Daughters of Fire (54 page)

The box was on the dressing table with her hairbrush and comb. Grabbing it, she tore off the lid and unwrapped the plastic. The brooch was safe. She sat down, her heart thudding with fright. What if the woman had taken it; or thrown it away? She glanced round the room once again, wondering where to hide it. Her case was too obvious. There was nowhere else. Then suddenly she knew what she had to do.

The sun was warm on her back as she climbed over the stone wall and set off. She already knew where she was going to put it. Not so far up that she couldn’t retrieve it if necessary, but somewhere no one, not even Pat, or Medb, would think to hunt for it.

She skirted the rocky outcrops, heading towards a large area of limestone pavement, colonised by a few stunted thorn trees. When they had climbed to the summit they had avoided this area, but this time she moved carefully out across the uneven stone with its deep cracks, heading towards one of the trees. Ramming the plastic box inside one of the deep fissures at its foot, she covered it with loose scree. The perfect hiding place.

Retracing her steps to the track she sat down on a patch of short grass to get her breath back, feeling the sun beating down on her head, listening to the lonely call of a curlew in the distance. She could see the farmhouse far below, the grey stone roof, the apple trees, just visible below a ridge of folded hillside. The garden was deserted.

With a sigh she lay back and put her arm across her eyes.

Carta was once more vomiting into a basin.

‘Do you still doubt you are with child?’ Mairghread handed it to a servant and sponged Carta’s face none too gently. ‘Too much riding has made you ill. Rest, my queen. Unless you want to lose it.’

This time she had to admit that Mairghread was right. Her pregnancy was confirmed by Gruoch and then by Artgenos.

The old Druid had read the signs in the clouds. What he had seen was potential. Then hope and expectation. Then disaster. He looked for portents of Venutios’s future and saw nothing but strife; he read Cartimandua’s future and saw only confusion. In despair he sought out portents for the Roman, Gaius. There he saw turmoil and anger. Fear and something else. Rage. He paused in his readings with a frown. There was no threat there to the queen, yet threat there was. The man was dangerous in a way he could not yet fathom. Quietly he made his way out into the forest which filled the ravine on either side of the great waterfalls. As always he knew himself close to the gods here. There was a sacred grove hidden deep in the trees, far even from the Druid’s college, and one that no one but
he frequented. Here there had been no sacrifice, no official ceremonies, no tradition of ten thousand years of worship. Here he walked quietly to the centre of the trees which he greeted as friends and colleagues and there he sat quietly to commune with the gods, the ancestors and the children of the tribes as yet unborn.

As his mind stilled and opened to the infinite spaces, he watched a succession of scenes unfold before him. He had schooled himself not to react. Only by watching dispassionately would he see all the gods chose to reveal. Later he would consider what he had seen and begin the long struggle to interpret it all. To judge whether they came from the past or from the future and decide whether the events were cast in stone and rock; if not they might contain the possibility for avoidance or for the manipulation of potential destinies. Glancing up as night fell he noted the position of the great wheel of stars, then slowly he subsided to his knees and closed his eyes in prayer.

Later, much later, he returned stiffly to his chamber and sat for a long time alone. Behind him on the table, by the small shrine he kept there, lay the silver cauldron and the engraved sickle, symbols of his station and the tools of sacrifice. Near them a golden flagon, studded with smoky topaz, had been filled with flowering herbs. At length, with a deepsigh, he stood up and went to consult the calendar of beaten bronze on the wall. There were listed all the months and days of the year; the positions of the stars; the days which were propitious and the days which would prove disaster. Only after that did he make his way slowly and painfully up to the township to Carta’s chamber to confirm with a sinking heart what she already knew. That she was pregnant. When she asked the child’s destiny he sighed and turned away. ‘I saw nothing,’ he said gently. ‘Nothing for this child; nothing, save the spread of the eagle’s wing across this land.’

Carta froze on the spot. ‘The eagle? The Roman eagle?’

He bowed slightly in acquiescence.

‘But the eagle is our friend,’ she went on. ‘Our ally.’

‘Indeed. At present.’

‘And my actions have confirmed that alliance.’

Which action, he wondered. The alliance with the Emperor of Rome or the bedding with the legionary from Camulodunum?

‘Rest, my child. We will talk further when the gods have revealed more to me. In the meantime, stay within these walls.’ He reached
over and patted her hand. ‘Let Mairghread and Gruoch take care of you.’

‘Did you see when Venutios will return?’ she asked suddenly, as he rose and rested his weight on his staff. She had not had the strength to seek for portents herself.

He sighed. Since their last quarrel Venutios had sought refuge with his brother Brucetos at Caer Lugus. ‘He will come back soon, my daughter. And when he does you will need all your strength, so conserve it now.’

She watched him leave with a frown. There were things he was not telling her. Normally she would have pursued him, ordered him to return, demanded to know what was wrong, but something in his face stopped her. Maybe it was sometimes better not to know the future.

Wearily she walked over to the little statue of the goddess and stroked her fingers down the rounded belly of the figure. Tomorrow she would go out and give offerings at the spring for the safe delivery of her child.

‘Viv! What are you doing!’ The voice in her ear brought her back to herself with a jolt.

Pat was standing in front of her, panting from the climb. ‘What possessed you to come up here on your own?’ For a moment Viv was silent, confused. She blinked, trying to gather her wits as Pat stood looking down at her. ‘I couldn’t find you Pat. So I came out for a walk. Where were you?’

‘Peggy took me to see the sacred spring.’ Pat sat down on the grass beside her.

Viv stared at her. ‘But she made me promise -’ She broke off. ‘Not to tell me. I know.’ Pat smiled coldly. ‘I changed her mind.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.’ ‘I wanted to go with her alone,’ Pat said. ‘To get the atmosphere of the place.’ There was a long pause. ‘It would be a good place to record the play,’ she went on at last. ‘The acoustics are brilliant. The sound of dripping water; the falls in the background. That’s where you should put the brooch.’ She was staring out into the distance. ‘As an offering to the goddess. It’s the only possible destination for something which contains so much power.’

Viv sat very still for a moment, then she turned to stare at her.
‘What kind of power exactly? Why don’t you tell me, now that you seem to be such an expert on it.’

Pat glanced at her. ‘Do you still not know? Medb imbued it with her magic. It can inspire and control. It can protect and it can kill. It’s her link with immortality. It’s the reason she and Cartimandua and Venutios still walk these hills, their destiny unresolved. It’s worthy of becoming a gift for the gods for any one of those reasons, don’t you think?’

‘And because of all this Peggy suggested we throw it into the well?’ Viv’s mouth had gone dry.

‘No, but it is the obvious place.’ Pat lay back in the sun. ‘Have you got it with you now? I looked in your room and I couldn’t find it.’

‘So you did search my room?’ Viv was furious. ‘You had no business to do that!’ She looked down at her, full of misgivings. ‘I don’t carry it around, Pat, so don’t bother to look. I’ve hidden it now and it’s in a safe place.’

Pat sat up. ‘Where?’

Viv shook her head. ‘You told me not to tell you, remember? You were obviously right!’ She gave a hard uncomfortable laugh. ‘If you can’t trust yourself, why should I?’

Pat smiled. Her head on one side she studied Viv coldly. She would find it. All she had to do was to consult the waters of the well as Medb had shown her. For the rest of her plan, she would wait for Venutios. It had been easy to contact Hugh. She had left a message with Heather, telling him where they all were. He wasn’t going to get the brooch, she would see to that, but he could certainly deal with Cartimandua!

Climbing out of his car the next afternoon, Hugh stared for several seconds at the cottage. He had looked up an old bed and breakfast directory and found the phone number of the cottage only about three miles from Winter Gill Farm. At the end of the small picturesque village it nestled into its garden at the foot of a gentle hillside, the windows of the first floor open beneath the heavy thatch. It was very pretty. With a sigh he picked up his case and walked towards the door. It was opened by a grey-haired man in his late sixties. Dressed in an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled up over tanned, rope-veined arms, and with deeply weathered skin he beamed his welcome. ‘James Oakley. You must be Hugh Graham? Welcome, sir. Come in. My wife is out at present but I can show you to your room and I’m capable of putting on a kettle.’

Having seen the small attractive bedroom and the neatly appointed shower and loo which would be, he was assured, his alone, Hugh dropped his bag on the bed and ran his fingers through his windblown hair, a gesture to tidiness, before following his host back downstairs. He had immediately liked the man, sensing a kindred spirit perhaps, and warming at once to his host’s gentle enthusiasm. As they walked through the cottage to the kitchen he noted a pretty chintzy sitting room with a fire smouldering in the inglenook, a small dining room and a well-used study. All had low ceilings and were lined with books. Ignoring a plea to make himself comfortable in the sitting room, Hugh followed his host’s example, ducked under the murderously low lintel of the kitchen door and
stood just inside the room watching him fill the kettle. He did indeed seem competent.

‘You appear to be something of a scholar, Mr Oakley,’ he commented. There were books in here as well. Some cookery, but by no means all.

‘Our passion and our failing - books.’ James Oakley reached down a tea caddy. ‘My wife and I collect them. And I plan to add to them with one of my own.’

‘Indeed?’ Hugh leaned against the doorpost. ‘May I ask what about?’

‘Christ.’ Two spoons of leaves - not teabags - were carefully measured into the pot. ‘I should explain, I’m a clergyman. A retired clergyman. I’ve always been intrigued - perhaps seduced would be a better word - by the idea that Our Lord may have come to England - to Britain, perhaps I should say. ‘‘And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green’’. You are aware of Blake’s words, of course. Who isn’t.’ He picked up the kettle and began to fill the pot, unaware of his guest’s quizzical expression. ‘I like to think he came as a young man or a boy with his uncle Joseph of Arimathaea, to Glastonbury as legend has it, and that he then stayed during at least some of the hidden years to study with the Druids at one of their colleges.’ He turned and put the pot on the tray. ‘Ah.’ At last he caught sight of Hugh’s face as incredulity, horror and finally benevolent amusement chased one another across his guest’s features. ‘I see I have a sceptic here. Never mind. If you are interested, perhaps I can try and convince you. We have a holy well some four miles from here, you know. I think Jesus may have visited it on his tour round Britain. For many reasons, this is a very special part of the world.’

Fidelma was dead. Called suddenly to her mother’s bedside after she had collapsed unconscious at her loom, Carta had watched as Gruoch and Artgenos frowned over her and shook their heads. There was nothing to be done. She sat throughout the night holding
her mother’s hand as her life ebbed away and as the first rays of sunlight warmed the rain-soaked fells she knew Fidelma’s soul had departed. Leaning forward she kissed the papery skin of her forehead and saw her own tears falling onto her mother’s hair. ‘Bless me, Mama and watch over me,’ she whispered. She reached for her mother’s cold hand and pressed it against her own gently swelling belly. ‘And bless your grandchild, too.’ She bit her lip, aware of a terrible loneliness sweeping over her, a loneliness compounded only weeks later when her brother Bran fell victim to a vicious fever which left him dead after two short days of torment. In a townshipfull of men and women, family and kinsmen, nothing would be the same again.

By the time Venutios returned, Carta had moved her court south over the high moors and down through the forests to Elmet. He followed her there with a large party of Carvetian warriors from Caer Lugus, leaving them encamped on the far side of the beck opposite the north gate of the township, and it wasn’t until the day after his arrival that he finally strode to greet her, followed as always by Vellocatus.

She was waiting for him seated in the sun, with Culann on one side of her and Mairghread on the other, the dogs lying at her feet.

‘So, have you come at last to offer your condolences over the death of my mother?’ she asked wearily.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a small bow. ‘It had not occurred to me, but of course you have them.’

She reined in her anger at the slight. ‘So, you came to beg forgiveness for your disloyalty in not supporting me; in leaving my court without permission? And to acknowledge that I made the right decision. Rome has rewarded me well for giving up Caradoc.’

‘So I hear.’ He did not greet her with a kiss. ‘It was clever of them to isolate us. Brigantia has no friends now amongst the free kingdoms. You may be rich, wife, decked in Roman gold, but you have no friends amongst the gods or amongst the peoples. Does that feel good and honourable to you? Does it feel good to you, Culann?’ He turned to the tall Druid who stood beside her. ‘No, I can see that it does not. It’s written all over your face.’

Artgenos had declined to travel south with her, pleading old age and stiffness in his bones. So it had been Culann, thinner and more austere than ever, who accompanied her to Elmet as her senior Druid; Culann, who, she knew, strongly disapproved of her actions.

Carta’s gaze had shifted from the face of her implacable husband to the young man behind him. Vellocatus, bearing her husband’s sword and armed with a dagger, looked uncomfortable. He did not meet her eye.

‘Tell me, husband,’ she asked suddenly, ‘why you feel it necessary to bring an army with you?’

‘I frequently travel with my warriors,’ he retorted. ‘Not so long ago you were glad to have them around.’

‘As I am now,’ she said coolly. ‘Provided I am certain of their loyalty to their queen.’

His face darkened. ‘I hope you are not accusing me of disloyalty!’

‘Indeed not.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But I expect support from my husband in my dealings with Rome. And I expect his warriors to be there at my command should I need them. We do not need them at the moment.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘Rome is our ally, Venutios.’

‘And the Corieltauvi and the Cornovii and the Selgovae -’

‘Are our neighbours. We respect their boundaries as long as they respect ours. If or when they become part of the Roman province, that is no longer our business.’

Venutios snorted. ‘You will regret the day you believed Plautius’s platitudes, you mark my words! You may trust Scapula and his gifts. I do not. And I do not intend to leave our boundaries open to visitors. If you will not defend them, I will.’

‘Part of our agreement leaves our people fully armed, Venutios,’ she warned. ‘So that we can defend our borders.’ Why was he incapable of understanding? ‘Those of our neighbours who have been defeated have been stripped of everything with which they might have defended themselves. The penalty they pay if so much as a sword is found in one house is terrible. Don’t open us to such a possibility. We are trusted.’

‘More fool them! I doubt if the Romans trust me.’ He was standing before her, hands on hips, his chin jutting aggressively as he looked down at her. Beside her she could hear Sun growling quietly deep in his throat. She put a warning hand on the dog’s head as Venutios went on. ‘Now that Caradoc has gone, the tribes are looking in my direction for a new leader. They are trying to persuade me to take up his mantle. I tell them we must wait until we know his fate. Whether he lives or dies.’

Culann raised his head. He looked from one to the other. ‘My
spies tell me that the lord Caradoc and his family have been sent to Rome,’ he said dryly.

Carta closed her eyes as she whispered a silent prayer. It was Venutios who spoke. ‘Then may the gods help them,’ he said with a shudder. ‘And may he remember, when he steps into the arena to be torn apart by lions, who it was who sent him there.’

Carta went cold. In the pause which followed his words Culann stepped forward. ‘My queen, King Venutios, may I suggest that if we talk further it is in private. Such discussions should not be held in the hearing of the entire township where who knows what wind will carry Venutios’s doubts to the four corners of Albion and to our enemies, if such they be.’ He gave a grim smile.

Venutios glared at him aggressively. ‘Right. But my wife and I will talk in private and we will talk alone, Culann.’ Venutios moved towards the queen’s house.

‘Vellocatus, my friend, send these folks back to their work and see my men are settled in their encampment and I will speak to you later.’ He turned back to Culann. ‘I will come to your lodging after I have spoken to my wife. I have word from nys Môn.’

He strode after Carta, ducking into the entrance behind her. Inside he dismissed her women.

Carta opened her mouth to contradict, but already they had fled. She rounded on him. ‘Is what you have to tell me so private my ladies are to be sent away like slaves? That you dismiss a senior Druid like a horse boy?’

‘Yes.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Culann will understand. Now, listen to me once and for all. Why did Artgenos not attend the Archdruid on Môn when he was summoned to the meeting of the most senior Druids? They came from as far away as Armorica and eastern Gaul to consult our gods.’

‘Artgenos is no longer strong, Venutios.’ Carta felt suddenly guilty. He had asked her permission to leave her and travel to the Island of Môn and she had begged him not to go. She had not forbidden his journey. Not even the high queen of Brigantia could forbid a Druid from visiting one of the most sacred places on earth but he had sighed and agreed she needed him with her. She did not know that he had consulted the gods as well and they had warned him to stay close to her, that he would be needed in Brigantia and soon, or of his despair when his illness had made him so weak he could not come with her to Elmet.

Venutios was staring at Carta, his eyes narrowed. ‘Something is different about you.’ It was as if he had only just looked at her.

She gave a faint smile. ‘I am with child.’

His face lit with delight, then it darkened again. ‘Mine?’

‘Of course yours, husband. There has been no one else -’ She paused.

No one save the Roman.

He saw the doubt in her eyes at once. Again he seized her wrist. ‘So, the great queen has had lovers while I was away.’

‘I take whomever I like to my bed, Venutios, as does every free-born woman. Do not question me!’ she flared at him. She refused to let him cow her.

‘I’ll question you on this. I’ll question every man, woman and child in this township. I’ll question your bards and your servants and your slaves. Don’t doubt it, woman! I’ll not recognise a child that is not mine.’ His voice was rising in fury.

‘It is yours.’ She wrenched her wrist away from him. ‘Ask Mairghread. She saw I was breeding before you left.’

‘But still you took a lover!’ He leaned closer to her. ‘I saw it in your eyes. Who?’

‘I told you, Venutios. Whoever it was, if there was such a person, it was my business. It is not for you to question me.’

‘And I told you, Cartimandua, that it is my business - ‘ He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. ‘Is he here, in Elmet?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t free herself from his grip as she struggled, too proud to call for help. Closing her eyes she breathed deeply, trying to calm her panic.

He pulled her against him. ‘My lovely, honourable queen -’

‘No.’ She turned her head away from him.

‘Now, who I wonder, would lure you into his bed? Who, amongst the warriors and princes of Brigantia could tempt a queen?’