Daughters of Fire (27 page)

Sitting quietly in the darkness of the cave near the sacred spring Peggy reached at last for her matches and lit a fresh candle before her statue of the goddess. The sound of water was everywhere. Outside, the rain was slapping onto the leaves, smacking the path,
pitting the gurgling torrent of the river, reinforcing the constant splashing of the falls at the top of the rocks and here, inside, the steady gentle drip of the trickling water in which she found so much reassurance and strength. The cave was cold after the warmth of the woods outside and slick with damp, but the dripping ferns and mosses gave a velvety green glow to the candlelight.

‘Sweet Lady, hear me.’ She breathed her prayer out loud. ‘Tell me that she is one of us. I sensed it in everything she said and did, but she is naïve as yet, not understanding; untutored in our ways. I can teach her, Sweet Lady, if that is your wish. My son can bring her to you. She will be good for him and he for her.’ She paused in the prayer with a frown. Viv was his teacher. Would that make things difficult? On the other hand she had seen how attracted he was to her and she to him. ‘She’s not that much older than he is,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘but her age gives her wisdom and understanding which is rare. I sense her potential, Sweet Lady. Queen Cartimandua was one of us. She has marked her already as chosen. I will not gainsay her.’

The cave was very still. The sound of the water retreated, leaving a heavy breathing silence. The candle burned steadily, without a flicker, and in the depths of the dark waters of the well she saw at last a pinpoint of light. It was the sign she was looking for.

Hugh drove straight home to Aberlady. Parking in the drive he sat for a moment staring at the house until the raindrops on the windscreen blurred and then finally obscured his view. With a sigh he climbed out, lugging his briefcase behind him and locking the car, walked towards the front door.

Turning on the lights as he made his way through the dark house he found himself wishing he hadn’t turned the lights out like that in George Square. That was petty. Reaching into the cupboard for a glass, he helped himself to a hefty tot of Talisker. He pictured Viv sitting at her computer, turning round so guiltily as he walked in. He would have known she was there as soon as he had let himself
into the department even if he hadn’t seen the light on in her study. It was that scent she wore - never too strong, often hardly noticeable at all, but nevertheless a part of her. Not flowery. Slightly spicy. Mysterious. He swallowed a mouthful of the whisky, unlocked the back door and stood looking out into the garden, letting the warm damp air seep past him into the house. The rain sounded heavier out here, smacking the broad leathery leaves of the magnolia, trickling down from a broken gutter and splashing onto the terrace. Stupid woman. She would realise what he thought of her and her lightweight populist travesty of a history when she saw he had not bothered to review it. He sighed. She had so much ability and she was wasting it. But then, there was no place for lightweights in his department and she would soon get the message that it would be better for everyone if she packed her bags and moved on.

Turning back into the house he wandered into the hall, sipping his drink, and picked up the mail that had been lying on the floor, pushed back against the wall by the opening front door. Amongst it was a jiffy bag. He ripped it open. He drew out the book eagerly and then gave an exclamation of disgust. It was another copy of
Cartimandua, Queen of the North
. Why the hell had they sent him another copy? He shook the book indignantly and a letter fell out.

He threw the letter down with a sigh. What was the matter with these people? Did they never give up? He had already made it clear he had no interest in reviewing the book - not after reading that trashy article she had written in the
Sunday Times
supplement. God damn it, the
Sunday Times
themselves would ask him to review it next, and he would find himself the recipient of yet another copy!

Flipping open the cover as he walked through into his den and turned on the light, he glanced down at the blurb.

Hugh snorted as he flung himself down in his chair. He glanced at the back flap. There was a colour photograph of Viv there, smiling, her green eyes slightly narrowed against the sunlight, the dappled leaves of a flowery bush behind her left shoulder. She looked hesitant, slightly uncertain. As well she might. He studied it for a moment, then he sighed. It was in fact rather a good picture. It conveyed her charm and energy while at the same time doing nothing to detract from her so-called academic background. He flicked through the book slowly, something he had not actually bothered to do before he had passed the last copy on to Steve. It was well illustrated with good quality coloured plates. He glanced at them critically. The usual stuff: the chariot burials, the gold torcs, the beautiful pieces of horse harness, scabbards, the Battersea Shield. He snorted. What had that to do with Cartimandua? Viv was obviously scraping the barrel here. She had not used the Cartimandua Pin. That above all else should have been illustrated in the book. He gave a further snort of derision. Opening a page at random he glanced down it and for several minutes found himself locked into the narrative. She was a good writer - fluent. Lucid. But of course as her teacher he had recognised that years ago, so why, oh why had she chosen to take this idiotic route? His eye was caught by a sentence:

Rubbish! Guesswork! Exactly the sort of inventive ‘intuitive’ idiocies he knew he would find in it. The worst kind of ill-informed fact stuffing! Her reputation as a scholar was not going to survive this and by association, neither would his.

Guess!

He frowned. What, he wondered suddenly, did she have to say about Venutios. Flipping over the pages he began to read again.

Twenty minutes later he slammed the book shut and stood up. Venutios was the villain of her story, of course. It was an un-balanced, uninformed, pro-Roman confection of half-truths and misrepresentations. Behind him a gust of wind blew in through the open French doors and the curtains billowed into the room.

The sound of the horn was very close this time. Paralysed, he stood staring out into the darkness.

Venutios.

The name came to him out of the garden. Venutios demanding recognition. Venutios insisting on the truth. Venutios, who had been traduced in the book which lay on the table beside his chair.

Viv dragged herself up to her front door, let herself in and switched on the lights. Dumping the bag of books on the floor near her desk she went straight over to stare at the mirror. Her mouth was dry with fear, her hands shaking, but the face that looked back at her was her own, her hair tousled, her eyes strained and exhausted.

With a sigh of relief she turned away, then she paused and glanced back. Was that a shadow at her shoulder? Another woman looking at her? The woman Tasha saw? And Pete? And the crowd of youths outside the pub?

There was nothing - no one - there.

Taking a deep breath, she headed for the kitchen to get a glass of wine. The message light was flashing on her phone. Twelve missed calls.

‘Viv, where are you?’ ‘Viv, we need to talk urgently. Where are you?’ ‘Viv, are you OK?’ ‘Viv, listen, call me. Your mobile is switched off.’ There were several from Pat, one from Maddie, two from her editor, one from Sandy, the publicist who was planning her book tour, and all the rest were from Cathy. No doubt there were e-mails as well - she hadn’t logged in to her account for days. Viv sighed. There had been no network coverage at Winter Gill Farm and she had turned off her mobile while she was there. Strangely it hadn’t occurred to her to turn it on again when she
got back to civilisation. Well, it was too late to call any of them now. They would have to wait till morning.

The glass in her hand, she went to the window and looked out at the darkened roofs, then with a rush of claustrophobia she pushed it open. She stood listening to the quiet hiss of the rain on the roof slates, wishing suddenly, illogically, that Alison’s had been one of the voices on the machine, remembering how in the old days she had been able to confide in her friend, count on her support, be certain of her reassurance.

Vivienne

Viv jumped. The call was like a punch inside the head, some-where between her eyes.

Vivienne

She gulped some more wine, moving her head uncomfortably as though she had a stiff neck. Go away!

Vivienne

His name was Diarmaid. A warrior of noble birth, he often marched and trained at Triganos’s side and once or twice, sitting idly watching the men on the parade ground, Carta’s eyes strayed to follow him. He had a lithe feral grace as he wielded the sword, the sunlight catching the planes of his face, the painted whirl of muscle and sinew as the blade flashed in the air, the arrogant set of his mouth and the secret smile as he threw the sword in the air and deftly caught it before thrusting it home its sheath. As he ran from the ground with the others, joining their shouts of laughter, she looked away. But somewhere, deep inside, she could feel a deep yearning. She was lonely. Two years had passed since the death of Riach and their baby. It was little enough time in her mind to mourn, but her body was eager again for the comfort of a man’s arms around her; for the excitement of his touch. For several days she watched Diarmaid cautiously, content to let her imagination take the lead, never speaking to him, never showing any outward signs of interest, but he knew. Now and then their eyes met and a spark seemed to fly between them.

She was in the stables, running her hand down the foreleg of her mother’s favourite mare, sensing the heat and tension in the fetlock, gentling the animal and crooning words of healing spells when she became aware suddenly of someone standing behind her.

Straightening abruptly, she turned to find herself staring into his eyes. ‘You never speak to me, lady.’ His voice was deep and musical. ‘But I know you want to.’

She felt a deep blush mantling her cheeks.

‘Do you know anything of horses, Diarmaid?’ The mare nudged her, resentful of the interruption.

He smiled, his face suddenly boyish and open. ‘Only how to ride them. You are the expert.’

For several seconds neither moved, then he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. ‘If I can be of service in any other way,’ he murmured, ‘you have only to call.’

She had raised her hand and rested it for a moment on his chest, overwhelmed with the violence of her sudden longing for him to take her in his arms when the horse behind her let out a shrill whinny and at the other end of the building they heard the clank of a bucket. He stood back as a stable lad ducked into one of the stalls.

‘I’ll think about it.’ She raised a finger and touched his lips gently, then she dodged away beneath the horse’s head. When she turned back he had gone.

As a free woman she was entitled to take whomsoever she pleased as a lover. Walking up and down her darkening bedchamber as the light faded she chewed her lip in an agony of indecision. What would Triganos say if she took his henchman to her bed? And did she care? She had no desire for a new husband and her brother had shown no signs of coming up with the list he had so fulsomely promised. So why not? No one’s honour would be harmed. Caught between her passionate longing for the man, the touch of whose lips she could still feel on her own, and her pragmatic common sense, common sense lost out.