Читать книгу Daughters of Fire - Barbara Erskine - Страница 12

I

Vivienne! Help me!

With a sob Viv shook her head.

The wind amongst the chimney pots sometimes wailed strangely and it was a windy day. The early morning sun was throwing shadows from corbels and chimneys across the deep window-lined chasms where the wynd sliced back through the tall slab of buildings. Far above she could see the white cloud, shredded and spinning against the vivid blue of the sky. As she watched a gull, messenger of the sea gods, soared past the window, angling its wings as it headed back towards the Forth. What she had heard had been its ringing cry.

Vivienne

I need you

Help me

Lady, I bring you gifts!

Turning sharply back into the room she went and stood by her desk, looking down at the notebook where she had scribbled her descriptions of the world of Cartimandua, descriptions from some part of her brain hell-bent on writing fiction and destroying her street cred as a serious historian forever.

She had walked home fast the night before, her head down, her hands rammed into the pockets of her jacket, determined not to think about Tasha’s revelation, concentrating instead on the city around her. It was beautiful at night. She loved it all. The secrecy that the luminous darkness threw across the elegant streets and gardens of the New Town. The contrast, as she crossed Princes Street, between the brightly lit shop windows and the convoys of buses making their way towards the West End, with the darkness of the gardens beyond, the cavern of blackness over the railway line, set deep in its gorge below the castle. And she loved the steep ridge beyond the gardens on which crouched the Old Town where she lived, crowded, atmospheric, the shadows of the night hiding the twenty-first century, allowing memories of the past to filter up through the narrow streets and dark alleyways like a subtle, all-pervasive miasma.

Vivienne, Lady, hear my pleas!

Carta was crying, her voice echoing amongst the trees and bushes which clustered around the hilltop lochan.

I need your help, Lady. Where are you?

Viv had walked faster.

Daughters of Fire. It had a good ring to it. It made her cooperation with Pat official. It gave them a base from which to work. If they got on. There hadn’t been an instant rapport between them, that much was certain, but she thought that they could respect each other for the experience each could bring to the project.

She had reached the bend in the Mound when she heard footsteps behind her. Light. Hurrying. She stopped dead and turned. There was no one there. The street was empty. Below her the city spread out like a colourful carpet of light and dark.

Cartimandua.

Or Maeve.

Medb.

Medb of the White Hands.

Where had Pat got that name? Viv felt a shiver playing again across her shoulders, and wished she had allowed Pete to bring her home.

Medb and Cartimandua. Who or what had Tasha and Pablo and then Pete, dear old unflappable, unimaginative Pete, seen as they stared at her across the kitchen table? They had certainly seen something, and whatever they may all have said afterwards about the child’s vivid imagination, and the scatty cat, and the trick of the light, deep down inside, they all knew it.

II

‘Mellia?’ Carta had walked out of her bedroom and stared round the living chamber. It was empty. The fire burned quietly, unwatched, a full cauldron of water steaming gently as it hung from the chains above it. The women were outside in the sunshine about their various tasks. ‘Mellia?’ she called again. ‘I want you to come with me to see Conaire about tonight’s songs.’ Mellia would enjoy that; Carta, not above a little matchmaking, smiled gleefully. She planned to bring Mellia into the discussion and then, remembering an urgent meeting with her groom, to leave the two of them together. She made her way outside and stood in the warm sunshine looking around. Mellia would not be far. She always stayed within earshot in case Carta should need her. ‘Mellia?’ She walked across the cobbled street, between two other houses and onto the broad grass terrace above the clifftop ramparts. From there a panorama of woods and hills stretched out towards the western horizon. Below her a blackbird broke cover, screeching its alarm note and she stepped forward, glancing down.

At the bottom of the flight of steep steps cut into the rockface a body lay in the shadows on a pile of fallen scree below the cliff. Carta stared down, her heart in her mouth. The green plaid mantle had been pulled half off in the fall and it lay fluttering and tangled in a bush of whin. It was a mantle that she herself had given to Mellia as a gift only a few days earlier. Mellia, who was like a sister to her.

‘Mellia?’ Her strangled whisper hardly made a sound. For a moment she stood still, paralysed with terror, then she ran frantically down the long flight of steps. ‘Mellia? Mellia? Are you all right?’

Mellia’s eyes were still open, her hand clutched around a lump of raw wool. Her spindle lay crushed beneath her.

‘Mellia?’ Carta touched the girl’s face with incredulous fingers. ‘Mellia? Speak to me!’ She could feel the panic welling up in her throat. ‘Mellia! Wake up!’

But the girl’s skin was cold, her head twisted to one side at an impossible angle, her neck broken.

For a long time she knelt there, Mellia’s cold hand clutched in her own, willing warmth back into the stiffening fingers, tears pouring down her cheeks. No one came. The busy township went about its business on the hill above her as usual, unaware of the tragedy.

It was a long time before someone appeared at the top of the steps. It was Éabha. She stood there for a moment, calling, ‘Mellia? Where are you? Are you out here?’ Then she looked down and saw.

‘She tripped, child.’ Truthac was summoned at once. Gently he raised Carta to her feet. ‘See, the thongs of her shoe are unlaced. She was concentrating on her spinning as she walked.’

‘It’s not true.’ Carta could not control her tears as Mairghread, summoned by Éabha’s screams, put her arms around her. ‘She was killed. Someone pushed her.’ It was a certainty deep inside her. Something she had known the very moment she realised that Mellia was dead.

Truthac looked hard at her face. He did not attempt to contradict her, or to question. She could feel his mind reaching out to hers, questing, seeking the truth.

After a moment he nodded. He believed her, as he had believed her all along. ‘I will consult with the gods. And so, child, must you. They watch over you, Carta. If you ask, they will answer.’ He gave the order and Mellia’s body was lifted and carried away.

Sadly Carta stepped away from Mairghread. She stooped and picked up the broken spindle. ‘I will ask my goddess,’ she muttered to herself. ‘She sees everything. She will know what to do.’ Anger was coming now and the tears were drying on her face. She knew who had done it, whether with her own hands or through someone else’s action at her command, or by magic, by weaving a spell to unlace the thong around Mellia’s ankle. By whatever method Mellia’s death had been accomplished, Carta vowed she was going to find out the truth. Above all else, that was what mattered here. That was what the Druids taught. Truth and justice and finally retribution. Mourning could come later.

She stared round. Truthac had gone. Trying desperately to compose herself she sent the women away. For a moment they hesitated, then they moved back towards the house, shooing away the crowd of sightseers who had gathered to watch the young woman’s body being carried back up the cliff. She was alone again now, save for the one pair of eyes that watched her constantly from the dark corners of the settlement, jealous, vicious eyes which could see her from wherever their owner was hidden. Eyes which held power and hatred. Carta shivered, then she turned and headed towards the shrine.

‘What shall I do, Lady? The king will never believe me. How can I prove what she has done?’

She had brought offerings of milk and a pot of wild bee honey to the goddess.

As she looked up, her eyes were looking straight at Viv’s. She was in the room, yet not in the room. Together, they were in some dark place that smelled of cold stone. Viv could hear the lap of water and somewhere in the distance the thin delicate sound of a flute. She held her breath, trying to concentrate, afraid to blink in case the young woman disappeared.

But nothing she could do would hold her. Carta was fading, dissolving. In seconds she had gone.

Viv shivered violently. The wind in Dun Pelder had been cold, in spite of the spring sunshine; the trickling water bringing memories of winter ice from deep beneath the ground. Going back to the window, she focussed on her neighbour’s geraniums as she felt warmth seep back slowly into her body. She could feel the tears wet on her own cheeks, the misery tight inside her. Carta’s misery. Her absolute desolation. Leaning with her elbows on the sill, Viv breathed in the comforting warm smell of stone. Far below she could hear the early morning traffic rattling down the Lawnmarket. In the distance someone gave a sharp indignant hoot. From one of the open windows across the wynd she heard the wail of a child. Far above, a gull gave a long drawn out raucous peel of laughter. The sound was drowned out as someone turned on the radio and pop music echoed round the close.

With a sigh she turned back into the room.

III

Seating herself on the rocking chair, Pat leaned back and crossed her legs. She scanned Viv’s face. ‘Are you OK after last night?’

Viv nodded. ‘Did Tash or Pete say anything else about what happened?’

Pat shook her head. ‘They didn’t say anything about it to me. I don’t think Tasha was making it up.’

‘No.’

There was a moment’s silence. It was Pat who spoke first. ‘I dreamed about Medb again last night,’ she said at last.

Viv paled. ‘But how could you? You don’t know anything about Medb,’ she whispered.

‘Apparently, I do.’ Pat leaned over towards her bag, groped for her cigarettes, then changed her mind. ‘So, where does she fit in?’

‘She doesn’t.’ Viv stood up. ‘I told you. She has no part in the play at all.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pat frowned. ‘Who the hell is she, then?’

‘She’s –’ Viv broke off with a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. Maybe I’ve dreamed about her as well, but whoever, whatever she is, Pat, she is not in the play. She has no part in history. This is a drama documentary with the emphasis on documentary. We can guess some bits –’ she paused with a wry inner smile, ‘– but most of it is fact. Not fiction. There is no room for extraneous characters and sub-plots. Maddie made that clear. You said so yourself.’

‘Fair enough.’ Pat didn’t sound convinced but she let it ride. ‘So, let’s make a start.’ She reached into her bag for her notepad.

Medb.

The name seemed to hang in the air between them.

‘Your first scene is good, as I said.’ Pat said thoughtfully. ‘But I think we need more narrative to introduce the subject before we launch into too much action. To anchor the scene.’

Vivienne

Viv tensed. The voice was in the room.

Vivienne. Tell me what to do.

Pat was flipping through the first few pages of the manuscript. She gave no sign that she had heard anything out of the ordinary. ‘Here. From this point we want the voice of the narrator.’ She marked the page and held it out. Viv didn’t move.

‘Viv?’ Pat stared at her.

‘Did you hear it?’

‘What?’ Pat put the pile of manuscript down on her knee.

‘The voice.’ Viv closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, of course you didn’t. It was in my head. I’m sorry.’

Pat studied her face. ‘What sort of voice?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t describe it. A woman. No. No, it was nothing. Probably a gull. You hear them a lot up here.’

‘Then it wasn’t in your head.’

Viv returned her gaze steadily. ‘No.’ It wasn’t Medb. She wanted to shout the words out loud.

It wasn’t. It was Carta. She needs me.

She gave a watery grin. ‘Sorry. Last night. Whatever it was, it spooked me a bit. I didn’t sleep very well.’

‘Do you want to put this off –’ Pat gestured at the sheets of paper on her knee.

‘No. No, I want to get it finished as soon as possible.’ Viv sighed.

Think about the play.

Bring Cartimandua’s voice alive. Allow her to speak for herself.

Fact.

Not fiction.

Concentrate. Think about what Pat was saying. Walking over to her desk she picked up a pad and pencil and returning to her chair she sat down and began to doodle on the paper.

By the time Pat left at about five Viv had a pounding headache.

‘Same time tomorrow?’ Pat slung her bag on her shoulder.

Viv nodded. All she wanted was to be alone.

Shutting the door behind her she took a deep breath, closing her eyes, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. The phone rang and she sat listening as the answering machine clicked on. ‘Viv? It’s Steve. I just wanted to make sure you were OK. Ring me if you want to.’ He paused, giving her a chance to respond, then hung up.

She didn’t move.

The room was very still.

Vivienne

Carta was there, waiting.

Vivienne

I have brought offerings. Help me, Vivienne. Tell me what to do.

All Viv needed to do was to ask what had happened and the story would unfold; a story unknown to history. The story about which she already knew more than any other person alive.

Or guessed.

Or imagined.

Fiction.

Not fact.

Can’t be fact.

Wrapping her arms around herself she shivered violently. Push her away, Viv. That is what you should do. You are sick. Hearing voices. Mad.

Vivienne, receive my gifts.

I have brought you milk and honey. Help me!

‘Go away!’ Viv cried out loud. ‘Please, go away. Leave me alone!’

She paced round the room a couple of times.

But she wanted to know what was happening. She wanted to know so badly. Would it really do any harm? As long as she kept a firm grip on reality. As long as she knew this was a day dream.

Fiction.

Not fact.

IV

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.