Daughters of Fire

  She sat, the heavy gold torcs, symbols of her power and status at neck and wrists, within the sacred grove with Artgenos and his fellow Druids seated on either side of her. Behind them the tribe was gathered in awed silence. The prisoners had, to a man, chosen their death. Better by far to elect to die in the sacred grove as messengers carrying offerings to the gods than to be executed as cowards and criminals. These men were brave warriors. They would die full of honour and explain their rebellion to their gods, confident of life and contentment in the land of the ever young until such time as their souls chose to be reborn. One was barely more than a boy, by far the youngest; the son of the tribal chieftain and a mere stripling, he stood close to his father, his face set, trying with every last ounce of courage he possessed not to cry. Every now and then his eyes strayed from Carta’s face, up into the great branches of the tree, and she could see him watching the leaves, the sunlight, feeling for the last few minutes the warmth on his face. He could see a squirrel, carefree, leaping about in the topmost branches and she guessed how desperately he longed to join the squirrel in its freedom.

  Carta did not allow herself to flinch as she watched the men die. If they could be strong, so could she. Only once, when the boy knelt in the bloody place of death, next to his father’s body to receive the triple death blows did she close her eyes and sigh. She saw him glance up. Saw him look one last time on the green leaves of the oak and the sunshine and the life that would never now be his, then he closed his eyes and waited for the blow. His would be one of the heads she would take as a trophy, making herself the keeper of his soul and the inheritor of his valour and his strength and finally, in private, she would tell him how sad his death had made her.

  As the men, women and children of the tribe watched, the boy’s body slumped to the earth. Above the trees the kites and buzzards were already circling. The squirrel fled.

  For a moment she saw the boy’s shadow hover over the body, then it had gone. He had made the crossing into the land of the gods. She looked across at Artgenos, who nodded. He too had seen the boy’s soul leave. It was well done.

  It was strange how the Romans, brave men undeniably, did not understand this transition of the soul. They professed shock and horror at stories of the priests being present at executions and supervising this the most important moment in a man’s life. Their own prisoners they butchered without honour, condemning the frightened souls to roam eternally. Such crude viciousness was beyond comprehension.

  Slowly she stood up, signalling the end of the ceremony and the end of the rebellion. However bravely a man met his death he did not court it. Better to serve the queen than defy her. The message had gone home.

  She paused, allowing Venutios to walk beside her and realised that he was watching her with something like awe. Behind him Vellocatus was following them slowly, carrying his king’s sword. His handsome young face was ravaged with grief and shock at what he had witnessed.

  Venutios glanced at his wife again. ‘You were strong today.’ He sounded almost impressed.

  She met his gaze gravely. ‘I had to be. There must be no more defiance of my authority.’

  His face was grim. ‘I doubt there will be.’

  ‘Then the deaths have served their purpose. I gave Artgenos the order that their heads be preserved. They were all brave men, if misguided. We will honour that bravery.’ She reached out to touch his arm. Behind her the two dogs which followed her everywhere were, like her husband, uneasy. They had smelled the blood and sensed her resolution and perhaps, unlike him, her inner sorrow, and their hackles were up.

  Venutios looked across at her, his jaw set, his eyes veiled. She had made her first big mistake.

  Viv shuddered violently. She awakened without warning to find herself sitting on the edge of the rocking chair. She was sweating and shaking with horror and she was, she realised, about to be violently sick. Running to the bathroom she vomited again and again, the sight and stench of the killing grounds still inside her head. So, those were the bloodsoaked groves described with such horror by historians, the human sacrifice so abhorred by the hypocritical Romans who preferred to throw their prisoners to the lions and watch them die as a spectacle in the arena.

  How could she? How could she order it? Stand and watch. Not flinch. But then she was a queen and all her reputation and power depended on the fact that she could be strong. Besides, she was warning Venutios that she would not be defied. Venutios, whose eyes Viv had seen looking out at her from Hugh’s.

  Splashing water on her face, Viv groped for a towel and pressed it hard against her eyes. She was still shaking uncontrollably.

  24

  I

  Hugh slammed down the phone and walked over to the French windows. The heat from the terrace was rising like a tangible wave as he stood staring out. He grimaced. He had been ringing Viv all morning. He ought to go back to Edinburgh now. Campon her doorstep. Search her flat by force if necessary. He clenched his fists. He could feel it again, the strange overpowering anger which seemed to lurk out here in the garden. Cautiously he looked round. The place was silent; nothing stirred. The heat from the stones and the walls radiated out into a stillness which was uncanny and suddenly he knew why. Venutios was there. He listened. There wasn’t a breath of wind; not a bird sang. He could hear nothing. He looked down at his hands and cautiously he flexed his fingers. Had Venutios really invaded his soul for a few terrifying seconds or had it been his imagination? He had felt the man’s anger and his strength. For a paralysing moment he had known what it would feel like to want to kill and to know himself capable of violence such as he had never contemplated. In those same seconds, while he had been on the phone, he had also realised that, however much he tried to deny it to himself, he loved Viv Lloyd Rees, but that one day he might be forced to hurt her.

  When he saw the tall figure, over by the laurels, it was with a sense of inevitability and overwhelming defeat. Venutios was standing on the grass, his hands on his hips. His handsome face was hard and set, the blue painted swirls around the temples terrifying, the long hair tangled by a wind Hugh couldn’t feel. Frozen with fear, he watched as Venutios strode towards him, knowing he should turn back inside and slam the doors; knowing he should ring Meryn; knowing he should throw himself into the car and drive. Drive anywhere, as fast as he could. He didn’t move.

  When at last the tall figure was standing only a few feet from him he merely shook his head. ‘I couldn’t find the brooch,’ he said quietly. ‘I did my best. It’s not Viv’s fault. Leave her alone. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.’

  II

  ‘Viv, we’ve got to talk!’ Hugh’s voice echoed through the flat. ‘I have to have the brooch. It’s the only way to get him off my back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Help me, Viv!’

  Miserably she stared at the phone. It was the third time he had called her that morning. Fifteen minutes later she was still seated at the keyboard when the phone rang again. This time she switched it off. A mug of coffee, cold and skimmed with a milk slick, lay untouched beside the monitor as her fingers rattled over the keys and the documentation of Cartimandua’s life grew longer and longer, the story loud and insistent in her head.

  CARTA: I will lead these men into battle myself.

  VENUTIOS: No, I will lead them. That is what men do.

  CARTA: But I am queen.

  VENUTIOS: You may be queen, but you are only a woman!

  That was all wrong. Venutios would never say that. Elected as high queen, she must have been able to lead her men herself. Boudica did. And Carta had proved herself. She was strong. And she was ruthless.

  CARTA: I have ridden into battle, sir, at the head of my troops and I shall do so again. And I have ordered the death of traitors. Remember that.

  How would she address him? How did she address him in the dreams? Viv bit her lip, staring back at her notes.

  VENUTIOS: My queen, this is a job for a man!

  Oh God, how corny!


  CARTA: I think not! I shall lead my men, and the women of the tribe shall as always accompany us. That way we shall be sure of success.

  Viv began to write again. By the time Pat arrived she had several pages to show her. They sat reading, passing notes and pages of dialogue to each other and then at last they put the sheets down and looked at one other.

  ‘Well?’ Viv was eyeing Pat nervously.

  Pat exhaled slowly. ‘It’s good as far as it goes. But it’s still too self-conscious. You need to lift bits out of your notes in toto. Real language as you’ve noted it down. As we recorded it before. You’ve edited it back into history speak. We need to bring in earlier more of a feel of what Carta’s beliefs - Medb’s beliefs - meant to them. Lift it out of the ordinary. Convey something of the amazing Celtic world view’. She paused thoughtfully. ‘I’ve had a glimpse of what it means to live and breathe a native spirituality from a programme I’ve worked on about the Native Americans. Living as part of the world around them, not top species laying down the law, but being one with it. That’s what we need here. To think as Carta thought.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Viv put down her pen. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Sound effects are going to be important to help with this,’ Pat went on. ‘Nothing too spooky, but we’re going to need some atmospherics to back up the spiritual link to nature. Waterfalls. Wind on the high moors, that sort of thing.’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t really got to grips with what Carta’s world looked like, you know. Your descriptions in the book are great as far as they go, but obviously it’s a history book. I want to go and see it all myself.’

  ‘I suppose we could go to Winter Gill Farm.’ Viv put in. ‘It would be a great place to record sound effects. You could climb Ingleborough. You’re in training now you’ve been up Traprain.’ She smiled.

  ‘That would be great -’ Pat stopped. ‘You know, I’m learning to notice things I never used to. How one can look into a stream or a pool of water and see the future and the past, for instance. We can do it, just as they did.’ Medb was teaching her.

  Viv gave a wry laugh. ‘I should be putting stuff like that into the dialogue.’ She sounded subdued. ‘I’ve seen it through Carta’s eyes, but when I write I still see it as a historian. I’m as bad as Hugh. I see her beliefs as quaint. Primitive. Pagan. And I am unconsciously editing it accordingly.’

  ‘Well, she was a pagan in that hers was a pre-Christian world.’ Pat nodded.

  ‘But I’m using pagan as a pejorative term. You are right. I wouldn’t dare call in question Native American spirituality these days, would I? And Celtic religion is similar. It dramatically effects their attitude to death. That’s important. That’s what we have to get in very early in the dialogue. It effects how she feels about Riach and about Triganos and her baby. She obviously felt sad on a day to day basis, sad because they weren’t there any more, but not as sad as someone feels who thinks ‘‘that’s it, gone for good’’. If they communicated with their ancestors and their gods, surely they communicated with their dead.’ She broke off with a curse as the phone rang again. Hugh had called half a dozen times since Pat had arrived. ‘He’s not going to give up, is he? And he’s going to keep on threatening to come round.’

  This time, though, the message was longer. ‘Listen, Viv. This is important. Don’t let anyone else touch the brooch, or touch it yourself again. It was cursed.’ He paused, and they could almost hear his embarrassment down the phone. ‘I’ve been told by someone who knows about these things, that that is how Venutios got to me. And it might affect other people. You. Anyone who touches it!’ There was a pause, then the line went dead.

  Pat’s face had drained of colour. ‘I touched it, Viv! I touched that brooch. I held it in my hand.’

  Viv stared at her. She was biting her lip. ‘That’s where Medb came from, Pat,’ she said at last. ‘She gave Venutios the brooch. It’s imbued with her power.’

  For a moment neither of them said anything. When Pat spoke at last it was one word. ‘Shit!’

  In the long silence that followed the phone rang again. They ignored it.

  ‘You need to move out for a bit,’ Pat whispered. ‘Get right away. Come and stay at Abercromby Place. He won’t know where you are.’

  ‘No. ‘Viv shook her head. ‘Don’t you see, Pat. I have to get it back to him.’

  ‘You can’t! It’s dangerous! He just said so.’

  ‘If it is, it’s too late for us.’ Viv shrugged. ‘We’ve both touched it.’ She glanced at Pat with a shudder. ‘You have to fight Medb. She’s evil.’ She was scanning Pat’s face carefully.

  ‘Thanks!’ Pat scowled. ‘How exactly am I supposed to fight her?’

  ‘Don’t listen to her.’ Viv looked down at the manuscript in front of them. ‘Don’t keep writing about her.’ She stood up and walked towards the window uneasily, then she turned and faced Pat again. ‘Medb hated Cartimandua.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pat gave a small tight laugh.

  ‘She wanted to see her brought down. She wanted to drive a wedge between her and Venutios.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that was hard,’ Pat retorted.

  ‘You suggested taking the brooch to Stanwick,’ Viv went on thoughtfully. ‘You were the one who didn’t want to give it back to Hugh once the programme was over.’

  ‘So? You agreed with me.’

  ‘Did Medb put that idea in your head, Pat? Was it Medb who wants to keep it away from Venutios?’

  ‘If it’s cursed you’d think she would want him to have it!’ Pat scrabbled for her cigarettes again and shook the packet. It was empty.

  ‘There is something we are not seeing.’ Viv shivered. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Then don’t do anything. Concentrate on the play.’ Pat stood up. ‘I need to buy some more cigarettes.’

  ‘Let’s leave it there for tonight.’ Viv was suddenly exhausted. ‘Talk about it some more tomorrow.’

  ‘When you’ve consulted Carta?’ Pat raised an eyebrow sarcastically. ‘She knows nothing about Medb. And she doesn’t care! She never gave Medb another thought after she had her kidnapped.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Viv frowned.

  ‘The truth will come out in the play.’

  ‘Will it?’ Viv watched as Pat pushed her papers into her bag and slung it onto her shoulder. ‘We’ll see.’

  III

  Vivienne.

  The voice woke Viv from an uneasy sleep.

  Vivienne. Sweet goddess, protect me and protect my people!

  It was just growing light. In the distance she could hear the blackbird. She frowned. Blackbirds sing at dawn because every dawn has a message. A sheaf of messages. She glanced towards the phone, then she shook her head. Every dawn is also a potential gateway, a magical time. Not a time for modern technology. A time to listen to the voices from the past. And to act.

  She had to retrieve the brooch. And she had to do it without Pat knowing.

  It was still early when she drove out of Edinburgh and the streets were comparatively empty. By nine she was almost there.

  Drawing up in the place they had parked before, she headed up onto the rampart wall.

  The day was airless and the trees which hung over the track were still. In the short time since they had been there last the undergrowth had grown up even more thickly. Nettles and brambles crossed the track and in places it was hard to see where she was going. Cautiously she made her way down the steep bank to the bottom of the reconstructed piece of wall and began to feel along the stones. It was here somewhere. She paused uncomfortably. She could feel someone watching her. She turned round slowly. The clearing was very hot. No breath of wind stirred down here in the lee of the wall. ‘Carta?’ The word faded into silence. ‘Medb?’

  Turning back, she scrabbled amongst the stones, pulling at them, patting the moss, trying to find which one was loose. She had counted the courses of stone. She knew where it was. Batting a fly away from her face she pulled at some grass and then let out
an exclamation of triumph. Dropping the large stone on the ground, she pushed her hand into the space behind it. In seconds she had brought out the plastic box.

  She tore off the lid and stared down at the package inside. It seemed untouched. Pushing the stone back into place in the wall, she turned round to scramble up the bank once more. The trees remained still. There was no sound from the path ahead where it vanished into the tangled bushes. In the distance she could hear the low mournful mooing of a cow.

  She stopped and stared back over her shoulder into the undergrowth. There was someone there all right. Someone who did not want to be seen.

  Carta.

  Or Medb?

  IV

  ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced! It was on the spur of the moment!’ Viv looked at Peggy, pleadingly.

  Sitting in the car with the brooch in its box locked in the glove compartment, she had realised that she didn’t want to go back to Edinburgh. Not yet. She couldn’t face Pat, and she wasn’t ready to make contact with Hugh or listen to any more of his messages. Not yet. Making up her mind at last she had driven on south. The weather had changed and successive showers of rain greeted her head on as she drove west down Nidderdale. Then as she drew up at the farm gate, brilliant sunshine reflected off the house windows and raindrops spangled the flowers. Behind the blue sky another black cloud was powering up the dale.