Читать книгу Daughters of Fire - Barbara Erskine - Страница 35

Carta was standing looking down into the grave, tears pouring down her face. How was she going to live without her friend? How could she live with the guilt of knowing that Mellia had been killed because of her? She had never felt more alone.

As Carta’s friend Mellia had been given a formal ceremony and interred with her broken spindle, her comb and mirror, her favourite strings of beads and bangles and a flagon of mead. With her went prayers and exhortations to the gods to guide her to the land of the ever young.

Now it was over, as they stood around the grave in one final moment of silence after the eulogies ended, Carta raised her eyes to those of the woman who was watching her across the freshly piled soil. Medb of the White Hands was smiling.

In her private bedchamber, one of many portioned off with wattle screens inside the wall of the women’s house Carta set up a new little shrine. Her belongings were comparatively few. Beside the bed box filled with softly scented, tightly packed heather, topped with linen sheets and soft beautifully cured fur covers, there were two chests containing her personal possessions. Her jewellery, her clothes, folded away clean with dried wormwood and sweet gale and wild mountain thyme to keep away moth and mildew. Her mantles and cloaks hung on pegs on the wall. Her comb and mirror lay on a small table with the lamp by whose light she went to bed. Now on one of the coffers she placed a figure of the goddess, carved in holly wood, a silver bowl in which she piled her offerings and the bundle of little carved ogham staves which she used for divination when there was no fire and there were no clouds and no birds to speak to her of the omens.

Her Druid instructors had been thorough. She was a good reader. She could write and speak Latin and write in Greek reasonably fluently now as well as writing the Celtic language of her own people using both alphabets. She could recite poetry and sing and she knew something of the magic of the Druids, studying healing, divination and law.

‘You are one of us, Cartimandua,’ Truthac had said. ‘By birth and by blood, you are of the royal house, a descendant of warriors, a daughter of kings and queens, and of the line of Druids. You have been more than thrice blessed. Your destiny is written in the stars which later you will study, and in the rocks and in the waters which circle this land. You are a daughter of Brigantia. A daughter of fire. The portents at your birth were favourable and the auguries now speak of great futures and fame for all time.’ He laid a cool hand on her head. ‘You will outshine me, child. When my name is forgotten yours will echo in the words of the bards. It is not for me to tell you how to avenge the death of your friend. Consult the staves; through them consult your gods; listen to what you are told. But be sure that you divine the truth. Remember, what is done cannot be undone.’

Rising from the stool on which he had been sitting he paused for a moment, looking down at her as he leaned on his staff and he nodded sagely as he saw the loss and misery in her eyes. ‘You are no longer a child, Carta, you are now a woman. The rising sun is behind you, the setting sun many moons in front. It will take courage to tread the path you feel is right. But you have that courage.’ Gravely he nodded once more. ‘You have more courage than anyone I have taught, Cartimandua. All you need to do is summon it.’

She watched him walk away, dumbfounded. He had taught the king and the king’s sons. He was senior tutor to the Druid school. He examined bards and seers and Druids on their long journey to wisdom. And yet he thought her brave. She remembered her tears and her face burned. He didn’t know how frightened and angry and lonely she had felt; still felt in the secret dark of the night.

And he must never know. No one must know.

Except perhaps the goddess who knew everything and would give her courage.

Carta stood for a moment longer before the shrine she had created. She was frowning. Sometimes she was so sure the Lady had heard her and would help. Other times it felt as though there was no one there. No one at all.

It was late. Viv sat at her desk, writing without a break as the sun moved across into the west and sank out of sight. Outside it grew dark, and the street became more and more noisy, then quiet again as one by one people began to make for home. In her room Viv put down the pencil and stretched cramped fingers. Somewhere far below her windows a man shouted a drunken obscenity in the deep crevasse of the narrow wynd as he relieved himself against the wall. Behind him a group of young people, cheerfully rowdy from the pub, jeered and someone threw a bottle. Viv heard nothing. She was watching Carta. Who was watching Medb of the White Hands.

Medb was nervous. It had seemed so easy to torment the king’s latest fosterling. Her naturally acerbic temperament and resentful nature had sought someone to pick on since the day she had arrived at Dun Pelder, the daughter of one of the king’s best warriors. At first it had been assumed that she would marry his son, Riach. Then the king himself had chosen her. It was a great honour.

It was not what she wanted.

No one would force her into marriage. That was against the law, but who would want to refuse to mate with a king? The contracts were drawn up, her marriage portion stacked in the house the king gave her for her own and, save for the fact that there had been no children so far of the match, in her own way she was content. Until she realised that Riach was to marry someone else.

The king’s senior wife was under no illusions about Medb. At first a little resentful herself that he was looking for younger flesh she had resigned herself to the situation with pragmatic grace. She had her sons and her two daughters to comfort her, she had her husband’s respect and generosity. She could put up with his frequent absences from her bed, but she would not tolerate the young woman’s vicious temper and her spiteful treatment of slaves and servants and the other women in the household. She did not know about Medb’s latest vendetta. Medb was too clever for that.

It was easy to kill the dog. She had hidden wolfsbane in a lump of fresh venison and put some leftover gravy from the kitchens in the bowl for luck. The animal had swallowed it without hesitation. She was almost sad to see how it suffered, but Carta’s pain more than made up for it. Medb was astonished how satisfied it made her feel.

Killing Mellia had been a spur of the moment action, not planned in any way. She had walked around the house on the cobbled path which led towards the kitchens and seen the woman standing there on the terrace at the top of the flight of steps, staring out across the fields, singing quietly to herself as she twisted the woollen threads between her fingers. Mellia had half turned and smiled at her. The smile had died on her lips as she saw Medb’s face and read her fate in the other woman’s eyes.

Medb would have to be careful how she dealt with Carta. People were suspicious now, the bard had seen to that, and Carta herself was wary. Medb saw the way the young woman looked at her. She read suspicion and angry resolution where once there had been nothing but open friendliness and she began to be afraid. But her hatred and jealousy did not abate. If anything they grew as she saw how the family of her husband, King Lugaid, who should be supporting and loving her, closed instead around this young woman, consoling her for the death of a mere servant and a dog. Month after month, year after year when she had failed to conceive, the king had frowned, and shrugged and patted her stomach and assured her that one day soon his seed would take root. That was all the comfort he gave her. He had sons and daughters already. It did not matter to him whether or not he had more. He did not recognise her gnawing pain or her loneliness. Nor did he see her jealousy of Carta growing.

Nurturing her bitterness, she went to see Aoife, the spell maker, and demanded a lead token on which a spell had been inscribed. ‘I will write the name of the recipient myself.’

Aoife was affronted. ‘The spell will not work unless I cast it fully, lady.’

‘The spell will work.’ Medb fixed her with a cold eye. ‘Or it will rebound on you. And as it is the spell of barrenness you would do well to see that its power is correctly directed.’ She stared at Aoife’s belly, visibly swelling beneath her gown.

The seer turned white with fear as she stood transfixed by the other woman’s hard gaze. ‘It seems to me, lady,’ she stuttered, ‘that you have no need of my skills.’

‘Maybe not. But I choose to do it this way.’ Medb stretched out her hand for the amulet. The implication was clear. If the charm failed Aoife would be blamed. If it succeeded and there were repercussions the seer would be blamed equally.

Aoife went straight to Truthac. He listened to her story thoughtfully. ‘You did right to tell me. It is every man and every woman’s right to curse an enemy. If there is an enemy and if it is fully justified, but to do so out of mere spite or jealousy, that is a different matter. Was the amulet empowered?’

Aoife nodded miserably. ‘She made me do it.’

‘But was it properly done without the name of the person to be cursed written on it, that is the question.’ The old man sighed. ‘Even now sometimes I question the logic of the gods. Are they so easily won over, so easily bribed?’ He smiled ruefully at Aoife, noting the hand resting protectively over her belly. ‘Let us bless this child and ask for its safety. That will be a good place to start. Then we will ask the gods about the other matter.’ He knew who the recipient of Medb’s spite would be, and so, he guessed, did Aoife.

Viv stirred uncomfortably. Outside a seagull was calling in the luminous night sky. The sound echoed in her head.

Gulls don’t cry at night.

Do they?

Carta, be careful. The omens are not good.

A hunting party had arrived, bringing in more food for the Beltane feast and cattle were being rounded up from the grazing grounds ready for slaughter. A king’s wealth is judged on the numbers of his cattle, augmented regularly by raids on neighbouring tribes and King Lugaid’s wealth was enormous.

Excitement was beginning to build at Dun Pelder. Wagons loaded with food and goods creaked and groaned as they made their way along the tracks towards the township. A party of Gaulish traders laden with wine and another with bales of richly-coloured silks from the eastern frontiers of the Roman Empire joined the crowds thronging the fields around the base of the hill.

Carta was sick with excitement. Her parents, the year before confirmed as High King and Queen of all Brigantia, would be arriving any day now and with them would come two of her brothers, Triganos, the eldest, and Bran, the youngest who several years before had accompanied her to Dun Pelder. With them would come Brigantian priests and Druids who would help officiate at the marriage.

It was while she tried to distract herself from the excitement by watching the grooms attending to her ponies in the stable lines that Riach sought her out at last. Darting out of the shadows he caught her hand.

‘I hardly ever see you nowadays.’

She shrugged, suddenly shy. ‘Then you have not tried hard enough. I sit at your father’s feet often enough. I ride with your mother and your sisters.’

‘And I have been into the hills with the hunting party.’ He grinned. ‘So I wasn’t there to see. But I am now. Your parents are nearby. Word has come. Their baggage train has been seen on the road.’

Carta shivered with excitement. ‘And the feast starts tomorrow at sundown.’

‘And our wedding is the day after.’ He reached into the leather bag that hung at his waist. ‘I have a present for you. It is special. We so seldom get the chance to be alone. Shall I give it to you now? No, not here.’ He pushed whatever it was back into the bag. ‘Come with me.’ He caught her wrist and drew her away from the horses across the busy muddy yard and onto the track. Together they ran between the houses, across the warriors’ training ground and scrambled down the ramparts, through the open gates, and giggling like the children they still were, dodged at last out between the gatehouses and into the fields. Riach led her over a bank and into an orchard. Around them sweet early blossom on the crab apple trees and thick creamy hawthorn flowers with their musky provocative scent cast a dappled shade on the grass. ‘Here.’ As they faced each other under the trees he produced a small bundle, wrapped in blue linen.

She glanced up at his face. He was excited, his eyes dancing as he pressed it into her hands.

Slowly, trying to prolong the anticipation, she began to unfold the material, conscious of the heavy flexible weight of the present in her fingers.

It was a golden chain and hanging from it a tiny enamelled golden horse. She gasped with delight. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘My wedding gift. Here, let me put it on.’ He slipped the chain over her head and rearranged her hair carefully on her shoulders. ‘A glossy pony. After your name. I had it made specially by my father’s best goldsmith.’

She could guess which one, the old man who lived near the ironsmith. She had wandered into all the craft houses on the hill. Each one housed a family business. There were more scattered down amongst the farmhouses. Potters, harness makers, woodturners, stone carvers, jewellery makers, weavers, three weapon makers and swordsmiths, but the best, the absolute best, were up there on the top of Dun Pelder near the king.

She glanced up. ‘You are so generous.’ The shyness vanished. She flung her arms around his neck and touched her lips against his.

The impetuous childish gesture hovered for a moment between them, then his arms closed around her. A man’s arms, claiming his woman. The kiss deepened. Her eyes closed as their bodies pressed closer and she felt him pulling aside her tunic as his lips left hers to move down her neck into the nest of her shoulder and then on towards her breasts.

Pausing only a moment to tear off his cloak and throw it onto the ground beneath the trees, he pulled her down with him, and they lay there in one another’s arms, exploring each other’s bodies, touching and kissing throats, breasts, shoulders, until at last he pushed her legs apart with his knee, and then gasped with surprise and delight as with a shout of glee she gripped him with her thighs and pulled him inside her.

For a long time they were oblivious of the world about them. If anyone glanced over the bank into the orchard they smiled tolerantly and moved on. It was the spring. The blood was high. What else would a man and a maid do given half a chance beneath the newly warm sun?

Only one creature saw them and stayed to watch. A hoodie crow in the spiny apple boughs above them swayed in time with the gentle breeze, fixed them with a baleful eye and kept unaccountably silent.

‘Watch out for the bird!’ Viv was struggling to make herself heard. ‘Can’t you see it’s a spy? Oh please, be careful.’

Her own voice in the silent room precipitated her out of her dream and she found herself sitting at her desk, trembling with cold and exhaustion. Carta and Riach were gone. It was 3.30 a.m.