Читать книгу Daughters of Fire - Barbara Erskine - Страница 10

I

Pat turned over in bed with a groan and glanced at the small alarm clock near the lamp on the table beside her. It was ten past three and she was still reading. With a sigh she laid down the book and sat up. She couldn’t stop now. Padding down the stairs in her royal-blue pyjamas, she made her way through the silent flat to the kitchen. Turning on the light she reached for a glass and went across to the sink for some water.

She frowned. There was no mention of Medb in the book. None at all. She took a sip from her glass.

Medb.

Where had that name come from?

It had swum up from her subconscious while she was reading. Or had she dozed off without realising it and dreamed it?

‘Pat? Are you OK?’ Cathy appeared in the doorway behind her. She was wearing a dark red nightshirt.

‘Yes, sorry. Did I wake you?’ Pat leaned against the worktop, sipping from the glass. ‘I was reading Viv’s book. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘Is it any good?’ Cathy went over to the kettle. ‘I haven’t started it yet. No, I was awake anyway, worrying about Tasha.’

Pat glanced at Cathy across her glass. ‘Is she a problem? I thought you liked her.’

‘I do. It’s her mother I’m not so keen on. It’s such an issue each time she comes over. Pete’s got a meeting next time she brings Tasha so I’ve got to entertain the woman.’

‘Can’t you just grab the kid and shut the door in her face?’

Cathy gave a throaty laugh. ‘I wish! No, I’ll serve tea and cake and look all domesticated and try to outshine her at her own game as usual.’

‘That’s crazy. Pete lives with you. He didn’t like domesticated, remember?’

‘I know.’ Cathy sighed. ‘I may be a psychologist, Pat, but I’m still as insecure as the next woman.’ Cathy reached for a jar of teabags. ‘So, is Viv’s book any good? I must confess I haven’t read it yet.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Pat rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘But it’s really strange. She’s an academic, right? And she’s making a huge issue of the fact, but whatever she says it does read like fiction, she’s right. It’s almost lyrical. Even I can see it’s full of stuff she could not possibly know for a fact and her professor is probably justified in his remarks. It is not kosher research. It can’t be. I don’t pretend to know anything about the subject, but I would have expected lots of other detail, social history, Roman background to the period, that sort of thing. Stuff which would be hard to convey in a drama documentary with no visual cues and not much time to spare, but this …’ She paused, sipping from her glass. ‘It doesn’t matter. From my point of view it’s brilliant! We can do a lot with it!’

Cathy shrugged. ‘She’s been translating old Celtic manuscripts and things and reading oghams, which are some sort of ancient Celtic sign writing, and running her hands over stones and stuff. She let on that much. She was really embarrassed about it!’ She grinned. ‘So, do I gather it is readable? After all, that is the important thing, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed, yes. It is readable. Very. And great material for a play, so I think we’re in business, and,’ Pat headed for the door, ‘I’m going back to bed to finish it. As far as I remember from looking her up before I came, no one knows about Cartimandua’s later life. I shall be intrigued to see what Viv has to say on the subject.’

The answer was, she didn’t. She described the final confrontation between the Brigantian forces and Rome and the story stopped abruptly.

No more is heard of the Queen of the Brigantes.

She disappears from history every bit as enigmatically, if with less drama, than did her sister queen, Boudica. Did she live to grow old?

Did she leave heirs? Did she meet her husband again? We do not know.

Pat closed the book and let it fall on the sheet. She felt absurdly cheated. The story had been exciting. Engrossing. Brilliant. Surely there must be more to the ending than that?

But of course even she, who was no historian, knew there wasn’t. History is not interested in happy endings. It is not indeed interested in endings at all. It moves on with the current of events, ever following the path to the future. And Cartimandua was not even a part of history as such. She belonged to pre-history, her name only known because of her interest to Roman historians who recorded what they knew of her, or guessed, or invented, and then moved on to talk of different things.

Putting the book on the table with a sigh she reached over to turn out the light. It would make a brilliant play.

II

Sixteen miles away and some two hours later, in Aberlady, Hugh woke up and lay staring up at the ceiling. Outside the dawn chorus was in full swing, the birds so loud the glory of their song was an almost discordant force, pouring through the open window into his bedroom, drowning the silence.

He closed his eyes with a groan. It had been a long time since Alison had come to him in a dream. ‘Hugh!’ Her voice had been so clear. ‘Hugh! Be careful.’ Dropping his hand, she had moved away, turning towards the skyline. He remembered what would happen next and he reached out towards her desperately. ‘Don’t go. Please, don’t go.’

She had paused and turned back. ‘Speak to Meryn, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Speak to Meryn.’ And then she had gone.

He frowned as the words came back to him.

As his car bumped over the mountain track towards the white painted stone cottage, Hugh gave a wry grin. Where else would his old friend, Meryn Jones, have come to rest in his peripatetic life when he needed to be near the National Library of Scotland for his research, than this remote glen in the Pentland hills? Any nearer the city would have been an anathema.

The two men had first met at Jesus College, Oxford over thirty years before, their point of contact their intense interest in the Celtic world in which both were working on post-graduate research, prior to setting off in very different directions, Hugh to Trinity College, Dublin, Meryn to his native Wales where he was to centre his life around his study of Druidism.

Parking near the door Hugh climbed out and looked round appreciatively. The cottage, nestling beneath a glorious great mountain, and within earshot of a swiftly running rocky burn was surrounded by a small garden where vegetables and herbs – always herbs, wherever Meryn lived, herbs for healing, and for magic and for divination – vied with flowers for the space within the tumbled grey stone garden walls.

As the two men shook hands and then turned to walk inside, Hugh grinned. He could smell coffee. Most of his friend’s eccentricities he could tolerate, but herb tea morning noon and night was not one of them.

Tall, with dark hair greying at the temples, Meryn was in his mid-fifties, though his confident stride and upright posture had not changed at all from that of the young man who had gone from Oxford to live and work and study in the mountains of mid-Wales.

He led Hugh into the cottage where a large work table stood in the centre of the book-lined living room; its stone walls were nearly completely hidden by the shelves, the deep window recesses bright with scarlet geraniums, the fire in the hearth lit even though it was June.

He gestured Hugh towards one of the two deep armchairs and fetched their drinks.

‘You look troubled, my friend,’ Meryn said as he set down a cup beside Hugh.

Hugh sighed. There were never any preambles with Meryn. Straight to the point.

‘I’m tired. Getting old and grouchy.’

Meryn smiled. ‘You’ve always been grouchy, Hugh. As for old, you’re younger than me. Prime of life! The target of many a beautiful undergraduate’s lustful fantasies if rumours are true.’ He smiled as he glanced across at the other man, as always acute in his summing up of the situation. ‘Time for a sabbatical, perhaps?’

‘In two years’ time.’ Hugh reached for his coffee and sniffed it appreciatively before taking a gulp. His host had a cup of something green steaming away beside him. He had not touched it, Hugh noticed. ‘I dreamed about Alison,’ he went on abruptly. ‘I thought I was moving on, like we’re told to, you know, getting on with my life,’ he shrugged, ‘and it’s getting easier. Then suddenly, this.’

Meryn was studying his face. His silence led Hugh to continue.

‘She told me to come and see you.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh.

‘She is a wise lady.’

Hugh nodded. Is. Not was. That was typical of Meryn. He and Meryn had re-established their close friendship thanks to Alison. She had adored Meryn’s books, written to him without realising that he and her husband had once been so close, met him at last the year before she died, then on discovering the length and depth of their former friendship, insisted that Hugh and he get in touch again. They had kept in contact over the years, but their approach to their studies was very different and had in a sense driven them apart, Hugh’s academic and based in the empirical record, Meryn’s spiritual and psychological. His approach to Druidry was rooted not only in study, but in memory and meditation – in experience – something Hugh found hard to understand.

Meryn didn’t deny being a Druid nowadays. In fact it was what he called himself. Not a member of any organisation. Nothing formal. Just a deep, passionate philosophy. A way of living. A way of believing and of remembering which came from the distant Celtic past of his country and his ancestors and his finely tuned intuition which was undoubtedly psychic. He frowned as he sat studying his visitor. His intuition was telling him now that something was very wrong.

Hugh put down his cup. He respected Meryn’s learning, and his natural wisdom if not his academic purity, and lately he had begun to regard his friend as something of a mentor and guru. Meryn seemed to possess a knowledge and assurance which he himself lacked. It was something he envied.

Meryn reached for his drink at last. ‘You must let her go, Hugh.’

‘Who?’ Hugh started almost guiltily.

‘Alison, of course.’ Meryn was watching him closely. ‘Who did you think I meant?’

Hugh shook his head. He leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. Then he plunged into his story, coming straight to the point. ‘Did you ever meet Dr Lloyd Rees when you came up to the DPCHC?’

Meryn shook his head. ‘One of your adoring disciples?’

Hugh gave a bitter smile. ‘I used to think so.’

After a pause Meryn asked, ‘So, what has Dr Lloyd Rees done to displease you?’

‘She’s written a damn stupid book. Made a complete ass of herself. It’s going to show up the whole department, and she’s –’ He paused abruptly. ‘She’s done something else unutterably stupid as well, and I don’t know what to do about it.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘She’s stolen something, Meryn. Something of inestimable value.’ Hugh glanced up.

He hadn’t actually seen her do it, but when he had gone back to the office and searched the chaos of his desk it had gone. It had to have been her. Who else would have done it?

‘Have you asked her?’

Hugh shook his head.

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t want to confront her, I suppose.’ Hugh shrugged. Scowling, he levered himself out of his chair and paced restlessly up and down the floor a couple of times.

Thoughtfully Meryn watched him. Hugh was growing more agitated by the second.

‘She doesn’t realise what she has started!’ Hugh burst out suddenly. He flung himself down on the chair again and drummed his fingers on his knee, staring into the fire.

‘And what has she started?’ Meryn’s question was very soft as he studied the other man’s expression.

‘A war.’ Hugh said the words almost absent-mindedly. ‘She started a war. Stupid bitch!’ His voice had changed. Deepened. Become raw with anger. ‘She will pay for what she has done!’

Meryn raised an eyebrow. ‘Strong words.’ He was carefully scanning Hugh’s face.

‘Not strong enough!’

‘Are we still talking about Dr Lloyd Rees?’

‘No! I’m talking about Cartimandua!’ Hugh’s eyes were closed now, his mouth set in a grim line.

Meryn frowned, his senses alert. It wasn’t Cartimandua who had started a war, it was the man whose essence was prowling through the room, the man whose anger and impatience was resonating in the shadows, whose voice had used Hugh’s larynx, the man whom Hugh did not appear, as yet, to have seen.

‘What do you think Dr Lloyd Rees took from you, Hugh?’ he asked quietly.

‘A brooch. Technically a gold fibula.’ After a moment’s hesitation Hugh’s voice was his own again. The shadowy figure had gone.

Meryn nodded gravely. He relaxed. ‘And why did she take it, do you know? Presumably she is not by nature a thief.’

‘She wants it to show on a TV programme. Part of the publicity for her book.’

‘So she hasn’t stolen it? She intends to give it back?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’

‘And did she not ask if she could borrow it?’

Hugh nodded. ‘I said no.’

‘Why?’

‘Because –’ Hugh shook his head from side to side vehemently. ‘Because I didn’t want her to have it, Meryn!’ He hesitated again. ‘Don’t ask me why. I was feeling uncooperative, perhaps. Or grouchy, as you so charmingly put it. Or just angry with her. But she shouldn’t have taken it.’

‘If indeed she has.’

‘If indeed she has.’ Hugh sighed. ‘I lent it to Hamish Macleod.’ He paused. ‘He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He told me he left it in the box. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it either.’ He looked up and met Meryn’s steady gaze. ‘There is something about the brooch which is odd.’

‘What about you? Have you touched it, Hugh?’

Hugh nodded.

‘What happened?’ Meryn was looking thoughtful.

‘Nothing happened. At least –’ Hugh shrugged. ‘It felt strange. Powerful. I assumed that was because I knew how old and rare it was. But …’

‘But?’ Meryn prompted after a minute or two.

Hugh shook his head. ‘Artefacts like that have a powerful effect on the imagination.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word evil. His father had felt it. Perhaps so had Wheeler. He had always wondered why the latter had given up the brooch so easily. Maybe this irrational fear was experienced by anyone who came near it. That would explain everything.

Meryn was nodding sagely. ‘So, what did you imagine, my friend?’ There was a slight twinkle in his eye.

‘That the brooch would give me an unpleasant insight into the head of the man to whom it had belonged.’

‘Who was?’

‘Venutios, King of the Brigantes.’

‘And you don’t want Dr Lloyd Rees to share your insight?’

Hugh opened his mouth to answer, said nothing, and shrugged. ‘I didn’t want her to be harmed.’

‘Harmed in what way?’

Hugh sighed. ‘Something happened when she left the room. The sudden cold. The atmosphere. It didn’t make sense at the time. I thought it was me. The quarrel I’d had with her. But now,’ he looked up with a frown, ‘I’m frightened, Meryn. I think the brooch could be dangerous. That’s why I came to see you.’

III

Meryn sat for a long time after Hugh left, staring deep into the smouldering embers of the fire, reaching with tentative fingers into the past. Hugh had left him a postcard of the brooch, its exquisite craftsmanship obvious in the intricate swirls of gold and the jewelled colours of the enamels as it sat on its black velvet plinth in the museum showcase. The card rested on his knee as his mind quested the darkness behind the glowing logs at his feet. The craftsman who had made it had been proud of this his most beautiful achievement. It was an artefact fit for a god. But it had not been given to a god. Meryn frowned. The shadowy figure who was stalking Hugh was not alone. There were others there, drifting in the room, conjured from the otherworld by the very thought of this piece of jewellery. Who else had been affected by it, he wondered. He shivered as his thoughts strayed to the museum where it had lain, the malign chill of its presence cut off from the world by its glass case. Conservators and curators had admitted to him more than once in private that they could feel the vibes coming off some of the treasures in their care. Alone, when the public had gone, in the empty galleries or the work rooms behind the scenes they saw and felt echoes of the past which were far from dormant. This brooch had probably done the same.

He lifted the picture off his knee and studied it in the flickering glow of the firelight. At some point in its existence it had been imbued with power which, whatever the original intention, was now malign. Why? By whom? How? Why had these sticky threads of danger remained to contaminate all who touched it? He looked back into the fire. Tendrils of grey smoke were seeping out into the room and he screwed up his eyes with a frown, sensing a swirl of conflict, of love and hate, of fear and tragedy as the last of the logs collapsed into the bed of ash and for the time being the window into the shadows closed.

IV

‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, are you coming to hand in your notice? As a popular author, you clearly no longer need the pittance you earn with us.’ Hugh had just managed to ease his car into a much coveted parking space near George Square. He was pocketing his car keys as he turned and found himself face to face with Viv.

She could feel her face flaming in response to the comment. Somehow she clamped down on the retort which fizzed in her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper again. She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a while, yet, Hugh. Someone has to try and bring our attitudes out of the ark and into the world of modern research, after all.’

Damn! Why had she said that? Why antagonise him further?

He had started it, though.

She gripped the strap of the tote bag on her shoulder until her knuckles turned white. Don’t say another word, Viv. Wait for him to mention the brooch. Did he even know it was missing? If he didn’t he soon would if he was heading into the office. She chewed her lips nervously, watching as he bent to retrieve from the pavement the heavy briefcase which he had just pulled out of the car.

For a moment they both stood unmoving there on the footpath. It was the professor who turned away first. Swinging on his heel without another word he strode off, carrying his heavy case with him. He had said nothing about the pin. At the corner he veered away from the office, walking briskly into the square. In spite of herself she smiled with relief. At least they were not going to the same place, but he wouldn’t want to carry that briefcase far.

Following him at a safe distance she headed away from him, seeking the sanctuary of the small book-lined room she had called her own for five years now on the first floor of the small Georgian terraced building on the west side of the square.

Turning up the steps she ducked in through the door to look in at the office where the departmental secretary, Heather James, was sitting at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen. The coffee machine was gurgling quietly. ‘Can I grab one on my way upstairs?’ Viv dropped her bag on the only empty chair and reached towards the tray of mugs. ‘I suppose you saw that through the window?’

‘Saw what?’ Heather’s large blue eyes seemed to grow larger behind her glasses as she glanced up, then went back to her letter.

‘The Prof heading off towards the library rather than come in here with me.’ Viv grinned. She poured herself a coffee, then realised that her legs were shaking. She sat down abruptly beside her bag, cupping her hands around the mug.

Heather raised an eyebrow. Her light-hearted daily flirtations with her devastatingly attractive boss were part of office life, as was her ability to soothe his notoriously short fuse. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Viv.’ Her fingers flashed across the keyboard; her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

‘It’s hard not to.’

‘But not impossible. He’s done it before, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Bullied people. I think it means he likes you.’ There was an unexpected chortle from behind the piles of files on her desk. ‘Keep cool. He’s won if you lose it.’

Viv exhaled audibly. ‘Lose what? Temper or job?’ Heather clearly hadn’t heard about her attempt at grand larceny.

‘Either or both. Take some time out this summer and chill. Get right away from the department.’

It was a tempting idea. Upstairs Viv stared round her office. Book-lined walls, desk, chairs for students. Piles of papers and the view out across the square. How many days and months had she spent in this room in all? She didn’t like to think. It was beginning to feel like a trap. It smelled dusty. Depressing. She could cross the floor in three paces. Throwing up the sash window with its old frayed cords juddering on the brink of stasis, she stood looking out. Hugh hadn’t headed across towards the library as she had assumed after all. He was sitting in the square. She could see him easily from here. His briefcase on the bench beside him, he was leaning forward, his hands clenched between his knees, his face set in deep lines as he stared down at his feet, the dappled shadow of the trees playing over his features. He looked up briefly as someone walked past him, then he looked down again. His whole body language spelled out dejection. She frowned. She wasn’t about to feel sorry for him.

Twice she looked out of the window again. He hadn’t moved. Then as she was about to sit down at her desk at last she saw him climb to his feet and slowly turn back towards the department.

V

Standing in his office doorway, jingling his keys in his hand, Hugh was surveying the room as though he had never seen it before. The building was quiet. Further up the corridor Viv’s door was closed. Taking a step inside he shut the door behind him, dropped his heavy bag on the floor, and stood, taking in the over-laden book-shelves, the piles of books and papers on the floor, the worn rugs, the untidy desk, the ancient chairs some of which also bore piles of books.

Slowly he walked across to the desk.

‘Just make absolutely sure the brooch has actually gone, Hugh,’ Meryn had said. ‘Go for the obvious first. Check and double-check you haven’t hidden it, lost it, dropped it. Then decide what you want to do.’

Methodically he began to tidy the desk, collecting files and letters into neat stacks, returning books to the shelves, capping pens and biros and putting them into the mug which sat beside his computer for that purpose. Twice he paused, looking round, listening. The room was empty. He had no sense that there was anything, or anyone, there. The strange overwhelming feeling that someone had been watching Viv as she left his room with the brooch, the feeling about which he had told Meryn, had gone. Emptying the two filing trays and refilling them methodically with the letters and reports and memos which they were supposed to contain but somehow didn’t any more, he slowly began to bring order to the chaos. Before he was halfway through his task he knew for certain that the brooch wasn’t there.

Finished at last, he sat down and considered the empty blotter, the tidy filing trays, the piles of files, the whole neat area in front of him, then he put his head in his hands. His mind was a blank.

‘Do you want to sack her? Do you want to call the police?’ Meryn had said before Hugh left. The blue eyes had held his for a second. ‘If she has stolen the brooch, she’s given you cause.’

Hugh sighed with frustration. What had possessed her to take the wretched thing? He pictured her standing there in front of him, a vision in magenta, her eyes betraying her every thought as she looked at him. Angry. Challenging. Frightened. Indignant and then guilty. Even before she had taken the darn thing. Guilty.

Guilty because she was the cause of the war.

Guilty because she had betrayed her people.

Hugh frowned and took a deep breath, clenching his fists on the blotter in front of him. He had done it again. For one frightening moment he had confused her in his mind with the woman who had owned the brooch nearly two millennia before.

‘Be careful, Hugh,’ Meryn had said quietly as they had sat together before the gently smouldering fire in the cottage in the Pentland hills. ‘Don’t let yourself identify too closely with Venutios. I don’t know why yet, but his link with that brooch was only too real.’

Hugh had laughed.

VI

The sun had risen out of a bank of opal mist. Above it scraps of pink cloud floated like spun gauze in the clear blue bowl of the sky. The sea slumbered still, the colour of knapped flint, save where a path of light, carbuncle red, led towards the shore.

Her horse’s rein over her arm, Carta stood on the clifftop watching. In a moment the gauze would be too flimsy, the sun’s brilliance too strong and she would have to avert her eyes. The sweet symbol of the goddess of fire who hung her cloak upon its golden rays and whose warmth would sustain and comfort them through the summer would in a moment remind her of its implacable strength.

Dropping the rein she waited, ignoring the animal, who wandered a few paces away before beginning to graze, then as the crimson sliver broke through the mist she raised her arms in greeting.

She could feel the goddess’s kiss of warmth on her skin. Feel her power touching the land. As her gentle fingers touched the horse’s flank it raised its head and in turn it whickered greeting and acknowledgement before dropping its head once more to the grass.

The time of her marriage was coming close. Carta was a woman now. Several moons ago her bleeding time had started. There was a celebration for her in the women’s hall and a blessing. The king’s Druids and the king and his sons had met and messages had been sent to her father, recently elected high king of Brigantia. Her marriage portion had to be agreed and brought to Alba and her father and mother would come to celebrate the Beltane feast with gifts and feasting. Her husband was chosen and she was happy – so happy.

Were it not for one deep cloud like that which hovered across the sea and now covered the great rock out there amidst the gathering sun paths through the mist. Someone who did not want her to marry. Someone who had cursed her.

She shivered. The night before it had been the turn of Carta’s bard, Conaire, to sing. He had risen to his feet and with a bow to the king reached for his small harp. The song he had sung was one of Carta’s favourites. It told how she had raced across the moors against her three brothers and won. It told how well she rode, how she was one with her pony as it galloped through the Setantian mists. It told how she had won her name.

The men and women in the crowded hall listened as they lounged round the fire glancing from time to time at Carta who sat next to Riach, with Mellia beside her, the girl’s eyes fixed on the young man’s face with adoration. The servants and slaves had cleared away the dishes and the food. Fresh logs had been thrown on the hot ashes and mead and wine were being passed round the assembled company as, outside, the heavy spring rain watered the growing crops of the farms which spread out across the plain below the high terraces of the fort and drenched the roofs of the round houses, splattering on the mud beneath the eaves.

Carta stared down at her own small goblet, half embarrassed, pleased by the looks of admiration being cast in her direction. She was glowing with pride.

The music was slowing. Conaire drew his fingers across the strings in a vivid, dramatic chord.

Carta came to the court of a king,

And all who looked upon her smiled.

His voice rang to the roof timbers.

But deep in the heart of the friendly crowd

Lurked a worm who her name reviled.

There was a dramatic pause, then a gasp spread around the great chamber. The words of the bard implied that the sacred vow of hospitality and friendship had been violated. Such an accusation was unheard of, but the accusation of a trained bard had the blessing of the gods as his words came direct from them through their inspiration. It had to be heard.

The king rose to his feet and silence fell on the company. Carta could feel her cheeks flaming. She did not dare to look around at the faces of the king’s family, her foster family. Beside her Mellia was holding her breath.

‘You make a grave accusation, my friend.’ Lugaid’s voice was calm. ‘And you make it in a public place.’

Conaire bowed. He set his harp down at his feet. ‘I speak the truth.’ His voice was quiet, but it carried to every man and woman there.

Carta found the courage to look up at last. Her eyes met Medb’s. The king’s youngest wife was white to the lips, her eyes radiating anger and hatred. Carta looked away. Somehow she forced herself to stand up and face the crowds in the room. The silence was intense. ‘I don’t know what I have done to earn such dislike,’ she said, her voice ringing out clearly, ‘but I am sorry for it. I would have hoped to be a sister to every woman here.’

There was a second gasp and a rapid murmur of voices ran round the fire. She had added her support to the accusation; and she had confirmed that her enemy was a woman.

Truthac, the king’s Druid leaned forward and murmured in his ear. Lugaid nodded and sat down as Truthac rose in his place and stood, leaning on his staff. ‘This must be spoken about further. But for now I would invite our own bard to sing us another song; perhaps a song about Carta’s family and her heritage of courage and dedication.’ He smiled gravely at the silent crowd, his eyes resting for only a fraction longer on one face than on the others. His gaze was met by stony defiance.

By the fire Carta resumed her seat on the cushioned bench, so close to the woman who was her enemy. The nervous thudding of her heart had subsided a little. She glanced at Conaire as Mellia slipped away from her side and made her way towards him, shyly touching the young man’s shoulder in a gesture of support. Carta hadn’t realised he knew what was going on, but the gods had chosen to speak through him and all she could do now was to wait patiently and see what Truthac and Lugaid advised, and in the mean time she would pray to her goddesses to help her.

‘Strong Lady of the sun; Sweet Lady of the moon; guardians of this place; spirits of this land; keep me safe. Shield me from her curses. Turn them back as arrows to her heart. Tell me what to do –’

‘Viv? Are you asleep?’

The voice beside her made Viv jump violently. Heather was standing in the doorway with the coffee jug in her hand. ‘I thought you might like a top up. You’ve been up here for ages.’

Outside her office the sun had moved on round. The bench where Hugh had been sitting was in deep shadow. And empty.

Viv stared at it for a moment, numb with shock, her heart thumping under her ribs. Carta had gone. Vanished in an instant in the middle of her prayer as though a door had slammed, separating them so abruptly that the shock she felt was like a pain. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Heather and somehow she managed to pull herself together, forcing herself to concentrate on the present and put the dream behind her. Her first coherent thought was of the professor. ‘Is Hugh here?’

‘Yup. In his office. He’s got a meeting with Hamish later.’

‘I think I’ll go home, then.’ Viv reached for her mug and held it out. Her hand was shaking. ‘Thanks, Heather. Just half. Then I’ll go and work at the flat for the rest of the week. Keep out of his way. If you need me give me a call.’

The vision had come without invitation. Suddenly. Completely. For over an hour she had been sitting there in another world, unaware of anything around her. Not even hearing the door open. Aware of nothing until Heather spoke to her. Slowly she began to pile books and folders into her bag, realising as she did so that her hands were still trembling.

‘There shouldn’t be any problems. All the exam papers are marked. I don’t think there will be any queries. There aren’t any resits this year, thank goodness.’

After Heather disappeared she stopped her frenetic activity for a moment and took a deep breath. She mustn’t forget the dream. She had to fix the details in her mind. The sounds and smells of the feasting hall, the haunting beauty of the song, the background noise and then the total silence, the bolt of fear that had shocked Carta as she sat and listened to the prophecy. Somehow she had to find her way back to the scene as soon as possible. As soon as she reached the privacy of her own flat.

Her desk cleared, she let herself out of her office and stood for a moment on the landing, listening. Hugh’s door was closed. The building was silent. Holding her breath, she tiptoed along the corridor, pausing as the floor creaked beneath her feet. The last thing she needed now was another encounter with Hugh and the discussion which would surely follow about the Cartimandua Pin.

Heather was right. She needed to chill.

She had made her escape, pulling the heavy outside door behind her when, only a few paces from the building, a voice accosted her. ‘Hi, Viv.’

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

It was Steve Steadman. The bag on his back hung open to reveal several books and files. ‘I’ve just been to the library.’

‘So I see.’ She did not stop walking so he fell in step beside her, his long strides adapting at once to hers. He was smiling, his pleasant face relaxed and friendly.

‘When are you planning to go home to Yorkshire?’ She glanced across at him, pleased suddenly to have his cheerful, straight forward company.

‘Next weekend.’

‘You must be looking forward to it.’ She was making conversation to compensate for not stopping; for walking so fast. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and the office and Hugh as possible.

‘I am.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll probably stay there for a bit over the summer and give them a hand on the farm. I can come back up to the library if I need to as I work on my thesis. So, might I see you down there?’ He gave her his usual relaxed grin. ‘It would be great if you could visit us.’

She hesitated. ‘You know, I might. It’s very tempting.’ Tempting and frightening. To see Carta’s home. The scenes of her early childhood. What would happen if she went there? They paused to wait for the traffic lights before turning into Forrest Road. She glanced at him in time to see his eyes fixed on her face. He looked away at once, as though embarrassed to be caught staring. Could he see something odd about her, she wondered. Sense the aura of the past which she could still feel hanging around her? She hoped not. She shivered. The street was busy, and for a moment the noise of a lorry changing gear beside them almost drowned out the quiet voice which spoke unexpectedly in her ear.

‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, has Mr Steadman been giving you his opinion of your book?’

Viv gasped audibly. Hugh Graham had walked up behind them, unnoticed. She faced him, her heart thudding. ‘Indeed he has. He liked it.’

‘Did you?’ Hugh turned to her companion and peered at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘Well, you’re inexperienced as yet.’ He smiled. ‘I had hoped to see you in the department, Dr Lloyd Rees.’ He paused, scanning her face. ‘I would have appreciated the chance to speak to you alone.’ He glanced at Steve, then he went on, ‘But as you are here now, I may as well tell you. Amongst other things, I have been looking over the timetables for next year. Assuming you are still with us.’ He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes fixed on hers. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of hesitation there, but if there was it was gone so fast she might have imagined it. He went on implacably, ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see you’ve been given more time to lecture the new intake of undergraduates. I think your approach to history will intrigue them. The second years, where the standards of teaching are so much more important, will be supervised by Dr Grant. As you know Dr Macleod has resigned as from the end of this academic year to start his well-earned retirement, and I have decided that I will give the Readership to Dr Grant as a reward for his hard work and loyalty to the department.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction as the lights changed once more and the traffic surged forward. ‘He hasn’t published as much as you, but his work is sound.’

Viv stared at him, dimly aware that Steve had moved closer to her and reached out to touch her elbow in a quiet gesture of support. For a moment she was too stunned to speak. When at last she managed to open her mouth it was to stutter, ‘You’re right. This is hardly the place to discuss this, Hugh!’

He shrugged. ‘Why not? Surely you don’t mind Mr Steadman knowing. Everyone will soon enough. As I warned you I have reviewed the situation and I have now made the right decision. We are a small department. I am afraid there is very little room for promotion and when a position does come up, it must go to the strongest candidate. The most reliable and honest candidate.’

‘Honest?’ Viv was intensely aware of Steve’s eyes on her face again. He was looking very uncomfortable.

‘Honest, Dr Lloyd Rees.’ Hugh pursed his lips. ‘There is, as I believe you know, something missing from my study.’ Near them the lights turned red once more. People surged past them across the road. They did not move.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Viv’s mouth had gone dry.

‘Don’t you?’

They faced each other in silence for a moment, Steve at Viv’s elbow. Holding her breath, she waited for Hugh’s next blow; for him to laugh as he told her he had the perfect excuse now to sack her, an excuse which would be upheld by any court and any university council in the world. He didn’t. He didn’t know for sure, she realised suddenly. He couldn’t prove it.

He gave her another long cold look then with a smile he bowed slightly and turned away, walking briskly up the road towards Greyfriars.

Steve shook his head. ‘What the hell is he talking about? What is he thinking of, telling you like that, in the street, for God’s sake?’ He was furiously indignant for her. ‘I’m so sorry, Viv.’

‘You too?’ Viv said somewhat grimly. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not. If he was out to humiliate me, it hasn’t worked.’ She managed to bring her attention back to his face. ‘Look, I wish you hadn’t had to witness that. I’m not the Prof’s favourite person at the moment as you can see and he doesn’t seem to be himself, does he.’ She realised that she was shaking. ‘This is nothing that can’t be fixed, I’m sure. We differ in our approach to things, that’s all. A nice long summer holiday and it will all blow over.’ It wouldn’t, of course. How could it? But there was no need for Steve to know that.

‘Come to Ingleborough, Viv.’ Steve reached out and touched her arm. ‘Away from Hugh. Follow the footsteps of Cartimandua. Why don’t you?’

She shivered. ‘I’ll let you know, Steve.’ She punched his arm affectionately. ‘See you soon.’ And she ducked across the road just as the lights turned green again, leaving him standing looking after her.