Daughters of Fire

  Throwing down the pages, Viv looked up with a sigh. Where had Pat got this idea from? It had nothing to do with the story. It was a complete red herring. Medb had disappeared out of Carta’s life the day she had been captured and spirited away. Her only relevance from then on had been the malign trail of devastation which had led to the death of Riach and then of Carta’s baby. And that was over, surely. Walking over to the computer she hesitated for a moment, then she sat down and switched it on. There was only one way to find out what had happened next.

  IV

  ‘But this is my home!’ Carta was staring at King Lugaid incredulously. ‘You can’t send me away!’

  ‘Nor do I want to, child.’ Lugaid was fond of this girl, his son’s widow.

  His first instinct had been to marry her to one of his other sons. Then he wondered if he could marry her himself. With Medb of the White Hands gone his bed was often cold. His senior wife would always be a friend and companion; he even loved her in his own way and she still knew how to give him pleasure, but for how much longer? She was past childbearing age. Her beauty and charm were no doubt prolonged by magical potions and spells and prayers to the goddesses. One day he might wake up and find a crone in his bed.

  But the Archdruid had warned him off. ‘Carta’s destiny is with her own people, Lugaid. I have been reading it in the signs for some time. She has been studying with me and at the classes that Gruoch and Vivios run at the college. She learns fast. She has a natural aptitude.’

  ‘So, you would claim her as a Druid?’

  ‘She is already of the Druid caste, my friend, and I have no doubt if she pursues her studies for the set length of time she will one day become a fully fledged Druidess but no, that is not the primary future I see for her. The loss of the child has strengthened her. She has iron in her soul now. I would send her back to her father and send Gruoch with her. Then she can study with Artgenos at his Druidic school. She has much to learn, but the time will come soon when her people will seek a ruler of strength and wisdom.’

  ‘And they will choose Carta?’ Lugaid was disbelieving. ‘But she has brothers. Her mother has brothers. There are several warriors to my knowledge of her royal house who would come before her. Almost anyone would come before her. She’s a woman. And still a child!’

  Truthac smiled. ‘So?’ He folded his arms more comfortably under his thick cloak. Outside the snow was falling out of a leaden sky. ‘If she is chosen by the gods, she will be chosen by the people. Yes, by the men and women of her tribe.’ He shrugged. ‘I have done all I can to prepare her. She must go now to her own country.’

  ‘But her marriage portion -’

  ‘Will return with her and with it half of Riach’s wealth as is her entitlement according to the law.’ Truthac smiled at the king’s expression. ‘And with her will go also a firm alliance between the Votadini and the Brigantes, my friend. The omens suggest such close ties will need to be protected and reinforced in the future.’

  V

  Viv jumped as the phone rang. ‘Hell and damnation!’ She ran her hands through her hair. Why interrupt now, just as Carta was about to go back to Brigantia?

  She had picked up the phone before she had time to come back down to earth.

  ‘Hi there, Viv. It’s Steve.’ There was a pause. ‘You were going to ring me? I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry Steve. I was a bit preoccupied.’ She glanced at her watch. Once again the whole day had gone.

  ‘You were going to tell me if you would like to come to Yorkshire for the weekend.’

  To Brigantia.

  Carta’s home.

  ‘Yes please.’ Her reply was greeted by a long silence. ‘Did you hear me, Steve? I said yes, I’d love to.’ Away from Pat and away from Hugh. The perfect solution.

  ‘Great!’ It was spoken with such an exhalation of relief she almost laughed.

  ‘On one condition,’ she went on. ‘We take my car. I need to be independent. And I can only come for a couple of days - there is so much I need to do here. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No.’ At the other end of the phone he grinned. Whether his old Peugeot would reach home was always a bit of an uncertain equation. And one of his friends would undoubtedly enjoy the chance to drive it down for him. They agreed to leave next morning and Viv hung up the phone with a smile. She would reach Ingleborough at just about the same time as Carta.

  ‘How long did you say your family have lived here?’

  Steve had directed her along a series of increasingly small lanes until they headed at last through a gate and up a steeply rutted drive towards a grey limestone farmhouse, surrounded by dry stone walls and sheltered by old fruit trees, nestling in a beautiful fold of moorland on the flanks of the great humped hillside which was Ingleborough.

  He shrugged. ‘Around the Lancashire, Yorkshire border, for generations.’ He had grown increasingly quiet as they drove south and west from Edinburgh into the farthest corners of North Yorkshire.

  ‘As in hundreds of years?’ Switching off the engine she sat back with a sigh. It had been a long drive. Around them the silence was broken only by the song of a lark high up in the brilliant azure sky.

  He nodded. ‘You’ll have to ask Dad. Several, as far as I remember. Maybe thousands.’ He laughed, then sobered abruptly. ‘Mum takes the old gods very seriously. Sometimes I think too seriously. Tread carefully, won’t you.’

  She stared at him, studying his profile. ‘What do you mean, seriously?’

  He shrugged, concentrating on the view ahead of them. ‘She still believes in them, Viv. Dad doesn’t. It creates a bit of tension.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘Don’t worry. I’m hardly likely to contradict her! It’s wonderful. Part of belonging here.’ She pushed the door open. ‘Imagine knowing that your family has lived in an area for thousands of years!’

  ‘But sadly not for much longer, I suspect.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you want to stay?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not a farmer. Neither are my brother or my sister. We’ve seen too much of it.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  His answer, if any, was lost as he followed her round the back of the car to unstrap his bag which was perched on the luggage rack.

  He led the way to the house, and down the entry hall over scrubbed flagstones towards a long low-ceilinged sitting room. It was neat and well furnished with up-to-date magazines and a small modern TV with video and DVD and was aimed exclusively, Viv decided, at the B&B guests. Nice though the gently smouldering log fire was, it was not a family room. No room could be that tidy naturally. As she stood looking round Steve’s mother appeared with outstretched arms to embrace her son. Having hugged him she turned to shake Viv’s hand with a smile of welcome.

  Peggy Steadman was the archetypal farmer’s wife with pink cheeks, faded blue eyes and wispy grey-blonde hair. Slightly over-weight, she was dressed in blue cotton trousers and a V-necked grey sweater. ‘Steve has told us so much about you!’ she said as she led them back into the passage.

  Steve frowned, embarrassed. ‘Mum!’

  ‘And why not?’ Peggy was indignant. ‘Come with me, love.’ She turned to Viv. ‘I’ll show you your room, then you can make yourself at home.’

  They climbed a broad, easy-rising stone staircase and then a second narrower flight. ‘You’ll have this whole floor to yourself this weekend. I have three double rooms for guests but there is no one else here just now, so you can choose which one you would like,’ Peggy said over her shoulder as Viv followed her upstairs. She was panting slightly from the climb. Steve, having brought in the rest of their luggage, some from the boot, some strapped onto the luggage rack, some stuffed down the back of the seats of the two-seater car, had vanished somewhere into the back of the house.

  The first door Peggy threw open showed a bright south-facing room which looked across the gardens. There were twin beds and all the usual comforts including anoth
er TV. ‘This one -’ Viv would have been happy to stay there, but Peggy had already moved on down the passage,‘is north-facing, but you do have a view of the hill.’ The room was darker than the first, but ancient stone-mullioned windows looked out across a narrow strip of garden up the valley towards Ingleborough itself. Viv shivered. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Peggy was watching her surreptitiously. She nodded. ‘Well, take your time to choose and make yourself at home, then come downstairs. If you don’t mind being part of the family, follow the noise to the kitchen and join us for a cup of tea before you go out to explore.’

  Slowly Viv moved across to the window. Kneeling down and resting her elbows on the stone sill, she stared out.

  High clouds racing before a westerly wind were streaming huge shadows over the soft green of the steep-sided, rugged, flat-topped hill. No round houses on top, no high walls, no well-used track as far as she could see winding up its flank, but it was like coming home.

  With a start Viv shook her head. Now was not the time. Ducking outside into the passage she hauled her holdall into the room together with the bag that contained her laptop and notebooks. Then she went to find the kitchen.

  The long scrubbed refectory table held teapot, cups, a plate of scones and a huge chocolate cake. Steve was already seated there and Viv slid into a chair beside him. ‘This place is heaven. I’m going to enjoy staying here.’

  He smiled as his mother reached for the teapot and poured Viv a cup. ‘You’re certainly going to find it interesting. Climbing the hill. Visiting the site of the fort. Ghost hunting!’

  ‘Steve.’ His mother’s voice was sharp. ‘Don’t talk about such things. You’ll scare Viv away.’

  ‘No, on the contrary. I’m very interested.’ Viv accepted a scone. ‘Steve told me you had heard things and I wanted to know all about it.’

  Peggy gave her a quick shrewd glance from eyes very like her son’s, then she sat down opposite Viv. ‘This is an old house, at least six hundred years, probably older. I expect Steve has told you. There are bound to be noises. Creaking wood. Ceiling beams groaning in the night. You get used to it. And the wind. Wuthering as the guests always say. Always the wind. But then sometimes,’ she hesitated, ‘yes, people do hear other things as well.’

  ‘In the house?’

  Peggy nodded.

  ‘And on the hill?’

  ‘Oh yes, there especially. It’s a long way up to the fort. Climbers go there. And ramblers. But when one is alone the memories start.’

  ‘Memories?’ Viv frowned. ‘That’s a strange word to use.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘Why don’t you go and see for yourself? You must be longing to be outside after your long drive. It’s a fair walk, but you could do it before supper if you’ve a mind. Steve can show you the way. Maybe you’ll hear nothing. Maybe something will happen. You’re not afraid?’ She held Viv’s gaze for a moment and Viv thought there was a challenge there.

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so,’ Viv replied thoughtfully. ‘I hope not. How does one know until it happens?’

  Steve walked beside her in silence as they followed a farm track across a small field, through a gate in the dry stone wall across another rough field and up onto the open hillside. The westering sun was throwing long shadows at their feet as they began to climb.

  ‘I’m sorry if Mum was a bit brusque,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s only her way.’

  Viv glanced at him. ‘I liked her.’

  ‘Good.’ His face softened. ‘She’s defensive about some of the stories and myths. Visitors sometimes make fun of them.’

  ‘Not me, Steve.’ Viv raised an eyebrow. ‘You know me better than that.’ She changed the subject. ‘Have you any idea what this place was called before it was Ingleborough? Is there a local folk memory of an old name?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘I spent a long time researching names for my book,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Before my alternative source kicked in’ She glanced at him. ‘The word Ingleborough isn’t Celtic, of course. It’s Old English. The fortification of the Englishman, something like that. Carta - Cartimandua,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘called it Dun Righ.’

  Steve grinned. ‘The castle of the king. That makes sense. Pen y Ghent is over there,’ he gestured with his thumb, ‘the neighbouring hill. Obviously that’s Celtic.’

  Viv nodded at last, seeing that Steve was waiting for her to say something. ‘The names of most of the old hill forts are forgotten or changed out of all recognition though we can guess at a few from the derivations and from analysing the compounds - British or Brythonic prefixes with later English endings. I had a lot of help with the philology from Mhairi. It is a help that the Romans so often just stuck a Latin ending on the native name. York for instance was Eboracum to the Romans. That probably came from something like Eborios.’

  ‘So this could have been Rigodunum, the dun of the king,’ Steve put in.

  Viv nodded. ‘Some people do think that’s Ingleborough.’ She was breathless. The track was very steep and rough in places and occasionally as they climbed higher someone had cut steps to make the climb easier.

  ‘What did you decide to do about the brooch?’ Steve said suddenly. He stopped and waited for her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘Who knows.’ She shrugged. ‘Hugh can’t do anything if he can’t reach me. You haven’t told him where we were going, have you?’

  ‘No fear.’ He glanced at her. ‘You didn’t bring it with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not long till the programme. Then he can have it back and welcome.’

  ‘Supposing there are police waiting for you at the TV studio?’

  She gazed at him. ‘You don’t really believe he’d do that?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but our Prof is a law unto himself. I’m not sure I’d bet on it too heavily.’

  She grimaced. She didn’t want to think about it. ‘This is so beautiful, Steve. Do you realise how lucky you are to live here?’

  The view of farmland and moors and woods spread out beneath them with, beyond, a panorama of fells and cloud-painted skies. For a few minutes they stood without talking, drinking it in.

  ‘Would you like to do the last bit to the top on your own? Steve asked. ‘I know how special this is for you.’

  Viv glanced at him. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m just as happy to wait here. You go on up. Take it all in. Come down when you’re ready. I’ll be here.’

  She smiled and leaning forward touched his hand. ‘Thanks.’ For a minute their eyes met. Then he turned away.

  She watched as he retraced his steps, sometimes walking, some-times loping over the soft stony grass until he reached a flat patch of grass near a clump of bobbing bog cotton, where with a wave of his hand he sat down, then lay back, his arm across his eyes.

  Resolutely she turned back towards the summit alone.

  11

  I

  In Edinburgh Cathy put down the phone. It was the third time she had called Viv. She had left messages each time on her home number and on the mobile which was switched off. Cathy frowned. A thread of worry was beginning to worm its way into the back of her mind.

  She had shared her thoughts about Viv, without naming names, of course, with a couple of colleagues and they had discussed the implications of her experiences. ‘No, she’s not on drugs. Absolutely not.’ That had been their first suggestion. She was fully aware of the voices. She wasn’t being taken over by them or told to do things by them. It wasn’t schizophrenia and it wasn’t demonic possession, imagined or real, requiring the help of the church. On the contrary, the whole experience seemed to be wholly narrative as though she were tapping into a story.

  A previous life, maybe? They had discussed that seriously. Even in orthodox psychology nowadays there were people prepared to believe the possibility of such things, or at least a
cknowledge that the vivid role-playing involved had a therapeutic purpose. But this did not seem to fit either. Viv did not become Cartimandua or any of the personalities around her. She was purely a spectator. Or an amanuensis. Putting the story on paper. Finally getting it right.

  She was a goddess.

  Wasn’t that what Viv had said the last time they had spoken on the phone?

  Cartimandua had spoken to her directly. ‘She sees me, Cathy. I’m sure she can see me as clearly as I can see her. Not all the time. Most of the time she’s busy. She’s in her own world, but then she pauses. She goes to the shrine. She opens herself to other worlds. Through prayer - meditation - I don’t know how, but it’s a direct channel into my head!’

  ‘And do you speak back to her?’ Cathy had asked that very quietly, frowning with concentration.

  Viv shrugged. ‘Sometimes. I can’t stop myself. I should be able to advise her, help her. After all I know so much about what happens.’

  ‘And does she hear you?’

  Viv had shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. I can’t hold it. As soon as I become involved I lose contact.’

  That had been the last conversation they had had. The moment Cathy had suggested that she discuss this with Pat, Viv had become distant, almost suspicious. And now there was no answer from either of her phones.