‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ His fingertips brushed against hers as he turned back to the path. It was just the lightest of touches. Almost accidental. ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the top!’
13
I
Viv arrived home the following evening after driving straight into the tail of the rush hour. Most of it was going the other way but even so she found herself crawling impatiently through the suburbs and it was after seven when at last she climbed, exhausted, up the worn stone steps towards her door, lugging her holdall after her.
She had been reluctant to leave Winter Gill Farm. It was a place of magic and warmth. A home from home. But the arrival of a stranger the night before, and the knowledge that she had so much to do in Edinburgh had helped her stick to her decision to return. Besides, it was difficult to get her head around the feelings which were flooding through her. Being there in the place where Carta had lived, in the place which featured in her dreams, was overwhelming. More so even than Traprain this was a place of Druid magic, of Celtic mysticism. A place where the past still clung to the mist-shrouded cliffs and rivers. It was all too much; too immediate; too close to Carta.
And, there were facts she wanted to check.
‘Come back and see us, as soon as your book tour is finished,’ Peggy had said as she gave her a farewell hug. ‘You’re a friend of the family now, love. I’d be very cross if you didn’t come!’ She held Viv’s gaze for a moment, then she smiled. ‘Steve will miss you too. It’s nice for him to have a bit of company. So, come back soon.’
Viv didn’t bother to unpack. Throwing her bag down just inside the door she went straight to the computer.
Steve and Peggy were forgotten. Ingleborough, Dun Righ, Dinas Dwr. This was what she wanted to look up. The possible sites of the royal family’s bases. Did they live in one place and visit the others or was the court peripatetic? Did they select one place and live there because it was convenient or they liked it, or like medieval kings move around from place to place to feed the entourage of fighting men and the household which accompanied them. In her book she had mentioned possible sites for the Brigantian capital: Stanwick St John. Barwick in Elmet. Aldbrough. Which was right? Or were they all right? How much was actually known about Ingle-borough? Now that she had been there, really been there, she needed to know at once.
As the programme loaded she glanced down at her box files. There was nothing there to help her. She was pretty sure of that. For this kind of information she needed the latest archaeological data. The results of excavations, if any, that had been conducted since her original research. Standing up she stared at the screen for a second or two then she turned and went into the kitchen, returning a moment later, a glass of apple juice in her hand to sense the impatient tension in the room. Her throat tightened with fear.
Peggy had told her to be firm. To learn to take control. Determinedly she sat down at the keyboard. At the moment she wanted archaeological facts. A hoard. The remains of a house amongst the others large enough to be the equivalent of a palace. Jewellery. A grave like those over on the eastern side of Yorkshire at Wetwang. Was Wetwang the burial ground of the Brigantian kings or just of the Parisii? Those graves, with their chariots and grave goods and horses and dogs, were of very special high-ranking people. One of them was a woman’s. Could the grave be that of Cartimandua herself? No, wrong date. She clicked the mouse impatiently. Refuse pits. Always of interest, but weren’t always refuse pits at all. Some were for storage - a safe cool place to keep things just outside the houses, often created out of the places where they dug the clay to make mud and wattle walls, though perhaps not in these mountain settlements. Others were obviously for sacrifice. But not sacrifice in the sense of killing things by chucking them down a hole. A sacred, special place to lower beloved animals and special offerings, and even the body of a baby, so that it would be nearer to the gods, a place to begin the journey to Tir n’an Og, the land of the ever young.
The computer wasn’t responding. Suddenly the screen went blank. She stared at it. Hell and damnation! What was the matter with the thing? But no amount of coaxing or swearing could bring it back to life. Glancing round the room she felt a jolt of fear. She was there. Somewhere. Waiting in the shadows. Standing up, Viv grabbed her department keys off the shelf and headed for the door.
The streets were busy. It was a beautiful warm evening, encouraging people out to wander round the city. Walking down the High Street she could smell the various delights of the restaurants and bars. Garlic and pasta. That was obviously Italian. Stale beer - one of a dozen dark doors leading into heavy masses of humanity. Wine. Bright, trendy and no less crowded. Meat and noodles, cooking in woks. Chinese. Curry. Indian. In the distance she could hear the steady thump of music coming from an upstairs window and drifting up from Princes Street the inevitable haunting drone of the bagpipes.
The DPCHC was deserted. Inserting her key she pushed open the door and then locked it behind her. Her office smelled of stale old books. The window was closed and there was dust on the computer monitor as she sat down and switched on. In minutes she had the latest archaeological finds record and was scrolling down towards the Iron Age. There was a lot of information there. Each year it seemed to increase exponentially and it was hard to keep up with the latest discoveries. Leaning forward she scanned the screen, completely engrossed until somewhere in the depths of the building the sound of a door closing interrupted her concentration. She looked up with a frown, conscious now of how quiet it had been as she sat reading the closely spaced lines in front of her. With a sigh she rubbed her eyes wearily and glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. Then she heard it again. A sound from outside her door, this time the creak of a floorboard. She listened intently, suddenly nervous. She was about to stand up to go to investigate when her door opened. Hugh was standing there. Dressed in an open-necked, checked shirt, and with a cluster of cardboard files under his arm he stood surveying her from beneath frowning eyebrows.
For a moment she stared at him blankly, aware only of what a strong presence he had. It filled the room, distracting her from her task. Seeing him dispassionately like that, as though he was a stranger, she realised inconsequentially what a good-looking man he was and how overwhelmingly attractive. His words brought her back to herself with a jolt. ‘What exactly are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘Working.’ She could hear the defiance in her own voice.
‘Indeed?’ He stepped into the room. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed by your keenness, Dr Lloyd Rees?’
‘On the contrary. I was trying very hard to avoid you knowing about it at all.’ Viv resisted the urge to stand up so that she could face him. Somehow she managed to relax into her chair. It was important that he didn’t see how much his unexpected appearance had rattled her. ‘And, by the way, may I ask again, why this formality, Professor?’ She emphasised the word. ‘I seem to remember that in the days before I wrote a book, I was Viv.’
‘Were you?’
She wasn’t sure how to interpret his tone. Was he being vague or sarcastic? Either way it was, as she supposed he intended, hurtful.
‘Looking up the Iron Age, I see.’ She realised too late that he was looking past her at the screen. ‘Checking your facts? A bit late for that, I would have thought. Surely your book is finished?’
‘I am doing further research, certainly.’ She managed the retort in as casual a way as possible. ‘Unlike some, I like to be on the ball with the latest discoveries and theories.’
‘And, let’s face it, you’re not sure of your facts now they are being queried by an expert in the field.’ He gave a half-smile which broadened as he noticed the flicker of uncertainty which crossed her face.
She sighed. She didn’t need this. She was tired and now that he had interrupted her train of thought, all she wanted was to go home. On the other hand her pride dictated that she couldn’t allow him to think he had managed to chase her out. ‘It seems very late for y
ou to be working, Hugh.’ She caught him off balance, she noticed, by the sudden use of his Christian name, the gentle tone. ‘You look very tired. You should take more care of yourself.’
‘I am very grateful for your concern.’ His voice hardened. ‘But I can assure you, I don’t need it.’ He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘The Cartimandua Pin is reputed to have a curse on it. Did you know?’ He held her gaze for a second.
Viv frowned. ‘I am surprised you of all people believe in curses, Hugh,’ she said. She looked up and forced a smile. ‘Not your sort of thing at all, surely.’
He seemed rooted to the spot, staring at her with uncomfortable intensity.
‘I’ll be here some time yet,’ she went on at last. ‘Perhaps I should get on.’ She turned her back on him, deftly flicking the screen away from the website before he could scrutinise it any more closely. ‘By the way,’ she added before she could stop herself, ‘did you call the police in the end. About the brooch?’ She managed to sound casual.
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder, holding her breath as she waited for a reply. For several seconds he said nothing then he gave a quiet chuckle. ‘That, my dear Viv, remains to be seen, doesn’t it.’
For a moment he stood motionless behind her, then she heard him move away. He walked out of the room, leaving her door open and she heard the creak of the floorboards as he strode down the corridor towards his own room. She waited for a moment until she heard his door bang then she stood up and went over to close her own. She leaned against it with her eyes closed, breathing deeply. Damn. Damn. Damn! That was all she needed.
She turned back to her desk. He hadn’t spoken to the police. She was sure of it. Otherwise they would have been waiting on her doorstep. Or would they. She sat still, staring at the screen. And now she would have to outstay him as a matter of principle when all she wanted was to print up her findings to study later and go home and have a long hot bath.
He seemed to have conceded defeat however. After only ten minutes she heard his door opening again and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She listened for the bang of the outer door and then cautiously went over to the window and peered round the blind. She saw him stride down the road, groping in his pocket for his car keys. Then he rounded the corner and was out of sight.
When, after switching off the computer and collecting some more books, she opened her study door she found he had switched off all the lights in the building. How pathetic could you get?
Outside, she realised it had started to rain. The crowds had melted away and the streets smelled wonderfully fresh, the dust laid, the traffic less heavy, the scent of grass and leaves and flowers drifting across the streets from the gardens and squares and the dark brooding outline of Arthur’s Seat.
Swinging the heavy bag of books onto her shoulder she walked fast, pausing automatically at the traffic lights even though no cars were coming, then walking on.
Vivienne
The voice in her head was clear and slightly fretful.
Vivienne?
Viv stopped, her heart thudding. What had she been thinking about? Not Carta. Not Ingleborough.
Vivienne!
She put a hand to her forehead. This wasn’t the same as sitting at her desk and inviting the voice in. This wasn’t like sitting within the fallen ramparts of a hill fort, meditating on the past. She was walking down the street thinking about something else.
Vivienne
‘Stop it! Go away!’ She realised, shocked, that she had spoken out loud. She paused, easing the bag higher onto her shoulder, staring round, wondering if there was someone there, hiding in the shadows, playing a joke on her. No one called her Vivienne. Ever. No one except an Iron Age queen!
She took a deep breath and walked on fast, her head down against the soft mizzle of rain. Preoccupied, she barely noticed that the streets were busier here or that a crowd of youths was hanging around outside the pub. She registered that they were shouting. Someone kicked an empty beer can along the gutter. The air was heavy with the fumes of stale beer and the acrid tang of vomit. Normally she would have crossed the road and taken another turning to avoid them. She strode on and as she approached they fell silent.
‘Fucking hell!’ The comment was almost awed as they stared at her. They fell back out of her way and she passed without even appearing to notice them. ‘Did you fucking see that?’
Viv shivered. She kept on walking, aware suddenly of what had happened and wondering with a second’s blinding terror what - or who - they thought they had seen.
II
Sitting quietly in the darkness of the cave near the sacred spring Peggy reached at last for her matches and lit a fresh candle before her statue of the goddess. The sound of water was everywhere. Outside, the rain was slapping onto the leaves, smacking the path, pitting the gurgling torrent of the river, reinforcing the constant splashing of the falls at the top of the rocks and here, inside, the steady gentle drip of the trickling water in which she found so much reassurance and strength. The cave was cold after the warmth of the woods outside and slick with damp, but the dripping ferns and mosses gave a velvety green glow to the candlelight.
‘Sweet Lady, hear me.’ She breathed her prayer out loud. ‘Tell me that she is one of us. I sensed it in everything she said and did, but she is naïve as yet, not understanding; untutored in our ways. I can teach her, Sweet Lady, if that is your wish. My son can bring her to you. She will be good for him and he for her.’ She paused in the prayer with a frown. Viv was his teacher. Would that make things difficult? On the other hand she had seen how attracted he was to her and she to him. ‘She’s not that much older than he is,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘but her age gives her wisdom and understanding which is rare. I sense her potential, Sweet Lady. Queen Cartimandua was one of us. She has marked her already as chosen. I will not gainsay her.’
The cave was very still. The sound of the water retreated, leaving a heavy breathing silence. The candle burned steadily, without a flicker, and in the depths of the dark waters of the well she saw at last a pinpoint of light. It was the sign she was looking for.
III
Hugh drove straight home to Aberlady. Parking in the drive he sat for a moment staring at the house until the raindrops on the windscreen blurred and then finally obscured his view. With a sigh he climbed out, lugging his briefcase behind him and locking the car, walked towards the front door.
Turning on the lights as he made his way through the dark house he found himself wishing he hadn’t turned the lights out like that in George Square. That was petty. Reaching into the cupboard for a glass, he helped himself to a hefty tot of Talisker. He pictured Viv sitting at her computer, turning round so guiltily as he walked in. He would have known she was there as soon as he had let himself into the department even if he hadn’t seen the light on in her study. It was that scent she wore - never too strong, often hardly noticeable at all, but nevertheless a part of her. Not flowery. Slightly spicy. Mysterious. He swallowed a mouthful of the whisky, unlocked the back door and stood looking out into the garden, letting the warm damp air seep past him into the house. The rain sounded heavier out here, smacking the broad leathery leaves of the magnolia, trickling down from a broken gutter and splashing onto the terrace. Stupid woman. She would realise what he thought of her and her lightweight populist travesty of a history when she saw he had not bothered to review it. He sighed. She had so much ability and she was wasting it. But then, there was no place for lightweights in his department and she would soon get the message that it would be better for everyone if she packed her bags and moved on.
Turning back into the house he wandered into the hall, sipping his drink, and picked up the mail that had been lying on the floor, pushed back against the wall by the opening front door. Amongst it was a jiffy bag. He ripped it open. He drew out the book eagerly and then gave an exclamation of disgust. It was another copy of Cartimandua, Queen of the North. Why the hell had they sent him another copy? He sho
ok the book indignantly and a letter fell out.
Dear Hugh,
I wondered whether you would be interested in saying something about the enclosed for us in order to add your personal accolade to Viv’s wonderful book …’
He threw the letter down with a sigh. What was the matter with these people? Did they never give up? He had already made it clear he had no interest in reviewing the book - not after reading that trashy article she had written in the Sunday Times supplement. God damn it, the Sunday Times themselves would ask him to review it next, and he would find himself the recipient of yet another copy!
Flipping open the cover as he walked through into his den and turned on the light, he glanced down at the blurb.
In her vivid and well-researched account of the life and times of Cartimandua, Queen of the North, Dr Lloyd Rees brings to life the glamorous and mysterious age of the Iron Age Celts. She charts the progress of the invading Romans and describes the beginning of the end of Britain’s native culture at the hands of the all powerful conquerors…
Hugh snorted as he flung himself down in his chair. He glanced at the back flap. There was a colour photograph of Viv there, smiling, her green eyes slightly narrowed against the sunlight, the dappled leaves of a flowery bush behind her left shoulder. She looked hesitant, slightly uncertain. As well she might. He studied it for a moment, then he sighed. It was in fact rather a good picture. It conveyed her charm and energy while at the same time doing nothing to detract from her so-called academic background. He flicked through the book slowly, something he had not actually bothered to do before he had passed the last copy on to Steve. It was well illustrated with good quality coloured plates. He glanced at them critically. The usual stuff: the chariot burials, the gold torcs, the beautiful pieces of horse harness, scabbards, the Battersea Shield. He snorted. What had that to do with Cartimandua? Viv was obviously scraping the barrel here. She had not used the Cartimandua Pin. That above all else should have been illustrated in the book. He gave a further snort of derision. Opening a page at random he glanced down it and for several minutes found himself locked into the narrative. She was a good writer - fluent. Lucid. But of course as her teacher he had recognised that years ago, so why, oh why had she chosen to take this idiotic route? His eye was caught by a sentence: