She realised that he was studying her face again, his eyes so close to hers that she could see through the darkness of his pupils into his very soul and again she felt that sudden shaft of fear. By the ancient laws of the tribes it was her right to deny him a child until such time as she and the goddess decided it was auspicious; her right to send him away from her bed. Yet those deep-set brooding eyes held a power and a menace and an excitement which made it very hard for her refuse him anything.
‘My queen? My lord Venutios?’
The voice from the doorway was discrete, but sufficiently loud to make Venutios roll aside with a groan and sit up. Beside him Carta pulled the sheets over her with a shiver, conscious of the bliss of cool soft linen after the hard sweating body.
‘Vellocatus?’ Venutios barked at his shield bearer. ‘You had better have a good reason for disturbing us!’
‘I am sorry, my lord. The queen has to come.’ The young man stepped forward out of the darkness into the lamp-shadowed room. ‘My queen.’ He looked at her at last, aware of her dishevelled hair, the voluptuous bare shoulders and heavy breasts as she sat up. He looked away again quickly. ‘Prince Caradoc is here.’
‘What?’ Venutios hauled himself out of the bed.
Carta felt her heart sink. Caradoc was the last person she wanted to see in Brigantia. His presence could only bode ill for her and for everything she believed and put her in an impossible position.
It took them only short minutes to fling on their clothes. By the time they had walked over to the meeting house and taken their seats the fire was roaring and a servant was ready to serve mead and wine to their unexpected guest.
Caradoc was a tall, well-built man of some thirty-five summers. Normally strong and commanding in appearance, he stood before them exhausted now, with an ugly oozing sword wound to the upper arm and his shoulder wrapped in blood-stained bandages.
Carta surveyed him coolly. ‘Greetings, cousin. I am sorry to see you so wounded.’ This man was the implacable enemy of Rome. Even by being here he was compromising her position. ‘Have you brought men with you?’ She was frantically working out the implications of his arrival.
‘A dozen only, cousin.’ He emphasised the last word as though reminding her of her duty to him as his kinswoman as well as his host. ‘My army has withdrawn into the mountains of Eryri for the time being. We confronted the Romans first in the upper valleys of the Sabrina.’ He shook his head. ‘Scapula was at the head of two legions. Perhaps more. But my men outnumbered them. The tribes had flocked to my standard.’ There was an infinitesimal pause. Where were the Brigantians this time, when he had needed their support? Where were the Brigantians who had fought under his banner before?
‘They fought like heroes. I could have defeated them with more men.’ Again a pause. He shrugged and shook his head. ‘The trouble is, the legions fight like gods. All fall before them. They march like knives through cheese. Nothing could stop them, not this time. But we’ll drive them out yet. With your help, cousin, and yours Venutios, my friend.’
Carta beckoned a servant. ‘Fetch Artgenos, and tell him to bring a healer with him. Our guest is wounded.’
As the man disappeared she waved Caradoc, who had been standing awkwardly, leaning on a staff, to a seat. ‘Rest now. We will tend your wounds before we decide what is to be done.’ She had not smiled at him or given him the kiss of welcome. ‘Are you being pursued?’
He shook his head with a bitter laugh. ‘Maybe they think they have killed me. They no doubt claim victory. But I had few losses. My men have vanished into the mist leaving Scapula scratching his head in confusion. We’ll fight again. And soon.’ He made an effort to straighten his shoulders and winced at the pain.
Carta studied his face thoughtfully. ‘Those sound brave and defiant words, but I sense you have not told me all there is to know.’ Beside her, Venutios stood up and himself brought a cup of wine to their guest.
Caradoc tipped it down his throat. It brought a flush of colour to his grey cheeks. ‘I speak the truth about my men. We will live to fight again.’ He took a deep shaky breath. ‘But Scapula captured a fort on the flank of the action. My wife and children were there.’
There was a long pause.
‘You have my sympathy, my friend.’ Venutios spoke at last.
‘If he puts them to the sword -’
‘He won’t.’ Carta shook her head. She was torn with indecision. Caradoc’s family were her family. The bonds of kinship were sacred, yet she was bound also by treaty. ‘I have not met Scapula, but I hear he is shrewd and experienced. He will use them as bargaining counters. They have too much value as hostages for him to kill them. Be assured on that score. He will take them back to Camulodunum.’
‘To lure me from the hills? He wouldn’t think it that easy?’ Caradoc managed a note of defiance.
‘Who knows what he thinks!’ Venutios put in. ‘Perhaps Carta can tell you more. She’s the client of the Romans here. She studies their every move.’ His voice was heavy with scorn.
‘And as such, I am pledged to uphold their cause in the interests of peace. Peace for my people.’ She was looking very serious as Artgenos came in. With him was Gruoch, followed by a young Druidess carrying a bag of herbs and potions.
Artgenos raised his hand in blessing and joined the circle. Gruoch, after a careful examination of Caradoc’s wound, bade her companion clean it and put on a fresh dressing. She took two phials from the bag and tipping their contents into Caradoc’s cup beckoned another servant forward to fill it once more with wine before joining the circle herself, drawing up a stool closer to the fire.
‘We will support you, Caradoc,’ Artgenos stated flatly. ‘The Romans are heading for nys Môn. There is no question that that is their ultimate goal. They have never trusted the Druids. They see us as the source of strength and unity behind all opposition to their attempt to conquer these isles, just as we opposed their inroads into Gaul. They will not be content until we are destroyed totally. The portents and the omens all say the same.’
There was another long silence. Carta was watching the young Druidess’s nimble fingers as she packed Caradoc’s wound with healing ointment and bound it with a pad of moss and the linen bandages. They had all seen the vicious jaggedly raw edges of the wound.
‘That is not true, Artgenos.’ She cleared her throat at last. ‘Plautius assured me, as did the Emperor himself -’
‘Plautius is not governor now,’ Venutios broke in. ‘And Claudius is long gone from these shores. They bought you off temporarily with their flattery and their gifts. Now events have moved on. Can’t you see it, woman? We are not bound by your agreement. Particularly if they now threaten our very gods!’
‘Our gods are not threatened!’ Carta was angry. ‘How could they be? I do what is right for our people. The tribes of the south are taxed to starvation levels. They are enslaved. They are murdered and tortured if they are found with so much as a knife to cut up their meagre bread. Is that what we want for the Brigantians? We are wealthy and at peace. We do not have to watch our dead sons and husbands brought home on litters.’ She stood up and strode out of the circle seated round the fire, her mantle brushing the wounded man’s shoulder as she passed. He flinched. ‘It is our duty to support Rome up here on the northern borders of the province.’ She spoke firmly from near the doorway. Beside the fire, Gruoch frowned. None of the men moved. ‘I put to death the men of Brigantia who defied me and went to support you, Caradoc. And I would do it again.’
Caradoc stood up. Nearby, two of Carta’s men put their hands on the hilts of their swords. Slowly the room had been filling up as one by one they filed in, stooping at the low doorway, warriors, council members, Vellocatus - all there now.
‘I have to honour my oath to the Emperor, Caradoc,’ she went on. ‘You are my cousin but you have led an insurrection and rebellion and it is my duty to give you upto the Romans, according to our agreement, to prove my loyalty and keep my people free and safe -’
br /> ‘No!’ Caradoc’s face was white to the lips. ‘We are tied by blood!’
‘It is the teaching of our gods and of our judges that we must keep our promises and our oaths above all else, otherwise we are dishonoured.’ Carta’s mouth was dry. She felt the resentment round her in the room like a black cloud. Somehow she kept her voice strong.
‘You are wrong, Cartimandua.’ Artgenos hauled himself to his feet with a groan. ‘In this case you are wrong. Do not do this, I beg you.’
‘I have to.’ Could they not understand that she had given her oath? That she had done all this to save her people?
‘No!’ Venutios, too, was on his feet now. ‘I forbid it! Caradoc came here to claim sanctuary and aid. You would break every code of honour if you did not render him hospitality.’
‘You do not forbid your high queen anything!’ Her voice was icy as she confronted her husband. She stepped forward into the firelight. ‘How dare you question my decisions? Caradoc shall have our hospitality and food and warmth and attention for his wounds and he will remain here until he is well. But he will do so as my prisoner. Then I shall send him to the governor. I will not break my oath and endanger the lives of every man, woman and child in Brigantia for one man!’ She was facing Venutios now, glaring at him, daring him to defy her.
‘You cannot do this, Cartimandua. It would bring disgrace on your name and on that of the Brigantian peoples.’ Artgenos laid his hand on her arm as he spoke. ‘You are queen only by choice of the gods. The gods could remove you from power if you defy their wishes.’
She span round to face him. ‘I have the ear of the gods! My gods! And the people are behind me.’
‘Not all of them.’ Venutios spoke through gritted teeth. ‘You will divide the tribes.’
‘The tribes will remain united,’ she retorted. ‘Those who defy their queen will die.’ She beckoned the two armed warriors over. ‘Place the Lord Caradoc in chains. Give him the best of everything as befits a prince and king of his own people and see his wounds are tended regularly. But see he is closely guarded. I shall send messengers tonight to Ostorius Scapula to tell him that I hold his enemy. I shall demand assurances for the safety of his wife and children in exchange for surrendering him to Rome. And you, my husband,’ she turned on Venutios, ‘will add your name to my message. You will support your queen in her decisions.’
Gathering her mantle around her, she swept out of the council room, the dogs at her heels. Outside she stood for a moment, staring up at the sky. She was trembling. The heavy clouds were rolling away towards the east. The rain had stopped and she could see the stars appearing, one by one. She took a deep breath. The starlight was a sign. The gods supported her. They were drawing away the clouds.
‘Lady? May I escort you back to your house?’ She jumped at the soft voice behind her. It was Vellocatus. She gave him a quick hard look, glancing behind him to see if he was alone then she nodded, her expression softening as it always did when she saw the young man who followed Venutios everywhere as was his duty. ‘You should be attending my husband.’ It was a gentle reproof.
‘I shall do so, later.’ He put his hand under her arm. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the wool of her mantle. He was strong and yet gentle; a gentleness which almost shocked her after the customary violence in her husband’s touch.
‘That was a brave deed, my queen. To stand up for your beliefs against so many shows you to be very strong.’
She gave a grim smile. ‘Very strong or very foolish.’
‘They respect you for strength, not foolishness. You have done the right thing.’
She paused, looking at him. Then abruptly she laughed. ‘Thank you for your support, Vellocatus. I shall remember where your loyalties lie, my friend. But for now, return to your king.’
He bowed and stood back. She was aware of his eyes following her as she walked towards her house. At the doorway she paused. Two human heads hung there, moving slightly in the breeze. They smelled of the precious imported cedar oil in which they had been embalmed. ‘I do this for you,’ she murmured. She touched them lightly as she walked past. ‘For my principles you died and for my principles I must live or die also.’
In her sleep Viv cried out. The farmhouse lay swathed in mist and silence. There was no one to hear.
Mairghread was waiting for her in the central chamber. The fire had been rebuilt and soothing herbs thrown on the smouldering peats.
‘Is it true that you are going to hand the Lord Caradoc over to the Romans?’ she asked.
Carta closed her eyes briefly. ‘Are you questioning my decisions?’ Taking a deep breath she faced the other woman sternly.
‘No!’ Mairghread stepped back hastily. ‘No, my queen. Never.’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Nevertheless you need to beware,’ Mairghread persisted. She paused. ‘There is much talk amongst the people. They believe the king is right.’
‘Then they are disloyal!’ Carta walked past her into her bedchamber. Suddenly she was furiously angry. She was being made to feel the traitor. Caradoc knew where her loyalty lay; he should not have tried to sway her. It was his choice to come here. His choice to put his life at risk. She stood staring down at the bed. The servants had smoothed the sheets and there was no trace now of their earlier love-making. She gave a bitter smile. Venutios would not forgive her easily for this. He would not dare show his fury openly but he would punish her subtly by avoiding her. By sleeping elsewhere. Well, that would be no loss. There were other fish in the sea if she felt the need of a man. Young Vellocatus, for example. She considered him for a moment, glad of the distraction from her sombre thoughts. He wasn’t of noble birth; he was all but a servant, but he was good-looking and gentle and had had the courage to give her his support when higher-born men had stood silent. And it would be very satisfying to suborn her husband’s closest attendant.
‘So, are you revelling in your powers, lady?’
She froze. She was wrong. Venutios was going to face her. She turned. ‘Do not dare to contradict me! Brigantia will honour her agreements with the Emperor.’
He was standing in the doorway. ‘Then the world will despise Brigantia until the end of time!’
Turning on his heel he walked out. The curtain fell across the doorway behind him. She was alone.
Half-awake now, Viv stirred. How right Venutios was. Except that the world had not despised Brigantia. It had despised Cartimandua.
Through the window she heard in the distance a sheepcalling, the sound echoing strangely in the rising mist. It was a lonely noise. Two thousand years ago she would have heard after it the eerie cry of a wolf.
II
The rain started next morning as they sat round the breakfast table. Huge bronze thunderheads were piling up in the west and in the distance a low rumble announced the coming storm.
‘Perfect!’ Viv glanced at Pat. ‘Are you game to go up the hill and record during the storm? The effects would be stunning.’
‘And suicidal.’ Pat reached for the coffee pot. She was exhausted after the previous day’s climb and her head had begun to ache. ‘People get struck by lightning in storms!’
‘Not if we use the shelters up there. Or get down behind some rocks. We needn’t go very far up. Come on. We can’t miss a chance like this.’
‘Why not go into town with Steve? You’d be mad to go out on the fells in this weather.’ Peggy came in with a tray of empty plates in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.
‘Mad but inspired!’ Pat grinned. ‘Viv’s right.’
‘Can’t you record it in the house?’ Peggy commented over her shoulder as she carried fresh toast to the dining room for the other guests.
‘It wouldn’t be the same,’ Pat called after her.
Viv grinned. The story in her head was too insistent to give up the chance of seeing the sullen beauty of the hill when Taranis the thunder god was angry.
There was no sign of
the re-enactors. They had packed their tents and gone.
‘They’ve got more sense than us.’ Viv swung the bag off her back and crouched down behind a low stone wall where it strode across the side of the hill. ‘Shall we stop here? I don’t want to go too far. We’ve got to have some shelter before it hits us for real.’
As if to underline her words a fork of lightning cut through the sky and they flinched at the almost instant crash of thunder reverberating across the moorland. Pat subsided beside her.
‘Go on, Pat. You play Cartimandua; this is the first speech she makes as she returns from Colchester. She addresses the tribal leaders in a storm. ‘Don’t improvise here. This bit is important. It shows her motivation for the whole of the rest of the play.’ Viv handed her the page in its plastic sleeve.
Pat nodded, turning on the recorder inside its weatherproof bag.
The sound of the rain on their waterproofs, on the stone, on the grass was deafening. As another thunderclap echoed round them Pat began to speak. Water ran across the lines of typescript. She couldn’t read it. Her words were snatched from her lips by the wind. Another thunderclap broke almost overhead. With a shrug she rose to her knees. ‘I can’t do this, Viv. Sorry. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.’
‘Then I will,’ Viv said impatiently. ‘Here. Give me the mike.’ And suddenly she was shouting, belting the speech out into the storm. It was not what was written on the script in her hand.
‘Can you not understand? It is my honour that is at stake here! I gave my oath to the Emperor only to protect my people. To bring them prosperity and peace. If I break that oath the Romans will attack us as they have attacked the Silures and the Ordovices. As they have attacked the south. They are all disarmed. Destroyed. Slaughtered. Is that what you want for the Brigantes? Annihilation? I see disaster on the horizon. This storm carries portents from the gods! If I give in and release this man, the mountains will fall, our civilisation will disappear, our gods will be defeated. The only hope for us is to honour my agreement as the Romans will honour it. It can be no other way!’