Daughters of Fire (32 page)

He shivered.

Venutios.

The name hung in the air between them. Venutios. Not Cartimandua.

‘You don’t really believe it’s cursed, do you?’ she asked softly.

He shrugged. ‘As you say, when you hold it -’ He broke off and she saw his eyes shift abruptly from her face towards the window. He was frowning and there was something like fear in his eyes. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘It’s windy out there.’ All she could hear was the kettle.

‘The carnyx.’ He half-whispered the word.

Viv stared at him, shocked. There was no doubt about it. He too was scared.

‘Can’t you hear it?’ He clapped his hands over his ears.

Viv followed his gaze. All she could see in the window were the reflections of the stark room. Tidy. Neat. No dishes. No food. Clean empty worktops, table, cooker, sink. Just the kettle, belching out steam and the two people facing each other across the table, both looking towards the window. She felt a moment of her old affection and of intense pity for his loneliness, then it was gone, replaced by a feeling of unease. His fear was infectious.

‘It was his brooch, not hers,’ he said at last. ‘Strange, as the crane is a bird more usually associated with women.’

‘Hugh -’

‘He is so angry. Can you hear him? He wants it back. It’s the key to everything. To love and hate and revenge! Beyond the roar of the wind and the lash of the rain he is shouting out his frustration and fury!’

She stepped back from the table. ‘Hugh, have you been drinking?’

She knew he had. She’d smelled it on his breath when she arrived. But not a huge amount. Nothing serious, surely.

He ignored the question. Instead he went across to the table and picking up the box he opened it and took out the brooch, holding it on the palm of his hand. ‘It’s beautiful. Exquisite. A bird of the underworld.’ He smiled grimly.

‘And a bird that brings luck in time of war, a servant of the war gods, and nearly two thousand years old,’ she reminded him, afraid of what he might be going to do with it.

‘He’s out there. In the garden,’ Hugh said, very quietly. ‘Waiting for me.’

‘Who?’ Her mouth had gone dry.

‘Venutios. I told you.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She was really frightened now. This was her territory. Even Pat’s. But not Hugh Graham’s. Never Hugh. He must be a lot drunker than she had suspected. ‘Shall I make us a coffee?’ With a quick glance at him she went over to the cupboards and started to pull them open, searching for cups, coffee and milk. There was almost nothing in the fridge, she discovered, just half a loaf of bread and some marmalade and about a quarter of a bottle of milk. She sniffed it cautiously, with a wave of sadness, thinking how bleak it all was now, without Alison and her passion for cooking which had always left the kitchen warm, chaotic and overflowing with food. It was a relief to switch off the frantically boiling kettle and watch the steam disperse as she made the coffee, but the sudden silence brought the sound of the wind and rain closer.

‘Can you hear it?’ Hugh had walked over to the window. He still had the brooch in his hand. His face was white.

‘I can hear the storm.’ She grimaced. ‘Here you are.’ She held out the mug. ‘Have it while it’s hot.’

He was staring out through the rain-streaked glass, his hands cupped round the brooch in front of him as though he was cupping the body of a real bird which at any moment might escape and fly out into the night.

‘There it is again. Listen!’ She could hear the fear in his voice. ‘He wants it. He wants the brooch!’

‘Hugh, don’t be silly.’ Cautiously she went and stood beside him. ‘Have your coffee, then why don’t you lock it up somewhere safe.’

His face was grey now, and she realised that he was shaking.

‘Hugh? What is it?’ She put her hand on his arm. Then she heard
it too. Far away, beyond the sound of the rain, a deep ethereal note echoing in the distance. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. But she had heard it before at Ingleborough and in her own small flat amongst the rooftops of Edinburgh. The haughty baying call of the carnyx.

‘He’s out there.’ Hugh was still staring at the window.

Viv put down the mug and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Come away. It’s the wind. It has to be.’

He turned towards her and she saw the despair and fear in his face.

‘There’s no one there.’ She tried to draw him away from the window and for a moment he resisted, then suddenly he gave in and turning, he put his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the smell of rain and shampoo and the sweet musky scent of her skin. ‘Oh God, Viv. What’s happening to me?’

She didn’t move. His arms were strong. Secure. Briefly she felt herself relax against him, her own lonely longing intense, remembering just how much she had loved him; longed for him - her friend’s husband. How agonising it had been to pretend she just liked him as a friend and colleague. How much his antagonism since Alison had died had hurt her. Gently she pushed him away. ‘Hugh? Come on. Come away from the window. There are too many eyes out there. Let me draw the blind.’

He stood quite still, staring unseeing into the distance, as she went over to it. He was listening intently. ‘There it is again. Can you hear it?’ It was a whisper.

She nodded grimly.

‘He wants the brooch.’ He grabbed it off the table. ‘Take it. Don’t let him have it.’ He pushed it into her hand. ‘Take it now. Take it away. And go. Quickly. It’s me he’s after! He won’t hurt you!’ Without warning he was pushing her towards the door.

‘Why does he want it?’ she protested.

He shrugged. ‘It’s part of his story. Who knows. Just go away and take it with you!’

‘Hugh!’ His panic was infectious. She ran into the front hall ahead of him. She grabbed her bag and shoving the brooch, just as it was, into her jacket pocket, dug for her car keys.

‘Hugh, I don’t want to go out there! I can’t leave you!’ She was frantic. ‘Come with me. Come back to Edinburgh. You can’t stay here alone.’

‘I have to. Don’t you understand? He’s made me angry so that
he can feed off my anger. I’m frightened of what he’ll do. Of what he might make me do! Go, quickly!’

Somehow the door was open and she found herself outside, running across the gravel. Throwing herself into the car in a complete panic for the second time that night she stabbed frantically at the ignition, turning the key at last, revving the engine. Behind her Hugh had slammed the front door. As she turned the car, gravel spitting beneath the wheels, the house was once more in total darkness.

She drove out of the gate and onto the road, and she had gone at least a mile before she pulled onto the verge. Her heart slamming under her ribs, her breath coming in quick small jerks she banged the door locks shut, then she rummaged in her bag for her mobile. Punching out Hugh’s number she let it ring for a while before cutting the call and dropping the phone down on the seat beside her. She glanced in the mirror. The road was deserted, the rain drumming on the soft top of the car, lashing the windscreen, streaming down the windows. She couldn’t leave him like that. He was drunk and he was frightened. She should have insisted he come with her. God, what should she do? She stared ahead along the road in the bright beam of the headlights. She would have to find somewhere to turn the car. Shakily she engaged gear and set off, more slowly this time, scanning the hedges for a gateway where she could turn. It was several minutes before she found somewhere and reversed into someone’s driveway. Pausing, she tried the phone again. Again there was no answer.

Turning the car into Hugh’s gate she drew up, the headlights trained on the front door. The house was still in darkness. She crept closer easing up the clutch in first gear until she was as close to the door as possible. Tucking the brooch into the glove pocket of the car she leaned on the hooter. There was no response. Staring round for a minute as she tried to pluck up the courage to get out, she studied the rain-swept flower beds, the shadowy trees, the darkness of the lawns. They were all deserted. Taking a deep breath she opened the door, she flung herself out and ran to the front door. ‘Hugh!’ she rang the bell and hammered on the oak panelling. ‘Hugh! It’s me, Viv. Come with me. You can’t stay here on your own.’ She crouched down and opened the letter box, peering inside. The hall was in total darkness. ‘Hugh! Can you hear me?’

There was no reply.

With a sob she turned back to the car and locked herself inside again. She was drenched and cold and very frightened. She tried the mobile again. Still no reply.

Of course he wasn’t answering. He had probably gone up to bed to sleep off the whisky. He had heard neither the phone nor her knocking. She sat back in the seat forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to master her panic. Should she ring the police? But what would she say? A drunken man thought an Iron Age war lord was after him? Probably not. All she could do was go home and ring him again in the morning. Slowly she reversed the car and turned back towards the gate.

‘I have seen your death, brother!’ Carta was holding Triganos’s forearms in a furious grip. ‘Can you not listen and be warned?’

She had dragged him away from the township on foot, through the gates in the ramparts down the track out onto the moss where they would not be overheard. Nearby the red-stained waters of a mountain beck poured over the falls at the cliff edge with a roar which almost drowned her voice. ‘I have seen you, with blood on your back. I have seen you fall, a sword between your shoulders!’

He was staring at her, his face white with shock beneath the tan and the carefully symmetrical tattoos. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He was furiously angry.

‘Why not? When have I ever lied?’ Her eyes blazed back at his. ‘Listen.’ She gestured frantically at the waterfall. ‘Can you not hear, even the waters are keening. Do not go, Triganos. You have a choice. The gods will not demand such a sacrifice. This land can be protected in other ways.’ They were so close to the water now that droplets clung to her eyelashes and her hair.

‘But it can’t!’ He was shouting against the roar of the falls. ‘The Romans need nothing but the power of the sword to win. They have cut their way through the south of these islands like iron through butter. Tribe after tribe has fallen into slavery. No one has the power, alone, to gainsay them. They need experienced warriors to hold them back, men such as mine who can hurl them back into the sea!’

It was bravado. He had been frightened of his sister’s visionary powers since he had first realised her talent when they were children.
She had done it so naturally. It was a part of her, a misty smokiness behind those intense eyes, a part of her power and her fascination, and a lethal weapon when she wanted her own way. Now she was a trained seer and she was, he was beginning to think, formidable. He was determined not to let her see how wary he was of her. Stepping away from her, he was relieved to see the passion subsiding as she shook her head sadly. She followed him, scrambling down the muddy track which followed the river, steep as a ladder here and there as they made their way down into the gorge.

‘You are a fool, brother. A stupid fool. You cannot defeat the Romans with a few hundred men. Nor even a few thousand. They have four legions now on British soil,’ she shouted after him. ‘Listen to me! Artgenos’s spies report that there are twenty thousand men at their command, with as many again auxiliaries.’

Triganos frowned. He stopped, waiting for her on the slippery rocks. ‘So many?’

‘Have you not been listening during the council meetings?’ She was exasperated. ‘But of course not. You have not even been there half the time. But your friend, Venutios. He’s been listening. He understands the gravity of the situation. Why in the name of all the gods does he not stop this insanity of yours?’

‘The whole of the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes have risen -’

‘Rome defeated the Cantiaci and the Catuvellauni, brother. They have walked through thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of men and women as though the land was undefended.’ Carta shook her head. He was not going to listen to her. Already she could see the shadow of death growing closer about his shoulders. ‘Does Venutios advocate this foolish charge down the country?’ she asked sharply. She frowned. Venutios, she was loathe to admit, was the leader her eldest brother was not and as king of the Carvetii he had, so she had heard, more than proved himself to his own tribesmen. He was devious but he was rugged and implacable, more experienced in battle and he had been listening. All the time. And taking note. She frowned. Did he think she hadn’t noticed how recently he had encouraged Triganos to go off with his companions while he himself stayed behind? Without doubt he had the makings of a first-rate commander, she would grant him that much. He listened to the Druids who brought news and advice daily from the south and he heeded the words of their own wise men. He was
astute and ambitious and she didn’t trust him further than she could have thrown the mountain.

‘Oh yes, he wants to go with us.’ Triganos looked defiant. ‘Indeed he does. He’ll go with me, you’ll see. Get back to your women’s work, Carta, and leave us men to protect you.’ He slapped himself on the chest with a grin, full of bravado. ‘By the first snows these invaders will be back in Gaul and running for their fancy villas!’

She let him go, watching sadly as he strode back up the hillside and out of sight. Then she turned to the water. She had no offerings for the goddess save the gold bangle around her wrist. She stood for a moment on a wet outcrop of limestone, watching the roaring waters, like boiling milk with the tell-tale streaks and patches of red. Signs of blood to come.

‘Sweet goddess, save him. Save us from these savages,’ she cried. Pulling the bangle off she held it high for a moment over the edge of the rock. The whole area trembled beneath the thunder of the water. ‘If it is your wish, protect this land and its people and guide me so that, if it has to be, I may rule them in my brother’s stead.’

And not Venutios. She didn’t say the words out loud. The goddess would know her thoughts.

The gold arced up as she threw it, for a second catching a stray ray of sunshine, then it fell into the greedy water and vanished. She stood for a moment looking down into the churning cauldron below the rock, staring into the foaming waters, mesmerised by the swirl and roar of the whirlpool, then at last she turned away and began the slow steep climb back to the summit of the hill. The bangle did not reappear. The goddess had accepted it.

Two days later Triganos rode out at the head of a band of warriors. 300 horsemen and women, 122 war chariots, each carrying a driver and a warrior with a full compliment of weapons and several hundred levied men. With him, as he had predicted, went Venutios of the Carvetii and Brochan of the Parisii each with nearly 1000 men and women of their own. It was an impressive sight. On their way south they would collect more from the forts and settlements along the trackways and high drove roads until by the time they crossed the Trisantona, which later men would call the River Trent, they would have more than 10,000 followers. That was the plan.

The whole settlement had gathered to see them leave. With tears and cheers the remaining women and the children, the old men and the lame had waved until they were out of sight, then slowly
they turned away. Carta sighed, standing in the doorway of the feasting hall which was silent and empty. She knew she would not see her brother again. Behind her, quiet footsteps rustled through the dried heather on the floor. Their father came to stand beside her. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘A brave man, your brother,’ he said softly.

She nodded.

‘I have decided -’ He spoke huskily. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘With Artgenos’s advice and agreement, to call upon your cousin Oisín to lead the tribe while Triganos and Fintan and Bran are away. We need a strong decision-maker to take Triganos’s place for the time being.’

‘What!’ Carta turned in disbelief. ‘You can’t do that! I will lead our people -’

‘No, Carta. Not yet.’ He sighed. ‘You are not ready, sweetheart, ambitious though you are. Maybe you will never be ready. Who knows. You will need to marry again before you can think of leading us, and Oisín is a sound steady man.’

‘He is wounded!’

‘Which is why he cannot fight at your brothers’ side. But his injuries do not incapacitate him. They are healed.’

‘They disqualify him from being king!’ She clenched her fists. ‘The king must be unblemished or the gods will not bless him -’ She broke off in mid-sentence but it was too late. Her father’s rueful smile was serene however. ‘As I know to my cost, daughter. I lost the throne because I was wounded, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘Without a council to elect him Oisín will not be our king. He is our leader for the time being.’

‘And will tell me, as my brother did, to go and sit with Essylt and attend to women’s work?’ She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Our men despise Rome and talk of chasing away the Roman legions but they are quick enough to copy the Roman way with women, relegating them to their beds and their kitchens as though they are slaves!’ Her face was flushed with anger. ‘Well, I for one will not stay to be ruled by him!’

‘I’m sure he will try and do no such thing!’ Her father laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think he would have the courage.’

But already she had swept out of the house towards her own. The heather thatch was slick beneath the rain, the smoke flattened and heavy as she ducked inside. There were no lamps lit and her
women had not yet returned to her fireside. It did not matter. She did not intend to stay there. Her belongings bundled into a leather bag, her thickest beaver fur cloak snatched from its peg and wrapped around her shoulders, she was outside again before her father had made his way back to his own fireside. He watched sadly from the doorway as she splashed her way through the township towards the great gates which still stood open and disappeared between the ramparts. She was heading towards the Druid college in the valley. There was no need for him to have her followed to make sure she was safe. Artgenos had told him what she would do. Bellacos chuckled. Headstrong but determined, his daughter was nothing if not predictable. So be it. It would make life easier for Oisín as he looked after the remaining men, women and children and helped them prepare for winter without their menfolk there to protect and support them.

Carta did not go straight to the Druid college below the falls. First she went to the hidden cavern of the goddess.

Every part of this mountain was sacred. Every tree, every stone had its living spirit. Every part of the whole land was blessed and alive, watched over and guarded by the gods and goddesses of place, of the elements, of the seasons themselves, but some places came closer, far closer, to those other secret realms than others. Places of power, marked by the great stones of the ancients, by the sacred Cursus, and by the caves and hollows of the earth. And this place was one of them, guarded by an angry spirit that roared and howled its rage into the night when the storms sped over the high peaks and the waters rose in the rivers and streams. But she had braved it alone, initially in the dark, later with a torch lit by iron and tinder and she had gasped at the beauty and awesome grandeur of the goddess’s home. A low tunnel led a long way into the hillside hidden behind gorse and thorn, both trees sacred to the goddess, then abruptly the passage opened into a vast cave, snug within the huge belly of the high peak itself. The flaming torch, held high above her head revealed stalactites and stalagmites of giant proportions, patterns of rock, dark, still waters and everywhere the reverberation of greater hidden rivers somewhere beneath her feet.

On one wall she found drawings of creatures the goddess especially
called her own. Bears. Great deer. Aurochs, and in a corner she found their bones.

She brought offerings of gold and silver, food and wine and left them there at the entrance to the goddess’s own house. Then she put out her torch and sat down alone in the dark to meditate and to pray.

‘Goddess. Great spirit of the mountains and of our land, Brigantia, our queen, come to me here. Advise me. Give me the knowledge and strength I need to rule my people.’ She waited in the dark, aware of a strange glow amongst the rocks and coming from the water itself. This ordeal would make her strong. And after that she would summon the handmaid of the goddess, the woman who listened and spoke to her amongst the rocks and from the sacred well and from the heart of the land itself.
Vivienne

‘Oh God!’ Had she wanted this? Had she deliberately summoned Carta in the small hours of the morning or had Carta forced her way into the flat? Stiffly Viv climbed to her feet, glancing at the clock on the bookcase and with a violent shock realised it was midday.

Hugh! She had to speak to Hugh! Punching out the number, she sat listening to the phone ringing and ringing the other end. No answer. No answer machine. Just the ring tone, on and on. At last she rang off and dialled the department. ‘Heather? Is Hugh there?’

He wasn’t.

The Cartimandua Pin was sitting on her desk. Its box had been left behind. Staring at it almost distastefully for several seconds she picked it up at last and carefully wrapping it in tissues, she tucked it back into the drawer where it had lain for so many days, then she went to find her car.

Hugh’s house was deserted. Cautiously she made her way through the rain and peered in through the kitchen window. Their mugs still stood on the central table where they had put them down the night before, and the empty Perspex box was still there as well. Walking round the back she found the curtains in the living room open and she stared in. There was no one there. The French doors when she tried them were locked. It was only then that it occurred to her to look in the garage. His car was gone. Relieved, she walked back round the front. All the upstairs curtains were open as well. If he had driven off in the night after she had left he would have
left them closed, surely, so wherever he had gone he had gone there this morning, and hopefully, a great deal more sober than he had been the night before.