Daughters of Fire (35 page)

It had been so easy to cut round behind Triganos and his brothers. Venutios, with a hand-picked band of followers, had broken away from his own army and cut across the country, keeping to the deep forest, following the broad river valley where there were no settlements, until they had found Triganos’s encampment. Luring him away from the main band of men was child’s play. A secret challenge to single combat, delivered by hand, attended only by his brothers and the fool accepted. Venutios himself had thrust the blade into his friend’s back. He would make it up to him in another life. This was no dishonour. This was to save the great Brigantian alliance from annihilation; the sons of Bellacos and Fidelma were not the right men to take on the mantle of the high kingship at such a crucial time. Triganos’s reign at the head of the tribes had been a disaster. With him and his two brothers dead there could be no one to contest the high king’s throne.

The murders completed, he and his companions slipped away. The abandoned stolen Roman broadswords would be enough to throw suspicion elsewhere. No one would suspect him anyway. Leaving Triganos’s followers to find the body of their king he melted away into the night, leaving six bodies on the ground - The three brothers and their three charioteers. The challenge, accepted with so much excitement and bravado, was over. As always Triganos had misjudged the situation. That two of the sons of Bellacos were not actually dead did not occur to Venutios. If it had it didn’t matter. They would not have recognised the faces of their attackers, masked as they were by wolves’ heads, and, dishonoured by their brother’s death, wounded and scarred, neither would be fit anyway now to contend for the title of high king.

Returning to his own army, Venutios waited for word of the murder. It was four days in coming, four days during which he champed with impatience and fury. As soon as the news came, appropriately shocked and angry, he ordered his two most senior warriors to lead his troops south to rendezvous with Brochan and his army, heading for the Roman front. He himself planned to set off with two companions on the long ride north, back
towards Dun Righ. There he would have himself declared high king.

Riding through the territory of the Corieltauvi, they were following the ridgeways and forest roads, avoiding hamlets and farms where curious strangers might delay them, heading north as fast as their horses would carry them. There was a three-quarter moon to light their way and before dawn they had made camp, eating, resting the horses, taking turns at sleeping, then they rode on.

They were once more approaching the Trisantona, riding in single file beneath the trees of the great forest when they were attacked. Exhausted, unprepared and greatly outnumbered, they were overpowered by their attackers before they knew what had happened. When it was over they had been left for dead without weapons, stripped and without their horses, lying unconscious under the trees.

When Venutios awoke it was dark. He was lying on a bed in a small room, a rushlight on a table there. Putting his hand to his head he groaned. Immediately there was someone beside him. A cool hand rested for a moment on his forehead. Dragging his eyelids open, he tried to see. A young man in the white robe of a Druid was standing beside his bed.

‘Rest, good sir. You have been very ill.’ The voice was gentle.

‘Where am I?’ His mouth was dry. It felt as though it had been scoured with ash.

‘You are in our temple of healing, my friend. We found you unconscious on the track. You had been robbed of everything, even your clothes.’ The young man glanced at Venutios cautiously. ‘I’m afraid your two companions were dead, friend,’ he went on, gently. ‘Their souls had already begun their onward journey when we found you.’

Venutios lay looking up at the ceiling. He frowned, trying to think. To remember. For a long time his mind remained a blank. He submitted to the healing ministrations of the Druids, accepting food and remedies, simple woollen clothing and a healing amulet around his neck and it was only on the third day that his memory began to return. Aching from his bruises, he made his way to the chamber of the senior Druid who ran the temple complex and informed his hosts that they had been caring for the king of the Carvetii. The old Druid bowed and smiled. ‘Sir, as is our sacred duty we entertain all who come here without asking their name or
fortune. I am only sorry you received such poor treatment from whoever waylaid you on the forest road. Sadly there are all too many outlaws living out there these days.’ He shrugged.

Venutios grimaced. ‘I am going to have to beg a further lien on your hospitality, my friend. The loan of a horse and a sword so I can make my way northward again. I have to reach Dun Righ in the land of the Setantii before they receive news of the high king’s death. He was murdered a few days ago by Roman war bands.’

The Druid raised an eyebrow. ‘I had heard that sad news, sir. I fear you are too late to bear the tidings to the Brigantian people. They heard it many weeks ago. They have already chosen a new leader.’

Venutios stared at him, white to the lips. ‘That is not possible. There hasn’t been time!’

‘It is two moons since Triganos died, sir king.’

‘Two moons?’ Venutios echoed the words soundlessly. ‘I have been ill for two moons?’

The Druid nodded.

‘And who -’ Venutios could hardly bring himself to ask the question. ‘Who has been chosen in his place?’

‘His sister, Queen Cartimandua. I believe the ceremonies are to be held at the next full moon in two days’ time.’

Venutios sat down on the old man’s stool and put his head in his hands. The room was suddenly spinning, the blood pounding in his veins. Blindly he grabbed the flagon of mead that was pushed into his hands. He tipped it back and felt the sweetness flood his throat. ‘Too late!’ he whispered.

‘You can be there for her coronation, if you ride fast,’ the old man said solicitously. ‘I’m not sure you are well enough, though.’

‘I’m well enough.’ Venutios spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Give me a horse and a guide, my friend. I will repay you, you have my word.’

He left the temple within the hour. If he could reach Dun Righ before she was put upon the throne, by the gods he could stop the coronation!

‘Stop the coronation!’ Flinging his head from side to side on the pillow Hugh moaned out loud, his fingers shredding the bedspread. ‘It cannot be allowed! It has to be stopped!’

‘Hugh?’ Meryn opened the door and looked in. ‘Hugh, are you all right?’

One look told him he wasn’t. It was too late. Venutios was already in the house. No amount of boundary protection would work now.

It was a long time since he had gone into shamanic trance to encounter spirits in their own world and it was dangerous, but what was the alternative? With one more look at the man thrashing back and forth on the bed, Meryn turned and ran down the stairs to his car. With his Druid cloak, his deerskin bodhran, and his own personal amulet of protection, Meryn sat himself cross-legged on the floor in the corner of Hugh’s bedroom and quietly began to pick out a rhythm on the drum. Not only did he have to try and save his friend, but, he suspected, he had to save the woman who had charge of Cartimandua’s brooch as well. As the low rhythmic beat of the drum set the shadows vibrating he heard it answered by the deep resonating note of the carnyx from the misty distances closing in around the house.

Cathy was already in bed. The curtains were undrawn, the windows open onto the warm night air. By the light of the single lamp on the side table the room looked calm and inviting. It was peaceful in there. Reaching into her briefcase Pat pulled out the typescript which she had taken to Viv’s but not shown her. The typescript about Medb. It would have to be edited of course, she recognised that. There wouldn’t be room for the full account of Medb’s journey across France - Gaul, she corrected herself - nor her agonising wait at the port before she found a ship which would carry her across to Albion, her soulful promises to the ship’s master, her trip with him to the market to buy new shoes and a warm cloak, the voyage during which she had been too sick to fulfil her side of any bargain with her rescuer and then her journey north, giving him the slip, avoiding the Roman invaders and the native townships with the cunning of the night-eyed owl. She was in the territories of the Corieltauvi, dressed in the white woollen robe and veil of a
Druidess, when she heard about the death of Triganos. Still there when news came of who had been chosen as his successor.

Pat threw the file down on the table with a satisfied sigh. It was good; exciting. Suspenseful. Climbing to her feet, she wandered into the kitchen. Opening the fridge and scanning the contents she found a half-drunk bottle of white wine. Helping herself to a glass, she went back into the living room.

Medb was standing by the table. With a gasp of fear Pat dropped the glass, pinned to the spot by those clear pale eyes as the glass rolled harmlessly across the rug and lay there in a pool of crystal-clear sauvignon.

‘What do you want?’ Pat’s voice was a husky croak.

The figure did not respond.

‘I’m telling your story.’ Pat was starting to shake. ‘Please, go away.’

The figure didn’t move. It seemed solid. Pat could see every detail of the woman’s face. Her blonde hair was braided into tresses beneath the woven veil which had embroidery along its edge. She wore no make-up or tattoos; her face was hard, with an unhappy line etched from the mouth downwards; the eyes were almost colourless, like the water of a mountain stream and they bored deep into Pat’s soul.

‘Please, go,’ Pat repeated faintly. ‘I’ve done everything you wanted. I’ve written your story down.’

Behind her a light came on in the hall. ‘Pat? Is that you?’ Cathy’s voice rang out from the stairs.

The figure vanished.

Pat closed her eyes. She took a deep gasping breath as Cathy came into the room.

‘Pat, what’s happening -’ Cathy looked round and spotted the glass on the carpet. Are you drunk?’

Pat pointed towards the table. ‘There! Medb! She was there.’

Cathy wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, Pat! For God’s sake!’ Stooping, she picked up the glass and set it down on the coffee table with a bang. ‘I’ll get a cloth for the wine. Why don’t you go to bed! Sleep it off !’

Pat scowled. Picking up the manuscript, she headed for the stairs. ‘Sorry. But I did see her. And I hadn’t had a drop. I never got that far!’

Lying in bed later she stared up at the ceiling, too scared to close
her eyes. Medb was prowling round the room. She could feel her. Her mouth dry, her eyes gritty with lack of sleep, Pat clenched her fists under the sheet, hardly daring to breathe. When at last, unable to keep them open a moment longer, she felt her lids begin to close it was in the knowledge that Medb was already inside her head.

Cartimandua must die.

Was it an order? A statement? She didn’t know. The voice that filled her head was angry; bitter; vicious in its insistence. As it filled Pat’s whole being she knew she couldn’t fight it any longer. Drifting further and further into sleep, she surrendered to the darkness.

Hugh gradually was aware of a strange low thudding sound somewhere in the room near him. He frowned. It was not unpleasant. In fact it was strangely soothing, leading him out of the grey silences of sleep back towards the daylight. The sound was growing louder. More insistent. It was telling him to open his eyes.

With a groan he stretched and sat up. The drumming stopped.

‘How are you?’ Meryn was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room.

Hugh stared at him in astonishment. ‘What?’

‘We’ve been on a journey.’ Meryn set the drum down beside him. ‘A very interesting journey. To the Brigantia of your nightmares.’

Hugh swallowed. Swinging his feet to the floor he groaned again. ‘What happened?’

Meryn rose and stood looking down at him thoughtfully. ‘I followed you into your dreams in order to confront Venutios if he would let me.’ For the first time Meryn frowned.