Daughters of Fire (36 page)

Hugh grimaced. ‘Did he?’ He couldn’t quite hide the scepticism in his voice.

Meryn shook his head. His approach had been met with anger and derision.

‘So, he’s going to go on haunting me?’ Hugh could not keep the fear hidden. ‘Why?’

Meryn was silent for a moment. His glimpse of the whirling distances which surrounded Hugh had been terrifying and confusing. The past had been reawakened, and like a sleeping giant who has been prodded and goaded into life it was gaining strength and momentum with every second that passed.

Venutios was not amenable to reason or persuasion. Nor were the two women whose shadows swirled around him.

‘Hugh, I want you to listen to me.’ Meryn spoke slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes on Hugh’s face. ‘Venutios has gone for now but he is dangerous and I believe he poses a real threat to you and to anyone involved with this brooch of yours. You must retrieve it. As long as Viv has it in her possession she is in danger.’

‘Danger?’ Hugh stared at him. ‘What sort of danger?’

Meryn remained silent for a moment or two, thinking. ‘Danger of possession; of physical harm.’

Hugh blanched. ‘Then what. What do I do with it?’

‘I suggest you give it back to the museum. It has lain there for a long time without interference. It may be that it is safe there.’

Or maybe not. Was the brooch the catalyst that had awoken this angry man from the sleep of ages, and if so, why did he want it back so badly? Meryn sighed. ‘Ring her, Hugh. Ask for it back and bring it to me.’

His cottage was a safe environment. Venutios would not be welcome there. On his own ground, maybe Meryn could fight him.

Pat!’ Viv caught her arm and pulled her in through the door. It was just after nine a.m. and Pat was panting from the stairs. Her face was white and strained and drawn with exhaustion. ‘The brooch has gone. It’s been stolen!’

Pat put down her bag and, hand to chest, tried to regain her breath. ‘What do you mean, stolen?’

‘It has gone. Look!’ Viv gestured towards her desk. The drawer in which she had put the brooch was lying on the floor, the contents scattered on the rug. ‘After the TV programme I took it back to
Hugh. He told me to keep it until it could be returned to the museum so I put it back in that drawer.’

Pat sat down on the rocking chair. ‘Christ! Did someone break in? Have you called the police?’

Viv shook her head. ‘It was Carta.’

‘What?’ Pat froze.

‘Carta was here again last night. Standing there -’ She pointed towards the desk.

They both stared at the spot, then at each other. ‘Something happened to me last night, too,’ Pat said quietly. ‘When I got back. Medb was there.’ She shivered, eyeing Viv’s face ‘What’s happening to us?’

Viv sat down on the sofa. ‘I don’t know what to do. I brought the brooch back because Hugh thinks he is being haunted as well - by Venutios.’

‘Have you told Hugh it’s gone?’ Pat’s eyes were fixed on the drawer still lying on the floor.

Viv shook her head.

‘Do you think, if Carta took it, it will all stop?’

Viv shrugged. ‘It’s worth a fortune. It can’t disappear. Who would believe us?’

‘Hugh would.’ Pat looked at her hopefully. ‘Wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve tried ringing him. There’s no reply.’

They sat for a moment in silence, then Viv stood up. Wearily she stooped and began to collect the bits and pieces lying on the floor around the drawer. Throwing them inside it she slotted it back into place.

‘What about fingerprints?’ Pat said suddenly. ‘Does it matter that you’ve touched it?’

‘Fingerprints!’ Viv retorted. ‘Do you think a ghost has fingerprints? No one else was here last night. The door was locked -’ She stopped abruptly. Once before the door had opened in the night when she had thought it closed. She shook her head. ‘Besides, I saw her standing there.’

Pat stood up. ‘I can’t stand this any more. Let’s get out of here.’ She turned towards the door. ‘Are you coming? Let’s get some breakfast as Georgio’s, then go for a walk or something. Let’s just get out of this flat.’

As they headed down the winding stone stairs towards the street neither woman heard the crash and splinter of breaking glass or
sensed the wave of anguish and frustrated anger which exploded behind them.

They went to Traprain.

‘Bloody hell!’ Pat was bright red in the face. ‘Remind me to give up smoking, somebody. You mean these people lived on the top of this thing?’

Viv laughed. Think of the view when you reach the top. It’ll be worth it, I promise. The Celts followed on in the tradition of making a point of living in high places where possible. Some people think that is what Brigantia means. People of the high places.’

‘Shit!’ Pat was not seeing the romance of the setting. She paused, catching her breath. ‘But hang on, this isn’t Brigantia, is it.’

‘This is the land of the Votadini. Their northern neighbours and at least in my book, allies.’

‘And your professor doesn’t agree with this, right?’

‘No, he thinks we should avoid all supposition.’

‘And from your point of view it’s not supposition.’

‘No way. I’m certain.’

‘Good enough for us.’ Pat laughed. ‘OK. Race you to the top!’

The excursion cheered them both and windblown and tired, they returned just before four.

‘What next?’ Pat waited while Viv fumbled with her keys. ‘A trip to Brigantia proper?’

‘Why not.’ Viv pushed open the lower door and they stepped into the chilly vestibule at the foot of the stairs.

Pat frowned. She could feel it already. The strange oppressiveness which had permeated the flat that morning. They climbed the stairs, then she waited as Viv slotted her key into the lock. As she pushed open the door Pat heard her give an exclamation of irritation. ‘It smells awfully odd in here -’ Her next words were cut off by a small cry of fear. ‘The mirror! Oh God, the mirror!’

‘Viv, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Pat moved forward but was brought up short as the door slammed in her face.

‘Viv, let me in!’ She banged on it with her fist. ‘What’s wrong? Oh God! Viv! Let me in!’ She knelt down and forced open the flap of the letter box, trying to see through it. There was a strong smell of damp and an icy coldness coming from the flat. And total silence. There was no sign or sound from Viv. Desperately Pat banged on the door with her fists, then at last with a sob of frustration she sat down on the top step of the stairs and dragging her bag off her shoulder began to rummage in it for her mobile.

The ceremony began before dawn. Dressed in plain undyed linen, her feet bare, Cartimandua was led in a procession of her Druids, bards and seers to the place on the hillside ordained by the gods for her union to the goddess of the earth. In days gone by, as told by the bards, such ceremonies were prolonged and secret, but now in a celebration before the tribes she was elevated onto the place where her foot would fit the footprints of the goddess and onto the stone upon which she sat, and which held all the knowledge of the earth and the sun and moon and stars.

Artgenos, Archdruid of the Brigantes, stood before her in his finest robes and turned to face the people. ‘Cartimandua has been brought here before you to take up the mantle of high kingship which was worn by her brother and before that by her father. She has been chosen by the Druids after consultation with our gods, and by the warriors who will follow her leadership. Before I place upon her head the diadem of the gods, is there any here who will challenge her right?’

He paused. Silence fell over the hundreds of men and women who were crowded around the high rock. Every pair of eyes was focused on her. Cartimandua held her breath. No sound was heard. No voice. If anyone was going to contend for the title they could do so now. They could claim precedence. A man could claim he could better lead men into battle. Then from the distance a circling eagle let out a yelping cry. There was a sharp intake of breath from those around her. Was this a message from the gods? Did the eagle
support their queen or was it crying out in its despair? Every eye switched to Artgenos who stared up, his hand shading his eyes to follow the great bird with its golden feathers catching the light of the hidden sun as the horizon in the east grew ever brighter.

Carta swallowed. She could feel the chill of the dawn creeping over her. Her bare feet on the rock were like ice. It seemed an age before Artgenos turned back to the people. ‘The gods have spoken,’ he shouted. ‘They confirm their choice. Cartimandua is high queen of all Brigantia.’

As the cheers rang out around them he reached for the golden diadem and as the sun broke the horizon in a blaze of glory he set it upon her brow, then as the sun rose clear of the hill he anointed her with blessed water and sacred oil. Into her hands he placed a wand of sacred wood, and an orb of rock crystal. Then he bade her stand and repeat the sacred words of the tribes after him.

Her vows made, the tribe’s genealogy recited by the sennachie, her praises sung by three bards and three harpers, the people’s songs of praise and rejoicing sung, echoing across the fells, she led the procession back down to the forest where, beneath the great council oak she was placed on her high seat, and there safely within the circle of her tribe she ordered the first of the three days of feasting and celebrations to begin.

Conaire, having sung her praises until he was hoarse, had disappeared into the crowds to replenish his cup of mead. When he returned he fought his way through the crowds to her side, his face white. ‘I have just seen an outrider from the fells. Brochan is approaching at the head of a huge army, great queen.’

Carta met his gaze. ‘You think he comes to oppose my election?’ She glanced across at Artgenos who was seated some way from her. The old man caught the look and wearily he rose to his feet and approached her. He frowned at the news. ‘He is too late to oppose your election in law, but that is not to say that he might oppose it by force.’ He shook his head. ‘I saw no signs of opposition in the stars. Nor in the auguries I performed last night.’

‘Then there are none.’ Carta rose to her feet. Stepping forward she lifted her arms for silence, feeling the weight of the great gold bracelets slide up her arm, and slowly the shouts and laughter and singing died away. ‘My people,’ she cried as she stood before them, an imposing figure in her white gown and tunic and her golden diadem and torcs. ‘It seems that our neighbours the king of the
Parisii and the king of the Carvetii are on their way with the armies they led to fight against Rome. We must bid them welcome and have our feast prepared in readiness for their arrival.’

Sitting down again as a great cheer rang out around them she grinned at Artgenos. ‘At least they are prepared for visitors,’ she said. ‘I would not believe that Brochan would oppose me. Never in a dozen lifetimes would he put himself forward as high king.’

Artgenos shrugged. The decision was made. Her fate was sealed. All he could do now was leave it in the hands of the gods.