13

I

Viv arrived home the following evening after driving straight into the tail of the rush hour. Most of it was going the other way but even so she found herself crawling impatiently through the suburbs and it was after seven when at last she climbed, exhausted, up the worn stone steps towards her door, lugging her holdall after her.

She had been reluctant to leave Winter Gill Farm. It was a place of magic and warmth. A home from home. But the arrival of a stranger the night before, and the knowledge that she had so much to do in Edinburgh had helped her stick to her decision to return. Besides, it was difficult to get her head around the feelings which were flooding through her. Being there in the place where Carta had lived, in the place which featured in her dreams, was overwhelming. More so even than Traprain this was a place of Druid magic, of Celtic mysticism. A place where the past still clung to the mist-shrouded cliffs and rivers. It was all too much; too immediate; too close to Carta.

And, there were facts she wanted to check.

‘Come back and see us, as soon as your book tour is finished,’ Peggy had said as she gave her a farewell hug. ‘You’re a friend of the family now, love. I’d be very cross if you didn’t come!’ She held Viv’s gaze for a moment, then she smiled. ‘Steve will miss you too. It’s nice for him to have a bit of company. So, come back soon.’

Viv didn’t bother to unpack. Throwing her bag down just inside the door she went straight to the computer.

Steve and Peggy were forgotten. Ingleborough, Dun Righ, Dinas Dwr. This was what she wanted to look up. The possible sites of the royal family’s bases. Did they live in one place and visit the others or was the court peripatetic? Did they select one place and live there because it was convenient or they liked it, or like medieval kings move around from place to place to feed the entourage of fighting men and the household which accompanied them. In her book she had mentioned possible sites for the Brigantian capital: Stanwick St John. Barwick in Elmet. Aldbrough. Which was right? Or were they all right? How much was actually known about Ingle-borough? Now that she had been there, really been there, she needed to know at once.

As the programme loaded she glanced down at her box files. There was nothing there to help her. She was pretty sure of that. For this kind of information she needed the latest archaeological data. The results of excavations, if any, that had been conducted since her original research. Standing up she stared at the screen for a second or two then she turned and went into the kitchen, returning a moment later, a glass of apple juice in her hand to sense the impatient tension in the room. Her throat tightened with fear.

Peggy had told her to be firm. To learn to take control. Determinedly she sat down at the keyboard. At the moment she wanted archaeological facts. A hoard. The remains of a house amongst the others large enough to be the equivalent of a palace. Jewellery. A grave like those over on the eastern side of Yorkshire at Wetwang. Was Wetwang the burial ground of the Brigantian kings or just of the Parisii? Those graves, with their chariots and grave goods and horses and dogs, were of very special high-ranking people. One of them was a woman’s. Could the grave be that of Cartimandua herself? No, wrong date. She clicked the mouse impatiently. Refuse pits. Always of interest, but weren’t always refuse pits at all. Some were for storage – a safe cool place to keep things just outside the houses, often created out of the places where they dug the clay to make mud and wattle walls, though perhaps not in these mountain settlements. Others were obviously for sacrifice. But not sacrifice in the sense of killing things by chucking them down a hole. A sacred, special place to lower beloved animals and special offerings, and even the body of a baby, so that it would be nearer to the gods, a place to begin the journey to Tir n’an Og, the land of the ever young.

The computer wasn’t responding. Suddenly the screen went blank. She stared at it. Hell and damnation! What was the matter with the thing? But no amount of coaxing or swearing could bring it back to life. Glancing round the room she felt a jolt of fear. She was there. Somewhere. Waiting in the shadows. Standing up, Viv grabbed her department keys off the shelf and headed for the door.

The streets were busy. It was a beautiful warm evening, encouraging people out to wander round the city. Walking down the High Street she could smell the various delights of the restaurants and bars. Garlic and pasta. That was obviously Italian. Stale beer – one of a dozen dark doors leading into heavy masses of humanity. Wine. Bright, trendy and no less crowded. Meat and noodles, cooking in woks. Chinese. Curry. Indian. In the distance she could hear the steady thump of music coming from an upstairs window and drifting up from Princes Street the inevitable haunting drone of the bagpipes.

The DPCHC was deserted. Inserting her key she pushed open the door and then locked it behind her. Her office smelled of stale old books. The window was closed and there was dust on the computer monitor as she sat down and switched on. In minutes she had the latest archaeological finds record and was scrolling down towards the Iron Age. There was a lot of information there. Each year it seemed to increase exponentially and it was hard to keep up with the latest discoveries. Leaning forward she scanned the screen, completely engrossed until somewhere in the depths of the building the sound of a door closing interrupted her concentration. She looked up with a frown, conscious now of how quiet it had been as she sat reading the closely spaced lines in front of her. With a sigh she rubbed her eyes wearily and glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. Then she heard it again. A sound from outside her door, this time the creak of a floorboard. She listened intently, suddenly nervous. She was about to stand up to go to investigate when her door opened. Hugh was standing there. Dressed in an open-necked, checked shirt, and with a cluster of cardboard files under his arm he stood surveying her from beneath frowning eyebrows.

For a moment she stared at him blankly, aware only of what a strong presence he had. It filled the room, distracting her from her task. Seeing him dispassionately like that, as though he was a stranger, she realised inconsequentially what a good-looking man he was and how overwhelmingly attractive. His words brought her back to herself with a jolt. ‘What exactly are you doing here at this time of night?’

‘Working.’ She could hear the defiance in her own voice.

‘Indeed?’ He stepped into the room. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed by your keenness, Dr Lloyd Rees?’

‘On the contrary. I was trying very hard to avoid you knowing about it at all.’ Viv resisted the urge to stand up so that she could face him. Somehow she managed to relax into her chair. It was important that he didn’t see how much his unexpected appearance had rattled her. ‘And, by the way, may I ask again, why this formality, Professor?’ She emphasised the word. ‘I seem to remember that in the days before I wrote a book, I was Viv.’

‘Were you?’

She wasn’t sure how to interpret his tone. Was he being vague or sarcastic? Either way it was, as she supposed he intended, hurtful.

‘Looking up the Iron Age, I see.’ She realised too late that he was looking past her at the screen. ‘Checking your facts? A bit late for that, I would have thought. Surely your book is finished?’

‘I am doing further research, certainly.’ She managed the retort in as casual a way as possible. ‘Unlike some, I like to be on the ball with the latest discoveries and theories.’

‘And, let’s face it, you’re not sure of your facts now they are being queried by an expert in the field.’ He gave a half-smile which broadened as he noticed the flicker of uncertainty which crossed her face.

She sighed. She didn’t need this. She was tired and now that he had interrupted her train of thought, all she wanted was to go home. On the other hand her pride dictated that she couldn’t allow him to think he had managed to chase her out. ‘It seems very late for you to be working, Hugh.’ She caught him off balance, she noticed, by the sudden use of his Christian name, the gentle tone. ‘You look very tired. You should take more care of yourself.’

‘I am very grateful for your concern.’ His voice hardened. ‘But I can assure you, I don’t need it.’ He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘The Cartimandua Pin is reputed to have a curse on it. Did you know?’ He held her gaze for a second.

Viv frowned. ‘I am surprised you of all people believe in curses, Hugh,’ she said. She looked up and forced a smile. ‘Not your sort of thing at all, surely.’

He seemed rooted to the spot, staring at her with uncomfortable intensity.

‘I’ll be here some time yet,’ she went on at last. ‘Perhaps I should get on.’ She turned her back on him, deftly flicking the screen away from the website before he could scrutinise it any more closely. ‘By the way,’ she added before she could stop herself, ‘did you call the police in the end. About the brooch?’ She managed to sound casual.

She turned and looked at him over her shoulder, holding her breath as she waited for a reply. For several seconds he said nothing then he gave a quiet chuckle. ‘That, my dear Viv, remains to be seen, doesn’t it.’

For a moment he stood motionless behind her, then she heard him move away. He walked out of the room, leaving her door open and she heard the creak of the floorboards as he strode down the corridor towards his own room. She waited for a moment until she heard his door bang then she stood up and went over to close her own. She leaned against it with her eyes closed, breathing deeply. Damn. Damn. Damn! That was all she needed.

She turned back to her desk. He hadn’t spoken to the police. She was sure of it. Otherwise they would have been waiting on her doorstep. Or would they. She sat still, staring at the screen. And now she would have to outstay him as a matter of principle when all she wanted was to print up her findings to study later and go home and have a long hot bath.

He seemed to have conceded defeat however. After only ten minutes she heard his door opening again and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She listened for the bang of the outer door and then cautiously went over to the window and peered round the blind. She saw him stride down the road, groping in his pocket for his car keys. Then he rounded the corner and was out of sight.

When, after switching off the computer and collecting some more books, she opened her study door she found he had switched off all the lights in the building. How pathetic could you get?

Outside, she realised it had started to rain. The crowds had melted away and the streets smelled wonderfully fresh, the dust laid, the traffic less heavy, the scent of grass and leaves and flowers drifting across the streets from the gardens and squares and the dark brooding outline of Arthur’s Seat.

Swinging the heavy bag of books onto her shoulder she walked fast, pausing automatically at the traffic lights even though no cars were coming, then walking on.

Vivienne

The voice in her head was clear and slightly fretful.

Vivienne?

Viv stopped, her heart thudding. What had she been thinking about? Not Carta. Not Ingleborough.

Vivienne!

She put a hand to her forehead. This wasn’t the same as sitting at her desk and inviting the voice in. This wasn’t like sitting within the fallen ramparts of a hill fort, meditating on the past. She was walking down the street thinking about something else.

Vivienne

‘Stop it! Go away!’ She realised, shocked, that she had spoken out loud. She paused, easing the bag higher onto her shoulder, staring round, wondering if there was someone there, hiding in the shadows, playing a joke on her. No one called her Vivienne. Ever. No one except an Iron Age queen!

She took a deep breath and walked on fast, her head down against the soft mizzle of rain. Preoccupied, she barely noticed that the streets were busier here or that a crowd of youths was hanging around outside the pub. She registered that they were shouting. Someone kicked an empty beer can along the gutter. The air was heavy with the fumes of stale beer and the acrid tang of vomit. Normally she would have crossed the road and taken another turning to avoid them. She strode on and as she approached they fell silent.

‘Fucking hell!’ The comment was almost awed as they stared at her. They fell back out of her way and she passed without even appearing to notice them. ‘Did you fucking see that?’

Viv shivered. She kept on walking, aware suddenly of what had happened and wondering with a second’s blinding terror what – or who – they thought they had seen.

II

Sitting quietly in the darkness of the cave near the sacred spring Peggy reached at last for her matches and lit a fresh candle before her statue of the goddess. The sound of water was everywhere. Outside, the rain was slapping onto the leaves, smacking the path, pitting the gurgling torrent of the river, reinforcing the constant splashing of the falls at the top of the rocks and here, inside, the steady gentle drip of the trickling water in which she found so much reassurance and strength. The cave was cold after the warmth of the woods outside and slick with damp, but the dripping ferns and mosses gave a velvety green glow to the candlelight.

‘Sweet Lady, hear me.’ She breathed her prayer out loud. ‘Tell me that she is one of us. I sensed it in everything she said and did, but she is naïve as yet, not understanding; untutored in our ways. I can teach her, Sweet Lady, if that is your wish. My son can bring her to you. She will be good for him and he for her.’ She paused in the prayer with a frown. Viv was his teacher. Would that make things difficult? On the other hand she had seen how attracted he was to her and she to him. ‘She’s not that much older than he is,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘but her age gives her wisdom and understanding which is rare. I sense her potential, Sweet Lady. Queen Cartimandua was one of us. She has marked her already as chosen. I will not gainsay her.’

The cave was very still. The sound of the water retreated, leaving a heavy breathing silence. The candle burned steadily, without a flicker, and in the depths of the dark waters of the well she saw at last a pinpoint of light. It was the sign she was looking for.

III

Hugh drove straight home to Aberlady. Parking in the drive he sat for a moment staring at the house until the raindrops on the windscreen blurred and then finally obscured his view. With a sigh he climbed out, lugging his briefcase behind him and locking the car, walked towards the front door.

Turning on the lights as he made his way through the dark house he found himself wishing he hadn’t turned the lights out like that in George Square. That was petty. Reaching into the cupboard for a glass, he helped himself to a hefty tot of Talisker. He pictured Viv sitting at her computer, turning round so guiltily as he walked in. He would have known she was there as soon as he had let himself into the department even if he hadn’t seen the light on in her study. It was that scent she wore – never too strong, often hardly noticeable at all, but nevertheless a part of her. Not flowery. Slightly spicy. Mysterious. He swallowed a mouthful of the whisky, unlocked the back door and stood looking out into the garden, letting the warm damp air seep past him into the house. The rain sounded heavier out here, smacking the broad leathery leaves of the magnolia, trickling down from a broken gutter and splashing onto the terrace. Stupid woman. She would realise what he thought of her and her lightweight populist travesty of a history when she saw he had not bothered to review it. He sighed. She had so much ability and she was wasting it. But then, there was no place for lightweights in his department and she would soon get the message that it would be better for everyone if she packed her bags and moved on.

Turning back into the house he wandered into the hall, sipping his drink, and picked up the mail that had been lying on the floor, pushed back against the wall by the opening front door. Amongst it was a jiffy bag. He ripped it open. He drew out the book eagerly and then gave an exclamation of disgust. It was another copy of Cartimandua, Queen of the North. Why the hell had they sent him another copy? He shook the book indignantly and a letter fell out.

Dear Hugh,

I wondered whether you would be interested in saying something about the enclosed for us in order to add your personal accolade to Viv’s wonderful book …’

He threw the letter down with a sigh. What was the matter with these people? Did they never give up? He had already made it clear he had no interest in reviewing the book – not after reading that trashy article she had written in the Sunday Times supplement. God damn it, the Sunday Times themselves would ask him to review it next, and he would find himself the recipient of yet another copy!

Flipping open the cover as he walked through into his den and turned on the light, he glanced down at the blurb.

In her vivid and well-researched account of the life and times of Cartimandua, Queen of the North, Dr Lloyd Rees brings to life the glamorous and mysterious age of the Iron Age Celts. She charts the progress of the invading Romans and describes the beginning of the end of Britain’s native culture at the hands of the all powerful conquerors …

Hugh snorted as he flung himself down in his chair. He glanced at the back flap. There was a colour photograph of Viv there, smiling, her green eyes slightly narrowed against the sunlight, the dappled leaves of a flowery bush behind her left shoulder. She looked hesitant, slightly uncertain. As well she might. He studied it for a moment, then he sighed. It was in fact rather a good picture. It conveyed her charm and energy while at the same time doing nothing to detract from her so-called academic background. He flicked through the book slowly, something he had not actually bothered to do before he had passed the last copy on to Steve. It was well illustrated with good quality coloured plates. He glanced at them critically. The usual stuff: the chariot burials, the gold torcs, the beautiful pieces of horse harness, scabbards, the Battersea Shield. He snorted. What had that to do with Cartimandua? Viv was obviously scraping the barrel here. She had not used the Cartimandua Pin. That above all else should have been illustrated in the book. He gave a further snort of derision. Opening a page at random he glanced down it and for several minutes found himself locked into the narrative. She was a good writer – fluent. Lucid. But of course as her teacher he had recognised that years ago, so why, oh why had she chosen to take this idiotic route? His eye was caught by a sentence:

Almost certainly Cartimandua spent her formative years at the court of a neighbouring tribe, fostered into the leading household. The Parisii, maybe, or the Votadini.

Rubbish! Guesswork! Exactly the sort of inventive ‘intuitive’ idiocies he knew he would find in it. The worst kind of ill-informed fact stuffing! Her reputation as a scholar was not going to survive this and by association, neither would his.

Artefacts found in excavations at Traprain Law, for instance, may lead us to guess …

Guess!

He frowned. What, he wondered suddenly, did she have to say about Venutios. Flipping over the pages he began to read again.

Twenty minutes later he slammed the book shut and stood up. Venutios was the villain of her story, of course. It was an unbalanced, uninformed, pro-Roman confection of half-truths and misrepresentations. Behind him a gust of wind blew in through the open French doors and the curtains billowed into the room.

The sound of the horn was very close this time. Paralysed, he stood staring out into the darkness.

Venutios.

The name came to him out of the garden. Venutios demanding recognition. Venutios insisting on the truth. Venutios, who had been traduced in the book which lay on the table beside his chair.

IV

Viv dragged herself up to her front door, let herself in and switched on the lights. Dumping the bag of books on the floor near her desk she went straight over to stare at the mirror. Her mouth was dry with fear, her hands shaking, but the face that looked back at her was her own, her hair tousled, her eyes strained and exhausted.

With a sigh of relief she turned away, then she paused and glanced back. Was that a shadow at her shoulder? Another woman looking at her? The woman Tasha saw? And Pete? And the crowd of youths outside the pub?

There was nothing – no one – there.

Taking a deep breath, she headed for the kitchen to get a glass of wine. The message light was flashing on her phone. Twelve missed calls.

‘Viv, where are you?’ ‘Viv, we need to talk urgently. Where are you?’ ‘Viv, are you OK?’ ‘Viv, listen, call me. Your mobile is switched off.’ There were several from Pat, one from Maddie, two from her editor, one from Sandy, the publicist who was planning her book tour, and all the rest were from Cathy. No doubt there were e-mails as well – she hadn’t logged in to her account for days. Viv sighed. There had been no network coverage at Winter Gill Farm and she had turned off her mobile while she was there. Strangely it hadn’t occurred to her to turn it on again when she got back to civilisation. Well, it was too late to call any of them now. They would have to wait till morning.

The glass in her hand, she went to the window and looked out at the darkened roofs, then with a rush of claustrophobia she pushed it open. She stood listening to the quiet hiss of the rain on the roof slates, wishing suddenly, illogically, that Alison’s had been one of the voices on the machine, remembering how in the old days she had been able to confide in her friend, count on her support, be certain of her reassurance.

Vivienne

Viv jumped. The call was like a punch inside the head, somewhere between her eyes.

Vivienne

She gulped some more wine, moving her head uncomfortably as though she had a stiff neck. Go away!

Vivienne

His name was Diarmaid. A warrior of noble birth, he often marched and trained at Triganos’s side and once or twice, sitting idly watching the men on the parade ground, Carta’s eyes strayed to follow him. He had a lithe feral grace as he wielded the sword, the sunlight catching the planes of his face, the painted whirl of muscle and sinew as the blade flashed in the air, the arrogant set of his mouth and the secret smile as he threw the sword in the air and deftly caught it before thrusting it home its sheath. As he ran from the ground with the others, joining their shouts of laughter, she looked away. But somewhere, deep inside, she could feel a deep yearning. She was lonely. Two years had passed since the death of Riach and their baby. It was little enough time in her mind to mourn, but her body was eager again for the comfort of a man’s arms around her; for the excitement of his touch. For several days she watched Diarmaid cautiously, content to let her imagination take the lead, never speaking to him, never showing any outward signs of interest, but he knew. Now and then their eyes met and a spark seemed to fly between them.

She was in the stables, running her hand down the foreleg of her mother’s favourite mare, sensing the heat and tension in the fetlock, gentling the animal and crooning words of healing spells when she became aware suddenly of someone standing behind her.

Straightening abruptly, she turned to find herself staring into his eyes. ‘You never speak to me, lady.’ His voice was deep and musical. ‘But I know you want to.’

She felt a deep blush mantling her cheeks.

‘Do you know anything of horses, Diarmaid?’ The mare nudged her, resentful of the interruption.

He smiled, his face suddenly boyish and open. ‘Only how to ride them. You are the expert.’

For several seconds neither moved, then he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. ‘If I can be of service in any other way,’ he murmured, ‘you have only to call.’

She had raised her hand and rested it for a moment on his chest, overwhelmed with the violence of her sudden longing for him to take her in his arms when the horse behind her let out a shrill whinny and at the other end of the building they heard the clank of a bucket. He stood back as a stable lad ducked into one of the stalls.

‘I’ll think about it.’ She raised a finger and touched his lips gently, then she dodged away beneath the horse’s head. When she turned back he had gone.

As a free woman she was entitled to take whomsoever she pleased as a lover. Walking up and down her darkening bedchamber as the light faded she chewed her lip in an agony of indecision. What would Triganos say if she took his henchman to her bed? And did she care? She had no desire for a new husband and her brother had shown no signs of coming up with the list he had so fulsomely promised. So why not? No one’s honour would be harmed. Caught between her passionate longing for the man, the touch of whose lips she could still feel on her own, and her pragmatic common sense, common sense lost out.

She waited until Mairghread had smoored the fire in her chamber and bade her goodnight then snatching up her cloak she tiptoed from the house. The young men were lounging around the fire on the edge of the training ground drinking, exchanging jokes, one by one rolling themselves in their cloaks and turning their backs on the fire to sleep as exhaustion overcame them. From the shadows she watched, her face shrouded by her hood, scanning the shadowy figures until she saw him. Her body was alive with anticipation; she could feel a fluttering on her skin, an excitement which caught at her throat and sent tremors through her belly. Quietly she stepped closer. The men had their backs to her. No one could see her. Her eyes lighted on some stones. With a silent chuckle she picked up a small pebble and lobbed it at Diarmaid. It was one of the childhood skills which had not deserted her and she hit him squarely in the small of the back. He turned, staring into the darkness, frowning. She could see his face clearly in the firelight. Not seeing her, he shrugged and turned away again. With a grin she scooped up another pebble, slightly larger this time. This one caught him on the back of the head. Clapping his hand to his hair he leaped to his feet. The men around him glanced up idly, then went back to their ale. She waved and this time he saw her as, pulling her cloak around her, she ran towards the stables.

He caught her in the harness room, enfolding her in his arms, pressing his mouth to hers, his hands fumbling for the brooch that held her cloak fastened. Gasping with pleasure and excitement she pulled him close, her hair slipping from her hood, reaching for his hands, guiding them to her breasts as the door creaked open behind them and a lantern was thrust into the darkness.

‘I thought so.’ For a moment she didn’t recognise the harsh voice. Frozen to the spot they both stood staring at the flickering light, unable to see the face of the man holding it.

‘Get out, Diarmaid. Do you dare to meddle with the king’s sister! Men have died for less.’

Suddenly she recognised him. It was Venutios.

Pulling her cloak tightly around her and pushing her hair out of her eyes she stepped forward into the circle of light. ‘How dare you! What business is this of yours?’

He smiled. She could see his face clearly now as he lowered the lantern and the light shone upward over the line of his jaw. ‘It is very much my business. If your brother seeks a husband for you he’ll find it hard if you are known to have spread your favours around the clachan.’

Beside her, Diarmaid stepped forward, his dagger in his hand.

‘Don’t!’ Carta grabbed his wrist. ‘Get out of here, Venutios! Leave me to be the keeper of my own reputation!’ she flashed at him, her eyes blazing. ‘If and when I marry it will be on my terms, not my brother’s.’

‘It will be on my terms, if I’m to be your husband!’ Venutios threw the words back in her face.

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry on that score. I would rather die than come to your bed!’ She whirled round towards the door. ‘Come, Diarmaid. I have had enough of this conversation!’ She ran a few steps past the long line of bridles hanging from their pegs, then she stopped and turning, flung a final word: ‘Why would you ever think that I would even consider you as a husband, Venutios?’

He laughed harshly. ‘Because your brother wants you to marry a king, Carta. And there aren’t very many of them around!’

The next morning Diarmaid had left Dun Righ. When she asked Triganos where he was her brother gazed down at her thoughtfully for several seconds before telling her that he had been sent on a mission south to the lands of the Cantiaci and would be gone for several months.

Venutios himself rode north that afternoon, but not before wishing her a polite farewell, bowing as he took her hand and raised it to her lips. When he straightened his eyes were full of triumphant laughter.

Her brother was weak. It took her a while to notice it, but once she had she saw the signs everywhere. When he had been elected with general acclaim to succeed their father at last he had everything it took to be a successful leader. But he found it hard to take the advice of his council of Druids and warriors. His judgement was poor. He lavished riches on some men to secure them as his allies when they were already handfasted to his cause, while others whom he should have wooed he ignored or worse, insulted. He would go with enthusiasm to the feasting and the mock battles but he ignored the council of elders. As the months passed it was Carta who attended these meetings under the great oak tree in the forest or in the chieftains’ hall, slowly taking her place as a right which no one questioned, between Artgenos, the Archdruid of Brigantia, and Brochan, King of the Parisii. At least in the matter of attacking their closest allies Triganos had deferred to her advice, claiming it had never been his serious intention to do such a thing at any time. Firmly putting thoughts of husbands and babies and lovers behind her, she listened quietly to the men’s discussions, unconscious of the fact that at some meetings she was the only woman present and that at others she was by far the youngest; the women who gave advice to kings and warriors were normally old in their wisdom and experienced in the ways of politics and war.

Her father was there too, as advisor and counsellor. He had set down his leadership with relief, no longer trying to hide the stiffening of his joints, and his words were listened to with respect for his experience and his knowledge of the law, almost as great now in his fortieth summer as that of the Druid sitting next to him.

In front of them on these occasions, whether indoors or out, the fire smouldered, fed by branches of juniper and rowan, blessed by the seers to spread wisdom with the fragrant smoke. Behind them the best harpists in the land took turns to play tunes designed to bring the wisdom of the gods to their deliberations.

Carta did not speak much. Once or twice her opinion was sought by Artgenos and listened to with respectful attention by all who were present. Once she was questioned about her opinions of the King of the Votadini by Venutios, who had returned to Dun Righ and sat in the seat where her brother should have been. She had stiffened at the question, searching his face with narrowed eyes, seeking for some mocking ulterior motive which would discredit her, but it had been well founded and he had listened with every appearance of respect to her answer. Venutios, like the other men, experienced warriors all, gave her the respect which was her due when her responses showed wisdom. For now.

These meetings were very different from the more usual informal gatherings, held in the feasting hall where men already drunk on mead or Gaulish wine or ale deliberated, argued and, their voices rising as their faces reddened, from time to time rose unsteadily to their feet, their hands reaching for their weapons as the debate escalated swiftly into a brawl. Carta loved them. The discussions fascinated her. In her studies as a seer she was becoming more and more learned in the interpretation of the auguries, in consulting the omens, considering the prophesies and she had learned to prophesy herself. But this was an extra layer of learning. This was the planning, and the making of leaders. The combination of experience, something of which she had little herself as yet, with intuition, common sense, the knowledge of one’s potential adversaries, be they the men of neighbouring tribes or the gods of the wind and storm, the movements of the sun and the moon and the stars, famine or plenty. Trade was one of their most important topics. The trade routes which crossed the Brigantian country had made them rich; and they were crucial for the import of the tin which could not be found in their own country. The current confederacy had taken a long time to establish. It consisted of a loosely linked collection of large and small tribes under one high king, whose aim was to preserve as much peace as possible between its members. Hard, within a society whose love of fighting was legendary, but something which the Druid advisers to the chieftains and kings worked hard to promote.

Artgenos sometimes called Carta to his house within the walls of the college at the foot of the hill, where he would explain things further to her, encourage her to have confidence in her opinions and to have the courage to voice them clearly. She never wondered why she was singled out for such attention, never suspected that her intelligence and learning were greater than those of the men around her. They wondered, though, and muttered into their moustaches about the tall, slim young woman who had become a part of their deliberations, occasionally at her brother’s side, but more often without him.

‘Why don’t you come to the meeting?’ She confronted him on the second day of Beltane as he stood, his hand on his pony’s bridle, his small group of chosen companions already mounted, jeering at him to hurry and stop lingering to discuss spinning with his sister. None of the other leaders was there.

He gentled the excited horse. ‘Because it bores me. I’m a man of action, not words, Carta.’ He swung himself easily into the saddle of the small sturdy garron, his favourite mount. His feet nearly touched the ground but the creature was strong and as agile as a goat on the moors. ‘You go. Speak for me, sister. I trust you to decide what’s best.’

And he was gone, with his men around him, their shouts and whoops of excitement echoing across the hillside, horses bucking, dogs barking at their heels as they disappeared through the eastern gate in the rampart wall plunging down the hillside towards the forest, leaving her standing alone as the noise died away into the distance.

Carta stared after him in dismay. For days men and women had been arriving from every corner of Brigantia. Laden wagons, war chariots, ox-carts full of gifts and wares to be traded, horses, dogs, servants, slaves, had wound their way through the glorious last bright days of Giamonios, in the time of the waxing moon, to arrive in time for the Beltane feast. The township was filling up with market stalls, and tents and awnings to shelter the overflow of new arrivals, impromptu playing fields were being cleared of stones with picket lines for the hundreds of extra horses. Young men were practising their skills at the sword and spear, the sling and bow, in boisterous competitions. The place was full of noise and bustle and the eyes of the entire northern confederation were upon them. They were all here. As well as the whole tribe of the Setantii, representatives from the Corionototae, the Parisii, the Lopocares, the Textoverdi, the Carvetii, and even the Cornovii from their south-western borders were there and more besides. There was a bigger than usual gathering because the Druids had sent word that on this occasion there was an extra item on the agenda. The escalation of the threat from Rome. And Triganos, High King of the Brigantes, could not be bothered to attend.

With a sigh she turned and made her way towards the great round house where as the weather was too bad for the traditional meeting ground beneath the three oaks at the foot of the hill, the meetings were to be held. Taking her place amongst the leaders of the tribes, Carta felt many eyes upon her. Most of them knew her. Some had not seen her before except at the feast the previous night. Word that the sister of the leader of the Brigantes was a power to reckon with was filtering through the community. Men were eyeing her with curiosity. She was as tall as her brother, broad-shouldered yet slim with hair naturally the colour of sun-baked barley, eyes that were brilliant green in some lights, in others the colour of the dawn grey sea. A handsome woman, still young, already a widow but as yet without a new husband. There were quite a few men present who were considering her with the professional eye of a marriage-maker seeking a wife for one of their sons or indeed for themselves.

For the meeting she had dressed with some care, aware at last that it mattered to others what you wore even if it did not matter to you. She had put on a new cream woollen gown covered with a tunic of the softest doeskin and her best plaid fastened at the shoulders with gold. There were gold bracelets on her arms and a heavy plaited gold necklet about her throat. She did not speak at first. Taking her brother’s seat, the seat of the high king, under the nose of Venutios who was about to seat himself there, she deferred to her father instead, who sat on her right, and it was he who stood to greet their guests. Venutios scowled as he found himself another place, further from the centre of the circle. Carta ignored him. She was scanning the other faces amongst the people seated around the fire. She was not the only woman there, though as usual now, her mother was absent. Several men had brought their wives, not just to the feasting and the games, but also to this meeting, respecting their views or, the thought struck Carta with sudden humour, too afraid of them to leave them behind. As her gaze moved on round she came back at last to Venutios and found he was studying her with equal interest. He had seen the smile flicker across her eyes and the expression had caught his attention. For a moment they considered each other, almost thoughtfully, before Carta looked away. She was careful to school her features into stillness. He was a handsome man, this king from the north-western corner of their territories who as a boy had been her sworn enemy, and he was powerful. Artgenos had already mentioned to her quietly that he was ambitious, as she had seen by his readiness to take Triganos’s place in the high seat and his readiness to interfere in her affairs. She narrowed her eyes. If a list of possible suitors was ever to appear she would personally see that his name was not on it.

She sat back thoughtfully and returned her attention to the discussions which were already under way around her, listening intently as Brochan of the Parisii rose to his feet and held up his hand for silence.

‘I have received messages from my sister who is married to the king of the Cantiaci that Roman armies are massing on the coast of Gaul. They are planning another invasion of our Isles.’

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then everyone was talking at once.

‘Wait.’ The voice was loud and demanded silence. Carta frowned, trying to locate its owner. ‘Julius Caesar tried to conquer these islands some eighty summers ago, my friends. He went home with his tail between his legs. If they come, we can send them packing again.’

‘Rome might have abandoned these shores, but it has kept a close eye on us.’ Artgenos rose stiffly to his feet as he spoke. Immediately the others fell into a respectful silence. ‘What Brochan says is confirmed by Druid intelligence. An army is gathering to invade us. Two legions, so I have heard, plus a great number of auxiliaries.’ He paused, looking round. The faces staring back at his were shocked, intent on his every word. ‘It is the Roman way,’ he went on, ‘to expand their empire. Their gods, so we are told, have assured them that their conquests will stretch as far as the ends of the earth. They have been given what in their language they call imperium sine fine and they believe that all the world should be ruled by Rome. And they wish to challenge our Ocean gods. Since the death of Cunobelinus of the Catuvellauni the balance of power amongst the southern tribes of these islands has changed. If you remember three years ago the Emperor Gaius threatened to invade. He, too, brought his troops to the shores of Gaul. Then he changed his mind. There was no invasion. Things are different now under Claudius. He needs success to pacify his opponents in Rome.’

There was a long silence.

‘Will the Cantiaci fight?’ A voice came from the shadows.

‘Undoubtedly. As will the sons of Cunobelinus. And as will our gods of wind and storm and sea which have before terrified the Roman invader and sent him packing.’

A whisper went round the circle and Artgenos held up his hand. ‘Each kingdom in this land must hold itself ready to send war bands and levies to their aid if necessary. We will watch developments carefully. There are Druid spies throughout the Empire, and I have my best seers studying the portents and the signs so that we can react at once, before they know themselves what they will do. My friends, our confederation forms the largest kingdom on this island. Our decisions will be vital to the outcome of any invasion. This time, if the Romans come, in my opinion they will be determined to stay. They have failed twice before. There will not be a third failure. We cannot allow them to gain a foothold here.’

As the meeting disbanded Artgenos gestured at Carta to remain. Together they watched the senior members of the gathering as they walked away in groups of twos and threes, still in earnest discussion.

‘They are worried.’ Carta shook her head slowly as they stood just outside the door of the meeting house, sheltering from the rain under the broad eaves of the heather thatch. Heavy drifts of cloud were settling into the creases of the hills and she took a deep breath of the soft air, refreshing after the smoky heat of the meeting.

‘Come with me down to the college.’ Artgenos strode ahead of her for a few paces, drawing his hood over his head against the rain. He paused well out of hearing of any stragglers from the meeting and waited for her as she pulled her fur cloak around her and walked after him. ‘Where was your brother, Carta?’ He stopped and faced her, folding his arms across his chest.

She met his gaze firmly, aware of the blend of wisdom and strength in the old man’s deep blue eyes. ‘He went hunting with some of his friends.’

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Even though I told him how important this discussion was! We needed to decide policy. If Rome invades these islands every tribe will need to make decisions. These people are organised. They take war seriously. To our men it is a sport no more.’ He shook his head. ‘The Druids will coordinate opposition from our base on the sacred Isle of Môn, but if important men like your brother ignore the omens and treat the threat as trivial we are doomed to defeat.’

‘He will listen to you, Artgenos.’

‘Will he?’ He frowned. ‘I hope so. I tell you in confidence, the longterm omens are worrying. A stand has to be made. In the south, to be sure, but we have to send our support. We have to make decisions.’

‘Triganos doesn’t like decisions.’ Carta shrugged. ‘He enjoys planning tactics for a hunt because he understands the ways of the stag or the roebuck; he can follow a wolf or a bear. To him the Roman is a rare creature, not worth thinking about. They trade, they visit. Their army came three, four, lifetimes ago and it went without trace. He does not believe the Emperor will bother with the Pretannic Isles again. He thinks we are nothing to him.’

‘He is wrong, Carta. We are rich. Our nations trade wheat, silver, slaves, gold, dogs, lead, tin, pearls to the Empire. The Emperor covets our wealth.’ Artgenos frowned. ‘And when he turns his attention to us, nothing will deflect him this time. He claims his gods have given him every land and every sea he can conquer. He sees opposition as an inconvenience at best, a challenge at worst. We are flies to be swatted out of his way.’ He paused. ‘He particularly does not like Druids,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘I have spoken to senior Druids from Gaul who know the Roman officials well. The Emperor sees us as the greatest danger. Without our advice and influence kings and chieftains would not have the knowledge or the organisation to oppose them.’

Carta walked a few paces from him on the track, and stood staring down across the murky moorland, her cloak blowing around her.

Medb was out there somewhere in Gaul, if she was still alive. She frowned. She was alive. Carta had felt the woman’s mind, searching, probing the secret pathways of the gods, planning her revenge, her anger unabated. With a shudder she put the thought behind her. This was not the time to think about Medb.

‘My brother is not interested in politics, Artgenos. You must have realised that when you put him forward for election. But he will fight with the best if the time comes and lead his men with supreme courage. But for now he lives for the hunt and for the training of his warriors and the raids to win more cattle and slaves. Such is the usual business of kings.’ Her shiver spoke as much of her memories of Riach’s death, never far from her mind, as of the weather.

Artgenos snorted. ‘He is a child in some ways. I have always known that. When he attended the school with the other children of the chieftains he lagged far behind all of them.’ He paused, eyeing her as she stood half-turned away from him, her hair blowing back from her face around the fur trim of her hood. She had outstripped the other children in the classes and under the careful tutoring of Truthac at Dun Pelder her education had continued. The two men had kept in close touch over the years, aware that in this world where men normally led the way they were nurturing an exceptional talent.

Once a year the most senior Druids of all the nations gathered together on Môn. The subjects of debate, political and spiritual, were a closely guarded secret, the outcome never written or revealed, but twice now the subject of Cartimandua of the Brigantes had come high on the list of matters to be discussed.

‘Triganos will be a good war leader.’ She turned back, surveying his face. Her eyes were, he always thought, disconcertingly far-seeing, as though already she could read his thoughts even when they were scarcely formed in his own mind. ‘Convince him the legions are worthy foes; a quarry to be hunted, their heads trophies worth collecting and he will fight with the best. With a purpose like that he will lead his men to victory. He will prove himself, Artgenos.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Artgenos’s voice was dry. ‘But will he then be able to negotiate with the Emperor? Will he be able to turn his back on the spoils and sit down to discussions while the smell of the meat juices of the victory feast drift in from the camp?’

She turned away again without comment and he nodded grimly. ‘He will have to change, Carta. He will have to change a great deal in order to grow into a general. At the moment he is merely a man.’