Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  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.

  Carta beckoned him forward and gestured to one of the slaves to bring the customary reward for the best entertainer. ‘A bag of gold, sir. Without dispute, you win the accolade today.’

  He knelt before her and took the small bag in his hand.

  ‘May I ask where you come from?’ She liked his face, weather-beaten and of dark complexion which set off his eyes which were the brightest blue.

  ‘From Caer Isca, oh great queen.’

  ‘And whose court do you serve?’ She was curious that such a fine singer should be a travelling bard.

  ‘I am yours, lady.’ He smiled at her, a touch of mischief in the twitch of his mouth. ‘I believe I am a gift.’

  She was speechless for a moment. ‘Are you not a freeman, then? I didn’t take you for a slave.’

  ‘I am a freeman, lady. I go of my own free will to a great queen at the behest of a great king.’

  ‘Venutios.’ She had whispered the name without realising it and only afterwards as he nodded did she smile. So, he had not forgotten.

  Later that night, as she lay back on her heather bed and pulled sheets and furs over her, she thought again about Venutios. One by one the faces of the men at the feast rose before her and she considered them, wondering how it would feel to welcome them to her bed, how their bodies would curve against hers, how their manhood would tease her to desire and one by one, her body told her that no one would please her and tease her and love her as Riach had. But Riach had been a boy as she had been a girl. He had been a friend, a companion, and a co-conspirator against the world. These were men parading themselves before a woman.

  Venutios’s was the last face she allowed herself to view, the last physique she allowed herself to imagine. The fantasy did not please her. With a shiver she put the thought aside and turned over, hugging her pillows, waiting for sleep to wash away her exhaustion and her loneliness as outside the rain began to fall.

  III

  ‘Viv!’ Pat’s hand on her shoulder brought Viv back to reality with a cry of fright. ‘Sorry, but it’s raining.’

  Viv closed her eyes, her heart thundering unsteadily under her ribs, trying to claw back the dream, but it had gone. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ She was furious,‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Pat stood up. ‘It was weird. There was a clear blue sky. Sunshine. Glorious. Warm. Then the storm comes out of nowhere and it’s so bloody cold!’ She shivered. ‘You weren’t saying anything, Viv. Not to the mike.’

  They were both aware suddenly that the rain on the leaves above their heads had stopped.

  Viv looked round, disoriented. The storm had been a part of her dream. The storm had been in Carta’s time, and it had been nightfall at Dun Righ. Here it was a clear day with no clouds in the sky at all. She gazed round her at the nettles and brambles and the trees clinging to the rampart, the glimpses through the undergrowth of green fields in an area where the walls had been. Acres of emptiness where once there had been houses, people, animals, workshops, store rooms and the smoke from a hundred smoke holes and ovens and kilns. She was trying to regain her grip on reality.

  ‘For any scenes set here we’ll need domestic noises,’ Pat went on. ‘Children. Dogs. Hens. That sort of stuff? Not something we can record here these days!’

  Viv nodded. ‘Wagon wheels on cobbles. Probably sheep and cows from time to time as they are brought in from the fields. Men shouting. Women laughing. Distant chatter. No recognisable words, of course. Can we fade out for indoor scenes and dialogue with maybe indoor noises of a fire, snapping, crackling twigs, that sort of thing?’ She sounded dreamy.

  Pat nodded again. ‘’Exactly! I was hoping it would work with this small recorder just to get the effect. I’ll get hold of a better quality mike if necessary. Then I’ll download it all onto my laptop and I can edit it after that.’ She fumbled in her bag for the tiny digital recorder which she had put away as it started to rain. ‘Do you want to try again? Tell me what was happening just now in your head.’ She plugged the microphone back into the small device and held it out. ‘OK. I’ve switched on. And …’ She paused as a blackbird started to sing nearby. ‘That’s perfect.’

  Viv hesitated. ‘It’s jumbled. I woke up so quickly most of it vanished. Like a dream.’ The blackbird stopped singing and exploded out of the thicket, its alarm call ringing in their ears.

  ‘Go back.’ Pat was business-like. ‘And this time speak out loud as it happens.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Try.’ Pat reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. ‘Sorry. I’ll sit down wind. And when you’re ready we’ll record a bit of downtown Stanwick. OK. I want you to talk to me. And I don’t want you to wake up. Just talk quietly out loud. Can you hear me?’

  Viv’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Good. Now begin.’

  I

  As spring turned into summer Carta’s father died suddenly. His parting left her bereft, though he had taken no part in public affairs for a long time. Lonely and lost without his support her grief became an excu
se not to consider the subject of a husband, though potential suitors were arriving from all over the country.

  Artgenos was becoming impatient. ‘You cannot expect all the warriors to follow you, lady, without a strong man at your side to lead them into battle. I know you can do it alone,’ he forestalled her furious retort with a raised hand,’ but you should not have to. The gods need you to stay safe. You saw what happens when the king dies. Your brother could not be spared so soon. And decisions must be made. The Romans are advancing daily across the south. No one is fighting save my cousin Caradoc, now his brother Togodumnos is dead, and he won’t last long. The situation becomes more serious by the day.’

  Carta frowned. They were sitting facing one another in one of the small side rooms built onto the outer wall of the circular great house at Dinas Dwr. They had travelled here, as Carta’s father had before her, for the Lughnasadh fair in this rich, lowland side of her kingdom - the side more vulnerable perhaps to attack should the Romans come. They were alone, screened from interested eyes and ears so that they could talk in private. ‘The gods are growing impatient, Carta. Listen to them grumble.’

  Although it was high summer it had been raining for three days and the surrounding moors were slick with moisture, the peat like a sponge. The fields and pastures had turned to mud. A steady stream of raindrops was finding its way through the smoke hole and hissing in the hot ashes of the fire. Beside the hearth, Carta’s two new dogs lay bored, idly scratching as they stared into the flames. She put out her hand and at once they came to her and nuzzled her fingers as another growl of thunder echoed across the township. In the distance she could hear the strum of the harp. Her new bard, Dafydd, sat beside the central fire quietly playing to the women who were spinning near him. As soon as Dafydd had arrived she had lost Conaire and she missed him sorely. ‘I crave your leave to go to the Druid college, lady,’ he had said, the day after the new bard had arrived. ‘You don’t need me now. I will always be your friend and I will always sing for you, but in my heart I have wanted to train as a seer and maybe a Druid if I am blessed by the gods.’ And she had nodded and given him her blessing and had let him go.

  She sighed. ‘The gods do not have to make this decision! They will not have to make the man their husband!’ She replied to Artgenos at last.

  ‘But they will help you to choose wisely.’ He glared at her. ‘Throw the divination sticks and ask. Visit the sacred waters and consult the goddess herself. Consult the omens, woman!’ His patience was all but at an end.

  ‘And if I do these things, what will they tell me?’ She was tired of hedging. ‘Why not tell me now, Artgenos, and save me from this uncertainty.’ Her eyes were flashing with anger.

  ‘They will tell you to pick Venutios.’

  ‘I knew it!’ She stood up furiously and both dogs sat up, ears pricked. He had been there waiting when they rode into the town-ship, full of apologies for his absence from the coronation. Carta had scanned the faces at his side. There was no sign of Medb.

  ‘So. What is wrong with him? He is a strong man. A king. He will father healthy sons and lead your men well.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure he would do all those things.’ Her eyes were hard. ‘But would he bow the knee to me as his queen? Would he obey my command in battle? Would he stand back if I desired it and allow me to take my war bands where I choose?’

  ‘He is a king in his own right, Cartimandua.’ Artgenos put his head on one side. ‘An experienced, popular king.’

  ‘In other words, no. He would do none of those things.’

  ‘He would make a strong consort.’

  ‘He will not suit me, Artgenos.’ She folded her arms. ‘And now, I am sick of sitting here listening to the gods argue above my roof tree. I am going out.’

  She swept her cloak around her shoulders and stepped out into the larger room outside. ‘Send a groom to fetch my pony,’ she called into the shadows. ‘I intend to go riding and I take no one with me, save the dogs!’

  She felt the horse slide as she put it to the path into the forest but she steadied it, pulling her plaid around her hair, conscious of Sun and Moon close at the animal’s heels. It was foolish to come out like this. She could see nothing as the cloud nestled in the trees and before long the rain had worked its way through her mantle. She would have to be cautious as the pony hurried on, keeping to the track as she ducked beneath overhanging branches, feeling the brush of wet leaves on her face, smelling the keen scents of the forest and the earth.

  When she heard the hoofbeats thundering after her she let out an exclamation of anger. In her frustration, all she wanted was to be alone. She reined in the pony and turned to face her pursuer. It was Brochan. ‘It is not safe for you to be out alone in this weather, Great Queen. Please, let me escort you.’ His hair was plastered to his head, his brown eyes anxious. ‘You should not go out into the forest at all. It is not safe. You could get lost.’

  ‘You dare to tell me where I can or cannot go!’ She was furious. ‘I have the gods to protect me, and the dogs you yourself gave me. Are they not enough?’

  ‘No, not in this weather.’ He held her gaze steadily and she liked him for it. He was handsome and charming and he would make a useful ally. She studied him for a moment, as the rain poured down. And she would enjoy him in her bed. Maybe he read something of her thoughts in her eyes because suddenly he grinned. ‘We could take shelter under the trees somewhere quiet, lady. This rain must stop soon.’ He glanced past her into the mist.

  ‘I know where we are, Brochan.’ She was smiling. ‘I know this place better than you, my friend, remember? This is the centre of my kingdom.’ It was a gentle rebuke.

  He bowed his head. ‘Of course.’ For a moment she was tempted, oh so tempted, then reluctantly she shook her head. ‘Probably it would be better to return within the walls. I wouldn’t like them to send out a search party. The reason for my ride is gone. I have stretched my legs and shaken loose the gremlins in my soul.’

  He laughed out loud. ‘A trail of gremlins would be a fearful sight. I trust they do not litter the track.’ His hand went to the wooden charm around his neck to ward off the insult to the little people. ‘Ride on, my lady, and I will follow at a respectful distance as befits your obedient kinsman.’

  She was laughing too, now. ‘Very well. I will lead the way.’ She was drawing on the pony’s reins, kicking him round when the dogs at her side began to growl.

  Brochan edged his own pony closer to hers. ‘What is it?’ He strained his eyes into the mist where the track disappeared into the trees.

  They could hear nothing above the wind and rain on the leaves above their heads.

  ‘Wolves maybe, in the forest?’ Carta could see nothing. She gentled the pony, sensing its fear.

  Brochan drew his sword. ‘Come on, back to the fort. Curse this rain, we can see nothing!’

  ‘Do not curse the rain.’ Carta urged her mount into a canter. ‘It could be our saving. It wraps us in its arms and provides us with a disguise.’

  They were still a half-mile ride away from the gates when out of the mist behind them a band of horsemen appeared, moving fast towards them. Glancing over their shoulders Carta and Brochan saw the glint of metal through the rain. The men were riding with drawn swords.

  The hoofbeats grew closer. There was no possibility of running. In seconds their own horses were surrounded.

  ‘So. Our queen rides without an escort? And where any man could take her captive! Not sensible, I think.’ It was Venutios, circling her on his sweating brown pony. He wore his war helmet and a waterproofed cloak against the storm. Ramming his sword back into the ornate scabbard at his belt he leaned forward and caught her rein, dragging her pony next to his.

  As his men surrounded her Carta felt a wave of fury engulf her. ‘Let go! How dare you!’ She drew the dagger from the sheath she wore at her own girdle beneath her cloak and slashed at his hand. ‘Don’t you dare touch me! Brochan! Where is Brochan?’ It gave her enormous satisfaction
to see the bloody welt bloom across the back of Venutios’s wrist as with a curse he dropped her rein. ‘Withdraw your men, sir. I cannot believe you would threaten me within sight of my own walls!’

  ‘I do not threaten you, my Queen.’ He reined back and to her fury she saw he was laughing. ‘I’m sorry if my wooing was too rough! Please, forgive my ardour!’

  ‘Your ardour!’ She sheathed her own dagger after wiping it across her knees. ‘I call it an insulting assault -’

  ‘Not meant, I assure you.’

  ‘And was it ‘‘not meant’’ to charge me with drawn swords?’ She was not going to be cajoled. ‘And where is Brochan?’

  ‘Here. I am here, Carta. Lady.’ He was on foot, one eye blackened, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose. ‘Venutios shall pay with his life for this insult!’

  With a horrified glance at the man with whom she had been riding, she turned on Venutios. ‘How dare you! I cannot believe you would do this! This man is king of the Parisii as you well know. How dare you!’

  ‘It was an accident, my Queen.’ One of Venutios’s men stepped forward. ‘Forgive me. I unseated him by mistake.’

  ‘Then I suggest you find his horse and help him mount, then beg his forgiveness on your knees!’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You call this a wooing, Venutios? I call it an attack. You will leave Dinas Dwr with your men today. At once. Go back to Caer Lugus and don’t dare to return to my presence until I tell you that you may.’

  ‘But my lady …’ He was still laughing.

  ‘But nothing!’ She was beside herself with anger. ‘Go, and think yourself lucky that the Parisii do not declare war on you for your insult to their king!’

  Behind her Brochan’s horse had been found. He was unceremoniously boosted into the saddle and someone smacked the animal on the rump, sending it bolting down the track.

  ‘So much for his royal pretensions!’ Venutios chuckled. ‘You need a real man, madam, not a poet who cannot hold his horse!’