Daughters of Fire (41 page)

Sometimes she was telling the story, describing what was happening. Sometimes she was hesitant, trying to set the scene. ‘There’s a dog barking, can you hear it? Not a hound. A small dog of some kind, someone’s pet. Goats and sheep and a cow, lowing in the distance. Children shouting. A hammer on metal in the forge. I can smell woodsmoke and cooking. Meat roasting. Carta’s putting on her mantle; it’s damp and cold from last time she wore it. It smells
of wet wool and horses. Not unpleasant. It’s an earthy, outdoor sort of smell. It’s only a small site at this period. Perhaps fifteen acres? I don’t know how to judge.

‘There are quite a lot of houses of different sizes. Carta’s is dark inside, well insulated. A bit stuffy with the fire and woodsmoke. The smoke is seeping out of the roof. I don’t think there is any sort of smoke hole or chimney. The inside of the roof is blackened, it’s smooth with a sort of wattle and daub. The whole effect is exotic. More like an Arab nomad’s tent than a peasant hut. Wall hangings, beautifully worked, bright colours. Woven rugs. Decorated pots. The supporting pillars for the roof are intricately carved. One has a dragon or a serpent winding round it. There is a vase of flowers standing on a coffer chest next to a silver jug. These people are civilised. Rich. They like their comfort. And their food. If I go into the kitchen - it’s another building - the ovens are outside. Clay, I suppose. Covered and steaming, but a rich lovely smell coming from them.’ There was a pause, almost as though Viv was walking through this scene she was describing. ‘There is a large table in here. It’s raining now outside and the cooks are indoors - though there is a table outside too, under the eaves. There are jugs and bowls and spoons. Some wooden, some metal. Sharp knives. Bunches of herbs. Vegetables. Not sure what they are. Green. Small leaves. There are strings of dried apple rings like my mother used to do,’ she sounded delighted. ‘And dried mushrooms. And a huge cheese covered by a net. Butter. A pretty pottery jar of honey. Conserves of some sort. You know, I don’t think these people just gnawed bloody bones! This food looks and smells good.

‘I’m going to find Carta. She’s outside now. With her pony. It shoves at her affectionately with its nose and she pets it a bit just as we would. The young man holding its reins smiles at her and they talk briefly and laugh. Then she pulls herself onto its back. She has a saddle but no stirrups. And the bridle looks just like ours would. A jointed snaffle bit. Reins. But that’s where the likeness ends. This is really fancy. The leather is gilded and red and quite beautiful.

‘Brochan is beside her. He is short; shorter than Carta. With fair hair all clogged with clay of some sort, but he’s good-looking. He laughs a lot. He has blue dots tattooed on his temples and across his cheekbones and a necklace and a brooch on his shoulder. He is wearing loose tartan trousers held up with a gorgeous leather belt. A soft shirt. Leather boots - baggy, not fitted, and a warm cloak.

‘Side by side they ride towards the gate. There is a wooden palisade on top of the rampart and big gates in it, but they’re open and unguarded and judging by the grass growing in front of them they haven’t been shut for a long time.’ There was a long pause. Viv sounded out of breath. ‘Let me get closer. I want to hear what they are saying.’ Then her voice changed. It was the voice of Cartimandua. Speaking English. When it was Brochan’s turn to speak, the voice they heard was deeper. More masculine. It was definitely the voice of a man.

They listened to the end of the recording, then Pat switched off.

For a long time neither of them said anything, then at last Pat spoke. ‘What do you think?’

Viv seemed incapable of speech. After a moment she shook her head. ‘I remember that last bit. Like a dream. In patches. But all that description.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s just -’ She paused again. ‘It’s fantastic!’

‘Isn’t it!’ Pat was triumphant. ‘You know,’ she went on, ‘you have time travelled. You weren’t making that up.’

Viv sat back in the seat and closed her eyes, exhausted. ‘No one is going to believe all that wasn’t scripted.’

‘Nor will we ask them to.’ Pat was suddenly very focussed. ‘Listen. We are sitting on dynamite, here. There are two programmes, not one. First we do the play, as we planned. Using your info only where we need to as just that. Background and sequencing. Then, later, we produce these recordings! Another book, as you said to Selwyn. Transcripts and another programme where we actually play them the tapes. This could rock the world. Imagine the publicity!’

‘Yes, imagine.’ Viv scowled. Her eyes were still shut. ‘Dr Vivien Lloyd Rees, former historian, carted off to the funny farm after losing her marbles in faked hypnosis stunt!’

Pat’s mouth dropped open. ‘Rubbish. No one is going to say that! Well, that old scrooge of a professor might, but the rest of the world would love it. There are some very lucrative deals to be made here, Viv. You were fantastic in that recording! It completely bowled me over. I’m covered in goosepimples even now. Look.’ She pushed her arm in front of Viv. ‘Wait till we tell Maddie about this.’

‘No.’ Viv shook her head. ‘Pat, you mustn’t tell anyone about it. I want you to promise. Not at this stage.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Pat frowned, then shrugging she forced a smile.
‘OK. Whatever you say.’ She turned and tucked the bag with the recorder back behind the seat. ‘Come on. Let’s go. This rain is getting worse. Where are we going to spend the night?’

In her head Medb smiled. The brooch was safe. The story hers.

‘It would mean rewriting
Cartimandua, Queen of the North
.’ Viv was giving in. ‘Any new book will make a nonsense of everything I’ve said so far.’ She rubbed her face with her hands. ‘It has been superseded before it even appears in the shops.’

They spent the night at a small hotel near Aldborough, which Carta had called Isurios, and which to the Romans became Isurium Brigantum. To her surprise Viv slept deeply and without dreams. After looking round the museum they had headed west towards Nidderdale and the moors.

‘Not for the general reader,’ Pat commented lazily. ‘Don’t underestimate
Queen of the North
. It’s fantastic. Every page is alive. You may not have been aware of Carta while you were writing it, or at least not consciously, but she was there, hovering over your shoulder. That is what makes it so vivid.’

Viv clenched and unclenched her fists uncomfortably. ‘I wish I thought Hugh would agree with you.’ She sighed. Where was Hugh? Why hadn’t he contacted her?

They were sitting on a grassy plateau between two of the huge Brimham Rocks. A strange wonderful landscape surrounded them, of grotesque rock formations balanced and stacked and carved by ice and wind over thousands of years out of millstone grit into a collection of wild and wonderful shapes standing high above the surrounding moor. There was no proof that Cartimandua or any of her contemporaries had been here, but nearby there was a tantalisingly named ‘Druid’s cave’ and how could anyone doubt that any Druid worth his salt would have paused here to talk with his gods.

Pat sat up, crossed her legs, and reached for an apple, resisting the urge to close her eyes in the warm sunshine. This picnic had been a spontaneous idea as they passed the signpost to the rocks and they had allowed themselves to be tempted.

‘You’re wrong. With
Queen of the North
, you have given an authoritative and scholarly overview. The second book would have to be written with the proviso that it is intuitive and even clairvoyant in its origins, and in a different category, albeit one that never contradicts or misleads the possibilities of the earlier work.’

‘Clairvoyant,’ Viv echoed with a hollow laugh. ‘Great! That’s all Hugh needs.’

‘Stuff Hugh!’ Lying back, Pat spoke from beneath the folded newspaper which she had spread over her face to protect her from the sun. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re obsessed with that man.’

‘He’s my boss.’

‘Are you sure that’s all he is?’ There was an earthy chuckle from under the paper.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Viv stood up. ‘I’m going to climb that rock. See you in ten minutes.’

Pat didn’t move.

Sitting on the top of the rock staring out towards the distant moors, Viv closed her eyes and tried to still her mind. It was very hot. The rock burned her hands and she found a patch of alpine flowers and grasses to sit on, aware of the sounds around her - a buzzard in the sky out of sight in the glare, a party of noisy children, all dressed in identical blue boiler suits and hard hats, practising their mountaineering skills in spite of the heat, a stonechat pinking monotonously in the background. Slowly they faded from her consciousness. But nothing replaced it. Just a pleasant emptiness. It was as though the shock and excitement at hearing her own voice at last the day before had switched off whatever facility she had acquired. And she needed it. She wanted badly to see if she could ask direct questions. Did you come here? Did your Druids use this place to commune with their gods? Was Dinas Dwr your capital? She closed her eyes again. ‘Carta?’ She tried to picture the township as she had seen it. Recall the sounds; the smells. They had gone.

‘Carta? Where are you?’

Suddenly she felt panicky. Supposing Carta had been scared off
or neutralised in some way by Pat’s recording? Supposing it had all gone, this strange, wonderful, frightening contact with another world? Supposing Carta was furious that they had left the brooch at Stanwick buried once more in the depths of the stones. Supposing when they went back, if they went back, it had gone? What would she do?

She drew up her knees, hugging them thoughtfully and without warning she knew she was going to cry.

‘We’ve got to go back.’ When she returned to Pat she was dry-eyed again. ‘We can’t leave the brooch there. I don’t know what we were thinking about!’

Pat sat up and stared at her. ‘What do you mean. Of course we can leave it there. It’ll be perfectly safe.’

‘Not if someone else finds it.’

‘They won’t.’ Pat narrowed her eyes and her voice was suddenly hard. ‘Forget it, Viv. Just put it out of your mind. It is back where it belongs.’

Viv stared at her. Pat’s voice had changed. It was as though she had slipped into someone else’s skin. She was acting a part and it was not a part that Viv liked at all. It was Medb.

She stared at Pat, shocked and frightened. ‘If I say we should fetch it, we will,’ she said quietly.

The change in her tone pulled Pat up. She frowned uneasily. ‘Sorry. I just think it would be stupid. It is perfectly safe.’ Her voice was her own again. ‘So, which place is to be her capital in the play?’ she went on. ‘Stanwick makes sense. It’s accessible. It’s on a trade route between the south and Scotland. It is in gentle flat lands. Fertile. Civilised. Farmed.’

They were still discussing it when they climbed back into the car. Viv shrugged as she pulled onto the road. ‘Somehow I want it to be somewhere like Ingleborough. Wait till you see it.’ There were other contenders. Barwick in Elmet for instance, which was smaller, near the later Roman town, Isurium Brigantium. That too was beautiful and accessible and civilised.

‘Ask her.’ Pat sat back in her seat and fished in her pocket for a packet of gum. ‘It’s a straightforward question. Look her in the eye and ask. People claim to be able to direct the action in lucid dreams. Why not you?’ She sighed impatiently. ‘You’re being too reactive,
Viv. You’re acting like a victim instead of a bus driver.’ She shifted the gum from one cheek to the other. ‘You spoke for Cartimandua on the recording. ‘‘This is my people. I am their queen’’.’ She mimicked Viv as Cartimandua in ringing tones. ‘‘‘Vivienne, my goddess, ask and I will reply. My city is at Stanwick St John, or as I call it, Dinas Dwr’’.’ She paused, coming out of character. ‘We don’t know the Celtic names for many of these places, do we? But we don’t need them for the play. They are too confusing. ‘‘This is my seat. My palace. My capital.’’.’ She was back in character. ‘We could hold a sÉance!’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Under controlled conditions. Invite Cartimandua to talk to us and record it just like yesterday afternoon.’

‘Carta has been talking to me for months,’ Viv put in. ‘I haven’t needed a sÉance.’

‘But this way I can be part of it.’ Pat gave up on the gum and reached for her cigarettes. ‘And the best part is we can invite other people in as well. Imagine Medb on line! What a performer she would be!’

‘No!’ Viv shook her head. ‘Absolutely not! Leave it alone, Pat. Let Carta come if and when she wants and to whom she wants.’ She frowned. ‘But not Medb. For God’s sake!’

‘OK.’ Pat sighed. ‘Back to the site of the action: ‘‘It is here I sit in state and show the Romans what a great queen I am. I rule on my terms, not theirs, because I am the greatest queen there has ever been in Britain.’’.’ She paused. ‘Well?’

Viv smiled. ‘Pretty good. Very good, actually.’

‘Good. Perhaps I should play Cartimandua. I’d be fantastic in the part.’ Pat raised an eyebrow and waited for the response.

‘I don’t know. You are good, but Carta is younger -’

‘So, I talk younger.’ Pat raised her voice a tone. Immediately it was lighter. Less mature. ‘As long as they can’t see me they can’t count the wrinkles.’ She laughed. ‘I’d be wonderful, Viv. With you as the narrator.’

‘That would give the right balance, I suppose,’ Viv said thoughtfully. ‘Me the author and narrator. You the lead actress and co-script writer. We need some men, of course. Strong male actors.’

Pat nodded. ‘No problem. I’ve already got ideas about who can play the parts.’

Medb. She wanted to play Medb, not Cartimandua.

Dangerous, fascinating Medb.

‘Still no word from Viv?’

Hugh was standing in Meryn’s garden staring down at the rows of herbs and vegetables with a worried frown. ‘She’s got the brooch because I gave it back to her; because I’m a coward. She’s in danger. I don’t know where she is. She doesn’t answer the phone or return any messages and I’m sitting here doing nothing about it.’

He felt safe in here. There had been no massive confrontation with Venutios. No shadowy visitors from another world, no brazen sounds echoing on the wind.

Meryn stooped to pull some spinach. ‘Do you sense danger?’

Hugh frowned. ‘Isn’t that your department? Can’t you look into your crystal ball and see what she’s done with it? See if she’s all right.’ He glanced over the hedge and shivered. ‘He’s still lurking out there somewhere, isn’t he.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Is he frightened of you? Because you’re a Druid?’ Hugh cocked an eyebrow in Meryn’s direction.

‘Possibly.’ Meryn gave an enigmatic smile.

‘What happens if I go out there?’ He nodded towards the fence.

Meryn straightened his back and stood, the bowl of fresh green spinach leaves in his hand. ‘Probably nothing.’

‘Meaning there is a possibility that something could?’

Meryn smiled again. Turning towards the door he shrugged. ‘We won’t know until you try, Hugh. When you feel ready you will have to leave.’

Hugh stared at his retreating back. ‘You’re telling me to go?’ he called after him. He stood for a moment considering the glorious crop of dandelions which flourished around the edge of the spinach patch, then he hurried after Meryn into the kitchen. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Unless you want to live here forever.’ Meryn put the bowl in the sink. ‘There are things I can show you. Techniques to use to protect yourself.’

Hugh sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Hocus pocus?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

Hugh groaned.

Meryn picked a slug off the spinach. ‘It’s your call, Hugh. I can’t do anything unless you want me to. You believe in the hocus pocus enough to stay here, so why not stick a small amulet round your neck on a piece of thread and forget it’s there.’

‘And that would save me?’

Meryn went over to the door and threw the slug out into the flower bed. ‘You believe in Venutios?’ He had not answered the question.

‘I couldn’t very well not believe that something is happening, but it could just be in my own head.’

‘True. It’s upto you. You need to leave soon anyway. Didn’t you say you had an interview with someone on the radio?’ Meryn put his hands on the table and leaned forward, studying Hugh’s face. ‘One of the things I do is to make amulets for people who need them. I can make one which will strengthen you should you encounter Venutios again out there in the big wide world or inside your head in a nightmare, whichever it may be. Pretend you are trendy enough to wear some jewellery.’ He chuckled.

Hugh shook his head. ‘It just doesn’t do it for me. I’m sorry. It’s not rational. How could a charm possibly work? It’s just superstition.’

Meryn sighed. He dried his hands on a towel. ‘Fair enough.’

‘You don’t really believe all this, in your heart of hearts, do you.’ Hugh went on after a moment. ‘It’s all very romantic and beautiful and touchy feely, but you must have reservations. You’re an intelligent man.’

Meryn held up his hands. ‘Enough, Hugh. We’ve agreed to differ on this one so many times it’s not worth pursuing it again. I believe completely and wholly in what I do. It’s because of that you called me in such a panic, remember? And I’ll be there for you should you need me again.’

‘But that’s it.’

‘That’s it.’

Hugh shrugged. He stood up. ‘OK. I’ll go home this afternoon. You’re right. I’m a coward. I had a nightmare or two and then I let my imagination run away with me. A helping or two of spinach quiche,’ he paused, gazing at the sink with a wry grin, ‘will bolster my will power enough to get me out of here.’