Daughters of Fire (49 page)

‘Cut!’ Pat brought her hand down, beaming. Engrossed in their work, they had both put their earlier animosity behind them. ‘Perfect! At this point I think we should add in the sound of some young children playing and laughing. Maybe a dog barking. We’ll ask Peggy to find us some kids.’

Almost on cue they heard shouts in the distance. It was male laughter. Adult laughter. Pat swore. She had hoped to have the area to themselves a little longer. They stared round, trying to spot the intruders. There was no sign of anyone.

‘Ghosts?’ Viv whispered to Pat. She shivered, remembering Peggy’s account of the visitors’ experiences on the hill.

Pat shook her head. ‘If they’re ghosts, they’re very loud ghosts,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll check out where they are. We can’t risk them interrupting.’ Walking swiftly, she headed down towards a stone wall built at an angle across the hillside. From behind it she could just make out a wisp of smoke rising into the clear sky. As she approached a man rose to his feet from behind the wall. He was dressed in a tunic and leggings, a tartan mantle round his shoulders pinned with a large circular silver pin. He sported a large drooping moustache.

Staring at him, Pat let out a scream.

‘It’s OK. I’m not a ghost!’ The accent was modern Yorkshire.

For a moment she was too shocked to move.

He came towards her. ‘We’re up here for the weekend. Re-enactors? You know, Ancient Celts!’ He paused, gauging her reaction. ‘Not dangerous, I promise.’

Pat breathed again. She was laughing. There were behind him some dozen or so people, all in costume, clustered round a fire pit full of carefully smouldering peats. Their tents had been painted to look like skins. In fact, she realised, they had draped furs and blankets over the nylon. Nearby lay a stack of weapons. Swords. Spears. Bows. Shields.

Suddenly she had an idea.

It worked like a dream. Jake, Art, Dave, Lugh and their colleagues slogged it out with a will for the microphone. The clash of iron blades, the thwack of shields and twang of bow strings, the shouts and shrieks and groans were all Pat could have wished for. She and Viv pooled their twenty-first century farmhouse picnic with slightly underdone barbecued rabbit, doughy homemade bread, local cheeses and vast quantities of mead and then went on to record the sounds of girlish laughter, women’s gossip without words, difficult, but made easier by the mead and the ever-strengthening wind. No children, though; children would still have to be found down in the village, but now they had a wonderful repertoire of noises off to be used as and when required.

By the time the sun was beginning to sink towards the west they had gained an audience of climbers, plus a few intrepid Sunday
afternoon walkers and had discovered that Jake and Art were drama students from Manchester. They were beginning to find their cast. At least six of them were planning to spend the whole week on the hill and would be available for further sound effects and auditions when needed. It seemed too good to be true.

As the distant sea disappeared into a turquoise haze they began the long walk home, tired but, Viv had to admit, triumphant.

Pat was astounded to find that she was enjoying herself. ‘Can you imagine living here for real!’ The fury which had driven her from Edinburgh in the hired Fiesta had dissipated; her certainty that even one day away from the emotional support of the city landscape would terrify her had not happened and here she was in the middle of nowhere, exhausted, her feet covered in blisters in borrowed boots, her skin sticky with sun cream and insect repellent, wearing a hat belonging to the farm which made her feel like a refugee from the outback and she was unutterably content. Sinking down on an outcrop of limestone she slipped off her rucksack and stretched out her arms.

Viv was staring out into the distance. ‘This is the place of my ancestors! The cradle of my blood and my bones!’ She raised her arms towards the west. ‘Sweet goddess, keep this place between your breasts; guard it in your hands; nestle it within your womb. Let no enemy come within its walls, no weapon strike in anger, no voice cry out in pain. This is a sacred place. May it be heavy with your blessings, fertile with the blood of your creation, kissed with sweet heaven’s tears and hidden from the world by the veils of sacredness.’

Pat narrowed her eyes. This was Cartimandua speaking. Her contentment vanished and she felt a wave of anger. Medb’s anger. She hesitated, then, remembering the play again, she dived into the rucksack for the recorder. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

Viv shook her head. Her arms dropped to her sides and she slumped down on the rock beside Pat. She gave a short uncomfortable laugh. ‘That re-enactment was all very real as far as it went, but we have to listen too.’ She shivered as though she could see the shadow of Pat’s alter ego standing between them. ‘Come on, Pat. Let’s be honest about this. Medb brought you here, didn’t she. So, why don’t you try. See what happens.’

‘Ask Medb to speak?’ Pat was nervous suddenly.

Viv hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘Why not. You made me do it.’

Pat shrugged. Why not indeed. She closed her eyes and waited, frowning.

There was a long silence.

‘Pat?’ Viv whispered. ‘Are you OK?’

Pat laughed. ‘He thinks I can’t see what’s going on. He thinks I have gone away to leave him with you. He’s betrayed me.’ The voice was quite different from her own. Lighter. Harsher. Medb.

‘I can see him, standing with you under the trees. You think the oaks have blessed your union. You think he will follow like the puppy dogs which fawn at your heels.’ Pat got up and walked a few steps away towards the edge of the track where she stood staring out towards the north. There was a strange silvery light in her eyes. ‘You are so wrong.’ She turned and looked at Viv - looked straight through Viv. There was real hatred in her expression. ‘I will take Venutios away from you and make you crawl before me and I’ll see him eat the dust under my shoes.’

Viv stepped back, shocked. ‘Pat?’ Her voice was husky with fear. ‘Pat! That’s enough.’ She took a couple of steps forward, grabbed Pat’s arm and shook her. ‘Pat!’

‘Let go of me!’ Pat pushed her away violently. She took a deep breath. ‘Bloody hell, Viv!’ She paused. ‘What happened?’ She was speaking with her own voice again.

Viv was staring at her, her face white. ‘You were Medb! You were speaking for her; threatening Venutios. You sounded vicious.’

Pat bit her lip. ‘It was that easy?’ she said softly.

Viv nodded.

Pat sat down on the out crop of rock and put her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t think it would work. I thought it was only in my dreams.’

Viv sat down beside her. ‘You scared me.’

‘Shit!’

‘As you say.’ They were both silent for a long time.

‘What are we going to do?’ Pat said at last.

Viv made a face. ‘Go on. We have to. We owe it to history. We have to find out the truth.’ She sighed, staring at the ground. When she looked up at last her eyes were blazing with excitement. ‘This is too interesting to stop, Pat, don’t you see! We’ve seen the most amazing things; heard history being made. Both of us! This is incredible. We can’t give up.’

‘But we’re being taken over.’

‘Are we? Or are we just mouthpieces for -’ Viv hesitated, spreading her hands helplessly, ‘spirits. Shadows. Echoes from the past. We’re not possessed.’

Pat grimaced. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Did you feel possessed?’

‘I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know it was happening that time.’

‘Exactly! That’s not possession.’

‘Isn’t it? Are you sure we’re not being set up against each other?’

Viv stared at her suspiciously. ‘No. No, Pat.’ She was dismissive. ‘Come on, don’t you see how exciting this is? We are mediums. Look at all the thousands of people all over the country who act as mediums. They don’t think it’s dangerous. They just relay what they are hearing. That’s all we’re doing. I wasn’t expecting it when it started, so it scared me, but now, up here, I understand what’s going on. It’s fantastic. And exciting. And after all, we know what happens. We know the history. No one gets hurt; no one gets killed. ‘She paused. ‘If we’re frightened by anything we can stop before it happens. Can’t we?’

It was very dark in the narrow river ravine. Stumbling and slipping on the loose stone scree, Viv made her way down the path towards the sacred well, every now and then flashing the beam of torchlight in front of her feet as she drew nearer the small waterfall. Behind her the house was in darkness. Everyone else was asleep.

In the chamber it was cold and damp and very still. Carefully she dug in her pocket for matches and a nightlight, setting the little candle on the rocks beside the water basin. Someone else had been there recently. Fresh flowers in a small cut-glass vase were standing on the shelf in the rock and something else had changed too. She frowned, trying to see what it was and realised after a minute that the small figure of the goddess had been moved to the back of the shelf. In its place there stood a crude stone head. She felt herself grow cold. In the light of the candle the head stared at her balefully; carved from gritstone, its two round eyes and circular mouth were
dark holes in the flat expressionless face. It was old. There was no doubt about that. As old as time itself. Repelled, she stepped back, staring back at it. If this was the true ancient god of this place it was to this head that Carta had prayed; this cold stone she had touched with her own hands. Dragging her eyes away from the impassive stare, Viv forced herself to sit down at the edge of the pool and study the reflections in the red-brown water.

‘Carta? Are you there?’ Her whisper was lost in the dripping and splashes of the spring and of the beck outside as it plunged over the limestone boulders, out of sight into the valley.

‘Carta?’ She raised her voice. ‘Speak to me. Where are you?’

There was no answer.

Hugh’s good mood had lasted all the way home from the department, but now as he hauled his briefcase out of the car and slammed the door, he hesitated. Something was different. Wrong. Cautiously he surveyed the house front. The grey stone building stood foursquare to the gravel parking space where he had pulled up. There were two windows evenly placed on either side of the square front door with its small cracked Corinthian pillars. Upstairs there were five windows, the central one arched, giving a slightly supercilious expression to the otherwise dour face of the house which was only softened by its shroud of honeysuckle and clematis. One of the things he loved about coming home to the house in the summer was the smell of those flowers.

He could smell nothing. Putting down the briefcase at his feet, he took a deeplungful of air. Nothing. No flowers. No grass. Nothing. All around him the garden was totally silent. Yet he could see the trees moving in the breeze. Cautiously he put out his hand in front of him, half expecting to touch something, a sheet of glass perhaps. His fingers shimmered slightly and then he heard it. The bronze note of the carnyx.

He froze. ‘Venutios.’ His lips framed the word, but no sound came. For several more seconds he remained immobile, trapped by
his own fear, then he turned and bolted for the car. Throwing himself inside and slamming the door, he could feel his heart thudding inside his chest as he pushed down the locks and grasped the wheel white-knuckled, trying to steady himself. As he groped for his mobile and stabbed in Meryn’s number, he could see his briefcase standing where he had left it on the gravel. The garden looked completely deserted.

They were once more at Dun Righ.

Venutios had come to her bed late. The room was lit by smoking lamps as the rain lashed the roofs of the houses and the wind howled down the dales from the west.

Carta was sitting before her mirror thoughtfully combing her hair, all her women dismissed for the night save Mairghread who was sitting near her singing softly as she stitched up the hem of one of Carta’s tunics. Staring into the depths of the bronze, Carta realised suddenly that another face was there behind her own. She frowned for a moment, seeing the outline, then she realised who it was and turned to look up at him.

He bent, his hand behind her head to hold her still as he kissed her fiercely. She could smell the wine on his breath and for a moment was tempted to send him away but as ever he knew how to excite her. He pulled her to her feet, took the comb from her hand and threw it on the floor. ‘Go away, woman!’ he shouted at Mairghread and Mairghread stood uphastily. She glanced at Carta seeking permission but Carta was not looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on those of her husband. As Venutios lifted Carta in his arms and carried her to the bed, Mairghread slipped out of the room and pulled the heavy curtain across the doorway.

Carta and Venutios had disagreed in council again that afternoon and again she had overruled him, well aware of the simmering anger of some of the men there. Venutios had summoned his brother, Brucetos, from Caer Lugus the week before and the two men, shoulder to shoulder, had tried yet again to persuade her to
give up her support for Rome. She could sense the discomfort of the others, leaders of the various tribes of Brigantia, who had come here to the west to talk, far away from any possible listening ears. In spite of all her efforts they were polarising into two factions. On the one side, Venutios, Brucetos and the men of the wild central moors and hills who treasured their freedom and despised the wealth the Romans brought as bribes. They had no wish to be part of the Empire, not as a client kingdom, certainly not as part of the province under the Roman yoke. On the other side were the men who supported her without question, the men from the eastern territories, the rich grazing lands, the cleared arable lowlands, where they had grown used to the traders from Gaul and the olive-skinned merchants from the south around the Mediterranean with their luxurious goods packed into ox-drawn wagons and onto mules. These were men who paid for gold and silver and all the other highly prized goods from Erin and the western lands of Pritannia that came into the western Brigantian ports and round over the estuary from Deceanglia and then on over the high pack trails. It took all her powers of diplomacy to hold them together, these diverse, strong men of her council and hardest of all to rein in was her own husband.

As he threw her down onto the deep heather bed she felt the accustomed bolt of excitement and fear explode through her belly. In the council chamber she could control him. In bed it was a different matter.

This time she tired long before him, but still he held her down, thrusting savagely deep inside her. Her body had a life of its own. Still it responded, time after time, shuddering with pleasure and pain as he held her wrists pinioned to the pillows.

At last he stopped. He didn’t slump beside her as usual. He was still above her, his eyes narrowed, staring down at her in the smoky lamplight. ‘So, why no child, wife? Why do I have no son?’

She tensed and turned her face away. ‘Because it has not pleased the gods to send one yet.’ She gasped as his fists tightened round her wrists, determined not to let him see how much he hurt her. She could feel the flaccid penis lying possessively across her thigh, the weight of the man crushing her and suddenly he disgusted her. ‘When it is time for the high queen to bear a child, the goddess will send her one. Until then we can but wait.’ She tried to push him off, but he was a dead weight on top of her and his hands still held hers prisoner.

Gruoch had taught her long ago how to study the rhythms of her body as it ripened and waned with the moon and how, to be sure, to use the herbs and waxes which would keep her belly empty, her body fit and young. As queen she had no time for pregnancy. Besides, her child was dead. Hers and Riach’s. However much she might long for another baby deepin her heart, he could never be replaced. When the time was right, if he chose to be reborn, or if another soul chose to visit the earth again as the child of a queen, the goddess would tell her. Until then, she would keep the hard body of a warrior-woman and no amount of rutting by her great bull husband would plant a seed that would take.

She realised that he was studying her face again, his eyes so close to hers that she could see through the darkness of his pupils into his very soul and again she felt that sudden shaft of fear. By the ancient laws of the tribes it was her right to deny him a child until such time as she and the goddess decided it was auspicious; her right to send him away from her bed. Yet those deep-set brooding eyes held a power and a menace and an excitement which made it very hard for her refuse him anything.

‘My queen? My lord Venutios?’

The voice from the doorway was discrete, but sufficiently loud to make Venutios roll aside with a groan and sit up. Beside him Carta pulled the sheets over her with a shiver, conscious of the bliss of cool soft linen after the hard sweating body.

‘Vellocatus?’ Venutios barked at his shield bearer. ‘You had better have a good reason for disturbing us!’

‘I am sorry, my lord. The queen has to come.’ The young man stepped forward out of the darkness into the lamp-shadowed room. ‘My queen.’ He looked at her at last, aware of her dishevelled hair, the voluptuous bare shoulders and heavy breasts as she sat up. He looked away again quickly. ‘Prince Caradoc is here.’

‘What?’ Venutios hauled himself out of the bed.

Carta felt her heart sink. Caradoc was the last person she wanted to see in Brigantia. His presence could only bode ill for her and for everything she believed and put her in an impossible position.

It took them only short minutes to fling on their clothes. By the time they had walked over to the meeting house and taken their seats the fire was roaring and a servant was ready to serve mead and wine to their unexpected guest.

Caradoc was a tall, well-built man of some thirty-five summers.
Normally strong and commanding in appearance, he stood before them exhausted now, with an ugly oozing sword wound to the upper arm and his shoulder wrapped in blood-stained bandages.

Carta surveyed him coolly. ‘Greetings, cousin. I am sorry to see you so wounded.’ This man was the implacable enemy of Rome. Even by being here he was compromising her position. ‘Have you brought men with you?’ She was frantically working out the implications of his arrival.

‘A dozen only, cousin.’ He emphasised the last word as though reminding her of her duty to him as his kinswoman as well as his host. ‘My army has withdrawn into the mountains of Eryri for the time being. We confronted the Romans first in the upper valleys of the Sabrina.’ He shook his head. ‘Scapula was at the head of two legions. Perhaps more. But my men outnumbered them. The tribes had flocked to my standard.’ There was an infinitesimal pause. Where were the Brigantians this time, when he had needed their support? Where were the Brigantians who had fought under his banner before?

‘They fought like heroes. I could have defeated them with more men.’ Again a pause. He shrugged and shook his head. ‘The trouble is, the legions fight like gods. All fall before them. They march like knives through cheese. Nothing could stop them, not this time. But we’ll drive them out yet. With your help, cousin, and yours Venutios, my friend.’

Carta beckoned a servant. ‘Fetch Artgenos, and tell him to bring a healer with him. Our guest is wounded.’

As the man disappeared she waved Caradoc, who had been standing awkwardly, leaning on a staff, to a seat. ‘Rest now. We will tend your wounds before we decide what is to be done.’ She had not smiled at him or given him the kiss of welcome. ‘Are you being pursued?’

He shook his head with a bitter laugh. ‘Maybe they think they have killed me. They no doubt claim victory. But I had few losses. My men have vanished into the mist leaving Scapula scratching his head in confusion. We’ll fight again. And soon.’ He made an effort to straighten his shoulders and winced at the pain.

Carta studied his face thoughtfully. ‘Those sound brave and defiant words, but I sense you have not told me all there is to know.’ Beside her, Venutios stood up and himself brought a cup of wine to their guest.

Caradoc tipped it down his throat. It brought a flush of colour to his grey cheeks. ‘I speak the truth about my men. We will live to fight again.’ He took a deep shaky breath. ‘But Scapula captured a fort on the flank of the action. My wife and children were there.’

There was a long pause.

‘You have my sympathy, my friend.’ Venutios spoke at last.

‘If he puts them to the sword -’

‘He won’t.’ Carta shook her head. She was torn with indecision. Caradoc’s family were her family. The bonds of kinship were sacred, yet she was bound also by treaty. ‘I have not met Scapula, but I hear he is shrewd and experienced. He will use them as bargaining counters. They have too much value as hostages for him to kill them. Be assured on that score. He will take them back to Camulodunum.’

‘To lure me from the hills? He wouldn’t think it that easy?’ Caradoc managed a note of defiance.

‘Who knows what he thinks!’ Venutios put in. ‘Perhaps Carta can tell you more. She’s the client of the Romans here. She studies their every move.’ His voice was heavy with scorn.

‘And as such, I am pledged to uphold their cause in the interests of peace. Peace for my people.’ She was looking very serious as Artgenos came in. With him was Gruoch, followed by a young Druidess carrying a bag of herbs and potions.

Artgenos raised his hand in blessing and joined the circle. Gruoch, after a careful examination of Caradoc’s wound, bade her companion clean it and put on a fresh dressing. She took two phials from the bag and tipping their contents into Caradoc’s cup beckoned another servant forward to fill it once more with wine before joining the circle herself, drawing up a stool closer to the fire.

‘We will support you, Caradoc,’ Artgenos stated flatly. ‘The Romans are heading for nys Môn. There is no question that that is their ultimate goal. They have never trusted the Druids. They see us as the source of strength and unity behind all opposition to their attempt to conquer these isles, just as we opposed their inroads into Gaul. They will not be content until we are destroyed totally. The portents and the omens all say the same.’

There was another long silence. Carta was watching the young Druidess’s nimble fingers as she packed Caradoc’s wound with healing ointment and bound it with a pad of moss and the linen bandages. They had all seen the vicious jaggedly raw edges of the wound.

‘That is not true, Artgenos.’ She cleared her throat at last. ‘Plautius assured me, as did the Emperor himself -’

‘Plautius is not governor now,’ Venutios broke in. ‘And Claudius is long gone from these shores. They bought you off temporarily with their flattery and their gifts. Now events have moved on. Can’t you see it, woman? We are not bound by your agreement. Particularly if they now threaten our very gods!’

‘Our gods are not threatened!’ Carta was angry. ‘How could they be? I do what is right for our people. The tribes of the south are taxed to starvation levels. They are enslaved. They are murdered and tortured if they are found with so much as a knife to cut up their meagre bread. Is that what we want for the Brigantians? We are wealthy and at peace. We do not have to watch our dead sons and husbands brought home on litters.’ She stood up and strode out of the circle seated round the fire, her mantle brushing the wounded man’s shoulder as she passed. He flinched. ‘It is our duty to support Rome up here on the northern borders of the province.’ She spoke firmly from near the doorway. Beside the fire, Gruoch frowned. None of the men moved. ‘I put to death the men of Brigantia who defied me and went to support you, Caradoc. And I would do it again.’

Caradoc stood up. Nearby, two of Carta’s men put their hands on the hilts of their swords. Slowly the room had been filling up as one by one they filed in, stooping at the low doorway, warriors, council members, Vellocatus - all there now.

‘I have to honour my oath to the Emperor, Caradoc,’ she went on. ‘You are my cousin but you have led an insurrection and rebellion and it is my duty to give you upto the Romans, according to our agreement, to prove my loyalty and keep my people free and safe -’

‘No!’ Caradoc’s face was white to the lips. ‘We are tied by blood!’

‘It is the teaching of our gods and of our judges that we must keep our promises and our oaths above all else, otherwise we are dishonoured.’ Carta’s mouth was dry. She felt the resentment round her in the room like a black cloud. Somehow she kept her voice strong.

‘You are wrong, Cartimandua.’ Artgenos hauled himself to his feet with a groan. ‘In this case you are wrong. Do not do this, I beg you.’