For the meeting she had dressed with some care, aware at last that it mattered to others what you wore even if it did not matter to you. She had put on a new cream woollen gown covered with a tunic of the softest doeskin and her best plaid fastened at the shoulders with gold. There were gold bracelets on her arms and a heavy plaited gold necklet about her throat. She did not speak at first. Taking her brother’s seat, the seat of the high king, under the nose of Venutios who was about to seat himself there, she deferred to her father instead, who sat on her right, and it was he who stood to greet their guests. Venutios scowled as he found himself another place, further from the centre of the circle. Carta ignored him. She was scanning the other faces amongst the people seated around the fire. She was not the only woman there, though as usual now, her mother was absent. Several men had brought their wives, not just to the feasting and the games, but also to this meeting, respecting their views or, the thought struck Carta with sudden humour, too afraid of them to leave them behind. As her gaze moved on round she came back at last to Venutios and found he was studying her with equal interest. He had seen the smile flicker across her eyes and the expression had caught his attention. For a moment they considered each other, almost thoughtfully, before Carta looked away. She was careful to school her features into stillness. He was a handsome man, this king from the north-western corner of their territories who as a boy had been her sworn enemy, and he was powerful. Artgenos had already mentioned to her quietly that he was ambitious, as she had seen by his readiness to take Triganos’s place in the high seat and his readiness to interfere in her affairs. She narrowed her eyes. If a list of possible suitors was ever to appear she would personally see that his name was not on it.
She sat back thoughtfully and returned her attention to the discussions which were already under way around her, listening intently as Brochan of the Parisii rose to his feet and held up his hand for silence.
‘I have received messages from my sister who is married to the king of the Cantiaci that Roman armies are massing on the coast of Gaul. They are planning another invasion of our Isles.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then everyone was talking at once.
‘Wait.’ The voice was loud and demanded silence. Carta frowned, trying to locate its owner. ‘Julius Caesar tried to conquer these islands some eighty summers ago, my friends. He went home with his tail between his legs. If they come, we can send them packing again.’
‘Rome might have abandoned these shores, but it has kept a close eye on us.’ Artgenos rose stiffly to his feet as he spoke. Immediately the others fell into a respectful silence. ‘What Brochan says is confirmed by Druid intelligence. An army is gathering to invade us. Two legions, so I have heard, plus a great number of auxiliaries.’ He paused, looking round. The faces staring back at his were shocked, intent on his every word. ‘It is the Roman way,’ he went on,‘to expand their empire. Their gods, so we are told, have assured them that their conquests will stretch as far as the ends of the earth. They have been given what in their language they call imperium sine fine and they believe that all the world should be ruled by Rome. And they wish to challenge our Ocean gods. Since the death of Cunobelinus of the Catuvellauni the balance of power amongst the southern tribes of these islands has changed. If you remember three years ago the Emperor Gaius threatened to invade. He, too, brought his troops to the shores of Gaul. Then he changed his mind. There was no invasion. Things are different now under Claudius. He needs success to pacify his opponents in Rome.’
There was a long silence.
‘Will the Cantiaci fight?’ A voice came from the shadows.
‘Undoubtedly. As will the sons of Cunobelinus. And as will our gods of wind and storm and sea which have before terrified the Roman invader and sent him packing.’
A whisper went round the circle and Artgenos held up his hand. ‘Each kingdom in this land must hold itself ready to send war bands and levies to their aid if necessary. We will watch developments carefully. There are Druid spies throughout the Empire, and I have my best seers studying the portents and the signs so that we can react at once, before they know themselves what they will do. My friends, our confederation forms the largest kingdom on this island. Our decisions will be vital to the outcome of any invasion. This time, if the Romans come, in my opinion they will be determined to stay. They have failed twice before. There will not be a third failure. We cannot allow them to gain a foothold here.’
As the meeting disbanded Artgenos gestured at Carta to remain. Together they watched the senior members of the gathering as they walked away in groups of twos and threes, still in earnest discussion.
‘They are worried.’ Carta shook her head slowly as they stood just outside the door of the meeting house, sheltering from the rain under the broad eaves of the heather thatch. Heavy drifts of cloud were settling into the creases of the hills and she took a deep breath of the soft air, refreshing after the smoky heat of the meeting.
‘Come with me down to the college.’ Artgenos strode ahead of her for a few paces, drawing his hood over his head against the rain. He paused well out of hearing of any stragglers from the meeting and waited for her as she pulled her fur cloak around her and walked after him. ‘Where was your brother, Carta?’ He stopped and faced her, folding his arms across his chest.
She met his gaze firmly, aware of the blend of wisdom and strength in the old man’s deep blue eyes. ‘He went hunting with some of his friends.’
He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Even though I told him how important this discussion was! We needed to decide policy. If Rome invades these islands every tribe will need to make decisions. These people are organised. They take war seriously. To our men it is a sport no more.’ He shook his head. ‘The Druids will coordinate opposition from our base on the sacred Isle of Môn, but if important men like your brother ignore the omens and treat the threat as trivial we are doomed to defeat.’
‘He will listen to you, Artgenos.’
‘Will he?’ He frowned. ‘I hope so. I tell you in confidence, the longterm omens are worrying. A stand has to be made. In the south, to be sure, but we have to send our support. We have to make decisions.’
‘Triganos doesn’t like decisions.’ Carta shrugged. ‘He enjoys planning tactics for a hunt because he understands the ways of the stag or the roebuck; he can follow a wolf or a bear. To him the Roman is a rare creature, not worth thinking about. They trade, they visit. Their army came three, four, lifetimes ago and it went without trace. He does not believe the Emperor will bother with the Pretannic Isles again. He thinks we are nothing to him.’
‘He is wrong, Carta. We are rich. Our nations trade wheat, silver, slaves, gold, dogs, lead, tin, pearls to the Empire. The Emperor covets our wealth.’ Artgenos frowned. ‘And when he turns his attention to us, nothing will deflect him this time. He claims his gods have given him every land and every sea he can conquer. He sees opposition as an inconvenience at best, a challenge at worst. We are flies to be swatted out of his way.’ He paused. ‘He particularly does not like Druids,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘I have spoken to senior Druids from Gaul who know the Roman officials well. The Emperor sees us as the greatest danger. Without our advice and influence kings and chieftains would not have the knowledge or the organisation to oppose them.’
Carta walked a few paces from him on the track, and stood staring down across the murky moorland, her cloak blowing around her.
Medb was out there somewhere in Gaul, if she was still alive. She frowned. She was alive. Carta had felt the woman’s mind, searching, probing the secret pathways of the gods, planning her revenge, her anger unabated. With a shudder she put the thought behind her. This was not the time to think about Medb.
‘My brother is not interested in politics, Artgenos. You must have realised that when you put him forward for election. But he will fight with the best if the time comes and lead his men with supreme courage. But for now he lives for the hunt and for the training of his
warriors and the raids to win more cattle and slaves. Such is the usual business of kings.’ Her shiver spoke as much of her memories of Riach’s death, never far from her mind, as of the weather.
Artgenos snorted. ‘He is a child in some ways. I have always known that. When he attended the school with the other children of the chieftains he lagged far behind all of them.’ He paused, eyeing her as she stood half-turned away from him, her hair blowing back from her face around the fur trim of her hood. She had outstripped the other children in the classes and under the careful tutoring of Truthac at Dun Pelder her education had continued. The two men had kept in close touch over the years, aware that in this world where men normally led the way they were nurturing an exceptional talent.
Once a year the most senior Druids of all the nations gathered together on Môn. The subjects of debate, political and spiritual, were a closely guarded secret, the outcome never written or revealed, but twice now the subject of Cartimandua of the Brigantes had come high on the list of matters to be discussed.
‘Triganos will be a good war leader.’ She turned back, surveying his face. Her eyes were, he always thought, disconcertingly far-seeing, as though already she could read his thoughts even when they were scarcely formed in his own mind. ‘Convince him the legions are worthy foes; a quarry to be hunted, their heads trophies worth collecting and he will fight with the best. With a purpose like that he will lead his men to victory. He will prove himself, Artgenos.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Artgenos’s voice was dry. ‘But will he then be able to negotiate with the Emperor? Will he be able to turn his back on the spoils and sit down to discussions while the smell of the meat juices of the victory feast drift in from the camp?’
She turned away again without comment and he nodded grimly. ‘He will have to change, Carta. He will have to change a great deal in order to grow into a general. At the moment he is merely a man.’
14
I
‘Viv!’
The banging was from the spring flap on the letter box. As the post was always left on the bottom step of the stairs by whoever took it out of the box on the outer door it was never used.
‘Viv! Come on! I know you’re in there.’
With a groan Viv sat up. The dream vanished in an instant, the past rolled up and gone as completely as a drawing in the sand as the tide sweeps over it.
‘Wait.’ She managed to croak a response. ‘I’m coming.’
‘Bloody hell, Viv! Where have you been? What’s happened?’
Cathy strode past her into the room, staring at the bags still on the floor where Viv had left them the night before. ‘I was ready to call the police!’
‘Why?’ Viv sat down on the sofa and ran her fingers through her hair. Her eyes didn’t appear to be focussing properly as, haltingly, she told Cathy about the farm and the late-night encounter with Hugh. ‘Then last night …’ She paused at last. ‘I dreamed about Carta again. I must have done. Even though I didn’t want to. Even though I said no.’ Suddenly she was crying. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. It was a long drive back and I ran into Hugh -’
‘And then Carta came into your dreams even though you said no,’ Cathy repeated her words thoughtfully.
‘Peggy at the farm said I must make some ground rules. Say when I wanted to talk to her. But she just came.’
‘You’ve got to stop this, Viv.’ Cathy frowned. ‘It’s getting out of hand.’
‘I know.’
‘Peggy-at-the-farm, whoever she may be, is right. It is up to you. But if you’re not strong enough to control your imagination and this - entity - whatever it - she - is, that you have created in your own mind, then you must stop altogether. It could destroy you.’
‘Not just in my mind, Cathy, remember. Tasha saw her. And so did Pete. And I thought you said it wasn’t dangerous. You said I was just having trouble adjusting after finishing the book,’ Viv retorted. ‘Anyway, that’s irrelevant. I want to go on.’ She groped in her pocket for tissues. ‘I have to go on, Cathy. I want to know what happens. This is so important. I am finding out things that no one knows about. No one at all. So much happened last night. I thought it had all gone, you know, the way a dream goes if you wake up and think about something else too quickly, but it’s coming back It always comes back. And it’s crucial.’
Cathy sighed. ‘Then will you at least let Pat help you? It’s important that you stay grounded. Talking to her will let you keep this all in perspective.’
Viv shook her head. ‘No. Pat doesn’t understand.’
‘She does, Viv.’ Cathy looked anxious.
Viv frowned. ‘No, she doesn’t. She’s got completely the wrong end of the stick. The last stuff she showed me had nothing to do with my book at all. It was a great scene, but irrelevant. Rubbish. You know, the more I think about this, Cathy, the more I feel I don’t want to go ahead with this play idea at all. Not at the moment. I want to write another book.’
Cathy took a deep breath. ‘Pat and Maddie would be very upset to hear you say that, Viv.’ She paused. ‘And Pat would be very hard to put off now that she’s got her teeth into this.’
‘Tough.’ Viv shook her head. ‘It’s my book. My story. If I say no, that’s the end of it. No play. No subsidiary rights of any sort. Nothing.’
Cathy studied her face thoughtfully. ‘Have you spoken to Maddie about this?’
Viv shook her head. ‘I know there’s this tight deadline and everything. And they will want their advance back, but I can’t help that. I don’t think this play is what Carta wants.’
‘Viv.’ Cathy stood up anxiously.
‘No. Listen. This story is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. I’m being allowed to witness something incredible.’ Viv spread her hands out on the table. ‘Nothing must get in its way.’
Fiction?
Fact.
‘I’ll speak to Maddie about it. I’m sure she’ll understand.’
‘And Pat?’
‘Pat will have to understand too. She’s way off track anyway. She wants to write about Medb.’
‘Who’s Medb?’ Cathy looked puzzled.
‘Medb?’ Viv shook her head. ‘Medb is no one. She doesn’t exist!’
II
The hillside was totally silent, the fields empty, tractor and baler back in the yard behind the farmhouse. The gentle babble of the water and the soughing of the wind in Steve’s ears was soothing, lulling him almost to sleep. Sheltered by the dry stone walls and the deep fold in the hillside he couldn’t see the top of the hill from here. He was in a small private world, a world where anything could happen.
His mother had brought Viv here and that puzzled him. She never brought anyone here. It was their special place. His father obviously knew about it, but he never mentioned it or appeared interested in any of the more inaccessible corners of the land, except where in the old days they might prove dangerous to the sheep. Now the gates lay open. Some of the wire had gone. The fields were being mown for their hay rather than cut for silage. That was one good thing. More ecologically sound. He turned his face up towards the sun with a deep sigh of contentment, aware that his candle still burned down there in the dark and that his offering to the goddess would lie there undisturbed until he or his mother replaced it. Flowers. Seeds. Grains. Raisins. The latter would in fact probably swiftly disappear, carried off by the smaller hungrier inhabitants of the place, but that was fine. That was the intention. To give freely to the shrine and its occupants.
But Viv. Why had his mother brought Viv here? This place was for people who believed. Did it mean that she too was a follower of the old religion?
He gave a wry smile. Who would have thought it. No wonder Hugh Graham was antagonistic. He was one of the old school. Almost defensive in his study. Keeping it scientific. Not wanting to ‘feel’ too much about his subject in case he got too close. This was much too close.
Slowly he stood up. Well, her secret was safe with him, but he was sorry she had gone s
o soon. He had been hoping she might stay to do some writing in the farmhouse, using it as a site base for her research. He glanced back towards the shadows where the beck came tumbling out into the sunshine. She had promised she would come back as soon as her book promotion was finished. Perhaps he could hold her to that.
III
Hugh was sitting on the veranda at the back of his house, a glass of white wine on the wrought iron table at his elbow, a notebook on the arm of his chair, Viv’s book on his knee.
He was torn between a deep enjoyment of the moment - book and wine - and extreme irritation at the fluent, almost glib style with which she wrote. She was too confident, too knowing. Had she stuck to the old theories about the Celts he could have been tolerantly condescending. So many people still believed in the wholesale immigration theory and in the fact that the native Brit was a pretty primitive chap waiting to be saved by his Roman superiors. She didn’t just contradict this, however, which would have been all right in its way. She seemed to imply that the Celts - and she didn’t seem sure such a race even existed - were probably vastly superior to the Romans! Somewhere she even suggested that they were Pythagoreans long before Pythagoras; that Pythagoras was instructed in his theorem by his Celtic, presumably Druidic, slave rather than the other way round and that Pythagoras might have himself travelled west to learn from the Druids in Gaul or who knows where! What a travesty! New Age bunk.