12

I

High above a skylark was singing as early sunlight slanted across the soft tussocky grass. Wrapped in her jacket and scarf, Viv had woken early and now sat cross-legged in the lea of a stone wall, her notebook open on her lap. She was writing fast. In her head it was the end of June as well. The soft warm wind from the west contained the scents of summer two thousand years ago as surely as they did in her waking life.

Carta stood staring up at the great cliffs which guarded this side of her hilltop home and beyond them to the stone ramparts with their entry gatehouses, one here, to the north, the other two out of sight behind the flat plateau on the high hill where she had been born. She was listening as the echoing cry of the horn announced her arrival. Behind her the wagons and chariots of the men and women who accompanied her and all her belongings were strung out some mile or so along the trackways which traversed the territories of her father the king. Her fists were clenched on the guardrail at her side and she braced herself easily as the chariot, driven by Fergal, lurched over the rutted ground, following now the steep stony roadway which wound up the sloping side of the hill towards the walls.

Physically she had recovered quickly from the loss of her baby, and as far as those around her could see she had put the event behind her. That she still mourned Riach with a bitter intense sorrow and anger perhaps only four people guessed, Mairghread and Gruoch, who had both elected to return with her to her father’s kingdom, Conaire, her bard, and Fergal at whose side in her chariot she spent so much time as she grew stronger. She had been away for some six years and the young woman who rode now into the hilltop fortress of the Setantii was an educated, self-possessed, more thoughtful version of the wild untameable child who had ridden out at the age of twelve.

As she stepped down from the vehicle in front of her father’s great round house he was waiting to greet her with arms outstretched, Fidelma beside him. But his welcoming hug though warm, was feeble and she could see at once that something was wrong. The strong vital man who had attended her wedding was gone. His face was thin, his hair greying, his arms beneath their gold bracelets feeble.

Kissing her mother, Carta was surprised to see her turn away and walk back towards the women’s house. Two tall, handsome warriors had taken her place at the king’s side, their very vitality, their virility seeming to emphasise his weakness. One, Carta’s eldest brother, Triganos, surreptitiously took their father’s arm as soon as they turned towards the great house and once there, helped him to his seat, the other following closely behind. Carta frowned, resenting the presence of the stranger who had almost elbowed her mother away on such a special family occasion. She subjected him to a searching stare, meeting his eyes coldly and realising with a sudden shock of recognition that it was Venutios who stood there. The boy who had plagued her as a child was now, it appeared, chieftain and king in his own right of their neighbours, the Carvetii. He was a man in his prime, his face adorned with blue swirls and flourishes, his eyes still the deep rich agate which had seemed so hard and resentful when they were children and which, she saw wryly, were hard and resentful still. Whilst her brother and her father were smiling, he looked at her with nothing but hostility and challenge.

Tearing her eyes away from his with a shiver of distaste, she stared round as the dark round house filled with men and women. He was not alone in his resentment, it seemed. Instead of the unrestrained welcome she had been expecting, the atmosphere throughout the township was tense. It was Triganos who now stood to welcome her officially, Triganos’s bard with his branch of silver bells, the symbol of his office, who spoke the words of praise and joy and welcome that she should have returned to her father’s roof. Her father said nothing. Neither did Venutios.

At the feast which followed, amidst the noise and bustle and music she watched her father closely. He ate almost nothing. Her mother did not reappear. Only the next day did she find a chance to speak to Triganos alone. ‘What has happened to him? Why was Mama not at the feast? Why is no one pleased to see me?’

Her brother looked down at her sadly. ‘We are pleased to see you, Carta. Do not doubt it. It is just that father’s health is failing. He was ill some four months ago with a bad fever and he has not properly recovered. On top of that, when we were out hunting only a fortnight ago he was gored by a boar. Not badly, not enough to hurt him seriously, but it has left him scarred. We all hoped he would get better, continue to be our king, but it is not going to happen as we would wish it. The elders of the Setantii and of the Brigantes as a whole, feel a new king should be chosen. It is time. Mama does not agree. She is angry. That is why she didn’t come to the feast. The worry of all that has distracted us from the welcome we should have given you. I’m sorry.’

Carta slumped down on the bench nearby. ‘Poor Father.’

‘He can no longer claim the respect of his men, Carta. He can’t lead them any more. It is time to stand back and enjoy the pleasures of old age.’ He shrugged. ‘Talk to him. He’ll tell you, he doesn’t want to fight the decision. He is prepared to stand down at Samhain. And in the meantime his chosen successor will lead the men should the need arise.’

‘And his chosen successor will be?’ Carta raised an eyebrow.

‘Almost certainly me. There is no one else in contention.’ Her brother grinned at her. He was a tall, well-built man, handsome, unscarred, exactly the choice the gods would make. And the people.

‘So, your dream comes true.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘What about Fintan, or Bran or Oisín? Do they agree?’ Their brothers or the son of their father’s sister were all of the royal blood, all eligible for choice. The Setantii would want the best man of the tribe to lead them, but to lead the whole confederation? That was different. ‘What about the leaders of some of the other tribes?’ she asked quietly. ‘They will have a view. After all, it does not follow that the leader of the Brigantes should come from the Setantii.’ She looked up at him quizzically.

‘No, but it helps.’ He grinned.

‘What about Venutios? Why is he not back amongst his own people?’ She studied Triganos’s face, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

The young man raised an eyebrow. ‘You remember him then?’

‘Of course I remember him!’ she replied hotly. ‘How could I forget! Why is he here?’

Triganos shrugged. ‘He visits from time to time. Perhaps he’s come to greet you.’

Carta snorted. ‘I don’t think that is likely. Perhaps he has another reason. Perhaps he wants to become high king.’

Triganos shook his head. ‘He knows the position is mine.’

Carta nodded doubtfully. Perhaps he was right. Her own childhood dream to be a queen had died with Riach. Had he been chosen to succeed his father as leader of the Votadini she would have been his consort, his senior wife, his only wife – he had sworn it – and his queen. But that was not to be either. Not now. Folding her arms across her chest she half turned away from her brother. ‘And what will become of me?’ She hated saying it. It was weak. To her own ears her voice sounded pathetic, almost pleading.

Triganos stared at her in surprise as though the answer was too obvious to need voicing. ‘It will be for me to find you a new husband, sister.’ He followed her and gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll find you someone special, sweetheart. A lusty chieftain. Perhaps even a king. We’ll draw up a shortlist and you can choose. You know I wouldn’t force you to take someone you didn’t like.’

‘Indeed you won’t!’ She spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘For that would be against the law.’ Extricating herself from his arms, she went to stand in the doorway. The chieftain’s house was shadowy and empty at this time of the day. The sun had moved on and the low south-facing doorway no longer caught the long warm rays. Only the fire, smouldering gently in the centre of the floor, glowed with gentle light. Outside, the township was quiet. From the forge came the sound of hammering and from the stonemason’s house on the far side of the township the regular sharp chink of chisel on rock. A group of women were sitting with their querns in the sunshine outside or spinning and sewing as they chatted and sang. Most of the male population were out, far away from the hill, working in the fields or with the slaves in the lead mines, or with the cattle and sheep on the surrounding moors. The warriors were practising their skills with sword and bow and sling. The men and women of her own train had dispersed, some to the horse lines, some to the men’s lodgings, some to the servants’ quarters.

Carta was not staying in her father’s house. She had been given one of the largest guest houses as her own. There with Mairghread and Gruoch and her closest attendants she would settle for the time being. Around the circular stone walls of the house were the small private rooms much as there had been at Dun Pelder. Her father’s township was shabby though, in comparison. In places the walls of the houses were crumbling; the thatch pulled by the birds; the great rampart walls falling down. She stared out across the compound with a sinking heart. A flock of small chickens were scratching in the dust. Nearby a dog slept in the sun, ignoring them. She frowned at the sight. The animal reminded her of Catia. It was probably related to Catia. Her heart ached for a moment for the faithful dog which had been such a friend to her. There had been no animal since to fill that special place. She loved all her dogs and horses equally but there was no hound now constantly at her heels or sleeping across her threshold. She had been content with Riach’s dogs and they had stayed behind.

‘What’s happened, Triganos?’ She turned back inside. ‘Father may be ill, but he is High King of the Brigantian peoples. He is rich in cattle and gold. He has a dozen high forts to choose from, so why stay here?’ This was a place she had loved, the home of her own special goddess, but there was no disguising the shabbiness and lack of care.

‘We are here only for the summer.’ Triganos shrugged. ‘Father has ordered the building of a great new township at Dinas Dwr at the other side of the mountains. The roofs are being replaced and the walls refurbished and the place extended as a trading centre. We will go there before next winter.’ He seemed a little uncertain; he had not looked at his home before with such a dispassionate eye. As long as it provided food and shelter and sport it served him well enough.

Carta stared at him. ‘And in the meantime this, the great township of the king of The Setantii, Dun Righ on Pen y Righ, the king’s hill, looks like a cluster of peasants’ hovels!’ She frowned. ‘Are you saying that father has allowed everything to fall into this state?’

Triganos shrugged sulkily. ‘It’s not his fault. The cattle did not breed well this year. The gods did not watch over us and father has lost their favour.’

‘Then it is his fault.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And it is for you,’ she added tartly, ‘to win their favour back.’ She could feel her old impatience with her brother returning. The streak of indolence, of lazy arrogance, was still there.

‘I’m doing so.’ He looked angry. ‘I am waiting for the advice of the Druids. I have asked what sacrifices the gods need and while I await their deliberations I am making plans of my own.’ He pulled her away from the doorway and lowered his voice. ‘I am planning a raid on the territory of the Parisii. They are rich in cattle. They wouldn’t miss a few head.’

‘They are our allies, Triganos!’ Carta was shocked. ‘They are part of the Brigantian federation. Or they were under father’s rule. You will not succeed if you alienate our closest friends. That is foolish. And these cattle raids are senseless. Better far to trade new stock if it is needed.’

‘Nonsense!’ he contradicted her scornfully. ‘They will enjoy a good scrap as much as we would. There’s nothing like a battle or two to get the blood moving!’ He did not see the tactlessness of his remark, or the pain in his sister’s face as almost on cue a group of young men passed the doorway on their way to the training ground, their cheerful shouts finding their way into the silent room.

‘And what about trade. How is that?’ Carta was tight-lipped. ‘The Brigantes control the routes bringing gold and slaves and dogs from Erin into our Setantian harbours and rivers. We produce lead in the fells and dales and corn from our fields. We should be rich!’

‘We are rich.’ He was very much on the defensive now. ‘Father has ordered all this work to be done at Dinas Dwr – and some building here, too. That is expensive. And the chieftains resent paying too much in taxes. It is hard to collect from them if they don’t cooperate.’ He turned and headed towards the door. ‘Leave it, Carta. It is enough that you are home. Don’t stir things up. Everything is in hand. Come. You haven’t yet met my wife, Essylt. It is time you greeted her.’

She followed him, her heart sinking. Of course he was married. How could he not be? Yet no one had told her. Another wave of loneliness swept over her as they entered the room where Essylt was sitting beside the fire, a baby at her breast. Younger than Carta by some five years, with pale, almost white hair hanging in heavy plaits and eyes of soft cornflower blue she smiled a welcome. ‘Greeting, sister. I have so looked forward to meeting you.’ Her voice was gentle and shy. ‘Come. Kiss your new nephew.’ Detaching the child she held him out.

Carta hesitated. A wave of anguish shot through her as she stared at the baby. For a moment she couldn’t move, overwhelmed by her sense of loss and longing.

‘Carta?’ Triganos didn’t understand why she was hanging back. ‘Take him.’ He was full of pride. ‘Isn’t he splendid? This is Finn. My eldest son!’

Stooping, he kissed his wife on the top of her head and she looked up at him in adoration.

Carta forced herself to smile. Somehow she managed to hold out her arms and take the baby, hugging it to her as she looked down at the small face with its fuzz of blond hair, its wildly waving little hands, the milky bubbles at the rosebud mouth. It fixed her with a serious stare and then suddenly smiled.

She kissed his head gently, biting back her anguished tears. ‘He’s lovely. May the blessings of the goddess be upon him.’ Her voice was husky.

‘Triganos!’ Fidelma walked into the room. ‘Were you not going to tell me that Cartimandua was here?’ She took in the situation at a glance. At once the baby was returned to its mother, Triganos was despatched elsewhere and Fidelma had led her daughter to an alcove where they could sit in private as Essylt returned to her milky worship of her child.

By the time she was facing her mother’s astute gaze Carta had brushed away her tears and won the fight to regain her composure.

‘It will get better with time, child.’ The older woman was not fooled for a second. ‘You will have other babies of your own. I lost children. It happens. But I have you and your brothers as comfort.’ The quizzical glance she sent after Triganos underlined the wry smile which hovered for a moment round her mouth. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to marry again Carta,’ she added softly. ‘Wait to choose the right man.’

Carta took her hand. ‘The right man died, Mama. No one will be able to replace him.’

‘But you will remarry.’ It was not a question.

‘Of course. In time.’ Carta grimaced. ‘When I see someone suitable.’

Fidelma chuckled. Carta had grown up indeed She doubted if anyone married to her daughter would have an easy life, or a boring one. But she would be a rich prize in more ways than one.

‘Why were you not at the feast yesterday, Mama?’ Carta scanned her mother’s face. Even in the dim rushlight she could see the lines of strain.

‘I felt I should stay with Essylt.’ Fidelma’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘There were enough people there without me.’

‘You don’t approve of Triganos’s desire to take father’s place?’

Fidelma shrugged. ‘It’s not up to me. If his Druid advisers think it best then it must happen.’ She paused. ‘Your father is tired, Carta,’ she conceded. ‘Perhaps it is time to step back. But is Triganos the right man to follow him?’

Carta frowned. ‘Triganos is your son!’

‘And I look on him with a mother’s pride. But I can be dispassionate.’ Fidelma sighed. ‘I see his faults as well as his strengths.’

‘He only needs experience, Mama.’ Carta defended him

Fidelma nodded.

Her daughter frowned. ‘You wouldn’t want Venutios to succeed father as high king?’

‘Indeed not.’

‘Then support Triganos, Mama. Give him the benefit of your strength and your experience.’ Carta smiled. ‘He’ll take it from you!’

Fidelma gave a low chuckle. ‘I shall try, my dear. Indeed. I shall try.’

Walking later onto the hillside outside the walls Carta stood, her back to the fort, staring out towards the Western Sea. On a clear day it was possible to see right out across the gilded waters towards the Manannan’s Isle, halfway to Erin. Today it was hazy. Fold upon fold of cloud shrouded the distant hills. She missed, she realised, the clear bright view of the cold Northern Ocean with its great rocks, shrouded in gannets. Its ever-changing freshness. She had become a stranger in her own soft, rain-swept lands.

Below her, in a fold of the moor on the edge of the forest nestled the Druid college, one of the most respected in the whole of the Pretannic Isles. Gruoch had promised to stay at Carta’s side as long as she was needed, but above all, she wanted to make her way down to the guest house at the college. ‘It is important I meet my colleagues here and continue my studies.’ She had laid a gentle hand on Carta’s arm. ‘As you must if you are to fulfil your destiny.’ The two young women had held one another’s gaze for a moment.

‘And what is my destiny?’ Carta whispered. ‘When will I marry again? Who will it be? Will I have another baby one day? I have begged the gods to tell me and they say nothing. Will Medb’s curse last forever?’ Tears filled her eyes.

Gruoch shrugged. ‘That is not for me to know, Carta. That is for you to learn from the gods. Consult the omens. Your teachers say you are a talented seer. Now is the time to put your gifts to good use. Consult the signs. See what is required of you.’

Praying to her gods was as natural to Carta as breathing. She consulted them, railed against them, pleaded with them, made them offerings. Their voices were everywhere. In the wind in the trees, in the song of the birds, in the rippling of the water over the broad sweeping rivers, the roar of the waterfalls and in the echoes of the hollow hills. Making her way now across the steep hillside, avoiding the sink holes which led down into those echoing hollows where only the gods dared go, she paused again to listen. The west wind was whispering across the soft fell grasses as she stood deep in thought, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her hair. She was alone. No one would accost her here and there was no danger from strangers on these her homeland hills and yet the whispers spoke of danger.

Vivienne?

She whispered the name out loud.

Vivienne! Tell me of the future. Tell me where my destiny lies!

There was no answer.

Then as she stood there a flock of small birds flew out of the gorse bushes ahead of her. She watched them automatically, listening to their gossip, noting the direction of their flight, tuning her mind to the messages they had for her. In the space of a heartbeat she saw the birds wheel as one and turn and dive back into the bushes as a shadow passed across the grass at her feet. Squinting up from beneath her hood she saw, high up, the drifting watchful silhouette of a sea eagle and she heard it scream.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. The whispers of the grass were true. There was danger lurking in the future, distant danger, not imminent, not close but somewhere in the shadows it was there, waiting.

II

Viv woke to find herself sitting staring out across the fells and fields towards the west. The sun was high in the sky now and it was growing warm. She tensed, listening. From far away she could hear the sound of galloping hooves. For a moment she didn’t move, then slowly she stood up and turned, shading her eyes as she stared up towards the folded ramparts and beyond into the distant haze. The sound was coming closer. Several horses, moving fast. She could hear the chink of harness now, the click of hoof on stone but she could see nothing. High above, a buzzard wheeled, riding the thermals and she heard its plaintive wild mewing echoing off the distant scar. The sound grew louder. It was on her. Then it passed and almost at once had drawn away with a rattle of hooves on the scree until it had died away into silence. She had seen nothing. Shaken, she turned round, staring in every direction. There was nothing and no one to be seen. If any horsemen had passed close by on the faint track they were invisible.

Peggy was alone in the kitchen when she finally reached the farm, exhausted by her second long walk in two days. The men, it appeared, had gone out early to the lower fields, haymaking. ‘You must have left soon after them.’ Peggy put down a pot of coffee and some toast in front of her. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cooked breakfast, love?’

Viv shook her head. Her fear had evaporated considerably on the long walk back down from the summit, but she was still shaken. After a moment’s hesitation she told Peggy what had happened. ‘It was as though they rode right past me. I could feel the ground shake.’

Peggy nodded. She sat down across the table from Viv. ‘So many people have mentioned it over the years I’ve got used to hearing about it.’

‘Is it some kind of trick of geology? An echo through the ground, through the caves and potholes, of people riding miles away?’ Relieved at Peggy’s matter-of-fact reaction, Viv found she was ravenous. She reached for the homemade marmalade.

Peggy was shaking her head. ‘Nothing like that. Several people have been up and investigated it. Even the local TV news came up once. It is horses galloping. Everyone agrees on that. You can hear the squeak of leather, the snorting, and breathing of the horses sometimes. They tried to record it, but nothing came out.’

Viv stopped eating for a moment to study her hostess’s face. ‘You don’t really think it’s ghosts?’

Peggy shrugged comfortably. ‘I don’t have a view. It happens. All sorts of strange things happen round here. It’s part of what makes it so special. The land is alive. It’s full of memories of the past and, who knows, echoes of the future as well.’ She leaned across to top up Viv’s coffee cup. ‘You’ve written about the fort in your book, Steve tells me.’

Viv nodded. ‘Can I tell you something about that? Something that’s been happening to me?’ She hesitated, her eyes fixed anxiously on Peggy’s. Steve had said she would understand. ‘I’m nervous talking about this because I think maybe I’m going mad.’ She paused. Then she plunged on. ‘My best friend is a psychologist. I’ve told her about this, and she’s calm and reassuring and has lots of professional suggestions to make about me being obsessed with the subject of my book, but –’ She hesitated again. ‘Well, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

Peggy listened without comment as Viv told her the whole story, interrupting once to answer the phone and once to replenish the coffee pot. Otherwise the kitchen was silent save for the sound of Viv’s voice and the ticking of the old clock on the shelf above the Aga. When she had finished Viv sat nursing her empty mug, staring down into the dregs.

Peggy looked up at last. ‘I think your friend is wrong,’ she said slowly. ‘As a psychologist she is looking for orthodox answers to your problem. That is not necessarily helpful. Tell me, does all this frighten you or does it interest you?’

Viv shrugged. ‘A bit of both.’

Peggy nodded. ‘I think you need to decide which feeling is the stronger, love. If it’s the former you must stop doing it now. Forget it. Fight it. Never let yourself do it again.’ She glanced up and held Viv’s gaze. ‘If you’re not going to stop, then you need to lay down some ground rules. Whatever – whoever – she is, she’s in your head and you only want her there on your terms.’

‘So you believe she’s real. Do you think I’m being possessed?’

‘No. No, I don’t think that. But I think maybe you are being used and I think that at least to start with that was by your invitation. You’ve opened up a line of communication, but that needs to stay open only as long as you want it to.’

Peggy stood up and went over to lean against the Aga rail. ‘I’m not a clever psychologist like your friend and I’m no church-goer.’ Again she paused and scanned Viv’s face for a reaction. ‘So I speak as I find. These things happen. There are people out there,’ she gestured towards the ceiling, ‘from other times, maybe from other dimensions, who knows where they come from, but they have stories to tell. We can welcome them and listen or we can push them away. That’s up to us. It’s our business and theirs. But it is natural. You needn’t be afraid of it. But you must be strong.’

‘You’re saying it’s normal.’

‘It would be if people would open themselves up.’

Viv, elbows on table, rested her chin on her hands.

Peggy pushed the kettle onto the hotplate again. ‘You said there is stuff this Carta is telling you that you didn’t know before. That nobody knows?’

Viv nodded. ‘It could all be rubbish.’

‘It could. Or it could be true. Stop worrying about that. Listen to her.’ She smiled. ‘That is what you want, isn’t it.’

Viv nodded.

‘Well, go on writing down what she tells you. You are a writer first and foremost, my Steve says, so write. Only when you’ve got it all down and the story is finished one way or another do you have to make a decision about what to do about it. My guess is, she’ll go once she’s told you everything.’

Viv grinned. ‘I knew I was right to talk to you. Thank you. You’ve made it all sound so simple.’

‘It is simple.’ Waiting for the kettle to boil, Peggy moved across to the fridge and lifted out a huge lump of crumbly cheese. ‘Now, I’m going to make some sandwiches for my haymakers and if you like you can come down to the fields with me and on the way back I’ll show you the Druid’s Well.’

It was down three steep limestone steps at the bottom of a steeply folded valley near the hayfields. As Peggy led her towards it, Viv felt her throat constricting. There was something about the place, the line of the tumbling beck, the outline of the hills, she recognised as they picked their way between lichen-draped trees and through waist-high grasses feathery with seed, deeper into the tumbled limestone cliffs which closed the end of the valley.

Peggy stood back on the path and waved Viv past her. ‘There’s only room for one at a time in there. Be careful. The steps can be slippery.’

The well head was cold and dank and smelled of musty rock and water. The sound of the beck behind them echoed in her ears. Carefully stepping down out of the sunlight she was immediately in a different world, the liminal halfway house so beloved of the Celts, neither one thing nor the other, neither light nor dark, neither wet not dry, neither outdoors nor in, gateway to the underworld. Someone had put a small candleholder on a natural shelf in the rock and near it lay a spray of wilted flowers.

It was just possible to squat down under the low rock roof and sit on the edge of the stone basin where the water lay unreflecting in a pool of darkness. Cautiously she reached down and dipped her fingers in the pool. The smooth surface broke and moved and for a second she saw the reflection of her own face then it was gone.

It was coincidence, of course, that this should look so like Carta’s sacred spring. Probably they all looked much the same. She had seen them in Cornwall – secret, special hidden places, their presence often advertised by a nearby tree festooned with ribbons and rags. Clooties, they called them in Scotland, left by people as a plea or a promise, an offering or a thank you to whoever or whatever spirit looked after the well, be it one of the ancient Celtic gods, or a Christian saint, or the Virgin Mary herself.

She gave a wry smile, aware of an unlooked for atavistic urge within herself to leave her own gift here by the dark water.

Vivienne

The voice was little more than a whisper of the water outside. Viv shivered and climbed to her feet. It was her imagination.

Turning towards the daylight she looked up and saw Peggy seated on a rock near the entrance, her back to the well, staring down towards the gurgling water of the beck. Hesitating, she glanced back, then groped in her pocket to see if there was a coin there she would offer to the gods. What she found was a sweet smelling head of lavender she had broken from the clump near Peggy’s kitchen door. It seemed a fitting offering and she laid it near the flowers and candle and imagined for a second that its sweetness was powerful enough to fill the whole valley.

Peggy glanced up as she re-emerged and came to sit beside her. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it.’ She scanned Viv’s face with steady blue eyes which seemed to be able to read her soul.

Viv nodded. ‘Very special.’

‘I come up here sometimes on my own and light a candle.’ Peggy looked away again. ‘It’s a place of immense power and healing.’

‘Do many people know it’s here?’ Viv kicked off her sandals and let her feet rest on the soft moss on the edge of the waterfall.

‘The locals. Of course it’s not in any guidebooks as far as I know. Once these places become too popular they lose part of their specialness.’ She glanced back at Viv and once more the intensity of her gaze was almost uncomfortable. ‘Can you keep it to yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just that not everyone has the right respect these days and even those that do don’t always behave appropriately. It’s a sad fact of life.’

‘I won’t tell anyone.’ Viv was silent for a moment. ‘Why do you call it the Druid’s Well?’

Peggy shrugged. ‘It’s always been called that. The Celts honoured water just as they honoured the sun and the moon, the stars, the rocks, the trees, the soil beneath their feet; they knew it all as sacred. They must have known this place as a spring, so near the hill fort but the ordinary people would have been afraid to come here, so it must have been a Druid sanctuary.’ She laughed cheerfully. Then, sobering, she glanced sideways at Viv. ‘Did you feel anything in there? A sense of the sacred, perhaps?’

Viv nodded. She was staring down at the glittering gurgling stream pouring over the rocks at her feet. There was a strange red tinge to the water. ‘It’s odd. I feel as though –’ She shook her head. ‘I feel as though I’ve seen it before, but I suppose holy wells often look and feel the same?’ She looked up almost pleadingly.

‘I suppose they do. Or you’ve seen it through someone else’s eyes. If that’s the case, don’t let it worry you. Accept it for what it is. A gift.’ She put her hand on Viv’s shoulder for a minute. ‘The people who lived in the ancient world had a respectful attitude to life. They would have thanked a tree before cutting it down. They would have acknowledged that an animal had to die so they could eat it but thank it for that sacrifice. They had a generosity of spirit as opposed to our selfishness. It’s something I like to think still happens here.’ She fell silent. For a while they sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the water, then at last Peggy stirred. ‘Do you want to wait here for a bit and come back to the farm later, or come back with me now? I’ve another guest coming this evening and I have to get ready for her. She’s booked a week’s painting holiday.’ She hesitated, then she stood up. ‘You wait a bit. See what happens. Who knows, perhaps the goddess will bless you.’

Viv sat there for a long time, listening to the water. The sound filled the whole valley, swirling into the silences, drowning every other sound as she gazed down into the glittering ripples. She wasn’t sure when Steve arrived, but after a while he was there, watching her, sitting on a rock a couple of yards from her. He smiled when he saw she had noticed him at last. ‘Any interesting dreams?’ He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the water.

She shook her head. ‘This is a fabulous place.’

He nodded. ‘Very special.’

‘Your mum is a wonderful woman.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ He climbed to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Come on, we need to go back or you’ll miss your lunch. I’ve left Dad to it for a while.’

They walked back up the fields side by side, in companionable silence. As the farmhouse came in sight, nestling in the fold of the hillside above them Viv reached over and took his hand again. ‘I’m enjoying this so much. I wish I could stay longer.’

He grinned, squeezing her fingers back. ‘So do I. When do you have to go?’

‘After lunch tomorrow. So, I need to make the most of every second here. What do you suggest I see next?’

‘The waterfalls. We’ll go this afternoon.’

He was, she realised, still holding her hand. She pulled away gently. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

The walk was spectacular. They climbed through woodland and cliffs, alongside the river as it hurtled down from the moors above through gorges and glens towards the river valley beneath. From time to time they would come to a viewpoint where the water was particularly dramatic. She paused on one of these, staring down into the foaming pool beneath, feeling the ground tremble under her feet. Ahead of her Steve strode easily up the path beneath tangled ash and hazel and great bushes of yew. He reached a corner where the path turned around an overhanging outcrop of rock and stopping for a moment, he looked back. Then he walked on out of sight.

The water thundered in her ears, sunlight catching the torrent, reflecting into her eyes, mesmerising, sliding in great sheets, stained reddish-brown by the minerals on the high moors, thundering past her in spate. She stood for several minutes, overwhelmed by its beauty and power before she gradually became aware of the image of a face looking at her from the mist of spray that hung in front of the fall. Not Carta. These eyes were pale, the hair the colour of moonlight, the gaze implacably hostile. Viv could feel the power of the questing mind reaching out, searching.

Medb.

Viv took a step back, feeling the spray cold on her face. The intrusion was brutal. The threat unmistakable. There was evil here. Hatred. Jealousy.

Slipping on the wet rock, she turned back towards the path, pushing past curtains of ferns and hanging mosses, her feet sliding in the puddles of spray as she hurried to catch up with Steve. Once she paused and looked back. There was nothing there but a glittering sheet of falling water. Where she had been standing two figures in red cagoules were poised photographing the water. The face had gone.

Steve was waiting for her at the next viewpoint. ‘Isn’t it awesome? We’ve had a lot of rain this year, so they’re especially good. I’ve loved this place since I was a child.’

She nodded, trying to catch her breath.

‘You can feel the power of the water making the ground shake.’ He laughed. ‘This is a sacred place! You can feel it, can’t you. Druids would have worshipped here. It’s a place to talk to the gods. I sometimes think it draws you in. You feel you could fly out into the water and soar towards the heavens all at the same moment!’ He raised his arms.

‘Be careful, Steve!’ With a cry of alarm, Viv grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t go too near the edge!’

He laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not. Do you see the rainbows in the sunlight? Castles and ramparts and figures dancing in the water. Naiads. Undines. Water sprites. Goddesses!’

But no face. Viv gazed into the spray. The pale vicious face of Medb of the White Hands had gone.

‘Please, Steve! Come away!’

He stepped back and turned towards her, still laughing and for a moment they found themselves staring at each other. She realised she still had her hand on the sleeve of his shirt. She could feel the warmth of his skin under the cotton which was damp from the spray. ‘I hate you going too near the edge. It gives me vertigo.’ Letting him go, she gave an awkward little laugh.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ His fingertips brushed against hers as he turned back to the path. It was just the lightest of touches. Almost accidental. ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the top!’