Daughters of Fire (45 page)

Cartimandua was thoughtful as they rode at last out of the Roman encampment at Camulodunum heading north. Venutios reined his pony back beside hers as behind them the long train of chariots and riders and packhorses wound out onto the newly built road.

‘He impressed you, the Emperor?’ He glanced across at her.

She nodded. ‘It would be foolish to deny it. He is the most powerful man in the world. And with reason. He is clever, a statesman. He has the power to make or break us.’

‘Which is why you grovelled before him like a slave?’ Venutios was scathing. ‘Why do it? Why agree to his plans and accept his
bribes without consulting me or Brochan? Above all, without consulting Artgenos? Do you realise what you have done?’

She looked across at him and nodded, her face grave. ‘I have used statesmanship, Venutios. I have bought us time and I have bought us wealth. Those mules,’ she gestured behind them, ‘are laden with gold. Do not berate me! I have done what is best for the Brigantians. I have kept my head. I have negotiated with an emperor and I have made him respect me. What would you have done? Shouted? Sworn? Drawn your sword?’

‘I am not that stupid, woman!’ His face flushed with anger. ‘But I would not have kissed his hand!’

Carta laughed. ‘No? Perhaps not. But do not forget, that he also kissed mine!’ She kicked her pony into a trot, the finely tooled leather of the reins held loosely in one hand, Sun and Moon running effortlessly at the animal’s heels. ‘And now I am returning to my kingdom free of fear, without any threat of invasion hanging over me and we have all the time in the world to plan our strategy for the future, and no one has been waylaid on the journey. No one has died.’ She glanced at him again, as his horse paced alongside hers. ‘And in the meantime you might be interested to know that the Emperor asked if I had any plans to marry.’

‘He’s not the only one who wants to know that!’ Venutios retorted. He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows. ‘And did the Emperor also suggest who should be your consort?’

She smiled. ‘He did as a matter of fact. Or at least, I told him who I had in mind, and he gave the union his approval.’ Her pony sidestepped and shook its bridle. Their escort was several paces behind them now. They were not being overheard.

‘So?’ He leaned across and grabbed her reins. ‘Don’t play coy with me! Who are you going to choose?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you until we return home.’ She pushed his arm away.

For a moment she thought his anger would overwhelm him, but he pulled his horse back. ‘Have it your own way.’ He was biting down visibly on his impatience.

She shook her head. ‘First I need to consult the gods and then Artgenos and Culann. Then I will reveal my choice to the man I have selected. It will be a hard choice. Not only do I want an ally and a friend and a companion, I want a man who will please me in bed and father strong children.’ She was concentrating on her
horse’s ears. ‘A man who will support my decisions and my alliance with Rome. A man who will bow to my leadership as high queen of the Brigantes.’ She looked at him at last. ‘He will be a hard man to find.’ Their eyes locked for an instant.

Her pony bared its teeth and took a nip at the neck of his as they rode on side by side. He swore under his breath.

‘Don’t look to me, madam, for a man to bring you posies of flowers and pretty trinkets!’ he growled at last. ‘A king of the Carvetii bends the knee to no one, never mind a woman.’

‘Then the king of the Carvetii will never marry a high queen,’ she retorted. She was soothing her pony’s neck. ‘He will kick his heels at her fireside as one of her advisers, but never as one of her trusted confidants.’ With a kick she sent her pony into a canter, leaving him reining in his own mount as it jibbed and bucked, trying to follow.

That night they camped at the edge of a broad, slow-moving river, the wagons and horses pulled up into a circle, the queen’s tent of skins and poles in the centre near the fire where the cooks began at once to prepare a meal of cold meats and biscuits and cheeses with hot broth and bread slops to wash it down.

A mist was rising from the water as Carta, leaving her ladies and attendants behind in the encampment, made her way along the bank. The water was dark, softly moving in amongst the reeds at the river’s edge. Somewhere a bird called out in warning and she heard a splash from a leaping fish.

‘Sweet goddess? Are you there? Come to me. Advise me. Have I done right to ally myself with these men of Rome?’ She groped at her girdle for a small pouch that hung there and drew out offerings for the spirit of the river. Some coins. Some grain. Some seed heads. Symbols of fertility and hope.

‘Vivienne?’

Her voice echoed for a moment across the water. The mist swirled, lapping at her cloak, dappling it with droplets of moisture.

There was no answer from the waters as she stood staring out into the darkness, shivering, unable to concentrate, aware suddenly of a movement in the mists nearby. Turning, she scanned the river bank, wishing she had brought Fergal or a guard, or her hounds with her. The voice that spoke without warning so close to her was not that of a goddess or a spirit of the river waters or of the woods and gentle mossy banks. It was the voice of a man.

‘So, my queen. Have you finished your prayers?’

Venutios materialised out of the darkness. ‘Then I think you and I need to talk some more about your choice of a husband, don’t you?’

He was very close. For all her height and strength he was the taller and now they were no longer on horseback, physically at a huge advantage. ‘My politics and my abilities as an adviser and a leader of men you have already tried but you have not taken me to your bed, madam. Should you not put my potential as a mate to the test?’

He was very close. She could smell the sweat on his skin, the leather of his jerkin, the wet wool of his cloak, pinned at the shoulder with the golden bird. His eyes were fixed on hers, his hands now on her shoulders as he pulled her towards him.

‘Would you rape me, Venutios?’ Her voice, as cold as ice, stopped him in his tracks.

His arms dropped to his sides. ‘Venutios does not need to rape a woman. Most would beg for his attention.’

‘Did you hear me beg?’

For a moment she thought he would hit her. Then he grinned. ‘I had assumed that a queen merely had to snap her fingers and raise an eyebrow. Perhaps I misinterpreted the signs. Would you like me to beg instead?’ He went down on one knee, lightly, on the wet grass. Then as she looked down at him in astonishment he seized her wrist. He pulled her off balance and she found herself on the ground beneath him. In the dark the whites of his eyes were very clear. ‘If you scream, my queen, I will throw myself into the river and give myself to the gods.’ His mouth was on hers, his hands dragging at her cloak, ripping the material away from her body, before tearing off his own and throwing his clothes aside into the reeds.

She did not scream. Breathlessly she felt her body respond to his, his strength and violence triggering a response in her, movement for movement, kiss for kiss. Only when at last their bodies had exploded into mutual orgasm did he slump exhausted across her, his head on her breasts, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

She gave a quiet laugh. ‘So. He is tired already. If this is your test performance, Venutios, I have to ask myself if a younger man might not have more stamina.’

This time she did scream, but it was not a scream of fear.

Exhausted they rolled apart and lay in the cold wet grass. He recovered first, staggering to his feet, making his way to the river bank where he knelt. ‘Blessed gods, I salute you! May my seed prove fruitful and my strength all that is desired by my queen!’ He splashed his face with the icy water and turned away to gather up his clothes.

She was lying staring up at the stars. ‘See. Caer Gwyddion, Llys Don, the Harp of Idris …’

He picked up her cloak. Throwing it over her he knelt and scooped her into his arms. ‘The stars and their gods are witness to my triumph tonight, Cartimandua and now the men and women of our party will witness it as well.’ As he staggered to his feet she struggled to free herself but somehow he had managed to pinion her arms with the cloak.

‘Put me down!’ Her fury was overwhelming. He was carrying, her, naked inside the cloak, like a trophy, heading towards the light of the fire and the noise of the camp, singing, shouting, laughter in the night.

‘I advise you to lie still in my arms.’ He chuckled. ‘Should I drop you, you would roll naked onto the grass at the feet of your servants and that would not be dignified.’

Her language, learned from a lifetime in the horse lines and amongst the tribe’s most seasoned warriors made him laugh out loud. Carrying her past the guards in between the wagons and across the fire-lit grass he strode directly into the middle of the camp. She was aware of the sudden silence. Closing her eyes she groaned.

Venutios laughed again. ‘Your queen and I have plans for this evening, my friends. Continue with preparing the food. We will join you later.’

Ducking into her tent he rolled her onto the pile of furs which had been put there as her bed and threw himself on top of her. ‘So, do you still think me too old, my queen?’ As he entered her again with a shout of triumph she was capable only of a small moan. Neither of them were conscious of the silence outside the tent or the immense roar of laughter and approval as the sound of his triumph was clearly audible in the night.

*

In her bath Viv dozed, the launch party long forgotten. The water had grown cold, the foam settled into a soapy scum. The only sound in the silent flat was the drip from one of the taps.

Watching from the distance, Medb scowled He had taken off his clothes, tossed his cloak and the brooch aside and ravaged Cartimandua there on the ground, rutting with her like a boar in the woods. And he was going to take her as wife.

Sitting up, Medb overturned the bowl of water into which she had been gazing with a shout of anger and watched it splash across the floor. All but a prisoner at Caer Lugus, she could do nothing but wait and watch and scheme, alone, while Venutios danced attendance on his high queen.

In her sleep Pat groaned and turned over in bed.

‘So, Viv will be away for a week or so.’ She faced Cathy across the cafÉtable next morning. Both were drinking their coffee black. ‘Just as well, after that row with the Prof last night.’

Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the matter with the man? How small-minded and mean can you get!’

‘I keep telling you what the matter is. He fancies her.’ Pat reached for her cigarettes. ‘You should have gone, Cathy. She was really hurt that you weren’t there.’ She and Viv had finally confronted one another amidst the crowds, with Pat shouting above the noise. ‘I didn’t take it! I swear it! The brooch wasn’t there! Cathy and I searched for it and it had disappeared again! I imagined it! Imagined the blood! When we looked at the sheets in the laundry basket, there was no trace of blood anywhere! It was all a dream. We were all dreaming!’

She had moved out of the flat and, temporarily, into Maddie’s spare room by the time Pete got back from his showdown with Viv.

‘This will all blow over, Pat. Once we come back from Sweden I’ll get in touch with Viv and explain. It’s just,’ Cathy paused, ‘she’s
going to make herself ill. If she goes on like this she really will need a psychiatrist. And so will you.’ She glanced up at Pat. ‘I mean it, Pat. You’ve got to stop all this stuff. No more Medb. No more dreams and nightmares and ghosts and -’ she shuddered, ‘blood!’

Pat shrugged. ‘I didn’t imagine it, Cathy. And neither did you.’ There was a long pause. ‘I think we all had too much excitement and booze at the party last night,’ she went on with a grimace. ‘Don’t worry. You go to Sweden and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you when you come back.’

Cathy gave a wry grin. ‘Too much booze and now too much publicity.’ She nodded towards the paper lying folded between them. There was a picture of Viv and Hugh on page three under the headline: ‘
Academic Rancour explodes at Museum.
’