Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  When he awoke next morning she was long gone from her bed and from the township. Her servants brought him hot water and shaving gear and served him breakfast and he found himself the recipient of a lavish gift from the queen - a young wolfhound of the best breeding.

  He did not see her again before he left for the south with his prisoner. He was not sure whether to be flattered by the gift, relieved at her absence or insulted that she had left so abruptly. At least his head had not joined the other trophies in her collection. Perhaps she had not thought him worth it.

  Half asleep, Viv grasped at the dream. What a triumph. Cartimandua had seduced a Roman. She smiled. And what a dish. She might have fancied him herself given half a chance. Did this explain Carta’s strange loyalty to Rome, her fascination with all things Roman, or was it just curiosity? Or something altogether more pragmatic? Was she playing deeper politics or was she just pissed off with Venutios?

  The creak of boards on the far side of the room sent the dream out of her head. She froze. Her eyes flew open. The only movement in the room came from the shadows of the leaves around the window, thrown by the rising sun as it appeared for a moment in a distant notch between the hills. In minutes it had swung south-wards behind the lowering moors and the room was dull again as she clutched the sheet to her chin.

  ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She held her breath, frightened. Was that a figure near the door? Someone was in the room with her. She edged herself upin bed. ‘Pat? Is that you?’

  There was no reply.

  Then she heard a quiet click as the door closed. Leaping out of bed she ran to it and dragged it open. The landing was deserted. There was no one there. Closing it again thoughtfully she turned the key in the lock and went to climb shivering back into bed. Someone had been in her room. Pat? Or Carta? Or Medb?

  The next time she woke it was full daylight and there was only one thought in her head. The brooch. Whoever had been in her room had been trying to find it. Leaping out of bed she went straight to her bag and rummaged in its depths. To her relief she found it at once, still zipped into the inner pocket where she had left it. Taking it into the little bathroom she looked round. There was a small cupboard above the towel rail where she had found a supply of miniature soaps and shampoos and after a moment’s hesitation she tucked it in behind them. The plastic box blended perfectly. It would have to do as a temporary hiding place until she thought of somewhere better.

  Pulling on her clothes after her shower, she sat down at the dressing table and began working her comb through her wet tangled curls, wondering if Pat was awake. It was Pat who had warned her not to divulge the hiding place of the brooch to anyone, Pat who was her colleague; her partner; a Daughter of Fire. But Pat was Medb.

  And Medb was Pat.

  28

  I

  Viv was already seated at the kitchen table when Pat finally appeared. Viv eyed her suspiciously. ‘You look as knackered as I feel. Didn’t you sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  Pat slid behind the table. She was pale and her hand was shaking slightly as she reached for the coffee pot. On the far side of the kitchen Peggy pulled a pan of bacon and eggs out of the oven and stood them on the hot plate.

  ‘Guess what,’ Viv went on. She was not about to talk about the brooch in front of Peggy. ‘Carta slept with her Roman soldier.’

  ‘What?’ Pat took a sip of black coffee.

  ‘She slept with him! Everyone in the township must have known. She pulled the tribune!’

  Pat scanned her face. ‘You went on with the story after I’d gone to bed?’

  Viv shrugged. ‘I dreamed about her. It was fantastic!’

  ‘I bet.’ Pat took another sip. ‘And what did Venutios think about that?’

  ‘I doubt if she told him!’ She had seen Cartimandua as young and vulnerable, uncertain, afraid; now as she grew older, as strong, tough and loud and powerful. She knew Celtic women had a huge degree of licence to choose their own men but this sexy, devious lady was a revelation. ‘If he’s a military tribune there might be a record of his name somewhere,’ she went on. ‘We’re getting into real history now, Pat. Something that can be checked.’ She reached for the milk jug.

  ‘Lucky old Carta.’ Pat helped herself to a slice of toast then almost at once pushed it aside. What she really wanted for breakfast was a cigarette.

  Viv shook her head. ‘I don’t think Tacitus mentions him, but I’ll check as soon as I get back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘I wonder if Medb knows about him.’ Pat was slowly stirring her coffee.

  Viv frowned, and looked at Pat cautiously. ‘He seems to have been especially trusted, first by Plautius and then by Scapula,’ she persisted thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he didn’t go with the legion when they were posted to Gloucester and he stayed in Camulodunum as some kind of special negotiator? And one-night-stand. Good in bed. Very.’ She chuckled.

  As Peggy set the hot plates in front of them the door opened and Steve came in, a couple of newspapers under his arm. ‘I’ve been down to the village. I thought I’d pick these up for the visitors if anyone is interested. You’re still in the top ten, Viv!’ He dropped them on the end of the table and slid into the chair next to her. ‘So, how is it going? Are you going to do some more recording today? I wish I could come with you but I have to go into Lancaster.’

  ‘I’ve told you, you don’t have to go, Steve!’ his mother said abruptly. ‘Why not leave it.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He frowned. ‘You know I can’t. In fact I’d better go now. See you, ladies! Sorry to run out on you again.’ He smiled, his glance lingering for a moment on Viv’s face and he was gone.

  Peggy seemed unusually put out as she turned abruptly from the Aga and glared at Viv and Pat. ‘Have you thought about my warnings?’

  ‘Peggy, please.’ Viv glanced at Pat. ‘We would like to stay a bit longer. I promise we won’t do anything silly.’

  Peggy shrugged. ‘I can’t force you to go. Just be careful. Especially you.’ She looked at Pat.

  When she was out of the room taking a fresh pot of coffee into the dining room Viv turned to her. ‘What did she mean by that?’ She paused. ‘Did you come into my room early this morning? Before dawn?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. Why?’

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘It was probably Carta!’ ‘She’s everywhere, isn’t she. Wonderful, beautiful, sexy, Cartimandua.’ Pat’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I can see why Medb wants to kill her!’ She gave a strange little laugh. ‘You did realise that is what she plans, didn’t you?’ She stood up. ‘I’m going outside to have a smoke. See you soon.’

  Viv didn’t move.

  When Peggy returned, she found Viv alone. Her face was white. Peggy frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I gather you can actually see Medb.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘She is getting stronger every hour. Can’t you sense it?’

  ‘Stronger in what way?’ Viv’s mouth went dry. She found her hands were shaking.

  ‘In every way.’ Peggy paused. ‘Where has Pat gone?’

  ‘Out for a smoke.’

  Peggy glanced at the back door and shook her head ‘You stay here.’

  Untying her apron, she followed Pat outside, leaving Viv sitting in front of her coffee.

  II

  ‘I warned you!’ Peggy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pat took a deepdrag on her cigarette. She was staring out across the garden.

  ‘She’s all over you.’

  Pat turned. ‘You can see her now? This minute?’

  Peggy nodded.

  ‘Shit!’ Pat took another pull on the cigarette. She shuddered. ‘How can I get rid of her?’

  ‘Fight her. Go away from here. Leave us alone.’

  Pat screwed up her face. ‘Why is she doing this to me? What does she want?’

  ‘Power. You have opened yourself to her. She’s going to use you.’

  ‘What for?’ Pat stared at her, appalled. She thou
ght back to the moments she had seen Medb; the dreams, the visions, her own powerlessness and she shivered again. She had a feeling she already knew the answer.

  Peggy’s eyes narrowed, suddenly thoughtful. ‘She hates Cartimandua, doesn’t she.’

  The colour drained from Pat’s face.

  ‘She’s there now,’ Peggy whispered. ‘If you won’t send her away, listen to her. What is she saying?’

  ‘You’re a good woman, Peggy. You serve the goddess.’ It was Medb’s voice. Then Pat’s again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the spring?’

  Peggy stared at her suspiciously. ‘Viv showed it to you?’

  ‘No. You asked her not to.’ Pat drew on the cigarette again and flicked the ash into the bed of catmint.

  ‘Then how -’ Peggy was still scrutinising her face. ‘I was right. But it’s too late to fight her, isn’t it? She’s inside you.’

  ‘I serve the same gods of the hills as you do, Peggy,’ Pat went on, her voice growing stronger. This was Medb’s voice again. ‘I’m on your side. There’s nothing for you to be afraid of. We’re sisters, you and I.’ She threw down the cigarette end and stamped on it. ‘I want you to take me to the sacred spring. Just you and me.’ She held Peggy’s gaze for a moment. Her eyes were hard, boring into Peggy’s skull. ‘There are things we have to do there.’ She paused. ‘Has Steve gone?’

  Peggy nodded.

  ‘Good. We don’t want a man here, do we.’ She was still holding Peggy’s gaze. ‘That’s why you got rid of your husband, isn’t it.’

  Peggy stared. Her already white face blanched. ‘I didn’t. He left -’

  ‘He wanted to fill in the spring,’ Pat interrupted.

  Peggy was dismayed. ‘How did you know?’ It was a whisper.

  ‘I watched. I watch everything.’ There was a long pause. The cold dead eyes looking out of Pat’s face were fixed unblinking on Peggy, pinning her to the spot. ‘He was frightened of it, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He thought it brought us bad luck. He blamed the foot and mouth on it; the new subsidy rules. Everything. On the head of the goddess.’

  Medb smiled. ‘Who knows, perhaps he was right if he didn’t pay his proper dues.’ She paused. ‘Forget him.’ Her tone was icy. ‘He’s gone. You know what we have to do next, don’t you? We have to find the brooch. That brooch contains my power. And then we have to punish Cartimandua.’

  Peggy took a step backwards. ‘Pat? Medb?’ It was a whisper.

  Pat was frowning. She reached for her cigarette packet, hesitated, then pushed it back into her pocket, throwing back her shoulders, her eyes still hard, the colour of Arctic ice. ‘Let’s go now,’ she said, ignoring Peggy’s plea. ‘Before we do anything else we need to make an offering to the goddess. We don’t want her to think we haven’t paid our dues, do we.’

  ‘We have paid our dues, Medb,’ Peggy whispered. ‘And you know it.’

  Medb gave a wintry smile. ‘I don’t think so. Not in full. Not yet.’

  III

  Meryn was standing on the doorstep of Hugh’s house, a worried frown on his face. He leaned on the doorbell once more, then turned and walked along the wall to peer in at the kitchen window. The house was empty. He could feel it.

  It was several hours since Hugh’s frantic phone call had been abruptly cut off. He had come as soon as he could, pushing his ancient car to its limit on the busy roads, but Hugh had gone. There was no sign of him or the car. Just the briefcase, abandoned on the gravel.

  He sighed. Following the path he walked round to the back of the house and peered in through living room and study windows. There was still no sign of Hugh. Doors and windows were locked. Walking onto the lawn and turning, he stood scrutinising the rear of the building. He was listening. Hugh had said something about silence. No birds. No sound at all he had said.

  A blackbird broke out of the bushes suddenly, shouting its alarm call and making Meryn jump. A warning? A message? Perhaps a suggestion. He groped in his pocket for his mobile and scanned it. Nothing. Tapping in Hugh’s number he waited while it rang, slowly turning round to survey the garden as he did so. The call was picked up by the message service. ‘Hugh? I’m at your house. Where are you?’ With a sigh he cut the call and headed back towards his car. It was as he was walking past the bird bath, centred in the formal rose bed, that he paused. A few pink petals floated on the surface of the water. He looked down into the moss-lined depths. What he saw, reflected behind the rose petals, was the golden enamelled head of a bird.

  IV

  Pat? Peggy?’ Viv stood at the kitchen door and stared out into the back garden. ‘Where are you?’

  There was no sign of them. Puzzled, she turned and walked back through the house to glance into the empty guest sitting room. Through the window she could see the other guests outside standing round their cars, packing in the last of their cases. From today they would have the place to themselves. She shivered. For a moment the thought scared her.

  Taking the stairs two at a time she made her way upstairs and tapped on Pat’s door. There was no reply. Opening her own door, she frowned. Someone had been in there. The bed had been made and the place tidied. Peggy’s cleaning lady must have been in while they were all at breakfast. She remembered the woman walking through into the old washhouse with an armful of sheets for the washing machine. She glanced into the bathroom and saw clean towels on the radiator. And a new bar of soap. With sudden misgivings she went to the cupboard and opened it. It had been rearranged and restocked with a new selection of soaps and gels. There was no sign of the package with the brooch. Her heart in her mouth, she turned back into the bedroom, frantically scanning every surface.

  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.

  V

  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 whic
h 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.’