‘He was my companion and he is my friend.’ Her voice dropped dangerously. ‘And he was my escort. Now, thanks to you, I have to persuade him not to declare war on you, a declaration to which he would be absolutely entitled. And at this moment, I have to return to my fort alone and unescorted.’
‘No. That would be unthinkable. I shall escort you myself and my men shall form a guard.’
‘I do not need a guard, Venutios,’ she spat back. ‘And I do not choose to have you at my side. Leave me.’
‘Out of the question.’
‘Are you defying me?’
‘I am ensuring your safety, which is my duty before the gods.’ He had turned his pony alongside hers. His hand she noticed was bleeding profusely as he held his reins. He did not deign to notice.
Pat stubbed out her cigarette with a sigh of impatience as the silence lengthened. It was obviously all happening for Viv, but not out loud and she was missing it. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. You could tell people who were sleepwalking to go back to bed and they would hear you and obey your instructions. She moved closer.
‘Viv, can you hear me? I want you to tell me what you’re seeing.’ Her voice was quiet but firm. ‘Tell me what you’re hearing.’ She paused expectantly. Viv didn’t react. ‘Viv. Can you hear me? I don’t want you to wake up. I just want you to speak to me.’
She moved closer still, the mike in her hand. ‘Tell me what is happening, Viv. What can you see?’
Viv’s eyes were almost closed. Beneath her lids her eyes were moving rapidly from side to side. She did not appear to hear Pat, but after a moment she moved slightly and a frown appeared on her face, as hesitantly she began to speak.
‘Yes!’ Exultantly, Pat pushed the mike closer.
Carta rode ahead, her eyes fixed on the fort entrance, ignoring Venutios who pushed his pony into a trot to keep up with hers. Behind them the other riders bunched together, keeping a healthy distance between their king and the high queen and themselves. Secretly many of them were smiling at their lord’s discomfiture. It would take a lot for him to redeem his dignity after today.
At the entrance he reined back a little to allow her to enter the gates first. She rode straight to her own house where she slid from her mount, threw the reins to one of the loitering boys and disappeared inside followed by the dogs.
Venutios hesitated. He was well aware of what the men behind him must think. ‘Dismount. Go and find a bivouac and food,’ he yelled at them, then he too slid off his pony and disappeared into the royal house.
The main room was deserted, the fire banked low, the benches pushed back against the walls, stacked with cushions and neatly folded rugs. She must have made her way directly to one of the other rooms. He waited, dripping where he stood in his soaking cloak and breeks, his boots covered in mud, and glanced at the curtained doorways, listening intently. The muffled sounds of everyday life came to him through the main door, but in here it was completely silent. He strode across the floor, aware of the rattle of his sword in its hanger and the slight squeak of leather from his belt as he approached the largest curtained door and pulled back the hanging with a rattle of wooden rings. He had guessed rightly. Carta was standing in the room, her face and wet hair illuminated by the lamps on the dressing chest and on the tables. Two women were with her, one unfastening the brooch which held her sodden mantle, the other searching through a coffer for soft woollen towels. The women looked up with exclamations of fright and anger as he strode in.
‘Leave us!’ His command was peremptory and they stepped away from the queen in shock.
‘Don’t move!’ Carta’s voice was like iron. ‘Stay here, Mairghread, please. Sibáel, I want you to call for help. This man is to be removed.’
‘I don’t think so.’Heseized her arm, sending Sibáelreeling towards the bed with one quick push of his hand. ‘You and I have to talk.’
‘There is no question of talking.’ She was blazing with fury. ‘I want you out of this fort. I want you out of Brigantia!’ Behind them Sibáel slipped out of the doorway as Mairghread reached silently for Carta’s dagger, discarded with her girdle on the bed.
He had pulled her close to him and she could feel the heat of his body against hers; the strength of his hand was hurting her wrist.
‘You need me, Cartimandua. The gods have spelled it out!’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Then the gods are mistaken! They contradict themselves!’ She held his gaze without a trace of fear. ‘The omens were clear to me. I forbid you to touch me!’ Their faces were only inches apart. She could feel the bones of her wrist being crushed in his fist.
‘Venutios!’ Artgenos’s voice was like a whiplash.
Venutios dropped Carta’s wrist and stepped back reluctantly. His expression was dark with fury as the old man walked into the room, followed by Sibael and Fergal, Carta’s charioteer, who held a drawn sword.
Carta turned away, rubbing her wrist. ‘Take him away, Artgenos. He is to leave this fort today.’ She spoke through gritted teeth.
‘You heard her,’ Artgenos said sternly. ‘Take your men and leave.’
‘But Artgenos, the gods have decreed -’
‘The gods have never decreed that you should use violence against your queen! You will go now.’ Artgenos turned his back on Venutios and went to Carta. Gently he took her hand, running his fingers across her wrist. ‘Let your ladies tend you. I will go and find some salve for this bruising,’ he said quietly. ‘Fergal, please escort the king of the Carvetii to his men and see they have all the supplies they need to start their ride back to Caer Lugus today.’
Venutios strode out of the room across the outer chamber and out into the rain with Fergal behind him.
‘He won’t bother you again. I’ll see to it he leaves the fort at once.’ Artgenos sighed. ‘He is a man of mettle. It will be hard for him to take a wife who outranks him.’
‘Then it’s a good thing he won’t have to.’ Her wet mantle had fallen to the floor at her feet leaving her dressed in a blue tunic and a soft green gown, both as wet as her hair. She was shivering. ‘He was on your list of possible suitors, Artgenos, but no longer. I would rather marry my shoemaker!’ She turned to the two women who were standing waiting. Sibael picked up a towel. ‘I want him gone before dark.’
‘I think you will find he has already gone, Carta.’ Artgenos stood for a moment, listening to the sound of horses outside the door of the house. He shook his head ruefully, then he too turned towards the door. ‘Get warm and dry, and I will return with the salve.’
‘Wow! Real fireworks!’ Pat breathed as Viv fell silent. She turned off the mike and stared down at the recorder, flicking off the switch with her fingernail.
She was stunned. She could hardly believe what she had heard. Viv’s voice, certainly, but overlaid with a dozen others. Her descriptions; her anguish - the anger that had erupted from her as she described Carta’s fury. She stared at Viv’s face. It was relaxed now and her eyes were closed, almost as though now this instalment of the story had been told the spirit that animated her had left.
She frowned and touched Viv on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
There was no response.
‘Viv? Can you hear me?’
She had started packing her equipment away in her bag when Viv began to speak again.
Her voice was a low monotone; her eyes were open, but she was not looking at Pat or anywhere other than into the distant past, this time as an observer, not a participant.
‘It is the next morning. The sun is rising. Carta is standing in the centre of the circle, her arms raised as she faces east. I can see the red-gold light spilling across the heather towards her, illuminating her face, her hair. She is alone as she smiles in welcome to the morning, but behind her in the west the clouds are building. They race across the land and within minutes the long sun shadows of the trees are gone, the sky is grey and the sun has withdrawn. She lets her arms fall to her sides, aware that overhead two buzzards are cir
cling. Their mewing cries echo on the wind as they spiral ever higher. She watches them, listening. They can hear the war eagles, the tramp of marching feet. They are warning her of death and slavery. Only she can save her people now. But to save them she must be sly like a fox. The gods of war bid her fight, but the goddess is more subtle. She has drawn a veil across the face of the Roman Apollo. She must learn to dissemble.’
Viv fell silent again. She was as white as a sheet and for several seconds Pat watched, holding her breath. ‘Viv? Are you OK? Wake up. I think you’d better stop this now.’ She pushed the recorder into her bag. ‘Viv? Come on. That’s enough.’ She shook her shoulder. Viv’s head rolled back, her eyes still closed. ‘Shit!’ Pat recoiled. ‘Oh God! Viv!’ She hesitated, then she pressed her fingers onto Viv’s wrist. The pulse was strong and steady.
Pat glanced up at the canopy of leaves above their heads. ‘I hate to tell you, but I think the rain is starting again. We need to get back to the car.’
There was no response.
‘Viv, come on. I want you to wake up now. Do you hear? I want you to wake up and talk to me!’
V
‘You did what?’
In the car they were sitting staring out at the pouring rain as they wiped condensation from the windows. Pat turned and leaned back against the passenger door. ‘I recorded it all. You talking, describing the whole thing. Hang on. Let me find the recorder.’ She had dumped the bag behind the seat as they dived into the car while the first clap of thunder echoed across the fields.
‘But I tried to do that before. There was nothing. I wasn’t speaking out loud.’
‘You did this time.’ Pat took the digital voice recorder out of the bag.
‘But I don’t understand. Why, suddenly?’
‘Because I asked you to once you were in a trance.’
‘You asked me to?’
‘You access Cartimandua in some sort of hypnotic state - a bit like talking in your sleep, so I figured if I talked to you, you would respond as people do when they are sleepwalking, and you did! Listen.’ Pat was triumphant. She switched on the machine and Viv’s voice spoke out. Behind it they could hear birds, and the sound of rustling leaves. At one point there was the patter of rain, but it was what she was saying that riveted them.
Sometimes she was telling the story, describing what was happening. Sometimes she was hesitant, trying to set the scene. ‘There’s a dog barking, can you hear it? Not a hound. A small dog of some kind, someone’s pet. Goats and sheep and a cow, lowing in the distance. Children shouting. A hammer on metal in the forge. I can smell woodsmoke and cooking. Meat roasting. Carta’s putting on her mantle; it’s damp and cold from last time she wore it. It smells of wet wool and horses. Not unpleasant. It’s an earthy, outdoor sort of smell. It’s only a small site at this period. Perhaps fifteen acres? I don’t know how to judge.
‘There are quite a lot of houses of different sizes. Carta’s is dark inside, well insulated. A bit stuffy with the fire and woodsmoke. The smoke is seeping out of the roof. I don’t think there is any sort of smoke hole or chimney. The inside of the roof is blackened, it’s smooth with a sort of wattle and daub. The whole effect is exotic. More like an Arab nomad’s tent than a peasant hut. Wall hangings, beautifully worked, bright colours. Woven rugs. Decorated pots. The supporting pillars for the roof are intricately carved. One has a dragon or a serpent winding round it. There is a vase of flowers standing on a coffer chest next to a silver jug. These people are civilised. Rich. They like their comfort. And their food. If I go into the kitchen - it’s another building - the ovens are outside. Clay, I suppose. Covered and steaming, but a rich lovely smell coming from them.’ There was a pause, almost as though Viv was walking through this scene she was describing. ‘There is a large table in here. It’s raining now outside and the cooks are indoors - though there is a table outside too, under the eaves. There are jugs and bowls and spoons. Some wooden, some metal. Sharp knives. Bunches of herbs. Vegetables. Not sure what they are. Green. Small leaves. There are strings of dried apple rings like my mother used to do,’ she sounded delighted. ‘And dried mushrooms. And a huge cheese covered by a net. Butter. A pretty pottery jar of honey. Conserves of some sort. You know, I don’t think these people just gnawed bloody bones! This food looks and smells good.
‘I’m going to find Carta. She’s outside now. With her pony. It shoves at her affectionately with its nose and she pets it a bit just as we would. The young man holding its reins smiles at her and they talk briefly and laugh. Then she pulls herself onto its back. She has a saddle but no stirrups. And the bridle looks just like ours would. A jointed snaffle bit. Reins. But that’s where the likeness ends. This is really fancy. The leather is gilded and red and quite beautiful.
‘Brochan is beside her. He is short; shorter than Carta. With fair hair all clogged with clay of some sort, but he’s good-looking. He laughs a lot. He has blue dots tattooed on his temples and across his cheekbones and a necklace and a brooch on his shoulder. He is wearing loose tartan trousers held up with a gorgeous leather belt. A soft shirt. Leather boots - baggy, not fitted, and a warm cloak.
‘Side by side they ride towards the gate. There is a wooden palisade on top of the rampart and big gates in it, but they’re open and unguarded and judging by the grass growing in front of them they haven’t been shut for a long time.’ There was a long pause. Viv sounded out of breath. ‘Let me get closer. I want to hear what they are saying.’ Then her voice changed. It was the voice of Cartimandua. Speaking English. When it was Brochan’s turn to speak, the voice they heard was deeper. More masculine. It was definitely the voice of a man.
They listened to the end of the recording, then Pat switched off.
For a long time neither of them said anything, then at last Pat spoke. ‘What do you think?’
Viv seemed incapable of speech. After a moment she shook her head. ‘I remember that last bit. Like a dream. In patches. But all that description.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s just -’ She paused again. ‘It’s fantastic!’
‘Isn’t it!’ Pat was triumphant. ‘You know,’ she went on, ‘you have time travelled. You weren’t making that up.’
Viv sat back in the seat and closed her eyes, exhausted. ‘No one is going to believe all that wasn’t scripted.’
‘Nor will we ask them to.’ Pat was suddenly very focussed. ‘Listen. We are sitting on dynamite, here. There are two programmes, not one. First we do the play, as we planned. Using your info only where we need to as just that. Background and sequencing. Then, later, we produce these recordings! Another book, as you said to Selwyn. Transcripts and another programme where we actually play them the tapes. This could rock the world. Imagine the publicity!’
‘Yes, imagine.’ Viv scowled. Her eyes were still shut. ‘Dr Vivien Lloyd Rees, former historian, carted off to the funny farm after losing her marbles in faked hypnosis stunt!’
Pat’s mouth dropped open. ‘Rubbish. No one is going to say that! Well, that old scrooge of a professor might, but the rest of the world would love it. There are some very lucrative deals to be made here, Viv. You were fantastic in that recording! It completely bowled me over. I’m covered in goosepimples even now. Look.’ She pushed her arm in front of Viv. ‘Wait till we tell Maddie about this.’
‘No.’ Viv shook her head. ‘Pat, you mustn’t tell anyone about it. I want you to promise. Not at this stage.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Pat frowned, then shrugging she forced a smile. ‘OK. Whatever you say.’ She turned and tucked the bag with the recorder back behind the seat. ‘Come on. Let’s go. This rain is getting worse. Where are we going to spend the night?’
In her head Medb smiled. The brooch was safe. The story hers.
20
I
‘It would mean rewriting Cartimandua, Queen of the North.’ Viv was giving in. ‘Any new book will make a nonsense of everything I’ve said so far.’ She rubbed her face with her hands. ‘It has been superseded before it even appears
in the shops.’
They spent the night at a small hotel near Aldborough, which Carta had called Isurios, and which to the Romans became Isurium Brigantum. To her surprise Viv slept deeply and without dreams. After looking round the museum they had headed west towards Nidderdale and the moors.
‘Not for the general reader,’ Pat commented lazily. ‘Don’t underestimate Queen of the North. It’s fantastic. Every page is alive. You may not have been aware of Carta while you were writing it, or at least not consciously, but she was there, hovering over your shoulder. That is what makes it so vivid.’
Viv clenched and unclenched her fists uncomfortably. ‘I wish I thought Hugh would agree with you.’ She sighed. Where was Hugh? Why hadn’t he contacted her?
They were sitting on a grassy plateau between two of the huge Brimham Rocks. A strange wonderful landscape surrounded them, of grotesque rock formations balanced and stacked and carved by ice and wind over thousands of years out of millstone grit into a collection of wild and wonderful shapes standing high above the surrounding moor. There was no proof that Cartimandua or any of her contemporaries had been here, but nearby there was a tantalisingly named ‘Druid’s cave’ and how could anyone doubt that any Druid worth his salt would have paused here to talk with his gods.
Pat sat up, crossed her legs, and reached for an apple, resisting the urge to close her eyes in the warm sunshine. This picnic had been a spontaneous idea as they passed the signpost to the rocks and they had allowed themselves to be tempted.
‘You’re wrong. With Queen of the North, you have given an authoritative and scholarly overview. The second book would have to be written with the proviso that it is intuitive and even clairvoyant in its origins, and in a different category, albeit one that never contradicts or misleads the possibilities of the earlier work.’