Daughters of Fire (5 page)

‘She can still be saved.’ His voice was deep. ‘Take the surviving pups from her. She has no strength to feed them. Is there another bitch here to adopt them? If not I’ll twist their necks.’

‘No!’ Her eyes flashing fury Carta pushed at him, trying to place herself between him and the dog. ‘I will not have the pups killed. She has plenty of milk. They can feed till she dies. Then I will feed them myself with goat’s milk. And maybe she’ll be all right.’ Her certainty faded. ‘I will ask the goddess to bless her.’ She looked doubtfully down at the dog who lay, eyes closed, without moving.

The man studied Carta’s face briefly, then he reached forward and taking her hand examined her blunt, dirty little fingers covered in dried blood. ‘Is she your bitch?’

Carta nodded.

‘And you are willing to nurse her? And the pups if necessary?’

The girl nodded. She wiped her eyes defiantly with the back of her hand and set her jaw in determination.

‘Then we will try to heal her. The goddess needs our help in this, child. Or she will take the dog to herself where it will play forever in the summer lands. Do you want to help her?’ He glanced up and saw the eager nod, the sudden frown, the inclination of the head as though she was trying to recall some forgotten memory. He studied her face. ‘What is it, child?’

She shook her head as if irritated at some unknown failure. ‘The goddess does not want Catia. Not yet.’ The goddess whose voice she heard in the wind on the fells. The goddess who had spoken to her from the river. Vivienne.

He held her gaze for a moment, then he nodded as though satisfied at some conclusion he had arrived at in his own mind. ‘Go and fetch a pot of boiling water, and - wait!’ He had hardly raised his voice as she jumped to her feet but the authority in it turned her to stone. ‘Wash your hands before you come back.’

When she returned it was to find he had opened his bag and extracted packages of dried herbs and mosses, small glass phials, and a set of sharp bladed knives and scalpels. ‘You are a healer?’ Her eyes were round with relief. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ She was carefully carrying a pitcher of hot water drawn from a cauldron hanging over one of the cooking fires.

He was sliding moss between the bitch’s back legs.

‘I am here to settle matters of dispute, child. But I retain an interest in healing, certainly. Here, put these to steep in the water till it cools.’ He handed her a small wooden pot of herbs and dried berries. ‘Now, whatever you say, we must remove these puppies. They will drain her life force. They can come back to her later when she is stronger.’

Her eyes had widened. He was a Druid, then. She had not noticed his robes under the warm mantle. A wise man come to settle the legal disputes within the huge hill fort compound formed by the hilltop ramparts. Her father, king of the Setantii, had his own Druids, of course. They ran a school and a college in the forest near the river in the valley below the fort and two of their most senior members were his advisers at the tribal councils. This man must be very special and very senior to have been summoned specially. She was dimly aware of there having been quarrels amongst her father’s followers; the reason for them did not interest her. She reached out for the puppies, detaching them with much whimpering and squealing from their mother’s teats and snuggled them into her
arms. ‘I can put them with my brother’s hound. She is so stupid she won’t notice the extra.’

‘Take them.’ He smiled at her, reading perhaps more into her comment than she had intended. This bright, wilful girl obviously had little respect for the sibling whose dog she described so dismissively. ‘Then come and watch what I do. Your hands are strong and gentle. You have the makings of a healer.’

As she had suspected, the pups settled to their foster mother at once with no sign of surprise or hesitation on either side as she lay in the shade of the wool store with her own litter. Carta watched for a moment, making sure the week-old pups did not push the newcomers aside, but there seemed space for all and with one or two indignant squeaks and a gentle inspection and lick from the new mother all was peaceful. Threading her way through the dozen or so houses with their attendant granaries, barns, stores, work-shops and stables which comprised the settlement where she had grown up, she found a small respectful circle of spectators had formed around the visitor and the sick dog in the beaten-earth courtyard in front of her father’s house.

She pushed between them impatiently only to find her father standing in the way as he addressed their visitor. ‘Welcome, friend. I am sorry this child has waylaid you. She had no business bothering you with such trifles.’ Her father was a tall well-built man, hand-some and much respected within the tribe. He was, she noticed, wearing his best mantle with the silver circlet denoting his kingship around his shaggy mane of reddish hair.

Their visitor looked up. ‘The life of a dog is not a trifle, Bellacos. On the contrary,’ he smiled gravely. ‘Matters of law can wait. Let us see what we can do for this creature, then I shall come to your fireside later.’

That evening, certain that Catia was sleeping soundly on the rug on her own heather bed and that the puppies were content and replete with their new mother, Carta crept back at last into the great feasting hall of the Setantii. Built several years ago beside her father’s house, this hall, slightly larger than her family home and without smaller rooms around the circular walls, formed a great ceremonial space, kept for tribal gatherings and entertainments and for communal meals. Richly decorated with colourful woven wall hangings, elaborately carved support pillars, and everywhere riots of colour and design, it was lit by dozens of lamps. As the population
of the settlements crowded in, the great hall was smoky from the central fire and the lamps and smelling strongly of the food which was even now being carried in on great heavy trays. Carta arrived in time to see her father passing their guest a horn of the best mead. She wriggled onto the bench between the two men, almost deafened by the noise of shouting and laughter as the whole community crowded in to see their visitor and to share the evening meal. By the flickering light of the flaring lamps, meat from the firepits and ovens in the kitchens was being passed round on platters swimming in rich blood gravy together with bowls of stew and baskets of bread and hunks of fine rich cheese. By the wall Enocios, the harper, was strumming a gentle background music all but inaudible in the hubbub around him.

Bellacos and his visitor, engaged in serious talk, had not seemed to notice the small girl who had forced her way onto the cushioned bench between them, but now the newcomer glanced down. He laid his knife beside his platter and wiped his fingers on the napkin before patting her unruly head. ‘So, is the bitch comfortable?’

Carta nodded. ‘She’s asleep on my bed.’

He smiled gravely. ‘And where will you sleep, little one?’

‘Anywhere. I don’t care.’ She was immediately on the defensive. She was aware that her father’s attention had already wandered. He was scanning the company for someone. Her uncle was there, on the other side of their visitor, so it must be her eldest brother, Triganos, he sought. She scowled, hoping fervently that Triganos would as always be somewhere else, lurking in the stables or the arms hall with his friend and foster brother, Venutios. If they came over she would be chased away to sit with the other children or sent to sit at her mother’s side at the far side of the fire and forgotten. She hadn’t stirred beneath the stranger’s hand. It was light. Gentle. Warm. Normally she would have wriggled away, ducked aside and fled but he fascinated her and he had won her trust as easily as he had won that of her dog.

‘So, child. What do they call you?’ His voice was deep and melodious. He took his hand away and she felt for a moment bereft.

‘My birth name was Áine. Radiance. But my brothers call me Sleek Pony.’ She shrugged in acceptance. ‘Cartimandua.’

‘And does it suit you, this new name?’ He was smiling.

Her father answered for her. ‘Indeed it does.’ He gave a roar of
laughter. ‘Carta is a child of Epona and no mistake.’ A huge muscly arm encircled her bony shoulders and he gave her a bear hug.

‘And what does your mother plan for you?’ The stranger was looking down at her thoughtfully.

‘Nothing. Or if she does, there is no point.’ Carta looked up at him and fixed him with large eyes which were in some lights blue-grey and in others the green of the mountain lakes. ‘I am going to be a queen.’

Her father’s shout of laughter was echoed by the men and women around them who had overheard the exchange. It was warm, loving laughter. She was popular, their leader’s small daughter, much loved and much admired for her courage and her wild beauty.

The stranger didn’t laugh. He was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Who told you this, child? Your mother?’

She shook her head.

‘Then who?’

‘The Lady.’

She saw his pupils dilate as he held her gaze and she felt a moment of fear. ‘She speaks to me when I’m by myself sometimes,’ she said defiantly. ‘She is called Vivienne.’

A hush had fallen on the hall. The stranger was nodding wisely. ‘Remind me, Bellacos. This child is a daughter of Brigantia. Through your blood a daughter of the Setantii. But also of the Trinovantes through her mother, is that not so?’

Carta’s father sobered rapidly. He shot a quick glance across his daughter’s head towards their guest. ‘Indeed. The bards tell us that her mother’s mother’s mother was the daughter of Mandubraccios of the Trinovantes. After his death, his wife, also a princess of Brigantia, of the Corionototae, brought her home to her people here in the north. It was not safe to remain in the south. Cassevellaunus’s heirs were hunting for anyone of his blood. To wipe them out.’

‘And your mother’s line?’

‘The daughter of the king of the Textoverdi.’

‘So. This little one has many lines of royal blood in her veins. A bloodline which makes you the most likely choice as next high king of the Brigantes in your turn.’ The Druid stroked his chin for a moment. ‘And she has no sisters? Only brothers?’ When Bellacos nodded he thought for several more moments, then abruptly he made to stand up. ‘I will retire to consult with the gods. Her destiny is written, Bellacos, and she knows it.’

Bellacos’s mouth dropped open. ‘But she is only a child.’ ‘Children grow up, my friend.’ The Druid had climbed to his feet. He rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘And the time may come when there is no one else of the royal blood to lead your people. When you and your sons and your brothers’ sons have gone to join the gods she may be the only one left of the family.’ In the silence that followed everyone held their breath. He was foretelling not only Carta’s future, but the death of the king and of his sons. His eyes held those of his host calmly. What the gods ordained would come to pass whatever attempts were made to circumvent their plans. ‘If it is her destiny,’ he went on into the silence,‘if she is to be chosen as queen, then she will need to be trained for her life to come and no longer allowed to run wild with the ponies.’ He touched Carta lightly on the forehead with his index finger. ‘I will look into the future for her tonight. Tomorrow we will speak further.’

Hugh Graham was sitting at his desk at home in his grey stone Gothic house behind its tall hedges of laurels in the pretty village of Aberlady. The story of Venutios was ringing in his head. Cursing, he tried once again to banish it. The notes on his desk were about the Roman invasion; legionary dispersements; the south of England. He had not yet reached the part of his book where he would concentrate on the Brigantes, let alone the story of Venutios. He was wishing profoundly that he hadn’t mentioned the book to Viv. He had implied that it was to be about the Brigantian king, and it wasn’t. Oh yes, Venutios would feature in it, indeed play an important part, but not to the exclusion of all else, so why was the man’s story suddenly obsessing him like this?

He glared at the piles of books around him. It was the third time he had sat down. He had been walking restlessly up and down the floor, unable to settle at anything since his interview with Viv. He frowned in irritation. He should be in the department this morning; had had two important appointments this afternoon which now he
had been forced to ask the departmental secretary to reschedule. Why?

Why had he left in such a hurry after Viv had stormed out yesterday? Too much of a hurry to check where the brooch was in the litter of his desk and lock it up for safe-keeping. That worried him. He was treating it with almost deliberate carelessness and he wasn’t sure why. He shivered. He hadn’t wanted Viv to touch it for a very good reason. It felt poisonous. When, cautiously, with his fingertips because he had no special gloves on, he had touched it himself, he had almost dropped it, appalled by the cold sense of evil the thing exuded.

So, why had he left it on his desk at all? Because for some insane reason he had wanted it to sit, if only for a few moments, in a ray of clean, hot sunshine. For a few seconds he contemplated the irrationality of the thought.