky. The sound echoed in her head.

Gulls don’t cry at night.

Do they?

Carta, be careful. The omens are not good.

A hunting party had arrived, bringing in more food for the Beltane feast and cattle were being rounded up from the grazing grounds ready for slaughter. A king’s wealth is judged on the numbers of his cattle, augmented regularly by raids on neighbouring tribes and King Lugaid’s wealth was enormous.