Daughters of Fire

  She nodded.

  ‘I have decided -’ He spoke huskily. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘With Artgenos’s advice and agreement, to call upon your cousin Oisín to lead the tribe while Triganos and Fintan and Bran are away. We need a strong decision-maker to take Triganos’s place for the time being.’

  ‘What!’ Carta turned in disbelief. ‘You can’t do that! I will lead our people -’

  ‘No, Carta. Not yet.’ He sighed. ‘You are not ready, sweetheart, ambitious though you are. Maybe you will never be ready. Who knows. You will need to marry again before you can think of leading us, and Oisín is a sound steady man.’

  ‘He is wounded!’

  ‘Which is why he cannot fight at your brothers’ side. But his injuries do not incapacitate him. They are healed.’

  ‘They disqualify him from being king!’ She clenched her fists. ‘The king must be unblemished or the gods will not bless him -’ She broke off in mid-sentence but it was too late. Her father’s rueful smile was serene however. ‘As I know to my cost, daughter. I lost the throne because I was wounded, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘Without a council to elect him Oisín will not be our king. He is our leader for the time being.’

  ‘And will tell me, as my brother did, to go and sit with Essylt and attend to women’s work?’ She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Our men despise Rome and talk of chasing away the Roman legions but they are quick enough to copy the Roman way with women, relegating them to their beds and their kitchens as though they are slaves!’ Her face was flushed with anger. ‘Well, I for one will not stay to be ruled by him!’

  ‘I’m sure he will try and do no such thing!’ Her father laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think he would have the courage.’

  But already she had swept out of the house towards her own. The heather thatch was slick beneath the rain, the smoke flattened and heavy as she ducked inside. There were no lamps lit and her women had not yet returned to her fireside. It did not matter. She did not intend to stay there. Her belongings bundled into a leather bag, her thickest beaver fur cloak snatched from its peg and wrapped around her shoulders, she was outside again before her father had made his way back to his own fireside. He watched sadly from the doorway as she splashed her way through the township towards the great gates which still stood open and disappeared between the ramparts. She was heading towards the Druid college in the valley. There was no need for him to have her followed to make sure she was safe. Artgenos had told him what she would do. Bellacos chuckled. Headstrong but determined, his daughter was nothing if not predictable. So be it. It would make life easier for Oisín as he looked after the remaining men, women and children and helped them prepare for winter without their menfolk there to protect and support them.

  Carta did not go straight to the Druid college below the falls. First she went to the hidden cavern of the goddess.

  Every part of this mountain was sacred. Every tree, every stone had its living spirit. Every part of the whole land was blessed and alive, watched over and guarded by the gods and goddesses of place, of the elements, of the seasons themselves, but some places came closer, far closer, to those other secret realms than others. Places of power, marked by the great stones of the ancients, by the sacred Cursus, and by the caves and hollows of the earth. And this place was one of them, guarded by an angry spirit that roared and howled its rage into the night when the storms sped over the high peaks and the waters rose in the rivers and streams. But she had braved it alone, initially in the dark, later with a torch lit by iron and tinder and she had gasped at the beauty and awesome grandeur of the goddess’s home. A low tunnel led a long way into the hillside hidden behind gorse and thorn, both trees sacred to the goddess, then abruptly the passage opened into a vast cave, snug within the huge belly of the high peak itself. The flaming torch, held high above her head revealed stalactites and stalagmites of giant proportions, patterns of rock, dark, still waters and everywhere the reverberation of greater hidden rivers somewhere beneath her feet.

  On one wall she found drawings of creatures the goddess especially called her own. Bears. Great deer. Aurochs, and in a corner she found their bones.

  She brought offerings of gold and silver, food and wine and left them there at the entrance to the goddess’s own house. Then she put out her torch and sat down alone in the dark to meditate and to pray.

  ‘Goddess. Great spirit of the mountains and of our land, Brigantia, our queen, come to me here. Advise me. Give me the knowledge and strength I need to rule my people.’ She waited in the dark, aware of a strange glow amongst the rocks and coming from the water itself. This ordeal would make her strong. And after that she would summon the handmaid of the goddess, the woman who listened and spoke to her amongst the rocks and from the sacred well and from the heart of the land itself. Vivienne

  ‘Oh God!’ Had she wanted this? Had she deliberately summoned Carta in the small hours of the morning or had Carta forced her way into the flat? Stiffly Viv climbed to her feet, glancing at the clock on the bookcase and with a violent shock realised it was midday.

  Hugh! She had to speak to Hugh! Punching out the number, she sat listening to the phone ringing and ringing the other end. No answer. No answer machine. Just the ring tone, on and on. At last she rang off and dialled the department. ‘Heather? Is Hugh there?’

  He wasn’t.

  The Cartimandua Pin was sitting on her desk. Its box had been left behind. Staring at it almost distastefully for several seconds she picked it up at last and carefully wrapping it in tissues, she tucked it back into the drawer where it had lain for so many days, then she went to find her car.

  Hugh’s house was deserted. Cautiously she made her way through the rain and peered in through the kitchen window. Their mugs still stood on the central table where they had put them down the night before, and the empty Perspex box was still there as well. Walking round the back she found the curtains in the living room open and she stared in. There was no one there. The French doors when she tried them were locked. It was only then that it occurred to her to look in the garage. His car was gone. Relieved, she walked back round the front. All the upstairs curtains were open as well. If he had driven off in the night after she had left he would have left them closed, surely, so wherever he had gone he had gone there this morning, and hopefully, a great deal more sober than he had been the night before.

  She stood for several seconds, listening. Had they really heard the sound of a trumpet in the night? Unlikely. Had he really put his arms around her and for that short split second held her close? She gave a small wistful smile. That was probably her imagination as well. Rooting through the glove box in the car, she found a notebook and tore out a page. Her message was brief: ‘Called to make sure you were OK. Ring me about the pin. V.’ Pushing it through the letter box she gave another quick glance round, then she climbed back into her car.

  II

  Standing on the summit of Traprain Law, Hugh stared out towards the sea. The clouds were low on the ground, the rain still pouring down his neck, splashing the grass, turning the trackways to mud. The car park had been empty. There was no one on the hill at all. His head was throbbing, his eyes sore, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He stood for several minutes feeling the cold rain running down his face and into the collar of his shirt without registering any discomfort, then at last he began to move, walking slowly across the spongy grass towards the lochan.

  It was here, according to Viv on TV last night, that Cartimandua had met and married her Votadini prince. He smiled grimly. Here she had learned her arts and her skills. Here in this small muddy pool she had gazed down into the eyes of her goddess.

  He laughed, an awkward harsh sound above the pattering of the rain on the surface of the water. A sound quite unlike his own voice. The voice of Venutios. Foolish woman. Did she really think she could hold her head high as a queen and a warrior among men like him?

  He groped in his pocket and finding a coin flipped it carelessly into the water.
A gift for the gods. Her gods. To his gods he would give something far more valuable, the gift of life blood.

  It was several minutes before he moved, retracing his steps towards the eastern slope of the hill. This time when he heard the call of the carnyx, he smiled. His men had found him. He was ready to join them.

  III

  Pat knew there was something wrong as soon as she pushed open the door. She dropped her bag on the carpet and listened intently. The flat had a strange congested feeling, as though dozens of people were there. Or had just left.

  ‘Viv? Are you here?’ She headed for the living room.

  Viv was standing by the desk.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Pat stood in the doorway, suddenly apprehensive.

  Viv didn’t answer.

  ‘Viv? Did you hear me?’

  Again there was no reply.

  Cautiously Pat stepped into the room and tapped Viv on the shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Can you see her?’ Viv’s voice was tight with fear.

  ‘See who?’ Pat glanced round the room. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to stir.

  ‘There.’ Viv seemed paralysed. She gave a half-nod towards the window.

  ‘I can’t see anyone.’ Pat stared round. She could feel something, though. The tense, swirling anger, rage, frustration. And then it was gone. The room was empty.

  Viv gave a small cry and put her hands to her face. ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Pat exhaled rapidly. ‘She’s gone. It’s gone. Oh, Viv. What was it?’

  But she knew. That was Cartimandua. Queen of the North.

  The two women sat down side by side. Viv was shaking.

  ‘After you rang to say you were coming over I thought I would cook us some supper. I came through to put some music on and all at once she was there in my head.’ Viv was almost in tears, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I’m so tired. I couldn’t face any more, but she wanted to talk - and she was angry. I don’t know why. It’s as though she blames me for something.’ She raced on incoherently. ‘Perhaps I’m not listening hard enough, but I’m getting so tired with all this writing and trying to sleep, and when I do she comes into my dreams as well.’

  Pat glanced round the room with another shiver. ‘I thought this was something you were doing deliberately,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Something you initiated.’

  ‘I was.’ Viv ran her fingers thorough her hair in agitation. ‘But she’s taking over.’ It had happened when she came back from Aberlady. Carta was angry. Unstoppable. All consuming.

  ‘And you couldn’t walk away from it?’

  ‘No.’

  Pat shook her head. ‘What do you want to do? Shall I ring Cathy?’

  ‘What can Cathy do? She’s already told me there’s nothing wrong with me! She thinks it’s my imagination. She thinks I can switch it off if I try.’

  Pat grimaced. ‘I tell you what. Let’s have a drink. That’ll make you feel better. I’ve brought some wine.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you can’t stop?’

  ‘I can’t. And I don’t want to.’ Viv stood up wearily. ‘That’s the point. I want to know. I have to know what happened. I just don’t want to do it non-stop, all the time. I want to pick my moment.’

  Pat found some glasses in the kitchen and a corkscrew and brought them through. She glanced at Viv cautiously as she opened the bottle. ‘I saw you on TV last night. You were great.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And it’s confirmed in my mind that you should do the narrative in the play yourself. You’d be a natural at it.’ She passed Viv a glass. ‘I’ve written some more of the dramatic scenes for you to read through when you feel up to it, but I think we should try recording a bit of the narrator’s introduction soon to see how it sounds.’

  ‘Record it? Ourselves?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How will we find the people to play the other parts?’ Viv sat down shakily on the sofa and took a gulp from her glass.

  ‘Audition.’ Pat smiled. It would take some juggling to get Viv to relinquish her hold on the script, but this would appease her; let her play the part of the academic which she craved. Distract her from the terrifying visions. Make way for Medb.

  *

  Viv woke suddenly, staring round in fright.

  She had lain for a while in a hot bath after Pat had finally left, trying to soak away her increasing fears but it hadn’t worked. The insistence of the voice in her head, her worry about Hugh, the ever-growing suspicion that Pat was up to something, her own exhaustion and her restlessness had all contributed to an uneasy sleep.

  She lay still for a while trying to recall her dream. It had not been about Cartimandua and the people of Dun Righ but about Andrew Brennan, the man she had left behind in Dublin. In her dream he had held her in his arms, and tipping her face up towards his with an imperious hand, he had kissed her long and firmly on the mouth. She was, she realised, aching with longing. Which was idiotic. Andrew had been firmly consigned to the past. She could guess what had given rise to the dream. The feel of Hugh’s arms around her. Her body’s recognition of its utter loneliness. The knowledge that when she had left Ireland and returned to Edinburgh she had fallen hopelessly in love with another married man. She gave a wry grimace in the darkness. Hugh. Widowed, technically free, she supposed, since poor Alison had died but now her arch enemy. Her undeniably attractive arch enemy, driven into her arms not by love but by a phantom Iron Age king.

  It was a long time before she eventually dozed off again but her sleep was still uneasy and suddenly she found herself fully awake once more, her senses alert. It had not been a dream which awoke her this time. She listened. Nothing. The flat was silent. Cautiously she sat up and pushing her feet out from under the bedclothes she stood up. Without turning on the light she made her way towards the door and quietly reached for the handle. The hall was in dark-ness, as was the sitting room beyond. She could see the outline of the open doorway clearly. On tiptoe she made her way towards it.

  There was a figure standing by her desk in the shadowy darkness.

  ‘Pat? Is that you? Why’ve you come back?’ She groped for the light switch. As she clicked it on she caught a fleeting half-glance of a woman standing by the desk, bending over the drawer which held the brooch. It was not Pat. This woman had long red-blonde hair, thick bundled clothes, startled aggressive grey-green eyes. For two seconds she met Viv’s gaze, then she was gone.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Viv clung to the doorknob. Her knees buckled. For several seconds she couldn’t move, once again overwhelmed by a fear she couldn’t control. At last she managed to straighten and step into the room. There was nothing there. No sign. No smell. No feeling to substantiate what she had seen.

  ‘It’s my imagination.’ She whispered the words to herself firmly. ‘Or a dream.’

  Or a reality.

  It was Cartimandua.

  IV

  Some messages come on horseback. Some are carried on the wind like thistledown. Carta had known the moment her brother died. She knew before he did. She knew he hadn’t even been killed honourably in battle. There was a skirmish with a Roman outpost. His pony had stumbled and as it fell one of the men had hurled his sword like a spear with such force it pierced his flesh to lodge in his spine. He took only minutes to die. Fourteen of his men died that day. It was all that was needed to persuade the others to turn back.

  The tribesmen had divided at Isurios, travelling in two war bands. Triganos and Fintan had taken the main roadway down through the flat eastern side of the country, following the well-used trade route through the lands of the Corieltauvi. Venutios had led the others further to the west, venturing more cautiously towards the Roman-held south-east through the lands of the Cornovii and the Dobunni.

  Taking Essylt by the hand, Carta led her away from the fireside, leaving the latest baby asleep in his cradle as the women crooned their weaving songs around him. ‘I must prepare you for
bad news, sister,’ she said gently. ‘Triganos is dead.’

  Essylt stared at her, her face white, her eyes enormous. ‘No.’ It was a protest, not disbelief.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Carta’s eyes filled with tears. ‘When the messengers come, I wanted you to be prepared.’

  Essylt did not question her knowledge or hold out any hope. She sat for several minutes staring before her, her shoulders slumped, tears pouring down her face while Carta held her hand. Gradually the other women became aware of their distress and one by one they crept closer. The signs had been there for all to see. The raven of death had sat upon the roof of the royal house only two days before, two of them had seen it. Another had dropped her brooch on the floor and pricked her finger picking it up. She had thought the omen was for her. As the sound of keening began to spread through the town Carta made her way towards her father’s house. The hardest task of all would be to tell him and Fidelma what, she suspected, they too would already know. When the messengers reached Dun Righ at last, the township was already in mourning.

  Carta made offerings to the gods for the safe passage of Triganos’s soul to the land of the ever young, and vowed to give him a piece of her mind when they met in their next lives. When she wept, she wept alone in the silence of her bedchamber late at night. She wept for the handsome carefree boy who had taught her to ride, to climb trees, to fight with a sword. She wept for the adoring brother who had given her the name ‘Sleek Pony’ and laughed with her when to their delight the family and then the tribe adopted it as her proper name. She could cry for him, and rage against the gods who had taken him so young, just as they had taken Riach. But for the stubborn, thoughtless young warrior who had become a king and given no more thought to the honour than he had to the bestowal of his first tattoo, and for his wasted chances, she felt nothing but anger.