Daughters of Fire

  ‘Can’t you just grab the kid and shut the door in her face?’

  Cathy gave a throaty laugh. ‘I wish! No, I’ll serve tea and cake and look all domesticated and try to outshine her at her own game as usual.’

  ‘That’s crazy. Pete lives with you. He didn’t like domesticated, remember?’

  ‘I know.’ Cathy sighed. ‘I may be a psychologist, Pat, but I’m still as insecure as the next woman.’ Cathy reached for a jar of teabags. ‘So, is Viv’s book any good? I must confess I haven’t read it yet.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Pat rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘But it’s really strange. She’s an academic, right? And she’s making a huge issue of the fact, but whatever she says it does read like fiction, she’s right. It’s almost lyrical. Even I can see it’s full of stuff she could not possibly know for a fact and her professor is probably justified in his remarks. It is not kosher research. It can’t be. I don’t pretend to know anything about the subject, but I would have expected lots of other detail, social history, Roman background to the period, that sort of thing. Stuff which would be hard to convey in a drama documentary with no visual cues and not much time to spare, but this …’ She paused, sipping from her glass. ‘It doesn’t matter. From my point of view it’s brilliant! We can do a lot with it!’

  Cathy shrugged. ‘She’s been translating old Celtic manuscripts and things and reading oghams, which are some sort of ancient Celtic sign writing, and running her hands over stones and stuff. She let on that much. She was really embarrassed about it!’ She grinned. ‘So, do I gather it is readable? After all, that is the important thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. It is readable. Very. And great material for a play, so I think we’re in business, and,’ Pat headed for the door,‘I’m going back to bed to finish it. As far as I remember from looking her up before I came, no one knows about Cartimandua’s later life. I shall be intrigued to see what Viv has to say on the subject.’

  The answer was, she didn’t. She described the final confrontation between the Brigantian forces and Rome and the story stopped abruptly.

  No more is heard of the Queen of the Brigantes.

  She disappears from history every bit as enigmatically, if with less drama, than did her sister queen, Boudica. Did she live to grow old?

  Did she leave heirs? Did she meet her husband again? We do not know.

  Pat closed the book and let it fall on the sheet. She felt absurdly cheated. The story had been exciting. Engrossing. Brilliant. Surely there must be more to the ending than that?

  But of course even she, who was no historian, knew there wasn’t. History is not interested in happy endings. It is not indeed interested in endings at all. It moves on with the current of events, ever following the path to the future. And Cartimandua was not even a part of history as such. She belonged to pre-history, her name only known because of her interest to Roman historians who recorded what they knew of her, or guessed, or invented, and then moved on to talk of different things.

  Putting the book on the table with a sigh she reached over to turn out the light. It would make a brilliant play.

  II

  Sixteen miles away and some two hours later, in Aberlady, Hugh woke up and lay staring up at the ceiling. Outside the dawn chorus was in full swing, the birds so loud the glory of their song was an almost discordant force, pouring through the open window into his bedroom, drowning the silence.

  He closed his eyes with a groan. It had been a long time since Alison had come to him in a dream. ‘Hugh!’ Her voice had been so clear. ‘Hugh! Be careful.’ Dropping his hand, she had moved away, turning towards the skyline. He remembered what would happen next and he reached out towards her desperately. ‘Don’t go. Please, don’t go.’

  She had paused and turned back. ‘Speak to Meryn, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Speak to Meryn.’ And then she had gone.

  He frowned as the words came back to him.

  As his car bumped over the mountain track towards the white painted stone cottage, Hugh gave a wry grin. Where else would his old friend, Meryn Jones, have come to rest in his peripatetic life when he needed to be near the National Library of Scotland for his research, than this remote glen in the Pentland hills? Any nearer the city would have been an anathema.

  The two men had first met at Jesus College, Oxford over thirty years before, their point of contact their intense interest in the Celtic world in which both were working on post-graduate research, prior to setting off in very different directions, Hugh to Trinity College, Dublin, Meryn to his native Wales where he was to centre his life around his study of Druidism.

  Parking near the door Hugh climbed out and looked round appreciatively. The cottage, nestling beneath a glorious great mountain, and within earshot of a swiftly running rocky burn was surrounded by a small garden where vegetables and herbs - always herbs, wherever Meryn lived, herbs for healing, and for magic and for divination - vied with flowers for the space within the tumbled grey stone garden walls.

  As the two men shook hands and then turned to walk inside, Hugh grinned. He could smell coffee. Most of his friend’s eccentricities he could tolerate, but herb tea morning noon and night was not one of them.

  Tall, with dark hair greying at the temples, Meryn was in his mid-fifties, though his confident stride and upright posture had not changed at all from that of the young man who had gone from Oxford to live and work and study in the mountains of mid-Wales.

  He led Hugh into the cottage where a large work table stood in the centre of the book-lined living room; its stone walls were nearly completely hidden by the shelves, the deep window recesses bright with scarlet geraniums, the fire in the hearth lit even though it was June.

  He gestured Hugh towards one of the two deep armchairs and fetched their drinks.

  ‘You look troubled, my friend,’ Meryn said as he set down a cup beside Hugh.

  Hugh sighed. There were never any preambles with Meryn. Straight to the point.

  ‘I’m tired. Getting old and grouchy.’

  Meryn smiled. ‘You’ve always been grouchy, Hugh. As for old, you’re younger than me. Prime of life! The target of many a beautiful undergraduate’s lustful fantasies if rumours are true.’ He smiled as he glanced across at the other man, as always acute in his summing up of the situation. ‘Time for a sabbatical, perhaps?’

  ‘In two years’ time.’ Hugh reached for his coffee and sniffed it appreciatively before taking a gulp. His host had a cup of something green steaming away beside him. He had not touched it, Hugh noticed. ‘I dreamed about Alison,’ he went on abruptly. ‘I thought I was moving on, like we’re told to, you know, getting on with my life,’ he shrugged,‘and it’s getting easier. Then suddenly, this.’

  Meryn was studying his face. His silence led Hugh to continue.

  ‘She told me to come and see you.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘She is a wise lady.’

  Hugh nodded. Is. Not was. That was typical of Meryn. He and Meryn had re-established their close friendship thanks to Alison. She had adored Meryn’s books, written to him without realising that he and her husband had once been so close, met him at last the year before she died, then on discovering the length and depth of their former friendship, insisted that Hugh and he get in touch again. They had kept in contact over the years, but their approach to their studies was very different and had in a sense driven them apart, Hugh’s academic and based in the empirical record, Meryn’s spiritual and psychological. His approach to Druidry was rooted not only in study, but in memory and meditation - in experience - something Hugh found hard to understand.

  Meryn didn’t deny being a Druid nowadays. In fact it was what he called himself. Not a member of any organisation. Nothing formal. Just a deep, passionate philosophy. A way of living. A way of believing and of remembering which came from the distant Celtic past of his country and his ancestors and his finely tuned intuition which was undoubtedly psychic. He frowned as he sat studying his visitor. His intuition was tel
ling him now that something was very wrong.

  Hugh put down his cup. He respected Meryn’s learning, and his natural wisdom if not his academic purity, and lately he had begun to regard his friend as something of a mentor and guru. Meryn seemed to possess a knowledge and assurance which he himself lacked. It was something he envied.

  Meryn reached for his drink at last. ‘You must let her go, Hugh.’

  ‘Who?’ Hugh started almost guiltily.

  ‘Alison, of course.’ Meryn was watching him closely. ‘Who did you think I meant?’

  Hugh shook his head. He leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. Then he plunged into his story, coming straight to the point. ‘Did you ever meet Dr Lloyd Rees when you came up to the DPCHC?’

  Meryn shook his head. ‘One of your adoring disciples?’

  Hugh gave a bitter smile. ‘I used to think so.’

  After a pause Meryn asked,‘So, what has Dr Lloyd Rees done to displease you?’

  ‘She’s written a damn stupid book. Made a complete ass of herself. It’s going to show up the whole department, and she’s -’ He paused abruptly. ‘She’s done something else unutterably stupid as well, and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘She’s stolen something, Meryn. Something of inestimable value.’ Hugh glanced up.

  He hadn’t actually seen her do it, but when he had gone back to the office and searched the chaos of his desk it had gone. It had to have been her. Who else would have done it?

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  Hugh shook his head.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to confront her, I suppose.’ Hugh shrugged. Scow-ling, he levered himself out of his chair and paced restlessly up and down the floor a couple of times.

  Thoughtfully Meryn watched him. Hugh was growing more agitated by the second.

  ‘She doesn’t realise what she has started!’ Hugh burst out suddenly. He flung himself down on the chair again and drummed his fingers on his knee, staring into the fire.

  ‘And what has she started?’ Meryn’s question was very soft as he studied the other man’s expression.

  ‘A war.’ Hugh said the words almost absent-mindedly. ‘She started a war. Stupid bitch!’ His voice had changed. Deepened. Become raw with anger. ‘She will pay for what she has done!’

  Meryn raised an eyebrow. ‘Strong words.’ He was carefully scanning Hugh’s face.

  ‘Not strong enough!’

  ‘Are we still talking about Dr Lloyd Rees?’

  ‘No! I’m talking about Cartimandua!’ Hugh’s eyes were closed now, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Meryn frowned, his senses alert. It wasn’t Cartimandua who had started a war, it was the man whose essence was prowling through the room, the man whose anger and impatience was resonating in the shadows, whose voice had used Hugh’s larynx, the man whom Hugh did not appear, as yet, to have seen.

  ‘What do you think Dr Lloyd Rees took from you, Hugh?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘A brooch. Technically a gold fibula.’ After a moment’s hesitation Hugh’s voice was his own again. The shadowy figure had gone.

  Meryn nodded gravely. He relaxed. ‘And why did she take it, do you know? Presumably she is not by nature a thief.’

  ‘She wants it to show on a TV programme. Part of the publicity for her book.’

  ‘So she hasn’t stolen it ? She intends to give it back?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘And did she not ask if she could borrow it?’

  Hugh nodded. ‘I said no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because -’ Hugh shook his head from side to side vehemently. ‘Because I didn’t want her to have it, Meryn!’ He hesitated again. ‘Don’t ask me why. I was feeling uncooperative, perhaps. Or grouchy, as you so charmingly put it. Or just angry with her. But she shouldn’t have taken it.’

  ‘If indeed she has.’

  ‘If indeed she has.’ Hugh sighed. ‘I lent it to Hamish Macleod.’ He paused. ‘He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He told me he left it in the box. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it either.’ He looked up and met Meryn’s steady gaze. ‘There is something about the brooch which is odd.’

  ‘What about you? Have you touched it, Hugh?’

  Hugh nodded.

  ‘What happened?’ Meryn was looking thoughtful.

  ‘Nothing happened. At least -’ Hugh shrugged. ‘It felt strange. Powerful. I assumed that was because I knew how old and rare it was. But …’

  ‘But?’ Meryn prompted after a minute or two.

  Hugh shook his head. ‘Artefacts like that have a powerful effect on the imagination.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word evil. His father had felt it. Perhaps so had Wheeler. He had always wondered why the latter had given up the brooch so easily. Maybe this irrational fear was experienced by anyone who came near it. That would explain everything.

  Meryn was nodding sagely. ‘So, what did you imagine, my friend?’ There was a slight twinkle in his eye.

  ‘That the brooch would give me an unpleasant insight into the head of the man to whom it had belonged.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Venutios, King of the Brigantes.’

  ‘And you don’t want Dr Lloyd Rees to share your insight?’

  Hugh opened his mouth to answer, said nothing, and shrugged. ‘I didn’t want her to be harmed.’

  ‘Harmed in what way?’

  Hugh sighed. ‘Something happened when she left the room. The sudden cold. The atmosphere. It didn’t make sense at the time. I thought it was me. The quarrel I’d had with her. But now,’ he looked up with a frown,‘I’m frightened, Meryn. I think the brooch could be dangerous. That’s why I came to see you.’

  III

  Meryn sat for a long time after Hugh left, staring deep into the smouldering embers of the fire, reaching with tentative fingers into the past. Hugh had left him a postcard of the brooch, its exquisite craftsmanship obvious in the intricate swirls of gold and the jewelled colours of the enamels as it sat on its black velvet plinth in the museum showcase. The card rested on his knee as his mind quested the darkness behind the glowing logs at his feet. The craftsman who had made it had been proud of this his most beautiful achievement. It was an artefact fit for a god. But it had not been given to a god. Meryn frowned. The shadowy figure who was stalking Hugh was not alone. There were others there, drifting in the room, conjured from the otherworld by the very thought of this piece of jewellery. Who else had been affected by it, he wondered. He shivered as his thoughts strayed to the museum where it had lain, the malign chill of its presence cut off from the world by its glass case. Conservators and curators had admitted to him more than once in private that they could feel the vibes coming off some of the treasures in their care. Alone, when the public had gone, in the empty galleries or the work rooms behind the scenes they saw and felt echoes of the past which were far from dormant. This brooch had probably done the same.

  He lifted the picture off his knee and studied it in the flickering glow of the firelight. At some point in its existence it had been imbued with power which, whatever the original intention, was now malign. Why? By whom? How? Why had these sticky threads of danger remained to contaminate all who touched it? He looked back into the fire. Tendrils of grey smoke were seeping out into the room and he screwed up his eyes with a frown, sensing a swirl of conflict, of love and hate, of fear and tragedy as the last of the logs collapsed into the bed of ash and for the time being the window into the shadows closed.

  IV

  ‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, are you coming to hand in your notice? As a popular author, you clearly no longer need the pittance you earn with us.’ Hugh had just managed to ease his car into a much coveted parking space near George Square. He was pocketing his car keys as he turned and found himself face to face with Viv.

  She could feel her face flaming in response to the comment. Somehow she clamped down on
the retort which fizzed in her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper again. She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a while, yet, Hugh. Someone has to try and bring our attitudes out of the ark and into the world of modern research, after all.’

  Damn! Why had she said that? Why antagonise him further?

  He had started it, though.

  She gripped the strap of the tote bag on her shoulder until her knuckles turned white. Don’t say another word, Viv. Wait for him to mention the brooch. Did he even know it was missing? If he didn’t he soon would if he was heading into the office. She chewed her lips nervously, watching as he bent to retrieve from the pavement the heavy briefcase which he had just pulled out of the car.

  For a moment they both stood unmoving there on the footpath. It was the professor who turned away first. Swinging on his heel without another word he strode off, carrying his heavy case with him. He had said nothing about the pin. At the corner he veered away from the office, walking briskly into the square. In spite of herself she smiled with relief. At least they were not going to the same place, but he wouldn’t want to carry that briefcase far.

  Following him at a safe distance she headed away from him, seeking the sanctuary of the small book-lined room she had called her own for five years now on the first floor of the small Georgian terraced building on the west side of the square.

  Turning up the steps she ducked in through the door to look in at the office where the departmental secretary, Heather James, was sitting at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen. The coffee machine was gurgling quietly. ‘Can I grab one on my way upstairs?’ Viv dropped her bag on the only empty chair and reached towards the tray of mugs. ‘I suppose you saw that through the window?’

  ‘Saw what?’ Heather’s large blue eyes seemed to grow larger behind her glasses as she glanced up, then went back to her letter.