Daughters of Fire (23 page)

He nodded. ‘You’ll have to ask Dad. Several, as far as I remember. Maybe thousands.’ He laughed, then sobered abruptly. ‘Mum takes the old gods very seriously. Sometimes I think too seriously. Tread carefully, won’t you.’

She stared at him, studying his profile. ‘What do you mean, seriously?’

He shrugged, concentrating on the view ahead of them. ‘She still believes in them, Viv. Dad doesn’t. It creates a bit of tension.’

‘I can imagine.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘Don’t worry. I’m hardly likely to contradict her! It’s wonderful. Part of belonging here.’ She pushed the door open. ‘Imagine knowing that your family has lived in an area for thousands of years!’

‘But sadly not for much longer, I suspect.’

‘Why? Don’t you want to stay?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not a farmer. Neither are my brother or my sister. We’ve seen too much of it.’

‘That’s sad.’

His answer, if any, was lost as he followed her round the back of the car to unstrap his bag which was perched on the luggage rack.

He led the way to the house, and down the entry hall over scrubbed flagstones towards a long low-ceilinged sitting room. It
was neat and well furnished with up-to-date magazines and a small modern TV with video and DVD and was aimed exclusively, Viv decided, at the B&B guests. Nice though the gently smouldering log fire was, it was not a family room. No room could be that tidy naturally. As she stood looking round Steve’s mother appeared with outstretched arms to embrace her son. Having hugged him she turned to shake Viv’s hand with a smile of welcome.

Peggy Steadman was the archetypal farmer’s wife with pink cheeks, faded blue eyes and wispy grey-blonde hair. Slightly over-weight, she was dressed in blue cotton trousers and a V-necked grey sweater. ‘Steve has told us so much about you!’ she said as she led them back into the passage.

Steve frowned, embarrassed. ‘Mum!’

‘And why not?’ Peggy was indignant. ‘Come with me, love.’ She turned to Viv. ‘I’ll show you your room, then you can make yourself at home.’

They climbed a broad, easy-rising stone staircase and then a second narrower flight. ‘You’ll have this whole floor to yourself this weekend. I have three double rooms for guests but there is no one else here just now, so you can choose which one you would like,’ Peggy said over her shoulder as Viv followed her upstairs. She was panting slightly from the climb. Steve, having brought in the rest of their luggage, some from the boot, some strapped onto the luggage rack, some stuffed down the back of the seats of the two-seater car, had vanished somewhere into the back of the house.

The first door Peggy threw open showed a bright south-facing room which looked across the gardens. There were twin beds and all the usual comforts including another TV. ‘This one -’ Viv would have been happy to stay there, but Peggy had already moved on down the passage,‘is north-facing, but you do have a view of the hill.’ The room was darker than the first, but ancient stone-mullioned windows looked out across a narrow strip of garden up the valley towards Ingleborough itself. Viv shivered. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Peggy was watching her surreptitiously. She nodded. ‘Well, take your time to choose and make yourself at home, then come downstairs. If you don’t mind being part of the family, follow the noise to the kitchen and join us for a cup of tea before you go out to explore.’

Slowly Viv moved across to the window. Kneeling down and resting her elbows on the stone sill, she stared out.

High clouds racing before a westerly wind were streaming huge shadows over the soft green of the steep-sided, rugged, flat-topped hill. No round houses on top, no high walls, no well-used track as far as she could see winding up its flank, but it was like coming home.

With a start Viv shook her head. Now was not the time. Ducking outside into the passage she hauled her holdall into the room together with the bag that contained her laptop and notebooks. Then she went to find the kitchen.

The long scrubbed refectory table held teapot, cups, a plate of scones and a huge chocolate cake. Steve was already seated there and Viv slid into a chair beside him. ‘This place is heaven. I’m going to enjoy staying here.’

He smiled as his mother reached for the teapot and poured Viv a cup. ‘You’re certainly going to find it interesting. Climbing the hill. Visiting the site of the fort. Ghost hunting!’

‘Steve.’ His mother’s voice was sharp. ‘Don’t talk about such things. You’ll scare Viv away.’

‘No, on the contrary. I’m very interested.’ Viv accepted a scone. ‘Steve told me you had heard things and I wanted to know all about it.’

Peggy gave her a quick shrewd glance from eyes very like her son’s, then she sat down opposite Viv. ‘This is an old house, at least six hundred years, probably older. I expect Steve has told you. There are bound to be noises. Creaking wood. Ceiling beams groaning in the night. You get used to it. And the wind. Wuthering as the guests always say. Always the wind. But then sometimes,’ she hesitated, ‘yes, people do hear other things as well.’

‘In the house?’

Peggy nodded.

‘And on the hill?’

‘Oh yes, there especially. It’s a long way up to the fort. Climbers go there. And ramblers. But when one is alone the memories start.’

‘Memories?’ Viv frowned. ‘That’s a strange word to use.’

Peggy nodded. ‘Why don’t you go and see for yourself? You must be longing to be outside after your long drive. It’s a fair walk, but you could do it before supper if you’ve a mind. Steve can show you the way. Maybe you’ll hear nothing. Maybe something will happen. You’re not afraid?’ She held Viv’s gaze for a moment and Viv thought there was a challenge there.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so,’ Viv replied thoughtfully. ‘I hope not. How does one know until it happens?’

Steve walked beside her in silence as they followed a farm track across a small field, through a gate in the dry stone wall across another rough field and up onto the open hillside. The westering sun was throwing long shadows at their feet as they began to climb.

‘I’m sorry if Mum was a bit brusque,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s only her way.’

Viv glanced at him. ‘I liked her.’

‘Good.’ His face softened. ‘She’s defensive about some of the stories and myths. Visitors sometimes make fun of them.’

‘Not me, Steve.’ Viv raised an eyebrow. ‘You know me better than that.’ She changed the subject. ‘Have you any idea what this place was called before it was Ingleborough? Is there a local folk memory of an old name?’

He shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know.’

‘I spent a long time researching names for my book,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Before my alternative source kicked in’ She glanced at him. ‘The word Ingleborough isn’t Celtic, of course. It’s Old English. The fortification of the Englishman, something like that. Carta - Cartimandua,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘called it Dun Righ.’

Steve grinned. ‘The castle of the king. That makes sense. Pen y Ghent is over there,’ he gestured with his thumb, ‘the neighbouring hill. Obviously that’s Celtic.’

Viv nodded at last, seeing that Steve was waiting for her to say something. ‘The names of most of the old hill forts are forgotten or changed out of all recognition though we can guess at a few from the derivations and from analysing the compounds - British or Brythonic prefixes with later English endings. I had a lot of help with the philology from Mhairi. It is a help that the Romans so often just stuck a Latin ending on the native name. York for instance was Eboracum to the Romans. That probably came from something like Eborios.’

‘So this could have been Rigodunum, the dun of the king,’ Steve put in.

Viv nodded. ‘Some people do think that’s Ingleborough.’ She was breathless. The track was very steep and rough in places and
occasionally as they climbed higher someone had cut steps to make the climb easier.

‘What did you decide to do about the brooch?’ Steve said suddenly. He stopped and waited for her.

‘Nothing.’

‘Was that wise?’

‘Who knows.’ She shrugged. ‘Hugh can’t do anything if he can’t reach me. You haven’t told him where we were going, have you?’

‘No fear.’ He glanced at her. ‘You didn’t bring it with you?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not long till the programme. Then he can have it back and welcome.’

‘Supposing there are police waiting for you at the TV studio?’

She gazed at him. ‘You don’t really believe he’d do that?’

‘I don’t think so, but our Prof is a law unto himself. I’m not sure I’d bet on it too heavily.’

She grimaced. She didn’t want to think about it. ‘This is so beautiful, Steve. Do you realise how lucky you are to live here?’

The view of farmland and moors and woods spread out beneath them with, beyond, a panorama of fells and cloud-painted skies. For a few minutes they stood without talking, drinking it in.

‘Would you like to do the last bit to the top on your own? Steve asked. ‘I know how special this is for you.’

Viv glanced at him. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m just as happy to wait here. You go on up. Take it all in. Come down when you’re ready. I’ll be here.’

She smiled and leaning forward touched his hand. ‘Thanks.’ For a minute their eyes met. Then he turned away.

She watched as he retraced his steps, sometimes walking, some-times loping over the soft stony grass until he reached a flat patch of grass near a clump of bobbing bog cotton, where with a wave of his hand he sat down, then lay back, his arm across his eyes.

Resolutely she turned back towards the summit alone.

In Edinburgh Cathy put down the phone. It was the third time she had called Viv. She had left messages each time on her home number and on the mobile which was switched off. Cathy frowned. A thread of worry was beginning to worm its way into the back of her mind.

She had shared her thoughts about Viv, without naming names, of course, with a couple of colleagues and they had discussed the implications of her experiences. ‘No, she’s not on drugs. Absolutely not.’ That had been their first suggestion. She was fully aware of the voices. She wasn’t being taken over by them or told to do things by them. It wasn’t schizophrenia and it wasn’t demonic possession, imagined or real, requiring the help of the church. On the contrary, the whole experience seemed to be wholly narrative as though she were tapping into a story.

A previous life, maybe? They had discussed that seriously. Even in orthodox psychology nowadays there were people prepared to believe the possibility of such things, or at least acknowledge that the vivid role-playing involved had a therapeutic purpose. But this did not seem to fit either. Viv did not become Cartimandua or any of the personalities around her. She was purely a spectator. Or an amanuensis. Putting the story on paper. Finally getting it right.

She was a goddess.

Wasn’t that what Viv had said the last time they had spoken on the phone?

Cartimandua had spoken to her directly. ‘She sees me, Cathy. I’m sure she can see me as clearly as I can see her. Not all the time.
Most of the time she’s busy. She’s in her own world, but then she pauses. She goes to the shrine. She opens herself to other worlds. Through prayer - meditation - I don’t know how, but it’s a direct channel into my head!’

‘And do you speak back to her?’ Cathy had asked that very quietly, frowning with concentration.

Viv shrugged. ‘Sometimes. I can’t stop myself. I should be able to advise her, help her. After all I know so much about what happens.’

‘And does she hear you?’

Viv had shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. I can’t hold it. As soon as I become involved I lose contact.’

That had been the last conversation they had had. The moment Cathy had suggested that she discuss this with Pat, Viv had become distant, almost suspicious. And now there was no answer from either of her phones.

At the far end of the flat a door banged and she heard voices. Pete’s lower growl. Then a mellow mezzo. Damn it, Greta was still here. Still part of the family group. With a sigh, Cathy headed for the door of her study. Time to assert herself.

Pat was in the living room alone with her laptop. Sitting down opposite her, Cathy grimaced. ‘Was that Pete and Greta?’

Pat shrugged. ‘To be honest I wasn’t taking much notice.’

Cathy nodded. Who could blame her. ‘I’ve been trying to reach Viv again,’ she said. ‘I’ve even tried e-mailing her. There’s no reply.’

Pat saved her document. ‘I shouldn’t worry. She’ll turn up.’

‘But haven’t you got meetings with her every day?’

‘Not for now. I’ve plenty to be getting on with.’ Pat was evasive. She glanced up. ‘Maddie is quite happy for me to do most of this, as I told you. I’m showing it to Viv but she seems to have lost interest.’

Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s odd, I can’t imagine her doing that.’ She paused, thinking of possible reasons for her friend’s abrupt absence. ‘She didn’t tell you she was going away or anything?’

‘No.’

‘And she hasn’t been in touch with Maddie?’

‘Whatever for?’ Pat was indignant. ‘Maddie has left this all in my hands.’ She stood up and tucked the laptop under her arm. ‘I’ll put this upstairs out of harm’s way while you sort out your family.’
They could hear voices again now, Pete and Greta were arguing in the kitchen.

Pat stopped in her tracks. ‘She couldn’t be ill, could she?’ She glanced back. ‘Or had an accident or something? Is there anyone who would know? How about the university?’

‘She’s not flavour of the month there, at the moment,’ said Cathy thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose the departmental secretary might know if she’s gone away. But why on earth should she disappear so unexpectedly when you are working together?’

‘She was pretty strung up last time I saw her.’ Pat shook her head. ‘And, as I said, I suppose she realises I can get on pretty much without her.’

‘Without who?’ The door opened and Tasha bounced into the room in time to hear the last comment.

‘Viv, if it’s any of your business, brat!’ Pat said tolerantly. She reached, absent-mindedly, for her cigarettes.

‘I expect Professor Graham has murdered her,’ Tash put in helpfully. ‘Didn’t she say that’s what he wanted to do?’

‘Something like that.’ Cathy hid a smile.

‘Like Mum wants to murder Dad,’ Tash continued. ‘Can you hear them? Dad forgot to arrange something he was supposed to and she’s spitting nails.’

‘Oh God!’ Cathy stood up. It was too late. Greta was already in the doorway. Whatever she was about to say froze on her lips as she spotted the cigarette in Pat’s hand. ‘I hope you do not intend to inflict that disgusting thing on my child. I do not permit anyone to smoke in her presence. Anyone at all.’

Pat stared at the cigarette. Her mouth had fallen open and for a moment she seemed incapable of speech.

‘I gave Pat permission to smoke here, Greta,’ Cathy lied, as Tasha threw herself on the sofa and pulled a cushion over her head. ‘This is my flat. And I was not expecting you or Tasha to be here this morning.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps you would both like to go back and join Pete in the kitchen?’

Greta gave Pat a look of utter disdain and disappeared back into the hall.

Pat stared after her. ‘Wow!’ she murmured. ‘Poor Pete. Why on earth did he ever marry her?’

‘For her legs,’ Cathy replied tartly. ‘Or so he says. Excuse me a moment.’ Climbing to her feet she headed for the door.

Pat stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Suddenly it doesn’t seem worth it.’

‘Not even as an act of healthy rebellion?’ Cathy grinned over her shoulder.

‘As you constantly point out, healthy is probably not the right word.’ Pat gave a throaty laugh.

She waited as Cathy headed for the door and then followed her into the hall with a smile.

Upstairs in her bedroom Medb was waiting.

Viv was standing alone on the top of the hill staring out towards the eastern horizon. Shoulder after shoulder of misty hills and dales stretched away into the distance, whilst behind her the sun was disappearing into the haze. All she could hear was the hiss of the wind. High above a circling buzzard let out an eerie cry, mewing into the advancing mist.

She shivered, wishing that Steve was still beside her.

The actual area of the hill fort, inside its mile-long collapsed stone ramparts was about half the size of that at Traprain. She knew that from her notes, but the setting was so different. Traprain was surrounded by flat farmland, with the sea in the distance. Here there was nothing to see but lonely fells. The sea was probably there, somewhere far away on the western horizon, but she couldn’t see it for the haze. There had been stone-built round houses here, a flourishing community just as there had been at Traprain. Craftsmen and lead miners as well as warriors and Druids. Someone had built some of the stones of those houses into a cross-shaped shelter where people could sit out of the wind. So much for preserving any archaeological clues there might have been. Other stones had been heaped into cairns. Apart from that only the trig point stood up here on top now. She felt suddenly terribly lonely.

A breath of icy wind touched her cheek. She shivered again, glancing at her watch. It was getting late and they were expecting them back at the farmhouse. Was she really hoping to make contact
with Carta here? Just like that. Flick a switch. Pick up the phone. She hesitated. Then as another icy breath of wind began to tease the tendrils of her hair she turned to retrace her steps down the steep track to the spot where she had left Steve.

Gordon Steadman had joined his wife by the time they had returned to the farmhouse. A stooped, wiry man in his late sixties, he had thinning grey hair and a weathered face, an older, more battered version of his son who, Viv had now realised, was very much the ewe lamb of his parents’ later years, his brother and sister being respectively ten and twelve years older than he was. Gordon was washing his hands in the sink when she appeared, his two collies lying on the floor by the dresser. They wagged their tails in greeting but otherwise lay still as he welcomed her warmly and directed her to her place at the table. Talking to him as they ate Peggy’s cottage pie and spring greens dressed in butter and nutmeg, Viv realised that this house, this valley, was his whole life.

He shrugged when Viv asked him how long his family had lived in the house. ‘Since records began. And long before that.’ He gave a slow, thoughtful smile. ‘Since time began, I reckon.’

Viv felt a quick shiver of goose pimples across her arms. ‘That must be the most amazing feeling. My parents have never lived longer than about ten years anywhere. I’m not sure my grandparents did.’

‘You’ve got a Welsh name?’

Viv nodded. ‘We come from North Wales and are very proud of it. But my parents live in Australia now. The tradition is broken as it seems to be with most people these days.’

‘These days a lot of things are less than ideal.’ Gordon Steadman pursed his lips. ‘I watched them slaughter my stock, which had been bred to this land for hundreds of years. Gone. Just like that. To the knacker’s bullet by the order of some fool behind a desk far away in London. I’m not allowed to know if my own beasts are healthy or not. We are told we must get used to the idea that we no longer know best about anything.’

There was a moment’s silence. Viv stared down at her plate, intensely embarrassed. She could not begin to imagine what life had been like during the foot and mouth epidemic and how people like the Steadmans had managed to come through it. Out of the
corner of her eye she saw Peggy reach across and touch her husband’s hand. He pulled away sharply and she saw a flash of anger cross Peggy’s face.

Steve stood up hastily to collect the plates. ‘Tell Viv about the ghosts, Mum. She is seriously interested.’

As a method of changing the subject it worked. Peggy turned to Viv. ‘In the house or up at the fort?’

Viv shrugged. ‘I suppose both. Iron Age ghosts for preference as that is the period of my research project.’

Peggy gave a small humourless laugh as she stood up and went to the fridge for a bowl of fresh fruit salad. ‘People aren’t usually that fussy. Mostly we just hear noises. People shouting in the distance. The clash of swords. All carried on the wind.’

‘It’s all imagination!’ Gordon put in sharply.

Viv glanced at him. ‘I should imagine it’s spooky out here in the winter.’ Outside the distant fells were lit by the slanting light of the setting sun.

‘Not just in winter,’ Steve put in cheerfully. He passed round the bowls as his mother filled them. ‘You’d be surprised how eerie it gets when the mist comes up over the fells at night sometimes. When we hear Awd Goggie in the orchard.’ He grinned at Peggy. ‘Or the barguest out on the fell.’

‘I’m sure Viv hasn’t come up here to see ghosts and evil spirits, Steve,’ his father said sternly. ‘She’s a serious historian.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Viv tried to resist the jug of fresh rich cream and failed. ‘But I’m interested in ghosts. All sorts of phenomena. Who knows how much such things might be able to help us with our research if we only knew how to interpret or verify what we see.’ She glanced at Steve, uncomfortable at the tension between his parents. He was concentrating on the fruit salad.

Peggy nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, well, that’s true enough. That is what I keep telling Steve. The world is not unforgivingly black and white. There are a million shades of grey - so hard to see, so beautiful under the starlight.’

Viv smiled. Steve was right. His mother would understand. But not Gordon. He did not look up from his plate, nor did he join any further in the conversation.