Daughters of Fire (58 page)

‘On the hill.’ She was studying Peggy’s face nervously, and suddenly desperate to get away from her, she turned and hung the towel on the rail. ‘Peggy, forgive me, but I’m very tired and cold. I think I’ll go up and have a bath and go to bed. We can talk some more in the morning.’

Peggy shrugged. She made no move to stop her.

In her bedroom, Viv turned the key and stood for a moment, her back against the door, breathing deeply. This was insane. For a while she had been really scared. She glanced round the room. Had anything been moved? Had Pat been in, searching for the brooch while she was outside? Or Peggy? She couldn’t see signs of anything being touched, but she couldn’t be sure. Thoughtfully she walked over to the window and looked out. The moon was hanging low in the sky now. Soon it would have dropped below the apple trees on the lawn at the side of the house. When it had gone all would be dark.

Double-checking the lock on the door, she ran a bath and climbing in, lay back gratefully, feeling the warm water easing the cold out of her bones. In the morning everything would make sense again and she would wonder why she had been so frightened, and in the meantime, she would give in to Carta’s incessant demand to tell her story by conjuring up another scene; a scene which Pat would not be overseeing with her digital recorder and her microphone and her computer; a part without Medb.

It was autumn. The leaves were russet and rustled beneath the horses’ hooves. Carta had ridden through the gateway at Dinas Dwr with as always, a quick critical glance at the ramparts and the wall
on top of it, the great oak gates, the watch towers, to check that all was well and properly maintained. She liked it here. More woods had been felled around the township now, and a large area of fields and meadows surrounded the place, bisected by its gently meandering stream. In the centre of each field, as was proper, a single oak remained, the refuge for the gods of the woods that had gone. No one would ever cut down those trees, and when in the fullness of time, hundreds of years hence they fell of their own accord, each would be faithfully replaced by a successor.

Behind her the huntsmen and women straggled homewards in a long untidy file with two noble stags tied to the backs of sturdy moorland garrons. It had been a good chase, exhilarating and exciting. Horses, dogs, men and women were exhausted, butwellpleased.

Carta reined in with a frown at the sight of two wagons pulled up outside the great house. She glanced across at Catuaros, the township elder. ‘We have visitors, it seems.’

On the trackway which served as main street between the crowded houses and workshops and barns within the walls, a group of men appeared. Catuaros’s eldest son and his Druid were escorting a group of Romans. Catuaros froze, his hand on his dagger, but his queen too had dismounted and she walked towards them with evident recognition.

‘Gaius Flavius Cerialis! So, you honour us with another visit.’ If she had any worries as to the reason for his appearance she did not show it.

He gave a slight bow, scanning her face warily, as if not knowing how to react to her greeting. The queen was suntanned, dishevelled, dusty and mud-splattered from the chase, unlike any highborn woman of the Roman empire that he had ever seen. He reminded himself hastily that she was a native Briton with all their barbaric habits, remembering the scornful incomprehension with which he had first noted the blue swirls painted on her temples. In spite of it all she still had that magnetic beauty he found so alluring.

He realised he was staring when she laughed at him. ‘So, my friend, do I have birds’ nests in my hair? Do Roman ladies not ride out on the hunt and come back blooded from the chase?’

So, she could still read his thoughts. He felt himself colouring slightly. ‘You look wonderful, lady.’ He bowed again, aware of the sniggers of her followers and the shocked silence of the men of his troop.

There was no sign of her husband, he noted, and he wondered if the rumours the spies had brought to Scapula about their increasing animosity were true.

‘We have brought messages and gifts from the Governor of Britannia, great queen,’ he said formally, aware of the intense interest immediately shown by the men around her and especially by the Druid standing beside her.

The man had greeted him with outward friendliness and dignity and with that strange sense of power all these Druids seemed to possess, when he had ridden into the township to find it all but empty and unguarded. It had shocked him that the place would be left to women and children and a few priests whilst most of the fit population had, it appeared, gone hunting. He glanced enviously at the two fine stags. He would have enjoyed such an excursion himself.

‘Had you sent messengers ahead, tribune, the queen would have been here to greet you formally.’ The Druid’s reproachful tone was designed to irk him. To make him feel guilty and ill-mannered.

‘I thought you people could see the future,’ he retorted. ‘Why did you not tell the queen yourself?’

The man had smiled gravely. ‘An oversight. I shall see it does not happen again,’ he said, mildly enough, but something in his tone made Gaius’s skin crawl.

Bathed, dressed in one of her best mantles and laden with gold bangles, Carta joined Catuatos to receive Gaius formally that evening at a feast in his honour. Regaled with music, stories and dancing, he sat back on his cushioned stool and prepared to enjoy himself. The queen had received her gifts of wine amphorae, the furs and rich fabrics from the east with quizzical good humour. He wasn’t entirely sure if she was pleased.

The food set before him as he sat at her right hand before the long trestle table was as before as good as any he would be served at home, he noted. There was venison and beef, there was rich mutton stew and there were wild mushrooms, bean cakes, breads and cheeses, wine and mead and barley beer. To follow there were huge polished wooden bowls of blackberries and vast ewers of milk and cream, honey cakes and nut dumplings.

More than once as he ate he found her looking at him. At first he looked away, embarrassed, then at last he straightened his shoulders and held her gaze. ‘I trust the governor’s gifts meet with your approval?’ He spoke quietly as the music ceased for a moment. The
bard who had been singing picked up his small harp, bowed, and retired to the back of the crowd for some refreshment. His place was taken almost at once by another performer. This one had brought his pipes.

As he started to play, she leaned towards Gaius. ‘And why does the Governor send yet more gifts, my friend? Grateful though we are, there must be another reason for this visit.’

He saw the interest of the Druid next to her quicken and was intensely aware as she spoke of her eyes on his. ‘Keep her on side. Make sure she is still compliant.’ The Governor’s words rang in his ear. He managed a smile. ‘Does there have to be a reason, great queen? He wished to compliment you, no more.’

‘I see.’ She smiled. ‘So, tell me, are you still a part of the gift?’

As she held his gaze, he was intensely aware of how much he wanted her. He hesitated. He was a Roman officer. Her tone implied that he was a plaything. And, he reminded himself of how she had discarded him before. A night of passion, the start of a friendship or so he had thought, and the gift of the valuable dog and then - nothing. Not even goodbye. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from hers and at last he found himself replying, ‘I’m sure that could be arranged if it is the queen’s wish.’

She smiled. ‘It is the queen’s wish.’ And suddenly she was standing upin front of the entire assembly, reaching out for his hand, pulling him to his feet. He saw faces watching him. He saw his own men look up for a moment, alert to possible trouble, then he saw them relax and laugh. One of them cheered, thumb up, from the far end of the table.

Some of the richly woven cloaks he had brought with him as gifts had been thrown across her bed. The room smelled of herbs and crushed grass and hay and the sweet beeswax of the best candles. There was no trace here of the sour echo of tallow or the stink of the latrine pits at the edge of the township. This was, he realised happily as he glanced round the room, as exotic as he remembered it, as exotic as some of the eastern palaces he had seen on his tour of duty in Macedonia and Galatia.

Only the sound of music in the distance broke the silence now. Three harpists were playing together, a glorious rich medley of sound. There were no servants or slaves in sight, although someone must have lit the candles, trimmed the lampand filled it with sweet oil and thrown herbs on the fire.

‘It shocks you, doesn’t it, that a woman of our people may have any man she wishes,’ she said with a chuckle. She put her hands on his forearms, drawing him to her. ‘Roman women do not have that choice, I hear.’

‘Not if they are honest women.’ He reached out to touch her face, stroking the strangely beautiful decoration on her temples. She did not paint herself heavily as did some of her warriors or the other women, but the decorations were intricate and elegant. ‘I would kill my wife if she went with another man.’

‘So, you are married now.’ She seemed to find the idea amusing.

‘I am, lady. I have a wife in the south. She travels with the legion as do the other wives.’

‘But she did not travel here.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not here.’

‘And what is her name?’ She ran her finger down the side of his face, echoing the gesture he himself had made. He had a scar down the edge of his jaw - a glancing blow from a spear which had it been an inch or so to the right would have killed him.

‘She is called Portia, lady.’

‘And is she faithful to you?’ She looked deep into his eyes for a moment and he tried to read her expression, suspicious suddenly that she could read not only his thoughts but, with the strange power these Celts seemed to possess, the future as well. She remained inscrutable. ‘More to the point, gift of the governor, are you going to be faithful to her?’ She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

Slowly, almost against his will, he found he had put his arms around her. His eyes closed and he began to return her kisses more and more eagerly. Her forehead, her mouth, her throat. He stopped short, his hand on the gold necklet she wore, unsure how to unfasten it and with a throaty chuckle she removed it herself, aware that with her arms raised to her own throat she was vulnerable and provocative, her breasts thrust against the soft wool of her tunic.

She was naked before him and watched amused as he groped with the fastenings of his armoured tunic and the thongs of his sandals, then at last he turned to her and pushed her back onto the bed.

This time when he awoke she was still there beside him, asleep, her hair spread across the pillows. While they slept the candles had
been replaced and the lamp filled, the wick trimmed. Outside he could hear the rain smacking the limestone paving slabs on the pathway. He shivered. This accursed country. Did it ever do anything other than rain?

Someone was watching him, he realised suddenly. He made a grab for the sheet and pulled it over them both. Her attendant, the boot-faced one who disapproved of him with every fibre of her being, was watching him from the shadows.

‘Good morning.’ He yawned widely and scratched his head. The woman turned and left the room.

Cartimandua stirred. Her eyes were open suddenly and she smiled at him.

He stretched luxuriantly. ‘So, did you enjoy your gift?’

She nodded. ‘But today you must go. Back to your governor. Tell him how obedient we are; how we honour the treaty. How we enjoyed our gifts.’

‘I don’t have to go. Not yet.’ He raised himself on his elbow and leaned across to kiss her breast.

‘Maybe not.’ She pushed him away. ‘But I do. I have meetings to attend. So, off you go. Back to your Portia.’ She had remembered the name.

She slid from the bed and stood for a moment, looking down at him. ‘Will you tell her that you slept with a queen?’ She raised an eyebrow.

Mairghread reappeared as if at some secret signal and stepped forward with her mantle. Within seconds the two women were gone, leaving him feeling as though he was a discarded toy with which she had grown bored. He scowled and climbed from the bed. Within an hour he and his men were on the road south. That his men knew what had happened, that he had been tossed from her bed and forgotten was obvious. Behind their hands they were laughing, he was sure of it. His humiliation and anger at himself for letting her use him yet again were total.

Viv lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. In the distance the thunder had returned. It rumbled over the dales more and more softly until she could no longer hear it and the cloud began to clear. By dawn the thick mist which filled the river valleys was beginning to disperse and the brilliant blue sky heralded a beautiful day. She
climbed out of bed and went to kneel on the window seat, staring out at the glittering rain-washed garden.

Just before six she went back to bed, fell asleep at last and dreamed of Venutios. He stood at the end of her bed, staring at her from his strange tawny eyes.