Daughters of Fire (38 page)

‘She’s a scientist, Viv. There’s no chance she’s going to admit any of this is real.’ Pat came over and stood staring down at the brooch which lay on the table by the window. ‘What are you going to do with this?’

‘I want to give it back to Hugh, but he’s not answering the phone.’

‘Don’t give it to Hugh!’

‘Why?’

‘You mustn’t.’ Pat frowned. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t realise the power of Venutios, Viv.’ She narrowed her eyes, studying the brooch. ‘You can feel it.’ She held her hand about six inches above the brooch, palm down, as though assessing its warmth.

Viv frowned, watching her. She swallowed nervously. ‘Don’t touch it, Pat.’

‘I’m not going to.’ Pat hadn’t shifted her gaze. ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’ll take it back to Stanwick.’

‘What?’ Viv stared at her incredulously.

‘You heard. That’s where it came from, didn’t it? We’ll hide it there.’

‘That’s insane. It’s valuable -’

‘And it was perfectly safe for two thousand or so years, give or take. Wasn’t it?’ Pat faced her with determination. ‘It’s the perfect solution.’

‘What if someone else finds it?’

‘They won’t. We’ll put it somewhere no one will find it. Then Cartimandua will stop pestering you. And so will Hugh.’ She smiled.

Viv sat down abruptly. ‘It’s certainly an idea.’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it.’ Pat was persuasive. ‘Then at the same time you can introduce me to the wonders of Brigantia. Let’s go for the weekend.’

‘It’s not a high place! I thought hill forts were all dramatic like Traprain.’ Feeling obscurely cheated, Pat stared round as Viv pulled the car into the side of the road. They were in a lush area of farmland on the edge of a small Yorkshire village. Nearby, half-obscured by the hedge was a gate and a bank, and above it the grass mound which was, according to the Heritage sign nearby, the way up to the Stanwick Fortifications.

They stood for a moment, staring at the sign, taking in the extent of the area. The walk around the walls it informed them would be about six miles; the original area was developed into a huge township covering some 650 acres.

‘But I suspect at the time we’re dealing with, the start of Carta’s reign, this was a relatively small place,’ Viv said thoughtfully. ‘She developed it later. Or someone did. But even so we shouldn’t underestimate the size of the population in her time. We’re not talking just a few souls hiding in the woods.’

‘Yet the Romans defeated them.’ Pat frowned. ‘Why? How?’

They opened the gate and climbed the steps to the top of the earth rampart.

‘That is what our play is about,’ Viv replied. ‘Why the Romans won when they were far outnumbered.’

The banks of the rampart were wooded and thick with brambles and nettle. Viv shivered. She could feel Carta here. Almost see the shadows of those long ago Brigantians flitting through the trees. After a night of silence, Carta was back.

‘Are you OK?’ Pat had noticed her hesitation.

Viv nodded. The brooch was in her pocket, wrapped in several layers of protective foam and polythene inside a small airtight plastic box. ‘I’m still not sure this is the right thing to do.’

‘It is.’ Pat was very positive. She smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s decide where to put it. Stooping beneath the tree branches they pushed their way along the top of the dyke until they came to an area which had been cleared below it. ‘Wow.’ Pat lowered herself down the bank, sliding through nettles and dock until she reached the bottom. ‘Look at this. Is this original?’ The ditch had been carefully excavated at some time; there were signs of building and a stretch of the ancient wall stood out clearly above them on the top of the rampart.

Viv followed her down. ‘I think Wheeler rebuilt this bit,’ she said, staring round. ‘But there are places here we could hide it.’

‘Under rocks. Or in the wall itself. I wonder if any of the stones are loose?’ Pat tried to climb the rampart to the base of the wall, slipped and fell forward on her hands and knees. ‘Here! Look, Viv. These stones seem to be unsteady.’ She pulled at one or two and they fell around her feet.

‘I don’t know. Isn’t this a bit obvious? Supposing someone came here and found it? Supposing people came with metal detectors?’

‘They’re not going to detect a wall,’ Pat said, scanning the area in front of her. ‘Especially if they knew it’s already been excavated. There would be nothing to find.’ She was feeling her way along the stones. ‘Do you know where they found it in the first place?’

Viv shook her head. She was walking along the flat bottom of the excavated ditch. Carta was there, at her side. She could feel her. She could feel anxiety. Anger.

‘I don’t think she wants me to leave it here,’ she called. ‘I can feel her.’

Pat paused. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Medb wanted it. Medb wanted the brooch to be put exactly where it had been found. Medb had brought them here because …

‘I have a present for my king.’ Medb was in his arms as they stood on the ramparts, looking north towards the forest. All around them the wall had crumbled. They could see where Bellacos’s workmen had made a start on the new defences, but they had stopped, leaving steps cut into the rampart and the stone wall no more than a few courses high.

Venutios smiled down at her. ‘Indeed?’ He dropped a kiss on her head. ‘It seems to me you have already given me enough presents,
little Medb. My health and strength and by your magic arts a vanishing scar. What more could I want?’

‘This.’ She reached into the pocket of her robe and produced a small package. It was something she had brought from the goldsmith who lived near the western wall of the township. A man of unparalleled skill, he had settled in Dinas Dwr only the year before and had been reluctant to part with one of his most beautiful pieces. He was still uncertain how she had persuaded him.

Unwrapping it, he raised an eyebrow as the beautiful jewelled bird flashed in the sunlight. ‘This is indeed lovely.’

‘Wear it on your tunic.’ She reached for it and pinned it onto his cloak. ‘It is a magic pin. It will bring you luck and health and strength whenever you need them.’ The enchantments she had performed herself this time. She no longer had need of anyone else to install blessings or curses on her behalf.

He laughed. ‘I am truly blessed. Thank you.’

‘And you will keep it forever.’

‘I will keep it forever.’ Taking her into his arms he drew her close and kissed her again. Unknown to her, he had already despatched a coronation gift to Cartimandua. It was only polite, and it would keep the lady guessing.

‘Pat? Are you all right?’

Viv was looking up at her, as Pat stood, unmoving, balanced at the foot of the wall.

‘I’m OK. Fine.’ Pat turned round. Her face was white and she was sweating profusely. ‘Look. Here. There’s a rabbit hole or something at the foot of the wall. It goes in miles. We could shove it in there and then block it with smaller stones. What do you think?’

‘Perfect.’

It took them only a few minutes, then they scrambled back to the top of the rampart and stood looking down. There was no sign from any angle of where they had been.

‘We will be able to find it again?’ Pat laughed. She knew she would find it. Medb would see to that.

Viv nodded. ‘I have made a note. Don’t worry.’

‘Good. Then let’s go on a bit, shall we? How long is this path?’

‘Six miles. It said so on the notice.’

‘Oh.’ Pat deflated visibly. ‘OK. We can do this. Think of the weight falling off.’

She led the way for a few paces further. When she turned back
to face Viv she was herself again. ‘OK. I give up. Do you know what I want to do? I’ve brought my digital voice recorder with me. I think we should try a bit of dialogue here. On site.’

Viv frowned. ‘Won’t it sound odd?’

‘No! That’s the whole point. It will sound outdoors. It will give atmosphere. And it is the real place. It may not work, but I think we should try it.’ She led the way to a fallen tree and sitting down on the trunk, rummaged in her bag for the recorder. Her hands were shaking. She could feel Medb there watching them. ‘It will give us an idea of how it would sound. The wind in the trees, the outdoor ambience. That sort of thing.’

‘Who’s going to speak?’ Viv sat down beside her.

‘Both of us.’

‘Did you bring the script?’

Pat nodded. ‘Here you are. You start. A bit of Cartimandua, or that lovely piece you wrote for the intro by the narrator, perhaps.’

They both had muddy hands after the burial of the brooch. Clicking the little machine on, Pat held it out.

For three days Artgenos did not mention the subject of husbands, but Carta knew he would not let the matter rest, so now, as she enjoyed her exalted position on the raised seat at the centre of her warriors she allowed herself to scrutinise the kings of the visiting tribes.

There were only two contenders when it came down to a serious choice. Brochan of the Parisii. His would be a useful and much-needed alliance, though he was older than she would have liked. He was a good-looking man, twice widowed, strong-willed, much respected by his warriors, a wise man who would rule at her side with strength and diplomacy. And there was Artios, of the Gabran-tovices, seated beside her now, attentive, handsome, adorned with the latest tattoos, be jewelled. A man with a dozen trophy heads at his door. A tough extrovert with a wonderful singing voice and a string of concubines but as yet no senior wife.

There would have been one more: Venutios of the Carvetii, but even had he been there she would not have considered him; he would not be a man to lie quietly beside a wife who was a queen in her own right even had she been able to countenance the thought of him as husband. At first she had wondered if he would appear at the crowning after all. Amongst the hundreds of onlookers it was easy to miss a face, but he, as a king in his own right and an ally should have been there, with his hand beneath her elbow as Brochan’s and Artios’s hands had been as she was raised towards the sun. He had not appeared. It was a studied insult.

At the great feast it was Artios, beside her, who had taken the warrior’s portion of the meat. A horrified silence spread from guest to guest. Surely this should be the queen’s.

Artios stood up, the succulent joint in his hands. He raised it as though offering it to the gods of the fire, then turning he presented it to her. His jewelled dagger in his hand, he cut off a tender portion and held it out. ‘Queen of sunlight and of the moon. Daughter of fire, Lady of the stars, your portion by right and by inheritance.’

She took it, smiling, and found to her delight, skewered to the meat, by a small silver pin, a beautifully worked golden ring, the interlaced design depicting a horse’s head, the flowing mane drawn round to form the circle for her finger. For a moment she hesitated, thinking of another jewelled horse, another man, but she put the thought resolutely behind her. Riach and her little son inhabited another world.

‘A sleek pony, for a sleeker, golden queen.’ He bowed and she laughed and the men nearest to them roared their approval.

Already Conaire was moving closer, drawing his fingers across the strings of his harp, working a verse into his song to capture the occasion.

Not to be outdone by his rival, Brochan came forward. Raising his hand he beckoned a servant from the back of the room and the man approached bringing with him two young wolfhounds. Each had a jewelled collar with a plaited soft leather leash. ‘A gift fit for our great queen,’ he said with a bow. He took the leads and handed them to her. ‘Trained by my best hound master they will serve you with their lives, great lady. As will I.’ He held her gaze and she was aware for the first time of the strange topaz colour of his eyes.

So, they would court her openly, before the world, these kings, and as publicly she would have to choose one of them.

Artgenos was sitting in the shadows watching, his arms folded beneath his cloak. Feeling her gaze on him he looked up but he gave no sign.

Conaire was spinning his tale again, bringing in the dogs, and they were waiting now for her to name them, so he could carry on with his song. She frowned. His fingers hovered over the strings. The great feasting hall was falling silent. She had to think quickly and her decision had to be astute and witty and strong. She stood up, the supple leather in her hands and leaned down to her plate, picking up two pieces of meat, one for each of the great dogs, conscious of the strings of saliva dripping from their jaws as they spotted the coming rewards.

‘These great creatures will guard me well. I thank you, Brochan. And as they will be there for my rising in the morning and for my sleeping at night, I shall call them Sun -’ she turned to the larger, darker dog,‘and Moon.’ She indicated the smaller, cream bitch.

There was a delighted roar from the hall, the dogs took their titbits and licked their lips and Conaire, drawing his fingers across the strings in a series of wild arpeggios, continued his song.

There was no sign of Venutios. As man after man came forward and pledged allegiance and presented their gifts and the afternoon drew on she realised he was not there. She frowned. Was he not prepared to pledge allegiance to her as high queen of all Brigantia? Did he not think her worthy of a present? Or of a wooing?

She sat back in her high seat and waved away the food. Another bard had come forward now. This man came from the land of the Silures. He was small, with a twisted leg but he wore, she noted, a jewelled brooch on his shoulder and a golden necklet. His silver branch was exquisitely carved, the chime of the tiny bells very sweet. A man of means, this bard. And as he started to sing she realised why. The man had the voice of a god. By the time he had finished the first verse of his song the hall had fallen silent, and every eye was upon his face. He sang on, spinning a wild tale of daring and might and loss and sorrow, carrying his audience with him up into the heights of excitement and then down into the depths of despair. Not until he had finished and put down his harp was there a sound in the hall. Then there was an explosion of applause.