Daughters of Fire

  Hugh frowned. Steve. Always Steve, constantly hanging around her. He shook his head. Were they having an affair? That was grounds to sack her if anything was. Inappropriate behaviour with a student. Steve shouldn’t be here. But then he wasn’t a student as such, was he, and he was obviously her friend. Hugh sighed. He was the one who shouldn’t be here. He should allow her this one piece of celebration at least. But it was too late. Viv was there in front of him. She hadn’t seen him. She looked stunning, beautiful, as she talked animatedly to a man in a green shirt. She was laughing, vivacious, happy and so very alive.

  He stepped forward. Without thinking, he touched her arm.

  She stopped in mid-sentence and swung round to face him, staring at him, frozen, a rabbit in the headlights.

  ‘Why have you come?’ In the noise of the room he had to lip-read the words. Perhaps she hadn’t actually spoken them out loud. Perhaps she could hear the distant sound of the carnyx in the background. Strange thing to have at a party, but perhaps not in the museum where there were the remains of real carnyxes on display.

  ‘I was invited.’ He smiled. ‘Presumably by you? She is too generous, but I am the head of her department.’ He was speaking to the man in the green shirt now. Explaining. ‘She can’t believe I think the book is crap. Can’t believe it at all.’ The man was smiling. Someone else was coming. A photographer. He felt drunk. But he hadn’t drunk anything at all. Had he? There was an empty glass in his hand. And she was shouting at him.

  ‘Why did you come? I didn’t ask you! Why did you have to do this?’ Camera bulbs were flashing. The man in the green shirt had produced a notebook. Hugh smiled sadly. Alison would not have been pleased with him. Not at all pleased. He was quite relieved when Heather appeared out of the crowds and gently took him by the arm. Perhaps she would drive him home. He couldn’t quite remember where he had left his car.

  ‘You OK, Viv?’ Sandy was standing on the doorstep beside her as Viv groped for her keys. Behind them a taxi was drawn up at the kerb, engine running. Viv nodded. She was exhausted.

  ‘Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we hit the world.’ Sandy chuckled. ‘I’ll be here with a taxi at nine, OK?’

  ‘Was that all as much of a disaster as I think it was?’ Viv had the door open and was standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘No, not at all. Viv, love, one would pay money for that kind of publicity. I’d be very surprised if you haven’t made the front page of every paper in the land! Publicity departments kill for that kind of scene. Don’t worry about it. Your sales will rocket. Hundreds, even thousands of people will buy your book just to see what all the fuss is about! Believe me, your drunken professor has done you a huge favour!’ She paused. ‘He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he!’ She laughed and leaning forward gave Viv a quick hug. ‘Go on. Get your beauty sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’

  III

  Cartimandua was thoughtful as they rode at last out of the Roman encampment at Camulodunum heading north. Venutios reined his pony back beside hers as behind them the long train of chariots and riders and packhorses wound out onto the newly built road.

  ‘He impressed you, the Emperor?’ He glanced across at her.

  She nodded. ‘It would be foolish to deny it. He is the most powerful man in the world. And with reason. He is clever, a statesman. He has the power to make or break us.’

  ‘Which is why you grovelled before him like a slave?’ Venutios was scathing. ‘Why do it? Why agree to his plans and accept his bribes without consulting me or Brochan? Above all, without consulting Artgenos? Do you realise what you have done?’

  She looked across at him and nodded, her face grave. ‘I have used statesmanship, Venutios. I have bought us time and I have bought us wealth. Those mules,’ she gestured behind them, ‘are laden with gold. Do not berate me! I have done what is best for the Brigantians. I have kept my head. I have negotiated with an emperor and I have made him respect me. What would you have done? Shouted? Sworn? Drawn your sword?’

  ‘I am not that stupid, woman!’ His face flushed with anger. ‘But I would not have kissed his hand!’

  Carta laughed. ‘No? Perhaps not. But do not forget, that he also kissed mine!’ She kicked her pony into a trot, the finely tooled leather of the reins held loosely in one hand, Sun and Moon running effortlessly at the animal’s heels. ‘And now I am returning to my kingdom free of fear, without any threat of invasion hanging over me and we have all the time in the world to plan our strategy for the future, and no one has been waylaid on the journey. No one has died.’ She glanced at him again, as his horse paced alongside hers. ‘And in the meantime you might be interested to know that the Emperor asked if I had any plans to marry.’

  ‘He’s not the only one who wants to know that!’ Venutios retorted. He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows. ‘And did the Emperor also suggest who should be your consort?’

  She smiled. ‘He did as a matter of fact. Or at least, I told him who I had in mind, and he gave the union his approval.’ Her pony sidestepped and shook its bridle. Their escort was several paces behind them now. They were not being overheard.

  ‘So?’ He leaned across and grabbed her reins. ‘Don’t play coy with me! Who are you going to choose?’

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you until we return home.’ She pushed his arm away.

  For a moment she thought his anger would overwhelm him, but he pulled his horse back. ‘Have it your own way.’ He was biting down visibly on his impatience.

  She shook her head. ‘First I need to consult the gods and then Artgenos and Culann. Then I will reveal my choice to the man I have selected. It will be a hard choice. Not only do I want an ally and a friend and a companion, I want a man who will please me in bed and father strong children.’ She was concentrating on her horse’s ears. ‘A man who will support my decisions and my alliance with Rome. A man who will bow to my leadership as high queen of the Brigantes.’ She looked at him at last. ‘He will be a hard man to find.’ Their eyes locked for an instant.

  Her pony bared its teeth and took a nip at the neck of his as they rode on side by side. He swore under his breath.

  ‘Don’t look to me, madam, for a man to bring you posies of flowers and pretty trinkets!’ he growled at last. ‘A king of the Carvetii bends the knee to no one, never mind a woman.’

  ‘Then the king of the Carvetii will never marry a high queen,’ she retorted. She was soothing her pony’s neck. ‘He will kick his heels at her fireside as one of her advisers, but never as one of her trusted confidants.’ With a kick she sent her pony into a canter, leaving him reining in his own mount as it jibbed and bucked, trying to follow.

  That night they camped at the edge of a broad, slow-moving river, the wagons and horses pulled up into a circle, the queen’s tent of skins and poles in the centre near the fire where the cooks began at once to prepare a meal of cold meats and biscuits and cheeses with hot broth and bread slops to wash it down.

  A mist was rising from the water as Carta, leaving her ladies and attendants behind in the encampment, made her way along the bank. The water was dark, softly moving in amongst the reeds at the river’s edge. Somewhere a bird called out in warning and she heard a splash from a leaping fish.

  ‘Sweet goddess? Are you there? Come to me. Advise me. Have I done right to ally myself with these men of Rome?’ She groped at her girdle for a small pouch that hung there and drew out offerings for the spirit of the river. Some coins. Some grain. Some seed heads. Symbols of fertility and hope.

  ‘Vivienne?’

  Her voice echoed for a moment across the water. The mist swirled, lapping at her cloak, dappling it with droplets of moisture.

  There was no answer from the waters as she stood staring out into the darkness, shivering, unable to concentrate, aware suddenly of a movement in the mists nearby. Turning, she scanned the river bank, wishing she had brought Fergal or a guard, or her hounds with her. The voice that spoke without warning so clo
se to her was not that of a goddess or a spirit of the river waters or of the woods and gentle mossy banks. It was the voice of a man.

  ‘So, my queen. Have you finished your prayers?’

  Venutios materialised out of the darkness. ‘Then I think you and I need to talk some more about your choice of a husband, don’t you?’

  He was very close. For all her height and strength he was the taller and now they were no longer on horseback, physically at a huge advantage. ‘My politics and my abilities as an adviser and a leader of men you have already tried but you have not taken me to your bed, madam. Should you not put my potential as a mate to the test?’

  He was very close. She could smell the sweat on his skin, the leather of his jerkin, the wet wool of his cloak, pinned at the shoulder with the golden bird. His eyes were fixed on hers, his hands now on her shoulders as he pulled her towards him.

  ‘Would you rape me, Venutios?’ Her voice, as cold as ice, stopped him in his tracks.

  His arms dropped to his sides. ‘Venutios does not need to rape a woman. Most would beg for his attention.’

  ‘Did you hear me beg?’

  For a moment she thought he would hit her. Then he grinned. ‘I had assumed that a queen merely had to snap her fingers and raise an eyebrow. Perhaps I misinterpreted the signs. Would you like me to beg instead?’ He went down on one knee, lightly, on the wet grass. Then as she looked down at him in astonishment he seized her wrist. He pulled her off balance and she found herself on the ground beneath him. In the dark the whites of his eyes were very clear. ‘If you scream, my queen, I will throw myself into the river and give myself to the gods.’ His mouth was on hers, his hands dragging at her cloak, ripping the material away from her body, before tearing off his own and throwing his clothes aside into the reeds.

  She did not scream. Breathlessly she felt her body respond to his, his strength and violence triggering a response in her, movement for movement, kiss for kiss. Only when at last their bodies had exploded into mutual orgasm did he slump exhausted across her, his head on her breasts, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  She gave a quiet laugh. ‘So. He is tired already. If this is your test performance, Venutios, I have to ask myself if a younger man might not have more stamina.’

  This time she did scream, but it was not a scream of fear.

  Exhausted they rolled apart and lay in the cold wet grass. He recovered first, staggering to his feet, making his way to the river bank where he knelt. ‘Blessed gods, I salute you! May my seed prove fruitful and my strength all that is desired by my queen!’ He splashed his face with the icy water and turned away to gather up his clothes.

  She was lying staring up at the stars. ‘See. Caer Gwyddion, Llys Don, the Harp of Idris …’

  He picked up her cloak. Throwing it over her he knelt and scooped her into his arms. ‘The stars and their gods are witness to my triumph tonight, Cartimandua and now the men and women of our party will witness it as well.’ As he staggered to his feet she struggled to free herself but somehow he had managed to pinion her arms with the cloak.

  ‘Put me down!’ Her fury was overwhelming. He was carrying, her, naked inside the cloak, like a trophy, heading towards the light of the fire and the noise of the camp, singing, shouting, laughter in the night.

  ‘I advise you to lie still in my arms.’ He chuckled. ‘Should I drop you, you would roll naked onto the grass at the feet of your servants and that would not be dignified.’

  Her language, learned from a lifetime in the horse lines and amongst the tribe’s most seasoned warriors made him laugh out loud. Carrying her past the guards in between the wagons and across the fire-lit grass he strode directly into the middle of the camp. She was aware of the sudden silence. Closing her eyes she groaned.

  Venutios laughed again. ‘Your queen and I have plans for this evening, my friends. Continue with preparing the food. We will join you later.’

  Ducking into her tent he rolled her onto the pile of furs which had been put there as her bed and threw himself on top of her. ‘So, do you still think me too old, my queen?’ As he entered her again with a shout of triumph she was capable only of a small moan. Neither of them were conscious of the silence outside the tent or the immense roar of laughter and approval as the sound of his triumph was clearly audible in the night.

  *

  In her bath Viv dozed, the launch party long forgotten. The water had grown cold, the foam settled into a soapy scum. The only sound in the silent flat was the drip from one of the taps.

  IV

  Watching from the distance, Medb scowled He had taken off his clothes, tossed his cloak and the brooch aside and ravaged Cartimandua there on the ground, rutting with her like a boar in the woods. And he was going to take her as wife.

  Sitting up, Medb overturned the bowl of water into which she had been gazing with a shout of anger and watched it splash across the floor. All but a prisoner at Caer Lugus, she could do nothing but wait and watch and scheme, alone, while Venutios danced attendance on his high queen.

  In her sleep Pat groaned and turned over in bed.

  ‘So, Viv will be away for a week or so.’ She faced Cathy across the cafÉtable next morning. Both were drinking their coffee black. ‘Just as well, after that row with the Prof last night.’

  Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the matter with the man? How small-minded and mean can you get!’

  ‘I keep telling you what the matter is. He fancies her.’ Pat reached for her cigarettes. ‘You should have gone, Cathy. She was really hurt that you weren’t there.’ She and Viv had finally confronted one another amidst the crowds, with Pat shouting above the noise. ‘I didn’t take it! I swear it! The brooch wasn’t there! Cathy and I searched for it and it had disappeared again! I imagined it! Imagined the blood! When we looked at the sheets in the laundry basket, there was no trace of blood anywhere! It was all a dream. We were all dreaming!’

  She had moved out of the flat and, temporarily, into Maddie’s spare room by the time Pete got back from his showdown with Viv.

  ‘This will all blow over, Pat. Once we come back from Sweden I’ll get in touch with Viv and explain. It’s just,’ Cathy paused, ‘she’s going to make herself ill. If she goes on like this she really will need a psychiatrist. And so will you.’ She glanced up at Pat. ‘I mean it, Pat. You’ve got to stop all this stuff. No more Medb. No more dreams and nightmares and ghosts and -’ she shuddered, ‘blood!’

  Pat shrugged. ‘I didn’t imagine it, Cathy. And neither did you.’ There was a long pause. ‘I think we all had too much excitement and booze at the party last night,’ she went on with a grimace. ‘Don’t worry. You go to Sweden and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you when you come back.’

  Cathy gave a wry grin. ‘Too much booze and now too much publicity.’ She nodded towards the paper lying folded between them. There was a picture of Viv and Hugh on page three under the headline: ‘Academic Rancour explodes at Museum.’

  ‘All publicity is good publicity,’ Pat repeated the mantra solemnly. ‘Don’t worry about her. I think some time in the hard-headed company of a publicist and a non-stop schedule of talks and book signings will distract her sufficiently from her dreams and take her mind off the whole business.’

  Hugh had not seen the paper Pat and Cathy were perusing. He was studying the Scotsman. It wasn’t a headline. In fact he had only spotted it by chance. ‘Amongst other projects under production is one by a new company, Daughters of Fire, who plan to turn Viv Lloyd Rees’s controversial book, Cartimandua Queen of the North into a drama documentary to hit the radio schedules this winter. As part of the BBC’s policy of producing good quality programmes to meet the public’s current passion for history, this kind of enterprise can only be encouraged.’

  Hugh stared at the paper in front of him. That morning he had woken with a violent hangover and a feeling of overwhelming remorse. What was the matter with him? Why had he hurt Viv so badly yet again and probably trashed her acad
emic career forever? He was contemplating ringing her to apologise for his crass behaviour, perhaps ask her out to dinner to see if he could mend some fences when the newspapers hit the mat. Scanning the article, his remorse had vanished. Career indeed. Obviously her career in his department was irrelevant. She had already sold out. She wouldn’t want her job any more. Well, he could easily fix that. He knew people at the BBC. It would only take one phone call to make them pull it from the schedules. Then where would this bright, clever innovative writer be? She’d be begging for her job back, that’s where. He was working himself up into a fury again. This was going to lead to yet more publicity for Cartimandua and once again she would take the opportunity to traduce Venutios.

  Venutios!

  Hugh gripped the edge of his desk, aware of the tension in the room around him. No. Please God, no! Not again. He shouldn’t even have thought the word!

  ‘Leave me alone, you bastard!’ he shouted out loud. He looked round nervously. It was all right. The room was normal again. Whatever had threatened to appear had changed its mind and drawn back. He listened fearfully but there was no call of the carnyx in the distance. Only the sound of the clock on the bookcase broke the silence.

  23

  I

  Viv and Sandy walked slowly back through the streets of York to their hotel and sat in the bar for half an hour, unwinding after a tiring day which had culminated in a book signing which had seemed to go on for hours. Tomorrow they were going to Nottingham, the day after that to London. It was midnight when they wished each other goodnight and Viv wearily unlocked her bedroom door.

  Cartimandua, High Queen of the Brigantes and Venutios, King of the Carvetii, were married at the feast of Beltane. There were a thousand guests in attendance, including Carta’s mother, her younger brothers Bran and Fintan, both recovered at last from their wounds, and the rest of the family, Venutios’s brother Brucetos, his wife and baby, his uncle and his cousins, Prasutagus and Boudica of the Iceni and their baby daughter, the kings of the Atrebates and of the Dobunni, all of whom where now allies of Rome. Medb was not there. When Venutios had returned to Caer Lugus to prepare for the wedding he had been furious to find she had evaded those set to watch over her. He had no idea where she had gone. His anger had lasted only a few hours. He was glad to be rid of her.