Читать книгу Daughters of Fire - Barbara Erskine - Страница 13

I

Arriving early at the department next morning, Hugh glanced in at the office. There was no sign of Heather. The room was silent, the computer off, the coffee machine cold. He frowned in disappointment. His easy banter with her always cheered him up, but of course it was Saturday. He probably had the building to himself. Thoughtfully he climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow, dark corridor with its squeaky floorboards, past the three closed doors with their labels announcing Dr Hamish Macleod, Miss Mhairi Mackenzie and Dr Viv Lloyd Rees. He paused outside Viv’s room and listened. There was no sound from within. Cautiously he reached out and turned the knob. The door was locked. He stood for a moment, lost in thought, then he turned and retraced his steps swiftly down the stairs and into the office. There behind Heather’s impressive cheese plant, which was threatening to take over the entire room, was a small cupboard in which hung duplicates of all the department’s keys. Scooping Viv’s key off its hook, he turned and made his way once more towards the stairs.

Her room was unnaturally tidy, the desk cleared of its usual piles of books and papers, her bookcase neatly ordered, the chairs pushed back against the walls. She had taken most of her files, her boxes of old floppy disks, her CDs, her notepads, her correspondence. There was nothing of her there. The room felt abandoned. Walking over to her desk he sat down in her chair. For a moment he didn’t move, sitting, staring into space, then slowly he leaned forward and began methodically to open the drawers of her desk. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He knew the pin would not be there but somehow he couldn’t stop himself searching. As he scanned the contents, the notepaper and envelopes, the old pens and biros, the notepads, the files of old papers and letters, a couple of unused birthday cards, still in their Cellophane slips, he found himself trying to gain a sense of her presence. A scent. A sound. There was nothing. Giving up abruptly he slammed the drawers shut and walking out of the door, locked it once more behind him. Going straight into his own room he flung himself down at his desk and thumped the surface with his fist.

‘Stupid, silly woman! Why in God’s name did you do it?’

There was no reply.

Pulling the phone towards him he lifted the receiver and punched in a number. ‘Meryn? I’ve looked everywhere. The brooch has gone. I’ve more or less accused her but she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about! I couldn’t bring myself to press the point. Not to her face. If she has taken it the implications are appalling.’

‘Why not wait and give her the chance to return it after her programme?’ The voice the other end sounded faintly amused. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Hugh.’

‘But the insurance –’

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. Trust her.’

‘What if she’s touched it? What if it’s cursed?’ He couldn’t believe he had said the words, but that sense of chill, the feeling of evil, seemed to cling still to his fingertips. He shivered.

Meryn didn’t balk at the word. ‘If she’s touched it, Hugh, it’s already too late.’

Hugh was silent for a moment. ‘You said the link with Venutios was real, Meryn.’ He clenched his fist in front of him, asking the question in spite of himself. ‘How do you know?’

There was a pause at the other end of the phone. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Hugh, now would you.’

‘Try me.’ Hugh’s voice was dry.

‘OK.’ There was a further silence. ‘I sensed it strongly when you came here. There was a vibration in your auric field when you talked about it. I sensed him as a watching spirit.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked!’ In his office Hugh glanced heavenwards and shook his head.

‘No.’ A quiet chuckle. ‘But you need to be careful, Hugh. Believe that at least. Don’t talk about the brooch. Don’t think about it. Avoid thinking about Venutios at all if you can.’

‘I’m writing a book about him, Meryn!’

‘Don’t. At least, not for now.’ All the humour had disappeared from Meryn’s voice. ‘Concentrate on other aspects in the book. You told me it’s about the Romans. Think about them for a bit. I’m serious, Hugh. Don’t spare him any thoughts at the moment.’

‘That is ridiculous! You know I can’t do that. He’s central to the whole thing –’ Hugh broke off as a quiet tap sounded at the door. It opened and Steve poked his head around it. ‘I’m sorry, Professor –’

‘Meryn, I have to go. I’ll call you back a bit later.’ Hugh put down the phone and frowned. ‘Yes? What are you doing here?’

‘Could I have a word if you’re not too busy?’ Steve approached the desk. ‘You kindly said you would lend me some of your notes about the northern tribes. I’m planning to go home for a few weeks fairly soon, and it would be great if I could take them with me.’ He eyed the Professor thoughtfully. ‘I gather you’ve started a new book on the subject. I shall look forward to reading it.’

Venutios.

It seemed to Hugh that the name hung in the air between them.

Staring up at the tall young man, casual and relaxed in a striped, open-necked shirt and faded jeans, Hugh gave a tight smile. He felt old just looking at him. No wonder Viv enjoyed his company so much. ‘I wonder where you heard about that. Well, no matter. It will be some time before it’s finished, Steve. I have a great deal of work to do yet but you are welcome to the lecture notes.’ He stood up and walked over to the bookcase, riffling through a box file and extricating a pile of A4 sheets. ‘Return them to me, if you would, when you’ve finished with them. I can let you have some books too if you like, but they are at home. You’ll have to arrange to come and collect them.’

As Steve closed the door Hugh stood where he was, frowning, listening to the sound of the young man’s footsteps as he walked back down the corridor and ran down the stairs.

In the silence that followed Hugh found himself staring round the room. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling suddenly and he was uncomfortably aware of a strange feeling that there was a presence there with him. He scanned the corners carefully. There was no one there. Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Just the echo of Meryn’s voice with his usual brand of silly superstitious mumbo jumbo. For a moment he considered ringing Meryn back. He should have asked him what he meant, why he should avoid thinking about Venutios. He stared down at his hand, the hand that had touched the brooch, and flexed his fingers cautiously, then shrugging his shoulders he walked back to his desk. The whole thing was a blatant nonsense. The only problem was what to do about Viv Lloyd Rees and perhaps for now he would take Meryn’s advice on that one and do absolutely nothing.

II

‘I can’t work on the play today!’ Viv stared at Pat in dismay. The sound of the doorbell at 9.30 a.m. had dragged her out of a deep exhausted sleep. She ran her hands through her hair leaving it standing on end, uncomfortably aware that Pat, in a pale blue blouse and cream trousers looked rested and alert while she herself was wearing nothing but a crumpled shirt, her customary sleeping attire, her legs and feet bare.

‘I could make us some coffee while you jump in the shower,’ Pat said, eyebrow raised. ‘Please, don’t make me go down all those damn stairs again. What on earth made you choose to live in a place like this without a lift?’ She dropped her bag on the floor and pushing past Viv, walked into the living room.

‘I live here because I like it,’ Viv retorted.

‘And it’s fabulous. You’re right,’ Pat said quickly. ‘It’s just the stairs getting to me. I’m too unfit. Put it down to the smoking.’ She changed the subject. ‘I did some more work on the play last night. I can’t wait to show it to you.’

In the shower Viv stood for a long time allowing tepid water to pour over her head and face and down her aching body. The story from the night before was coming back to her. The two young lovers in the orchard under the apple blossom. Carta’s ecstatic passion. The sound of their laughter, the heat of their young bodies. Her eyes closed, she found she was smiling as languidly she sponged her own body beneath the water. Then she remembered the bird sitting high above them. Medb’s messenger; Medb’s spy. Abruptly she opened her eyes and reached out to turn off the tap. How did she know the bird was a spy? Somehow she had to get rid of Pat; go back to Carta’s life. Find out about Medb.

Pat was waiting with a mug of black coffee. Sipping from it, Viv listened to her as she read from the pages on her knee. It was good. Fluent. Well written.

‘This bit,’ Pat said, glancing up, ‘is straight narrative. And I think it should be your voice. You would be good at this –’

‘Pat,’ Viv interrupted. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m not in the mood.’

‘You have to be, Viv. We have a deadline,’ Pat said firmly. ‘I’m sorry too, but we’ve got to keep at this if we can, to get it done.’

‘No.’ Viv stood up. ‘No, Pat. I can’t. Look, give me some space. We’ll do this tomorrow. I promise.’ She put down the mug. ‘There is something I have to do now. Something important.’

Pat peered at her over her spectacles. ‘You do look like shit.’

Viv scowled. ‘No doubt.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry.’ She relented. ‘I should have rung, but I overslept. I didn’t get to bed till the early hours and I’ve got a foul headache. I won’t make any sense today.’ She just wanted Pat to go.

She needed to know what happened next.

She had to warn Carta about the bird.

‘OK.’ Pat did not look happy as she stood up. ‘But for God’s sake ring me next time. I didn’t get a lift, you know. I had to make my own way here.’ She gathered together her papers and slotted them into her bag. ‘I’m up in Edinburgh to do you a favour,’ she said sharply as she opened the door. ‘You might give that fact some thought.’

‘A favour that will be very well paid!’ Viv retorted. ‘Shit!’ she muttered as the door banged and she heard Pat’s heels clattering down the stairs outside. For a moment she entertained the idea of opening the door and shouting down after her to come back. But only for a moment.

In seconds Pat was forgotten.

III

‘She has cursed me! Look!’ Carta held out the amulet with a shaking hand. She had found it on her pillow. ‘She has made me barren!’

Truthac took it from her soberly. ‘This is bad work, daughter. Grave. But a curse can be unmade. The woman who put this on your bed is not a powerful seer and nor is the person who made this charm.’

‘You know?’ Carta stared at him through her tears. ‘You know who did this?’

‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘The spell maker came to me for advice after it was bought from her. It was undedicated and without power. You have nothing to fear.’

‘And you know who it was who bought it?’

‘And so do you, child. You have the strength and the knowledge to fight her viciousness.’

‘I might have.’ She didn’t sound certain. ‘But what about Mellia? She died.’

‘Of an accident.’

‘No. She was murdered. The gods have told me.’ Carta’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘As was my Catia. Are they to go unavenged? Is Conaire to go unavenged?’ Her voice rose passionately. ‘He spoke out against this vicious woman at the feast. He loved Mellia too. You are a great judge. You must deliver justice!’

‘And so I shall.’ He paused. A scandal at Beltane when the fort was full and the surrounding settlements overflowing with visitors in celebratory mood would be unpropitious. ‘It will be done at the right time, Carta. At Elembivios, you will bring me your charge and your evidence when I hold my court of justice, and at Edrinios, in the time of arbitration, I will give judgement.’ He paused, seeing her shoulders slump. ‘It’s but three moons away, daughter of Brigantia, and then justice will be done.’

Medb was hiding in the shadows, watching the dancing.

Riach and Cartimandua were holding hands, their vows made before the whole world. Gifts had been exchanged, her marriage portion safely lodged in the Votadini warehouses and the three days of feasting had begun. On their marriage bed lay silken sheets, brought by trade routes from the east through Galatia to Gaul, and rich soft brown bearskins from the northern forests of the Caledones. On her arms were gold and silver bracelets. Round her neck she wore her enamelled pony on its golden chain.

Lugaid had given them their own house as a wedding present. Small, neat, newly thatched, it afforded them privacy as long as the members of their household – their servants and slaves and companions – were outside around the communal fire.

All night they made love, sometimes in their own deep heather bed in the new house, sometimes wrapped in Riach’s cloak out in the hay meadows and orchards, staring up at Sarn Gwyddion, the great swathe of stars, which came to be known to the poets as the Milky Way. And then they danced, late into the night with their friends around them to the tune of pipe and lyre and harp. Or they sat with others listening to the songs of the bards and to the sennachies with their stories of long ago. Only Carta was aware of the sadness in Conaire’s eyes and the wistful lilt to his music and deep in her heart she vowed she would make it up to him. He too would be avenged.

But all the time Medb was coming closer, her eyes narrowed, her heart locked in jealous rage.

In the second week of the festival, as slowly the farmers began to drift back to their fields and the hunters sharpened their spears and arrows and the warrior parties drew apart to plan new raids, Carta bade a sad farewell to her parents and her brothers and the friends who had accompanied them to see her married and watched them ride away. Then at last she decided to act. Her husband knew nothing of his stepmother’s lustful rage. He had eyes for none but his wife. Truthac had still said nothing; whatever was to be done, it had to be done by her. It was her friend and her dog who had to be avenged. Her bard whose heart was broken. It was her life and the lives of her children to come that had to be saved. Even as she lay in Riach’s arms she could feel the threat approaching. Somehow she had to be free of it.

Outside, at the street door someone rang the bell again and again. Viv did not react. In her dream there was no door. No sound other than the crackle of the fire in the fire pit and the bubble of boiling water in the cauldron suspended over it, as Carta sat alone in her new house, deep in thought.

The first party of merchants of the year had arrived from Gaul. The members of the tribe were used to such visitors now. Traders from the Empire were commonplace in the coastal towns, but this far north it was unusual to see them in person. King Lugaid fêted them and talked with them long into the night, promising rich goods, wolfhounds and slaves from Erin, silver and gold and lead, skins and weapons, in exchange for their wine and olive oil, beautiful pottery, luxury fabrics, exotic herbs and spices.

Listening to them talk, Carta had begun to form the beginnings of a plan.

It would take three men of the Brigantes to carry it out. Men who would be richly rewarded and then sent home to her father’s service; one of those men she suspected had been as much in love with Mellia as was Conaire, and would look to his young mistress to avenge any wrong that had been done to her. The others would follow without question. No one would ever know what became of Medb of the White Hands.

Two days after the Gaulish party had set off back towards the coast where they would embark into the Germanican Ocean and thence, down the coast and across to Gaul, Medb rode south with two of her maidens in response to an invitation to visit the dun of her friend, Étain. The small party travelled in an ornate wagon, escorted by three horsemen. What danger was there, after all, in the land of the king’s allies and compatriots?

The raiders came upon them swiftly, weapons drawn. The warriors died hard, protecting their king’s wife. The three women were captured. Horses and chariot were part of the booty. The bodies were buried so no trace would be found, given to the gods in the hungry depths of a local marsh.

The price for female slaves was high. The traders paid handsomely. No one believed women chained with neck rings and manacles when they cried that the king of the Votadini would pay handsomely for their release. Why should they? Slaves made claims like that all the time.

At Dun Pelder, Carta danced in a circle of women round the fire and wondered with the rest of the township what could have happened to Medb of the White Hands.

It was a long time before she dared to hope that Mellia and Catia could rest in peace. That they were avenged and that she was safe.

Viv frowned, staring at the monitor. Page 143. She could see the numbers flashing at the bottom of the screen. 143 pages! Her arms were cramped, her fingers stiff and painful. In disbelief she clicked on the save icon and pushed back her chair. It was dark outside once more.

IV

‘How many people sit down in this chair and announce that they think they’re going mad?’ Viv threw herself uneasily into the chair in Cathy’s office.

‘About sixty per cent.’

‘Is that all?’ Viv was silent for a moment.

‘Viv, whatever it is, if it worries you, tell me about it. It won’t go any further, I promise.’

‘What if I told you I sat in front of the computer last night and typed 143 pages without being aware of it. It took me several hours.’

Cathy took off her glasses. ‘Have you read what you wrote?’

‘Not all of it, but it makes sense, if that’s what you are wondering.’

‘Can I ask what it is about?’

‘Cartimandua.’

‘Viv, we’ve been here before! You’ve just finished a book about her. She is very much on your mind for all sorts of reasons. This is normal.’

‘This is about her life before the book starts. The part of her life no one knows about.’

Fiction.

The word hovered on Viv’s lips but she didn’t say it. It wasn’t true. ‘I’m not making it up, Cathy. I can’t stop. She’s talking to me.’

Cathy nodded. ‘I’m sure it feels like that. Your brain has gone into overdrive. The exhaustion from writing the book and then the hassle with Professor Graham has probably triggered the same reflexes which give us nightmares and make us sleep walk. That, combined with your very real frustration at finding there are so many aspects of her life you can’t ever know about.’

Viv slumped back in the chair. ‘I suppose so. But it’s so vivid!’

‘As are a lot of dreams.’

Viv hesitated. ‘So you don’t think she is actually communicating with me?’

‘No.’ Cathy shook her head.

‘Or that Tasha and Pete really saw her the other night?’

‘No.’

‘But you don’t rule out the possibility of some sort of communication between the living and the dead?’

Cathy frowned. ‘Like spiritualism, you mean? I think, on the whole, most of that is a con.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe in some paranormal stuff, in fact, yes, I do believe in some things, but not that you’re being stalked by some Celtic female with tattoos, no.’

‘So, Tasha told you what she looked like.’

Cathy nodded.

‘It was Cartimandua.’

‘I don’t think so. Look,’ Cathy leaned forward in her chair, ‘you have a story to tell. You are putting on a radio play. So your brain is providing you with the story. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter where this stuff is coming from. Who ever knows where creative stuff comes from? It is a wonderful story. You now have an extra scene or two to go at the beginning of your drama: her childhood; her marriage. Who cares if it’s fact or fiction?’

‘I care.’ Viv shrugged. ‘I care very much. I’m a serious academic.’

Behind them there was a slight click as the door opened a fraction and Pablo pushed his way into the room. He sat down, carefully surveying them both before beginning to wash his ears.

‘You can’t tackle this academically and I think that fact is at the root of your problem,’ Cathy went on. ‘Your brain is creating a let-out for you. Just use it. Tell Pat what’s happening. Let her help you write it into the play.’

‘And give Hugh Graham even more ammunition to use against me?’

There was a pause. ‘Why do you really care so much what he thinks?’

‘Because he is my professor. The head of department.’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean, and?’

‘What is wrong with an academic writing a semi-fictional piece? I am not saying any of your book was sourced like this –’ Cathy stopped abruptly. ‘Or was it?’

Viv shook her head. ‘No! No, of course not! At least …’ She looked at Cathy in despair. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all got so muddled up.’

Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to lose, if you ask me. Exploit your dreams and your creative visions. Turn them into, what do they call it, faction?’ She grimaced. ‘Use all this as a kind of catharsis to clear Cartimandua out of your system.’

‘Catharsis, maybe.’ Viv shook her head wearily. ‘But for me professional suicide.’

‘Why?’ Cathy looked genuinely bewildered. ‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against it. You are an academic writing fiction. It’s been done before.’

‘No, Cathy, I’m not a fiction writer. I can’t make these leaps of deduction. It’s not allowed.’

‘Who says?’

‘It’s just part of the rules.’

Behind them Pablo finished his ablutions and sat watching Viv intently. Neither woman noticed him.

‘Yet in your book, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Cathy said slowly, ‘everything is supposition because it is pre-historic in the literal sense of the word, and all your sources are suspect in that they are Roman spin! Didn’t you tell me that? So, how come that is allowed?’

‘It just is.’

‘Well, now you have Pat on board to keep the academic in check. Use her, Viv. You really upset her by chasing her away yesterday, you know. And then this morning. She is threatening to go back to London.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if she does.’ Viv was getting more and more stressed.

Behind them Pablo stood up. He was staring at her in a panic, eyes wide, ears flattened against his head, and leaping off the chair, he fled through the door. Once more neither of them noticed.

‘You don’t mean that,’ said Cathy.

‘I do. She’s going to interfere.’

‘That’s what she’s here for.’ Cathy frowned. ‘Be reasonable. Don’t upset her. Listen to her.’

‘And if she upsets me?’ With her mentions of Medb, for instance. Where had they come from? She shuddered.

‘She hasn’t. Or if she did, she didn’t mean to. You need her –’

Somewhere in the flat a door banged. Cathy sat back in her chair, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. ‘Look, that must be Pete and Tash,’ she said gently. ‘Hang on a minute while I let them know we’re here –’

Before she had a chance to move the door was flung open and Tasha stood there, an evil grin on her face. ‘I thought so. You’re hiding! Mummy’s here. Don’t you want to talk to her, Cathy?’

Cathy laughed uncomfortably. ‘Tasha, we are having a meeting. I’ve asked you before not to burst into my office. I might have had a patient here.’

‘But you haven’t,’ Tasha retorted.

Cathy groaned. ‘Nevertheless, we are having a meeting. When it’s finished Viv and I will come and say hello, OK?’

Tasha looked both quizzical and smug. It was an extraordinary feat of facial gymnastics which brought Viv to the conclusion that the child would go far on the stage.

‘Should I surrender now?’ Cathy smiled wryly as the door closed behind the girl. ‘May as well.’

Greta greeted Viv and Cathy with a patently insincere smile. ‘I’m so sorry not to be able to stay. I have an appointment.’

‘That’s all right.’ Tasha smiled. ‘We want to talk to Viv about her ghost, don’t we, Cathy.’ Turning, she reached for her mother’s handbag. ‘Mummy, please. You promised me some extra pocket money.’

‘Ghost?’ Greta frowned. ‘What ghost?’

‘It’s nothing, Greta.’ Cathy glared at Tasha repressively. ‘A joke, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Greta turned towards her daughter. ‘Put my bag down!’ She was peremptory.

Viv clenched her fists. Cartimandua was a ghost; not a dream, not imaginary, not a disembodied memory. She was a ghost and she had shown herself in this room.

‘I’m frightened of ghosts!’ Tasha continued firmly and glanced at her father as Cathy sighed.

He pursed his lips.

Greta stared at her. Then turned to Pete. ‘What is this nonsense?’

‘As Cathy said, Greta. A joke. Take no notice.’ Pete glared at his daughter.

‘Well, I have no time for jokes. I have to go,’ Greta retorted. ‘Tasha!’ The name hurled across the kitchen made the child jump guiltily. Her hand was inside her mother’s purse.

‘Is this what you teach her?’ Greta grabbed the bag. The accusation was aimed at Cathy.

‘Certainly not.’ Cathy was flustered.

Tasha scowled. ‘Cathy was hiding from you, Mummy. In her study. She knew you were here and hid! She didn’t want you to know about the ghost. It was in there with them. It follows Viv everywhere.’

There was a moment of silence. The kitchen seemed to have gone cold as Viv looked around at their faces, Tasha’s smug, Greta’s lip curling with disdain, Pete frowning, Cathy astonished.

‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ Viv tried to smile and failed.

‘No, wait. Our consultation …’ Cathy reached out towards her.

‘Was brilliant. You’ve given me lots to think about.’ Viv gave an uncomfortable gesture of surrender. ‘Tell Pat I’m sorry. I’ll call her.’

Outside the door at the top of the stairs she paused, her heart thudding in terror.

Carta had been standing there next to her. Tasha was right. This time she had seen the hazy figure herself.

V

Slamming the door of her flat behind her, Viv tried to force herself to be calm. She sat down on the rocking chair and closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. Cathy was right! Her brain was dreaming up a story which her intellect had rejected. There was nothing sinister here. Tasha was only trying to stir things. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. The flat was unusually quiet and cold. She looked round nervously. It was several seconds before it dawned on her that the computer was switched on. She frowned. Surely it had been off when she left home? Standing up reluctantly she moved across to her desk and sat down again in front of the screen. Beside the keyboard her answer machine was flashing. She ignored it.

Carta was pregnant. Ecstatic and excited, she stood for long periods, her hands gently cupped over her belly where as yet there was barely any sign of the life not yet quickened inside her. For now Medb was forgotten.

Riach was as excited as she was. He presented her with an exquisitely carved and decorated chariot and two matched ponies to pull it. ‘So you don’t need to ride when the child is larger.’ He rested his hand on the place where only moments before she had been stroking her own belly. ‘A soft and gentle ride for my son!’

The young charioteer was called Fergal. He was the son of a warrior, one of Riach’s older warrior comrades, elevated to a position of honour as her driver and her bodyguard.

She still rode daily, but the novelty of her own war cart was an exciting one and she planned excursions to visit the duns and homesteads of the women she had met at the Beltane and Lughnasadh gatherings in the fort. Fergal drove her all over the territories of the Votadini. He was a serious young man, tall and well-built, with fair wavy hair and blue eyes. By inclination he would have preferred to study as a bard, and later maybe as a Druid, but his father was adamant that he should carry weapons in the king’s service and Fergal, good-natured and always willing to oblige, gave up his hopes. Driving the prince’s young wife was a perfect compromise. As he escorted her around the district he listened to bards and learned their songs. He carried his lyre in the war cart with his sword and spears.

Carta’s baby quickened at the time of the autumnal equinox as violent gales roared across the land from the west, tearing the leaves from the trees. The cailleach, goddess of the winter storm, had arrived early. It was time for hunting and reiving, the cattle raids which would augment the herds brought in for slaughter from the shielings. One man’s feasting is another man’s starvation. That was the way it was. No amount of grain would fill the belly in the same way as beef or mutton or venison salted down and stored away in safety for the long winter months.

‘Do you want to go with them, Fergal?’ Carta had been watching the young man’s face as Riach called his men together. They had been sharpening and polishing their weapons for days, drawing up plans, waiting for the runners to return with news of when the herds were being brought down from the pastures of neighbouring tribes. Rich pickings, with the added excitement of the chance to capture slaves and take prisoners for ransom.

‘I’d rather stay with you, lady.’ Fergal gave a rueful grin. ‘I have my orders. The king and Riach have spoken.’

‘Poor Fergal.’ Carta shook her head. ‘Watching women is not much fun. Being a woman is not much fun either.’ Her wry pout echoed his own. She had been feeling sick and uncomfortable and hated having to stay at home. ‘But once this child is born then you and I will join the next raids with the men.’ The glint in her eye showed the tomboy was still alive and well. ‘My women can take care of the baby.’

They laughed easily together and he went to groom the ponies who had caught the excitement in the horse lines and were expecting to go out with the others.

Carta walked back out of the wind and rain into the small round house which was now her home and stood staring down at the central fire. The flames flickered in the draught. Riach had said his farewells the night before, holding her in his arms so that she was completely enfolded in his cloak. ‘Take care of our son, my Carta,’ he whispered. ‘And of yourself. You are my two treasures. I don’t know why I need more.’

She laughed, snuggling against his chest. ‘To feed your men and your father’s followers. That’s why. A thousand hungry mouths.’ She reached up and kissed him on the lips. ‘And to make me proud. My husband must be the greatest warrior who ever lived.’

He gave a shout of laughter. ‘I’ll remember that. My bard goes with me to record my every move and when we return he will tell the whole court of my courage and feats of arms!’

‘And I will listen to every detail as we sit together by the winter fires.’ She wound her fingers into the fine linen of his tunic under his cloak. ‘And sing them myself to your son as he waits to be born.’

She watched them ride away, her companion Mairghread by her side, a comforting presence as the horses, the chariots, the great wolfhounds from Erin baying at their heels drew away into the distance. It was then she found herself shivering with apprehension.

She felt it again now as she stared down into the fire. Mairghread, sensitive as always to her every mood had rounded up the other women and ushered them out of hearing so that she could be alone with her thoughts. Sitting there, she lost herself in her dreams, gazing at the tongues of flame licking around the glowing logs, hissing their message as they threaded patterns through the fragrant smoke.

Danger.

Her hand went automatically to her belly where her child, Riach’s child, nestled in the darkness below her heart. It was safe there. The flames crackled and a log split with a bang. Suddenly her head was spinning. She was falling towards the fire.

There was an arm around her. Then another. ‘Come on, lady. Let me take you to your bed.’ It was Mairghread. ‘I saw you grow dizzy. Lie down and rest.’ Two other women reappeared from the far side of the room where they had been sitting talking, out of the cold wind. They guided her through to the bedchamber and drew the wicker screens around her.

‘My baby …’

‘Your baby is fine. Women often feel as you do now. It is quite usual. Your baby is greedy. He is sucking at your strength from within. It shows he is already big and strong.’ Mairghread smiled reassuringly. She placed a cool hand on Carta’s forehead. ‘I’ll bring you some chamomile infusion and you must sleep for a while. Then you will be yourself again, your own strength recovered. You’ll see.’

In her sleeping chamber Mairghread went to her herb cupboard. There, neatly arranged on the shelves behind the door were bundles of dried herbs, gathered in the spring and summer, each neatly labelled with a small wooden tag engraved with a symbol. Twice married and twice widowed already, although she was less than ten years older than Carta, and childless herself, Mairghread had elected to remain unmarried and instead to study with the Druid healers and to look after her young mistress and companion, understanding the gap Mellia had left in Carta’s life, and wishing she could fill it. She took some chamomile and went to ladle boiling water from the cauldron. Frowning, she waited while the herbs were steeping in their flagon, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. What had Carta seen?

The whole fort had turned out to look for Medb of the White Hands when she disappeared. Search parties were sent far and wide, messengers despatched the length and breadth of the land, to Brigantia and beyond to the lands of the Selgovae and the Novantae, the Venicones and even further north, to the lands of the Picti. The seers consulted their auguries to see if she had been killed by wolves or bears, and the bards constructed magical lays to bring her home had she been stolen by the gods. There was no sign of her. It was as if she and her two slaves had never been. Only two people asked themselves if they could guess. Truthac, Archdruid of the Votadini, and Brigit, senior wife to the king. Both looked at Carta’s wide-eyed innocence and concern and both wondered. Both kept their thoughts to themselves.

The Archdruid came to Carta’s bedside, when her message reached him. She was lying wrapped in warm furs, the brazier near her throwing out heat which did not seem to be able to dispel the chill from her bones.

‘The curse is working.’ She was white-lipped. The small chamber was empty – they could hear the subdued chatter of the other women around the main fire pit beyond the wattle walls. Some were spinning in the firelight, others just sat listening to the soft voice of one of the women bards as she told a story, accompanying the narrative from time to time with a few chords on the small harp on the table at her side. At Carta’s request Mairghread had gone to join the others so she could talk to Truthac alone.

‘The curse that condemned me to barrenness. I can feel it worming its way into my womb.’

The Archdruid leaned his staff against the wall and, sitting down beside the bed, took her hand. It was ice-cold and clammy. He was frowning. ‘Mairghread told me she thought you saw something in the flames.’

‘I did. I saw blood.’ Carta took a deep shaky breath, trying to still her own panic.

‘But there is no issue of blood from your womb. The child lies securely?’ His eyes were fixed steadily on her face. She was reminded of that other Druid years before who had saved her dog’s life. He had had the same calm certainty, the same ability to reassure. She nodded.

‘Then allow your ladies to take care of you. Rest. Do not ride horse or chariot for a while and do not consult the oracles yourself.’ He gave a grave smile. ‘It is commonplace, so I’ve noticed, for women in your condition to see troubles where there are none.’

‘And the curse?’

‘The curse tablet had not been awakened. It would not have worked.’

Carta bit her lip. ‘Supposing –’ She hesitated.

‘Suppose nothing, princess.’ He put a stern hand on hers. ‘Think no more about it, or about the person who wanted it.’ He raised his eyes to hers and held her gaze. ‘The gods know the truth, Carta. They know who is honest and who deserves punishment here.’ There was a pause. He saw the pupils of her eyes contract with fear. She looked away into the corner of the room. ‘My goddess knows what happens in my heart,’ she said quietly. ‘And what happened to Medb. She is not dead. She did not come to harm.’

The old man frowned but he made no comment. He stood up slowly, drawing his robe around him and reached for his staff. ‘Rest now, child, and forget Medb. And pray that your baby stays safe.’

Carta watched him disappear between the screens, then she huddled down into the bed, pulling the covers over her head.

The vision returned in her dreams that night. Three ravens were sitting in a storm-swept tree staring down at a blood-soaked body as the wind and rain tore through a narrow glen. ‘Who is it? Who is dead?’ Her screams woke the other women and they ran to her bedside, holding up lamps in the darkness. The central fire had been smoored for the night, carefully covered by a layer of peats so that in the morning it would be ready to stir back into life. Someone grabbed the poker and in a short while it was blazing, bringing warmth back to her chilled body.

‘Someone is dead!’ Carta was crying. She clutched at Mairghread’s hand.

‘No one is dead, Carta!’ The young woman was trying to comfort her. ‘Everyone is safe. See, your little one kicks. You have woken him.’ They all saw the slight movement beneath her nightgown.

But someone was dead. Two days later the remnants of the hunting party returned. Riach’s body was carried in the chariot in which he had so proudly ridden away from Dun Pelder. Four of the young men who had accompanied him had died with him, the others came home badly wounded.

Concentrating so completely on Carta’s baby, no one had given a thought to the raiding party which had ridden with such optimism towards the western hills, the lands of the neighbouring Selgovae, favourite targets for autumn raids, so news of the hunters was not expected for a long time. Their arrival back was a devastating shock.

Mairghread tried to hold Carta back. ‘Don’t look. Stay in here by the fire. You don’t want to see him.’

Carta swept her aside. Walking very straight, wrapped in a cloak against the icy wind she stood beside the chariot and stared down. For a few moments her composure held. He looked the same. So serene, so eager, so strong. The arms which had held her, the lips which had kissed every inch of her body, were undamaged. The terrible wounds which had drained his life were hidden beneath the fur rug.

‘He fought with honour. It is we who survive who are dishonoured.’ His own arm nearly severed through, a gaping wound in his shoulder, Riach’s charioteer gently wiped the mud from the prince’s face. ‘We could do nothing against them, my lady. There were two dozen of them. They came out of the clouds and mist. There was no warning. We read no omens.’ He stood, staring down, his own eyes brimming with tears of shame. At least they had left him his head. Two of his companions had not been so fortunate.

Carta was biting her lips. ‘I saw omens and I did nothing to help him.’ She knelt beside her husband and kissed his cold, bloody forehead. It was then that her tears burst through the dam. Shaking with sobs she clung to his body and wept as though her heart would break.

When she rose at last to her feet she found the king and Brigit at her side. Lugaid was staring down at his son, weeping openly. Behind him men and women were flocking out of their houses as the news spread. They parted to let Carta through as she turned away, her face white and strained. She headed not towards the round house behind her but towards the shrine where she had made her offerings to her goddess.

‘I gave you rich gifts. I begged you to take care of him!’ Her voice rose to an anguished shriek of misery as she stood before the wooden statue in a darkness lit only by dim lamps fed by sweet oil. ‘You promised. You promised you would watch over me and mine. You came to me and you assured me. Why did you let him die? Why?’

Her hand went to her stomach suddenly and she gave a sharp cry of pain. ‘My baby!’ She fell to her knees on the stones. ‘Sweet Lady, forgive me. Help me!’

No one had followed her. They had held back in respect. As blood began to soak into her skirt, Carta screamed in her rage and fear and desolation, alone but for the woman who watched, helpless, two thousand years away.

VI

She didn’t realise that she had picked up the phone. As she put it to her ear her eyes were fixed on the scene in the smoky shrine, her ears full of Carta’s screams.

‘Viv? It’s Steve. Viv, are you there? Viv, is something wrong?’ The voice in the receiver echoed into the past unheard.

Wrong? Of course something was wrong. Everything was wrong. Suddenly she was crying. Heart-rending sobs she couldn’t hold back.

‘Viv, it’s Steve. Wait there. I’m coming over!’

Then the doorbell was ringing. The scene in the temple drew back into the shadows.

‘Viv, let me in!’ She could hear a voice calling; hear frantic banging on the door.

Wearily she dragged herself to her feet.

‘Steve.’ She saw him staring at her as she pulled the door open and realised after a second how she must look. She was pale and exhausted. Her eye make-up had run, leaving streaks of coppery green on her cheeks. Her hair was on end and her clothes crumpled.

‘Are you all right? Viv, what’s wrong!’ He seized her hands and pulled her to him protectively. He was scanning the living room apprehensively. ‘Is there someone here?’

‘No. Yes.’ Oh God! She shouldn’t have opened the door. Gently she pushed him away, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. There wasn’t any need for you to come.’

‘Of course I had to come. You’re upset. You sounded so frightened.’ He stepped past her, still looking round. ‘What’s happened? Is it Hugh?’

‘Hugh?’ She stared at him. ‘No, it’s not Hugh.’ The tears were coming back. She was disorientated and confused. Shaking her head she pointed helplessly to the flickering computer monitor on the desk.

He followed the gesture, puzzled. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong with the computer?’

‘Look at it.’

He frowned. ‘All I can see is text.’

‘Read it.’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself as Steve sat down at the desk but before he could start reading she had begun to talk, unable to stop herself, words falling over one another in her hurry to get the story out.

‘She grabbed me by the throat!’ Her hands were shaking. ‘As soon as I came in she was in my head. It’s automatic writing, Steve. Oh God, what am I going to do!’ She sat down abruptly, rubbing her palms up and down her face.

Steve was silent; after glancing anxiously at her he turned back to the screen and was at once engrossed in the text unrolling before his eyes. ‘You were certainly writing this very fast,’ he commented cautiously. He glanced across at her again, puzzled. ‘It’s breathless.’ The text was littered with little red squiggly lines denoting spelling errors.

He lapsed into silence again, reading intently while Viv, too restless to sit still, got to her feet and paced up and down the floor behind him. When he finished at last he turned away from the computer.

‘That’s incredible prose. So vivid.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re writing a novel, yes?’ He studied her face.

‘No!’ She came to a standstill behind him. ‘It’s not a novel, Steve. It’s real!’

‘What do you mean, real?’

‘It’s true!’ Suddenly she was sobbing.

He frowned. ‘It’s weird and frightening.’

‘And convincing.’

‘It certainly reads convincingly.’ He sounded dubious. ‘But it is a novel you’re writing. It must be.’

‘No! No! I told you, it’s true! You’ve got to believe it. I didn’t make it up.’

He said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t know what to think. How can it be real?’ He scanned her face. ‘Look, Viv. You must calm down. Tell me exactly what happened.’ He was anxious.

‘She is there. In my head. I can’t stop her! I don’t want to stop her!’

‘You can’t stop who?’ Steve stood up and put his arms around her. She seemed so vulnerable. So unlike herself.

‘Cartimandua. I told you.’

For a moment he was speechless. ‘You don’t mean you think she is dictating all this?’

‘I just said so, didn’t I!’ She was trying to control her trembling. ‘It’s overwhelming. I can’t fight it. She’s there. All the time. Just out of sight. Not out of sight. Tasha saw her. And Pete.’ She choked back a sob.

‘Who are Tasha and Pete?’ Steve was incredulous.

‘Friends. They saw her. Oh God, what am I going to do?’

‘You must calm down.’

‘You mustn’t tell anyone about this, Steve. Promise. I shouldn’t have told you. Nobody must know. Especially not Hugh –’

‘I won’t tell a soul.’ He stared at the screen again. ‘It can’t be real, Viv.’

‘It is.’ Her mouth was dry, her lips sore where she had chewed them. She moved away from him and sat down on the sofa. ‘She’s haunting me, Steve.’

He went and sat down beside her on the sofa. Taking the tissue out of her hand, he leaned forward and dabbed at her cheeks then hesitantly he put an arm around her shoulder again. They sat for a while, unmoving.

‘Why don’t I go and make some coffee,’ he said at last. ‘I know where everything is.’

When he came back she was still sitting where he had left her but she seemed calmer. ‘Steve, I’m sorry.’ She looked up at him wanly. ‘I shouldn’t have got you involved in all this. You rang at just the wrong moment.’

‘I’m glad I did.’ He put a mug into her hands. ‘Look, you know this is not real, Viv. I don’t have to tell you that. It can’t be. You’re not being haunted. It must be some kind of stream of consciousness creative thing, coming from deep inside you.’

She shook her head. God, he sounded just like Cathy. Rationalising. Always rationalising. Making it sound normal.

‘Viv, it’s –’ He started, then stopped, unable to find the words. ‘It’s amazing, but it’s not true.’

‘It is!’ She was anguished.

He sighed. ‘Whatever it is, you have to stop.’

‘I can’t stop!’ It was a whisper.

There was a long silence as they both contemplated the screen in the corner of the room. With a sigh, Viv climbed to her feet and went over to turn it off, then she threw herself back down on the sofa. ‘I’m going mad.’

‘No.’ He turned to face her. ‘Gifted. Honoured. Blessed. Maybe obsessive, and highly creative and fighting the tight restrictions of the rules of your – our – chosen profession. Mad, no.’

‘Not yet, anyway.’ She gave a wry smile.

‘You are exhausted, Viv.’ He reached for his own coffee thoughtfully. ‘Before anything else, I think you should get some rest.’ He paused. ‘Unless – do you dream about her too?’

She shrugged. Those flashes of firelight. The thunder of hooves. The shouts and clashes of sword-blades. Were those part of her waking dream or part of a nightmare?

‘Would you like me to stay?’ He was watching her anxiously. ‘I can sleep on the sofa. I don’t think you should be alone.’

‘No, Steve.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s sweet of you, but I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ He was uncertain. ‘I don’t think you should do this any more. Not if it upsets you so much.’

‘I don’t have a choice. She forces herself into my consciousness. I’m not imagining this.’ She was pleading with him. ‘Besides,’ she hesitated, ‘I want to go on.’

He leaned over and took her hand. ‘I think it could be dangerous.’ He was looking very serious. ‘Honestly. Whether it is coming from inside you, or from some sort of ghostly spirit it’s not good if it’s taken control of you like this. I wish my mother was here. She knows more about this sort of thing than I do. She would believe you.’

Viv gave a wan smile. ‘Then I shall look forward to meeting your mother one day.’

‘You must.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure I can’t stay?’

‘No. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me. It was really nice of you to come, Steve.’ She hesitated. ‘This is all secret. You realise that, don’t you? I don’t want anyone to know about it.’

‘They won’t. Not from me.’ A thought struck him. ‘Is this where those extra facts came from in the book?’

‘I didn’t mean to use them. I tried not to listen. I pushed her away. I never wrote it down before!’ She swallowed, looking down at her hands. ‘I think I want you to go now, Steve.’

He stood up unhappily. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’

She nodded. ‘Promise you won’t say anything?’