Daughters of Fire (33 page)

She stood for several seconds, listening. Had they really heard the sound of a trumpet in the night? Unlikely. Had he really put his arms around her and for that short split second held her close? She gave a small wistful smile. That was probably her imagination as well. Rooting through the glove box in the car, she found a notebook and tore out a page. Her message was brief: ‘Called to make sure you were OK. Ring me about the pin. V.’ Pushing it through the letter box she gave another quick glance round, then she climbed back into her car.

Standing on the summit of Traprain Law, Hugh stared out towards the sea. The clouds were low on the ground, the rain still pouring down his neck, splashing the grass, turning the trackways to mud. The car park had been empty. There was no one on the hill at all. His head was throbbing, his eyes sore, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He stood for several minutes feeling the cold rain running down his face and into the collar of his shirt without registering any discomfort, then at last he began to move, walking slowly across the spongy grass towards the lochan.

It was here, according to Viv on TV last night, that Cartimandua had met and married her Votadini prince. He smiled grimly. Here she had learned her arts and her skills. Here in this small muddy pool she had gazed down into the eyes of her goddess.

He laughed, an awkward harsh sound above the pattering of the rain on the surface of the water. A sound quite unlike his own voice. The voice of Venutios. Foolish woman. Did she really think she could hold her head high as a queen and a warrior among men like him?

He groped in his pocket and finding a coin flipped it carelessly into the water. A gift for the gods. Her gods. To his gods he would give something far more valuable, the gift of life blood.

It was several minutes before he moved, retracing his steps
towards the eastern slope of the hill. This time when he heard the call of the carnyx, he smiled. His men had found him. He was ready to join them.

Pat knew there was something wrong as soon as she pushed open the door. She dropped her bag on the carpet and listened intently. The flat had a strange congested feeling, as though dozens of people were there. Or had just left.

‘Viv? Are you here?’ She headed for the living room.

Viv was standing by the desk.

‘Are you OK?’ Pat stood in the doorway, suddenly apprehensive.

Viv didn’t answer.

‘Viv? Did you hear me?’

Again there was no reply.

Cautiously Pat stepped into the room and tapped Viv on the shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Can you see her?’ Viv’s voice was tight with fear.

‘See who?’ Pat glanced round the room. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to stir.

‘There.’ Viv seemed paralysed. She gave a half-nod towards the window.

‘I can’t see anyone.’ Pat stared round. She could feel something, though. The tense, swirling anger, rage, frustration. And then it was gone. The room was empty.

Viv gave a small cry and put her hands to her face. ‘Oh shit!’

‘It’s all right.’ Pat exhaled rapidly. ‘She’s gone. It’s gone. Oh, Viv. What was it?’

But she knew. That was Cartimandua. Queen of the North.

The two women sat down side by side. Viv was shaking.

‘After you rang to say you were coming over I thought I would cook us some supper. I came through to put some music on and all at once she was there in my head.’ Viv was almost in tears, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I’m so tired. I couldn’t face any more, but she wanted to talk - and she was angry. I don’t
know why. It’s as though she blames me for something.’ She raced on incoherently. ‘Perhaps I’m not listening hard enough, but I’m getting so tired with all this writing and trying to sleep, and when I do she comes into my dreams as well.’

Pat glanced round the room with another shiver. ‘I thought this was something you were doing deliberately,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Something you initiated.’

‘I was.’ Viv ran her fingers thorough her hair in agitation. ‘But she’s taking over.’ It had happened when she came back from Aberlady. Carta was angry. Unstoppable. All consuming.

‘And you couldn’t walk away from it?’

‘No.’

Pat shook her head. ‘What do you want to do? Shall I ring Cathy?’

‘What can Cathy do? She’s already told me there’s nothing wrong with me! She thinks it’s my imagination. She thinks I can switch it off if I try.’

Pat grimaced. ‘I tell you what. Let’s have a drink. That’ll make you feel better. I’ve brought some wine.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you can’t stop?’

‘I can’t. And I don’t want to.’ Viv stood up wearily. ‘That’s the point. I want to know. I have to know what happened. I just don’t want to do it non-stop, all the time. I want to pick my moment.’

Pat found some glasses in the kitchen and a corkscrew and brought them through. She glanced at Viv cautiously as she opened the bottle. ‘I saw you on TV last night. You were great.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And it’s confirmed in my mind that you should do the narrative in the play yourself. You’d be a natural at it.’ She passed Viv a glass. ‘I’ve written some more of the dramatic scenes for you to read through when you feel up to it, but I think we should try recording a bit of the narrator’s introduction soon to see how it sounds.’

‘Record it? Ourselves?’

‘Why not?’

‘How will we find the people to play the other parts?’ Viv sat down shakily on the sofa and took a gulp from her glass.

‘Audition.’ Pat smiled. It would take some juggling to get Viv to relinquish her hold on the script, but this would appease her; let her play the part of the academic which she craved. Distract her from the terrifying visions. Make way for Medb.

*

Viv woke suddenly, staring round in fright.

She had lain for a while in a hot bath after Pat had finally left, trying to soak away her increasing fears but it hadn’t worked. The insistence of the voice in her head, her worry about Hugh, the ever-growing suspicion that Pat was up to something, her own exhaustion and her restlessness had all contributed to an uneasy sleep.

She lay still for a while trying to recall her dream. It had not been about Cartimandua and the people of Dun Righ but about Andrew Brennan, the man she had left behind in Dublin. In her dream he had held her in his arms, and tipping her face up towards his with an imperious hand, he had kissed her long and firmly on the mouth. She was, she realised, aching with longing. Which was idiotic. Andrew had been firmly consigned to the past. She could guess what had given rise to the dream. The feel of Hugh’s arms around her. Her body’s recognition of its utter loneliness. The knowledge that when she had left Ireland and returned to Edinburgh she had fallen hopelessly in love with another married man. She gave a wry grimace in the darkness. Hugh. Widowed, technically free, she supposed, since poor Alison had died but now her arch enemy. Her undeniably attractive arch enemy, driven into her arms not by love but by a phantom Iron Age king.

It was a long time before she eventually dozed off again but her sleep was still uneasy and suddenly she found herself fully awake once more, her senses alert. It had not been a dream which awoke her this time. She listened. Nothing. The flat was silent. Cautiously she sat up and pushing her feet out from under the bedclothes she stood up. Without turning on the light she made her way towards the door and quietly reached for the handle. The hall was in dark-ness, as was the sitting room beyond. She could see the outline of the open doorway clearly. On tiptoe she made her way towards it.

There was a figure standing by her desk in the shadowy darkness.

‘Pat? Is that you? Why’ve you come back?’ She groped for the light switch. As she clicked it on she caught a fleeting half-glance of a woman standing by the desk, bending over the drawer which held the brooch. It was not Pat. This woman had long red-blonde hair, thick bundled clothes, startled aggressive grey-green eyes. For two seconds she met Viv’s gaze, then she was gone.

‘Oh my God!’ Viv clung to the doorknob. Her knees buckled. For several seconds she couldn’t move, once again overwhelmed by a
fear she couldn’t control. At last she managed to straighten and step into the room. There was nothing there. No sign. No smell. No feeling to substantiate what she had seen.

‘It’s my imagination.’ She whispered the words to herself firmly. ‘Or a dream.’

Or a reality.

It was Cartimandua.

Some messages come on horseback. Some are carried on the wind like thistledown. Carta had known the moment her brother died. She knew before he did. She knew he hadn’t even been killed honourably in battle. There was a skirmish with a Roman outpost. His pony had stumbled and as it fell one of the men had hurled his sword like a spear with such force it pierced his flesh to lodge in his spine. He took only minutes to die. Fourteen of his men died that day. It was all that was needed to persuade the others to turn back.

The tribesmen had divided at Isurios, travelling in two war bands. Triganos and Fintan had taken the main roadway down through the flat eastern side of the country, following the well-used trade route through the lands of the Corieltauvi. Venutios had led the others further to the west, venturing more cautiously towards the Roman-held south-east through the lands of the Cornovii and the Dobunni.

Taking Essylt by the hand, Carta led her away from the fireside, leaving the latest baby asleep in his cradle as the women crooned their weaving songs around him. ‘I must prepare you for bad news, sister,’ she said gently. ‘Triganos is dead.’

Essylt stared at her, her face white, her eyes enormous. ‘No.’ It was a protest, not disbelief.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Carta’s eyes filled with tears. ‘When the messengers come, I wanted you to be prepared.’

Essylt did not question her knowledge or hold out any hope. She sat for several minutes staring before her, her shoulders slumped, tears pouring down her face while Carta held her hand. Gradually
the other women became aware of their distress and one by one they crept closer. The signs had been there for all to see. The raven of death had sat upon the roof of the royal house only two days before, two of them had seen it. Another had dropped her brooch on the floor and pricked her finger picking it up. She had thought the omen was for her. As the sound of keening began to spread through the town Carta made her way towards her father’s house. The hardest task of all would be to tell him and Fidelma what, she suspected, they too would already know. When the messengers reached Dun Righ at last, the township was already in mourning.

Carta made offerings to the gods for the safe passage of Triganos’s soul to the land of the ever young, and vowed to give him a piece of her mind when they met in their next lives. When she wept, she wept alone in the silence of her bedchamber late at night. She wept for the handsome carefree boy who had taught her to ride, to climb trees, to fight with a sword. She wept for the adoring brother who had given her the name ‘Sleek Pony’ and laughed with her when to their delight the family and then the tribe adopted it as her proper name. She could cry for him, and rage against the gods who had taken him so young, just as they had taken Riach. But for the stubborn, thoughtless young warrior who had become a king and given no more thought to the honour than he had to the bestowal of his first tattoo, and for his wasted chances, she felt nothing but anger.