‘Of course it’s my business.’ Heather handed over the mug - a reward for honesty so far. ‘So?’
Viv shrugged. ‘So. We were working on the timetables.’
‘Rubbish. I did the timetables.’
Viv shrugged again. ‘You got me there!’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘If you must know we drove out to see Hugh’s friend, Meryn.’ Viv paused. ‘He took the Steadmans’ dogs home with him, Heather. They attached themselves to him, wouldn’t let him out of their sight and Steve’s brother has said he can keep them. As working dogs they might have been put down otherwise. It was fantastic to see them racing around on the mountain. They seemed so happy.’
Both women were silent for a moment, thinking of the horrors of the past three months: the police and then the coroner’s enquiries, the publicity, the anger and disbelief of Steve’s brother and sister and finally, their painful decision to sell the farm.
It hadn’t been easy trying to put it all behind them. Of course it hadn’t been easy. Looking back over these last months, Viv thought of the times she and Hugh had visited Meryn, listening to his patient gentle reassurance, both of them wearing always now the silver amulets he had given them.
She smiled at the memory of Hugh at first uncomfortably tucking his under his shirt, now used to it and displaying it in a distinctly rakish manner round his neck. In fact the new Hugh was distinctly rakish all round, a huge improvement, noticed and approved by the whole department.
They hadn’t stopped quarrelling. In fact, the first time they had made love had been after yet another quarrel. She smiled to herself again, remembering the evening so clearly. They had been to the museum to look at the new display, in the centre of which, on a chunk of carved black bog oak, itself dating from the Iron Age, on a bed of clean, raked sand, lay the crane’s head brooch. They had stood side by side, staring at it in silence.
‘It’s exquisite, isn’t it,’ she had said at last.
He nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll borrow it again when Venutios, Hero of the North is published.’
Viv stared at him. ‘You are joking!’
He shrugged. ‘It’s been disinfected and blessed. What harm could it do?’
‘What harm?’ Viv rounded on him. ‘Have you learned nothing?’
He hadn’t been serious, of course, but she hadn’t seen it. Storming out of the gallery and out of the museum she had allowed her anger full rein.
He had followed her down Chambers Street. Followed her home. Followed her up the stone stair to her flat, by now as angry as she was, and following her inside had slammed the door behind them. Then he had taken her in his arms and shortly afterwards, to bed. One thing was for sure, life would never be boring with Hugh.
If there was going to be a life with Hugh. It was too early to tell yet.
He had taken such tender care of her after the tragedies at Winter Gill. Reassured her, comforted her, held her in his arms, and latterly since they had been together, cradled her when she woke screaming from the nightmares that still haunted her. Cathy had said they would get better. So had Meryn. Cathy and Pete had liked Meryn hugely when they met. Cathy and he had talked for hours and between them they had brought Viv back almost to her normal self.
Behind her, Heather had seated herself at her computer and was gazing at Viv’s back as she stared out of the window, lost in thought. ‘You OK?’
Viv turned, smiling. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘Thinking about the play?’
Viv shook her head. ‘The play’s finished. Out of our hands now.’
Meryn had insisted on that, helped them and taken an unexpected interest in the technicalities and the studio production. It would be broadcast in the New Year and the Daughters of Fire Production Company had been asked to produce another. About Boudica. Maddie had commissioned a documentary about the making of the play, too, which would include a certain amount about its unorthodox research. Viv gave a wry smile. Facing their demons and admitting in public some of what had happened was something they were all learning to do slowly. Pat had gone back to London once the play was finished and almost at once had been cast in a TV series, but she would come back soon to start work with Viv again and in the meantime there had been a flood of requests for Viv to write articles, give talks, go on lecture tours from people who knew her through the book and its attendant publicity. Life was very full.
Donald Grant had taken up the position of Reader as planned. She didn’t resent him for it. She didn’t have time. She hadn’t been sacked either, of course, and for now she was content to stay. Very content. The job offer in Ireland had been very tempting but she had turned it down. Maybe in the future there would be other opportunities and she would consider one of them, but for now she wasn’t ready to make any decisions of that sort. For the immediate future her life would be here in Edinburgh.
A small group of students headed out of George Square Gardens and across the road towards the department. It was time to go back to work.
‘Sounds as though your students have arrived, Viv,’ Heather said quietly as they heard the outside door bang and a sudden burst of talk and laughter in the hallway outside. Viv nodded. Later, after her tutorials, Hugh and she were meeting Stephanie and Bill Steadman for lunch to discuss the plan to set up a research fellowship in Steve’s name. No doubt they would all shed more tears, but she knew Steve would be there in spirit. Meryn had reassured her about that. He had laughed and shaken his head when she accused him of being the reincarnation of Artgenos, but he had persuaded them all, even Hugh, of the possibility of a cycle and circle of events which would, with the strength of knowledge, always be essentially optimistic.
That meant that however bitter the tears, there would always be laughter as well.
Postscript Two
Why ghosts?
Part of an address given by Meryn Jones to the annual meeting
of the Celtic Society
As some of you know, I have studied many philosophies, many histories, many religions in this lifetime and in many others. Those of you who have read my books know that I have assimilated much from these sources, and also from my own meditations. Many scholars and churchmen disagree with me. That is of course their privilege. But for those who seek answers may I put forward this small contribution to the understanding of some of the more unusual phenomena which sometimes puzzle those to whom they occur.
Like Hamlet, I believe there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophies.
Like many religions of the world, I believe the soul goes on many journeys through many lifetimes, in many forms. It is given choices and it makes them. And it never dies. The ideal destination of the Celtic soul is of course Tir n’an Og, the land of the Ever Young. The Isle of the Blessed.
But, like the Celt, I also believe in a form of reincarnation. Some believe, and I agree with them, that the soul, on occasions, splits into three parts on death, one part to reincarnate, one to go to the Blessed Isle and one part to enter another life form - perhaps a bird or a shooting star. Others believe, and I agree with them, that sometimes the entire soul returns to this Earth in a new body. Others again believe, and I agree with them also, that the soul can choose to return to this Earth as a spirit. As a ghost. Indeed sometimes this occurs inadvertently and the soul finds itself trapped on this Earth.
The Celts believed passionately that one’s ancestors stayed in touch. They consulted them much in the way that many eastern religions still do. They are told all the news. They are available for consultation and advice and have strong views on everything. This implies of course that sometimes the soul just stays somewhere on another plane, ready to be of service in this way, and that too I believe.
On top of these strands of belief we have an assumption that everything has spirit. Not just animals, but plants - trees - rocks - everything. To the modern and to the Christian mind this has up to now been an anathema, but particle physics would appear to be br
inging some interesting new angles on this. This is valuable for people who need scientific reassurance for everything they believe for fear they may be considered flaky and New Age. The Celt believes the evidence of his own eyes, his own inner or second sight and his intuition.
The choices the soul makes can leave it unhappy. The life it has led may not have been full of glory. It may have ended in anger, sorrow, unfulfilment. Some will go for another crack of the whip in a new lifetime. But others haunt the scenes of their last life. And in doing so they can grow frustrated and angry because they find that people on the whole cannot see or hear them. If they find people who can and who welcome them, they will make use of them.
Most souls, like most people, gossip inconsequentially. They seize on things to say which they feel will reassure or convince. Hence some of the less than world-shaking comments that mediums so frequently relay.
But some souls have a huge agenda. And this is where danger can lie. The men and women who inadvertently allow them into their lives can find themselves drawn into events over which they have no control and which can put their lives and their sanity in danger.
Beware, my friends. Think carefully before you let a passing stranger inside your head. I have seen what happens if you do.
Chronology of the story (Historical dates in bold)
Anno domini
20 Cartimandua born
32 Cartimandua leaves for Dun Pelder
36 She is married to Riach
37 Widowed and loses baby
38 Back to Dun Righ
Succession of Triganos as High King of Brigantia
40 Death of Cunobelinos in the south
Emperor Gaius prepares to invade Britannia. The invasion is aborted
43 Roman invasion
Death of Triganos
Cartimandua’s election and succession as High Queen of Brigantia
43–47 Aulus Plautius Governor of Britannia
44 Emperor Claudius in Camulodunum
44 Cartimandua marries Venutios
She loses baby
47–52 Publius Ostorius Scapula Governor of Britannia
47/8 Small Brigantian rebellion suppressed with help of Rome
Caratacus’s rebellion moves to the West
51 Caratacus defeated and flees to Brigantia
53 Venutios and Cartimandua divorced
54 In Rome Claudius dies. Succeeded by Nero
Cartimandua marries Vellocatus
Birth of her third child
58–61 Gaius Suetonius Paulinus Governor of Britannia
60 Roman attack on Anglesey
60/1 Revolt of Boudica
68 Death of Nero in Rome
69/70 Cartimandua rescued by Rome. The last mention of her in the historical record. Venutios succeeds as king in his own right.
71–73/4 Quintus Petillius Cerialis Governor of Britannia. At some point during his governorship Venutios is defeated and disappears from history.
Within 10 years the conquest of Wales and much of Northern Britain had been accomplished. It didn’t last.
Author’s Note
With each book I write I realise I am more and more indebted to people who give their enthusiastic time and advice. This story is no different. Amongst the many who helped me I should especially like to thank, first and foremost, Annie McBrearty for our brainstorming sessions up in Wester Ross when I was first planning the story. I must reiterate my assurances, as I do in every book, that no one and nothing in this book bears any resemblance to anywhere or anyone real - especially in this case, not to any other Department of Celtic Studies at Edinburgh University! Thank you to Mandy Morton and Jon Hope-Lewis for their technical advice and to Jo and Ian McDonald for their wonderful hospitality and for showing me Traprain in all its stunning stark beauty. To Peter Buneman for geographical updates. To the members of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids who have given me their wisdom and their friendship over the last few years and guided me on my own spiritual journey. To Nick Kerr and AJ Hope-Lewis who, when my visits to Ingle-borough failed, in spite of prayers and propitiation, to produce a single ray of sunshine went and explored on a day the sun did come out, triumphantly videoed for me and phoned me from the top(yes, their mobile did work!) to answer my questions about the view! They did a stirling, energetic and enthusiastic job. To Lis Redfearn who introduced me to the wonders of Shiatsu and rescued my creaking body from the horrors of RSI. To Rachel Hore for her immense patience and clear thinking, to Carole Blake for her support and enthusiasm and Lucy Ferguson for her eagle eye for detail. And above all thanks to Pat Taylor who showed me round her beloved Yorkshire and for her untiring companionship and humour as we explored the moors and the dales, hunted down the ghosts and sought out the glamorous and fascinating settings for this book. Just as I have taken liberties, I’m afraid, with the geography of Yorkshire, so I have with names for my characters from the annals of Wales and Ireland and Scotland. But then, unlike Viv, I make no claims to be an academic. In the absence of written information one has to make do with imagination, dreams and deductive techniques of however dubious a nature! Sadly the star of the story did not appear to me save in one or two wild and wonderful dreams, but I trust even that much contact meant I have her approval. I have tried to be as accurate as possible with period detail and historical fact, but then this is, by and large, pre-history and above all, it is fiction. This is the place to confess that there is, as far as I know, no connection between Cartimandua and Ingleborough recorded. We don’t know her tribe, or if she had children, and although far more is known about her life than that of her much more famous contemporary, Boudica, she is still an enigma.
So, for all that is known historically about Cartimandua I refer the reader to the Roman historians.
For the truth of her life we must consult archaeology and the oracles.
The rest is silence.
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About the Author
DAUGHTERS OF FIRE
A historian by training, Barbara Erskine is the author of ten best-selling novels that demonstrate her interest in both history and the supernatural, plus two collections of short stories. Her first novel, Lady of Hay, has sold
well over a million copies worldwide and has now been reissued in a new cover for a new generation of fans. Her books have appeared in twenty-three different languages. She lives with her family in an ancient manor house near Colchester, and in a cottage near Hay-on-Wye.
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By the same author
LADY OF HAY
KINGDOM OF SHADOWS
ENCOUNTERS (Short Stories)
CHILD OF THE PHOENIX
MIDNIGHT IS A LONELY PLACE
HOUSE OF ECHOES
DISTANT VOICES (Short Stories)
ON THE EDGE OF DARKNESS
WHISPERS IN THE SAND
HIDING FROM THE LIGHT
SANDS OF TIME
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2006
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978 0 00 717427 0
ISBN-10: 0 00 717427 6
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Daughters of Fire Page 64