Over the next few weeks the remnants of the Setantian war party trickled back to the north. Brochan with his Parisians, it appeared, had continued south towards their destiny with the invaders; of Venutios and his army there was no word.
With the high king dead, Oisín had no choice but to declare that another must succeed to the leadership and word went out that any contestants for the title should declare themselves before the next full moon. Bran had returned, but he had been wounded by his brother’s attackers and was weak and unsteady on his feet. He had no desire to put himself forward. Fintan had not yet returned, though word had come that he was alive. Brochan sent messengers that he would not put himself forward. From Venutios there was no word.
Carta went to see Artgenos. ‘I want to stand for election. I can rule the Brigantians. I am ready.’ She fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘You can’t deny that I could do it far better than Triganos.’
Artgenos nodded sagely. ‘It would be hard to deny that, my child.’
‘And better than any of the others who are suggesting themselves for the position.’
‘That too may be true.’
‘Then I shall do it!’ Her eyes blazed with triumph.
‘I think the time has come when you can put your name forward, Cartimandua.’ The old man nodded slowly. ‘But it is up to the people. They will have to choose you.’
‘They will choose me!’
‘Then pray to the goddess to support you.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Has there been word yet from Venutios?’
She frowned. ‘None that I have heard. Why?’
‘Because I would have expected him to put in a claim. He covets the high kingship as you must realise. Perhaps we should wait until he returns.’
‘No!’ Carta slammed her fist down on the table between them. ‘If he doesn’t come, then he loses his chance. He is not going to win anyway. The people will choose the heir to the Setantian claim.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Artgenos shook his head. ‘Venutios has the advantage of experience, and age and strength, child. Could you win him over, do you think?’ The old eyes twinkled.
That night Carta went to the sacred spring. Overhead the moon swam through a sea of cloud, four days from the full. With her she took offerings and her divination sticks. If the waters would not tell her what she wanted to know, perhaps the slivers of yew wood would do so.
‘Where is Venutios? Do I need to fear him?’ She whispered the words into the cool dark waters, conscious of the flickering candle flame behind her. Her breath seemed to clutch at her throat; her heart thudded unsteadily as she peered down. The water glowed with refracted light but the goddess was silent. She bit her lip. Feeling in the bag at her waist she brought out the bundle of sticks, with their secret markings, and held them to her breast. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she murmured. ‘Do I need to fear Venutios?’
As the sticks fell onto the rock beside her she held her breath for a moment, eyes closed. Then at last she opened them and read the prediction of the trees: ‘Yes.’ She hissed the word between her teeth. Yes, she should fear him.
‘And will he contest the kingship?’ She gathered them up and tossed them again onto the ground.
‘Yes.’
She sat for a long time there beside the water, then at last she gathered her sticks into their bag and with a bow to the goddess within her watery bower she walked slowly back up the track towards the township gates.
That night he came to her in her dreams. With his strong, hand-some face, tall muscular body, hard agate eyes, he appeared in her bedroom, arms folded, golden torc around his neck, a cloak of bearskin over his shoulders. For a moment he watched her in silence, then at last he raised a hand and pointed at her. ‘Do not dare to steal my throne!’ His voice echoed with the thunder over the fells.
She woke with a start and lay staring up at the darkness of the roof. Far away the thunder rumbled again and she heard the hiss of rain beyond the doorway. Venutios had called upon the thunder god Taranis to support him.
On the day of the full moon before the council of the Druids and the warriors and princes of the confederation only three men stood up to claim their right by descent to the high kingship of Brigantia, two of them sons of the Setantii, one, the young king of the Texto-verdi, a cousin of Fidelma, and one woman. Cartimandua. From Venutios there was still no word.
Carta’s grieving for her brother had been done. His soul had moved on. Now it was her turn. Her ambition, so long damped down, burned up brightly, fired by certainty that she was the best candidate and that the gods would smile on her success. She wore a scarlet gown, with a gold headband and armlets at the gathering, and fixed the senior men and women of the tribes with a gaze so determined that they quailed. Her Setantian cousins almost at once resigned their claim without argument; Fidelma’s nephew surrendered with a smile and a bow and vowed to support her to the death. Even so, it was a near thing. Without the support of Artgenos and her father and mother she would not have been chosen. It was the former who stood and argued that she was ready and Artgenos who called upon the gods to send a sign if she was not fit to be queen. In the silence that followed his challenge she waited with a thousand others, holding her breath, for a sign from the thunder god, but there was none. It was Artgenos, also, who when the choosing was finished under the branches of the great oak, and her name had been shouted to the skies by the assembled tribes of the people of the high hills, saw the great rainbow arc across the forest and touch the bare peaks with a kiss of approval.
Alone in her bedchamber that night as Carta prepared for the ceremony that would bring her before the gods and confirm her marriage to the land of her fathers and mothers, she smiled at herself in the polished bronze mirror, seeing her reflection faintly in the candlelight. There were no shadows there. No black penumbra. No sign of Venutios. The gods and goddesses were at last looking on her with favour.
She had just allowed Mairghread to clasp her cloak around her shoulders against the sharp cold of the night when Artgenos was announced. Now in his early seventies, he was as upright and sure of foot as he had been when she was a child. He dismissed her women with a snap of his fingers. ‘So, you have achieved your dream, Carta.’
‘Indeed.’ She pushed her bangles up her arm and began to select rings from the box on her candle stand. There was a fluttering of nerves in her stomach and firmly she suppressed it.
‘I trust you appreciate the burden you take on your shoulders tonight. When you stand in the footprints of the gods, up on the sacred rocks, and sit upon the stone of enthronement, you take responsibility for thousands of people.’ He was very stern.
‘Do you think Triganos ever really realised what he was doing when he stood there?’ She glanced at him, watching his face in the flickering candlelight. Her mouth was dry with fear now that the time had come.
‘No. I don’t. I would not have had him chosen as king. But the goddess did not feel that you were ready, Carta. So Triganos was put on the throne to keep it in trust for you. And he has died to make room for you, so give him thanks in your prayers, Carta, for his sacrifice. This is a heavy burden you are taking on, my lady, and you are young. You have not finished your full training as a Druidess, and now you won’t do so. But you must never forget what you have learned. You are a Druid by blood and our learning and strength will always be yours.’ He paused. ‘You have picked up another weight of duties, Carta,’ he went on thoughtfully,‘and they are duties you cannot be expected to perform unaided. You must marry again. And soon.’
‘I don’t need a husband to be queen.’ She raised her chin.
‘Maybe not, in theory. But the warriors will not all be happy to follow a woman at such a time as this. The skies to the south are red with bloodshed. The auguries are full of warnings. The Brigantian federation is large. It could split asunder very easily. Be warned. Think about this and pray to the goddess Brigantia. It is my belief she has already chosen your mate.’
Carta smiled war
ily. ‘You think so?’ She was fond of this old man, who had steered her so carefully through her childhood and through these last years. ‘And the goddess has no doubt confided in you who this man is?’
Artgenos chose to look enigmatic. ‘I believe so, but it is important that you consult her yourself.’
‘Only after I am enthroned and blessed by all the gods of the tribe tomorrow.’ She set her chin stubbornly. ‘Then I will take a husband, if I choose to, as queen, and he will have to recognise me as such. Otherwise there will be no marriage.’
His eyes narrowed as he studied her face but he said nothing. The gods would decide how she should rule and only the gods.
Suddenly he was full of misgivings.
17
I
Hugh sat for a long time in the car, outside his own front door, staring at the house without seeing it, his hands clamped to the wheel, his face damp with sweat, his body ice-cold and shaking. He wasn’t sure how he had managed to drive home.
He remembered walking, running, sliding, down the hillside. He remembered seeing faces, hearing the sounds of men, of shouting, the notes of horns and above them all that floating deep bay of the carnyx. Somehow he had dragged himself into the car and locked the doors. Had he really seen faces at the windscreen, shouting at him, banging on the glass? He wasn’t sure. There had been so much pressure inside his head. The anger. The arrogance. The certainties.
He must have sat there for ages, fighting for his sanity, his face running with sweat, his body gripped by a succession of rigors which racked him with violent shivers. He might have sat there all day had it not been for the arrival of another car. It had pulled in beside his, all four doors had opened and people and dogs had leaped out. They were talking and laughing and one of them stooped beside Hugh’s door to adjust a bootlace. As the man straightened to follow his companions towards the stile he glanced at Hugh and shouted a cheery greeting. In a flash Hugh’s tormentors had gone. The scene changed. The world was normal again.
Suppressing the growing waves of nausea as best he could, Hugh had backed the car out onto the road and headed for home, but it was a long time before he managed to climb out and stagger across to the front door. Fumbling for his keys he found them at last and let himself in, slammed the door behind him and stood, his heart thundering in his chest, waiting for it to steady before he groped his way along the wall towards his study. Flinging himself down in the chair at his desk he reached for the phone. He had not noticed Viv’s note lying on the floor in the hall. With a shaking hand he punched out a number. ‘Meryn? I need you. Can you come?’
He was drinking black coffee when the phone on his desk rang. ‘Meryn? Where are you?’ His voice was steadier now and his hands had stopped shaking.
‘Sorry, old boy. I think you’ve got the wrong chap.’ The editor of the Daily Post’s book page, Roland McCafferty, sounded puzzled. ‘I thought I’d give you a buzz and see how you are.’ He was at his most affable and urbane.
‘I’m fine.’ Hugh took a deep breath, groping for normality. Pulling himself together as best he could, he frowned, thinking back to yesterday’s review writing. It seemed a lifetime away. Normally his reviews were acknowledged by e-mail. He and Roland met infrequently for lunch. Otherwise their relationship was elegantly minimal. ‘Is there a problem with the review?’ He was in no mood to discuss it. His hand on the receiver was trembling again.
‘No problem, old boy. Very much to the point as always.’ There was an infinitesimal hesitation. ‘You meant this to be a public execution, did you?’
Hugh hesitated. ‘I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Roland.’
‘So, you don’t want any changes? No second thoughts?’
‘No. The book was a mistake. That needs to be pointed out. For the author’s own sake.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Right then. OK. I thought you’d like to know we’ll run it next week to coincide with publication. Catch the publicity.’ He chuckled. ‘Good work, old boy.’
As he hung up at the other end of the line, Roland grinned to himself wryly and shook his head. What in God’s name could the poor cow have done to Hugh!
Hugh sat there, looking down at his desk, lost in thought. Had he been too harsh? If so, it was no more than Viv deserved. She could have been such a fine historian if she had been able to discipline herself more. She still could be; perhaps this was what she needed to spur her into a more accurate mindset.
He sighed, running his fingers through his thick hair. The sound of Roland’s voice had re-established a sense of reality. The echoes had gone. Suddenly he was thinking properly again. Taking a deep breath he straightened his shoulders. Somehow he had to face Viv; he had to talk to her again, to explain what he was trying to do.
What was he trying to do?
He shook his head. He wanted to help her. He wanted to encourage her. Damn it, he wanted to hold her in his arms.
For a few seconds his mind drifted, conjuring up the feel and the sound of her, the scent of the rain in her hair when he had taken her in his arms before, then suddenly he tensed, swinging round to face the window, every sense alert, Viv forgotten, adrenaline pumping. Venutios was back!
He was still staring paralysed at the window when, only seconds later the doorbell rang into the silence of the house.
‘Meryn!’ He gawped at his visitor. ‘How on earth did you get here so quickly?’ He grabbed Meryn’s arm and, Roland and the review forgotten as completely as Viv, pulled him inside, closing the door behind him and leading Meryn into his study as the clouds drew back and sunlight began to flood through the windows at last. ‘Venutios!’ He could hardly bring himself to say the word as he scanned Meryn’s face. ‘He’s here. He followed me!’
Striding over to the leather armchair by the bookshelf Meryn sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Dressed in a dark threadbare shirt of the black watch tartan, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a pair of faded jeans he leaned back and fixed Hugh with a thoughtful gaze. A silver charm hung on a leather thong around his neck almost out of sight. As he moved it caught the light. ‘Tell me what’s been happening.’
By the end of his increasingly agitated account, Hugh was pacing up and down the room, his fists clenched, his face drawn and exhausted.
‘So, where is the brooch now?’ Meryn asked calmly after a moment’s thoughtful silence. He did not allow Hugh to see how shocked he was.
Hugh shrugged. ‘I told her to take it away.’ He felt himself colouring slightly as he remembered the hug; the feel of her warm body in his arms.
‘Thereby possibly putting her at risk instead of yourself,’ Meryn pointed out.
Hugh sat down abruptly. ‘That didn’t occur to me. Dear God, I didn’t mean that to happen -’ He paused. ‘I know you said anyone who touched it could be affected by its, what did you call it, psychometry? But she’s had it for weeks and nothing’s happened to her -’
‘As far as you know.’
‘As far as I know. It can’t have done. She would have said.’
‘Would she?’ Meryn smiled wryly. ‘It doesn’t sound to me as though you two have much of a dialogue going at the moment.’
Hugh didn’t answer.
‘Have you spoken to her since?’ Meryn went on.
Hugh shook his head.
‘Then you must contact her and make sure she is all right,’ Meryn said firmly. ‘But first, we need to sort you out.’ He stood up. ‘I need my bag of tricks from the car.’ He grinned easily, determined not to let Hugh see the depth of his anxiety. ‘I take it you are going to leave this to me, Hugh? No protestations of cynical mirth? You do understand that this is serious, my friend?’
‘I wouldn’t have rung you otherwise,’ Hugh said slowly. ‘I admit defeat. There are more things in heaven and earth and all that. I am scared.’
He followed Meryn back into the hall and watched warily as Meryn pulled open the front door. Sunlight streamed in and Meryn stooped to pick up the
piece of paper lying on the mat. He glanced down at it. ‘Well, here is the answer to at least one of our questions,’ he commented quietly. ‘‘‘Called to make sure you were OK. Ring me about the pin. V’’,’ he read out loud.
‘She must have come while I was up at Traprain,’ Hugh said shamefacedly. ‘I didn’t see it.’ He held out his hand and Meryn put the scrap of paper into it, then watched as Meryn went over to the old green MG and pulled out a battered leather holdall.
Shoving Viv’s note into his pocket, Hugh managed a watery smile. ‘Mumbo jumbo?’
Meryn nodded tolerantly. ‘Lots.’
‘Shall I tell you what Venutios would probably have done if he were in your position and being threatened in his own home,’ Meryn said affably as he put the bags down in the study and opened the holdall. ‘He would have planted a circle of skulls around the garden, facing outwards, to ward off the enemy.’
Hugh blanched. ‘A ghost fence,’ he said weakly. ‘The archaeologists found traces of them at Stanwick. His last stand against the Romans. I’d hoped we might have become rather more sophisticated in our techniques. Please tell me you haven’t got a bunch of skulls in there.’
Meryn smiled. ‘Don’t talk about sophistication in that superior way, Hugh. We are the ones who are unsophisticated. In our wild rush over the last few hundred years for what we now consider to be rational and scientific we have lost so much which has been known and valued for thousands of years and which is vital to our survival as human beings. Venutios would consider us naïve babes in arms if he could see what we believe now. He probably can see it,’ he added, with a mischievous smile.
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