Daughters of Fire (40 page)

They were still a half-mile ride away from the gates when out of the mist behind them a band of horsemen appeared, moving fast towards them. Glancing over their shoulders Carta and Brochan saw the glint of metal through the rain. The men were riding with drawn swords.

The hoofbeats grew closer. There was no possibility of running. In seconds their own horses were surrounded.

‘So. Our queen rides without an escort? And where any man could take her captive! Not sensible, I think.’ It was Venutios, circling her on his sweating brown pony. He wore his war helmet and a waterproofed cloak against the storm. Ramming his sword back into the ornate scabbard at his belt he leaned forward and caught her rein, dragging her pony next to his.

As his men surrounded her Carta felt a wave of fury engulf her. ‘Let go! How dare you!’ She drew the dagger from the sheath she wore at her own girdle beneath her cloak and slashed at his hand. ‘Don’t you dare touch me! Brochan! Where is Brochan?’ It gave her enormous satisfaction to see the bloody welt bloom across the back of Venutios’s wrist as with a curse he dropped her rein. ‘Withdraw your men, sir. I cannot believe you would threaten me within sight of my own walls!’

‘I do not threaten you, my Queen.’ He reined back and to her fury she saw he was laughing. ‘I’m sorry if my wooing was too rough! Please, forgive my ardour!’

‘Your ardour!’ She sheathed her own dagger after wiping it across her knees. ‘I call it an insulting assault -’

‘Not meant, I assure you.’

‘And was it ‘‘not meant’’ to charge me with drawn swords?’ She was not going to be cajoled. ‘And where is Brochan?’

‘Here. I am here, Carta. Lady.’ He was on foot, one eye blackened, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose. ‘Venutios shall pay with his life for this insult!’

With a horrified glance at the man with whom she had been riding, she turned on Venutios. ‘How dare you! I cannot believe you would do this! This man is king of the Parisii as you well know. How
dare
you!’

‘It was an accident, my Queen.’ One of Venutios’s men stepped forward. ‘Forgive me. I unseated him by mistake.’

‘Then I suggest you find his horse and help him mount, then beg his forgiveness on your knees!’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You call this a wooing, Venutios? I call it an attack. You will leave Dinas Dwr with your men today. At once. Go back to Caer Lugus and don’t dare to return to my presence until I tell you that you may.’

‘But my lady …’ He was still laughing.

‘But nothing!’ She was beside herself with anger. ‘Go, and think yourself lucky that the Parisii do not declare war on you for your insult to their king!’

Behind her Brochan’s horse had been found. He was unceremoniously boosted into the saddle and someone smacked the animal on the rump, sending it bolting down the track.

‘So much for his royal pretensions!’ Venutios chuckled. ‘You need a real man, madam, not a poet who cannot hold his horse!’

‘He was my companion and he is my friend.’ Her voice dropped
dangerously. ‘And he was my escort. Now, thanks to you, I have to persuade him not to declare war on you, a declaration to which he would be absolutely entitled. And at this moment, I have to return to my fort alone and unescorted.’

‘No. That would be unthinkable. I shall escort you myself and my men shall form a guard.’

‘I do not need a guard, Venutios,’ she spat back. ‘And I do not choose to have you at my side. Leave me.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘Are you defying me?’

‘I am ensuring your safety, which is my duty before the gods.’ He had turned his pony alongside hers. His hand she noticed was bleeding profusely as he held his reins. He did not deign to notice.

Pat stubbed out her cigarette with a sigh of impatience as the silence lengthened. It was obviously all happening for Viv, but not out loud and she was missing it. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. You could tell people who were sleepwalking to go back to bed and they would hear you and obey your instructions. She moved closer.

‘Viv, can you hear me? I want you to tell me what you’re seeing.’ Her voice was quiet but firm. ‘Tell me what you’re hearing.’ She paused expectantly. Viv didn’t react. ‘Viv. Can you hear me? I don’t want you to wake up. I just want you to speak to me.’

She moved closer still, the mike in her hand. ‘Tell me what is happening, Viv. What can you see?’

Viv’s eyes were almost closed. Beneath her lids her eyes were moving rapidly from side to side. She did not appear to hear Pat, but after a moment she moved slightly and a frown appeared on her face, as hesitantly she began to speak.

‘Yes!’ Exultantly, Pat pushed the mike closer.

Carta rode ahead, her eyes fixed on the fort entrance, ignoring Venutios who pushed his pony into a trot to keep up with hers. Behind them the other riders bunched together, keeping a healthy distance between their king and the high queen and themselves. Secretly many of them were smiling at their lord’s discomfiture. It would take a lot for him to redeem his dignity after today.

At the entrance he reined back a little to allow her to enter the
gates first. She rode straight to her own house where she slid from her mount, threw the reins to one of the loitering boys and disappeared inside followed by the dogs.

Venutios hesitated. He was well aware of what the men behind him must think. ‘Dismount. Go and find a bivouac and food,’ he yelled at them, then he too slid off his pony and disappeared into the royal house.

The main room was deserted, the fire banked low, the benches pushed back against the walls, stacked with cushions and neatly folded rugs. She must have made her way directly to one of the other rooms. He waited, dripping where he stood in his soaking cloak and breeks, his boots covered in mud, and glanced at the curtained doorways, listening intently. The muffled sounds of everyday life came to him through the main door, but in here it was completely silent. He strode across the floor, aware of the rattle of his sword in its hanger and the slight squeak of leather from his belt as he approached the largest curtained door and pulled back the hanging with a rattle of wooden rings. He had guessed rightly. Carta was standing in the room, her face and wet hair illuminated by the lamps on the dressing chest and on the tables. Two women were with her, one unfastening the brooch which held her sodden mantle, the other searching through a coffer for soft woollen towels. The women looked up with exclamations of fright and anger as he strode in.

‘Leave us!’ His command was peremptory and they stepped away from the queen in shock.

‘Don’t move!’ Carta’s voice was like iron. ‘Stay here, Mairghread, please. Sibáel, I want you to call for help. This man is to be removed.’

‘I don’t think so.’Heseized her arm, sending Sibáelreeling towards the bed with one quick push of his hand. ‘You and I have to talk.’

‘There is no question of talking.’ She was blazing with fury. ‘I want you out of this fort. I want you out of Brigantia!’ Behind them Sibáel slipped out of the doorway as Mairghread reached silently for Carta’s dagger, discarded with her girdle on the bed.

He had pulled her close to him and she could feel the heat of his body against hers; the strength of his hand was hurting her wrist.

‘You need me, Cartimandua. The gods have spelled it out!’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Then the gods are mistaken! They contradict themselves!’ She held his gaze without a trace of fear. ‘The omens were clear to me.
I forbid you to touch me!’ Their faces were only inches apart. She could feel the bones of her wrist being crushed in his fist.

‘Venutios!’ Artgenos’s voice was like a whiplash.

Venutios dropped Carta’s wrist and stepped back reluctantly. His expression was dark with fury as the old man walked into the room, followed by Sibael and Fergal, Carta’s charioteer, who held a drawn sword.

Carta turned away, rubbing her wrist. ‘Take him away, Artgenos. He is to leave this fort today.’ She spoke through gritted teeth.

‘You heard her,’ Artgenos said sternly. ‘Take your men and leave.’

‘But Artgenos, the gods have decreed -’

‘The gods have never decreed that you should use violence against your queen! You will go now.’ Artgenos turned his back on Venutios and went to Carta. Gently he took her hand, running his fingers across her wrist. ‘Let your ladies tend you. I will go and find some salve for this bruising,’ he said quietly. ‘Fergal, please escort the king of the Carvetii to his men and see they have all the supplies they need to start their ride back to Caer Lugus today.’

Venutios strode out of the room across the outer chamber and out into the rain with Fergal behind him.

‘He won’t bother you again. I’ll see to it he leaves the fort at once.’ Artgenos sighed. ‘He is a man of mettle. It will be hard for him to take a wife who outranks him.’

‘Then it’s a good thing he won’t have to.’ Her wet mantle had fallen to the floor at her feet leaving her dressed in a blue tunic and a soft green gown, both as wet as her hair. She was shivering. ‘He was on your list of possible suitors, Artgenos, but no longer. I would rather marry my shoemaker!’ She turned to the two women who were standing waiting. Sibael picked up a towel. ‘I want him gone before dark.’

‘I think you will find he has already gone, Carta.’ Artgenos stood for a moment, listening to the sound of horses outside the door of the house. He shook his head ruefully, then he too turned towards the door. ‘Get warm and dry, and I will return with the salve.’

‘Wow! Real fireworks!’ Pat breathed as Viv fell silent. She turned off the mike and stared down at the recorder, flicking off the switch with her fingernail.

She was stunned. She could hardly believe what she had heard. Viv’s voice, certainly, but overlaid with a dozen others. Her descriptions; her anguish - the anger that had erupted from her as she described Carta’s fury. She stared at Viv’s face. It was relaxed now and her eyes were closed, almost as though now this instalment of the story had been told the spirit that animated her had left.

She frowned and touched Viv on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

There was no response.

‘Viv? Can you hear me?’

She had started packing her equipment away in her bag when Viv began to speak again.

Her voice was a low monotone; her eyes were open, but she was not looking at Pat or anywhere other than into the distant past, this time as an observer, not a participant.

‘It is the next morning. The sun is rising. Carta is standing in the centre of the circle, her arms raised as she faces east. I can see the red-gold light spilling across the heather towards her, illuminating her face, her hair. She is alone as she smiles in welcome to the morning, but behind her in the west the clouds are building. They race across the land and within minutes the long sun shadows of the trees are gone, the sky is grey and the sun has withdrawn. She lets her arms fall to her sides, aware that overhead two buzzards are circling. Their mewing cries echo on the wind as they spiral ever higher. She watches them, listening. They can hear the war eagles, the tramp of marching feet. They are warning her of death and slavery. Only she can save her people now. But to save them she must be sly like a fox. The gods of war bid her fight, but the goddess is more subtle. She has drawn a veil across the face of the Roman Apollo. She must learn to dissemble.’

Viv fell silent again. She was as white as a sheet and for several seconds Pat watched, holding her breath. ‘Viv? Are you OK? Wake up. I think you’d better stop this now.’ She pushed the recorder into her bag. ‘Viv? Come on. That’s enough.’ She shook her shoulder. Viv’s head rolled back, her eyes still closed. ‘Shit!’ Pat recoiled. ‘Oh God! Viv!’ She hesitated, then she pressed her fingers onto Viv’s wrist. The pulse was strong and steady.

Pat glanced up at the canopy of leaves above their heads. ‘I hate
to tell you, but I think the rain is starting again. We need to get back to the car.’

There was no response.

‘Viv, come on. I want you to wake up now. Do you hear? I want you to wake up and talk to me!’

‘You did what?’

In the car they were sitting staring out at the pouring rain as they wiped condensation from the windows. Pat turned and leaned back against the passenger door. ‘I recorded it all. You talking, describing the whole thing. Hang on. Let me find the recorder.’ She had dumped the bag behind the seat as they dived into the car while the first clap of thunder echoed across the fields.

‘But I tried to do that before. There was nothing. I wasn’t speaking out loud.’

‘You did this time.’ Pat took the digital voice recorder out of the bag.

‘But I don’t understand. Why, suddenly?’

‘Because I asked you to once you were in a trance.’

‘You asked me to?’

‘You access Cartimandua in some sort of hypnotic state - a bit like talking in your sleep, so I figured if I talked to you, you would respond as people do when they are sleepwalking, and you did! Listen.’ Pat was triumphant. She switched on the machine and Viv’s voice spoke out. Behind it they could hear birds, and the sound of rustling leaves. At one point there was the patter of rain, but it was what she was saying that riveted them.