16

I

‘I have seen your death, brother!’ Carta was holding Triganos’s forearms in a furious grip. ‘Can you not listen and be warned?’

She had dragged him away from the township on foot, through the gates in the ramparts down the track out onto the moss where they would not be overheard. Nearby the red-stained waters of a mountain beck poured over the falls at the cliff edge with a roar which almost drowned her voice. ‘I have seen you, with blood on your back. I have seen you fall, a sword between your shoulders!’

He was staring at her, his face white with shock beneath the tan and the carefully symmetrical tattoos. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He was furiously angry.

‘Why not? When have I ever lied?’ Her eyes blazed back at his. ‘Listen.’ She gestured frantically at the waterfall. ‘Can you not hear, even the waters are keening. Do not go, Triganos. You have a choice. The gods will not demand such a sacrifice. This land can be protected in other ways.’ They were so close to the water now that droplets clung to her eyelashes and her hair.

‘But it can’t!’ He was shouting against the roar of the falls. ‘The Romans need nothing but the power of the sword to win. They have cut their way through the south of these islands like iron through butter. Tribe after tribe has fallen into slavery. No one has the power, alone, to gainsay them. They need experienced warriors to hold them back, men such as mine who can hurl them back into the sea!’

It was bravado. He had been frightened of his sister’s visionary powers since he had first realised her talent when they were children. She had done it so naturally. It was a part of her, a misty smokiness behind those intense eyes, a part of her power and her fascination, and a lethal weapon when she wanted her own way. Now she was a trained seer and she was, he was beginning to think, formidable. He was determined not to let her see how wary he was of her. Stepping away from her, he was relieved to see the passion subsiding as she shook her head sadly. She followed him, scrambling down the muddy track which followed the river, steep as a ladder here and there as they made their way down into the gorge.

‘You are a fool, brother. A stupid fool. You cannot defeat the Romans with a few hundred men. Nor even a few thousand. They have four legions now on British soil,’ she shouted after him. ‘Listen to me! Artgenos’s spies report that there are twenty thousand men at their command, with as many again auxiliaries.’

Triganos frowned. He stopped, waiting for her on the slippery rocks. ‘So many?’

‘Have you not been listening during the council meetings?’ She was exasperated. ‘But of course not. You have not even been there half the time. But your friend, Venutios. He’s been listening. He understands the gravity of the situation. Why in the name of all the gods does he not stop this insanity of yours?’

‘The whole of the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes have risen –’

‘Rome defeated the Cantiaci and the Catuvellauni, brother. They have walked through thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of men and women as though the land was undefended.’ Carta shook her head. He was not going to listen to her. Already she could see the shadow of death growing closer about his shoulders. ‘Does Venutios advocate this foolish charge down the country?’ she asked sharply. She frowned. Venutios, she was loathe to admit, was the leader her eldest brother was not and as king of the Carvetii he had, so she had heard, more than proved himself to his own tribesmen. He was devious but he was rugged and implacable, more experienced in battle and he had been listening. All the time. And taking note. She frowned. Did he think she hadn’t noticed how recently he had encouraged Triganos to go off with his companions while he himself stayed behind? Without doubt he had the makings of a first-rate commander, she would grant him that much. He listened to the Druids who brought news and advice daily from the south and he heeded the words of their own wise men. He was astute and ambitious and she didn’t trust him further than she could have thrown the mountain.

‘Oh yes, he wants to go with us.’ Triganos looked defiant. ‘Indeed he does. He’ll go with me, you’ll see. Get back to your women’s work, Carta, and leave us men to protect you.’ He slapped himself on the chest with a grin, full of bravado. ‘By the first snows these invaders will be back in Gaul and running for their fancy villas!’

She let him go, watching sadly as he strode back up the hillside and out of sight. Then she turned to the water. She had no offerings for the goddess save the gold bangle around her wrist. She stood for a moment on a wet outcrop of limestone, watching the roaring waters, like boiling milk with the tell-tale streaks and patches of red. Signs of blood to come.

‘Sweet goddess, save him. Save us from these savages,’ she cried. Pulling the bangle off she held it high for a moment over the edge of the rock. The whole area trembled beneath the thunder of the water. ‘If it is your wish, protect this land and its people and guide me so that, if it has to be, I may rule them in my brother’s stead.’

And not Venutios. She didn’t say the words out loud. The goddess would know her thoughts.

The gold arced up as she threw it, for a second catching a stray ray of sunshine, then it fell into the greedy water and vanished. She stood for a moment looking down into the churning cauldron below the rock, staring into the foaming waters, mesmerised by the swirl and roar of the whirlpool, then at last she turned away and began the slow steep climb back to the summit of the hill. The bangle did not reappear. The goddess had accepted it.

Two days later Triganos rode out at the head of a band of warriors. 300 horsemen and women, 122 war chariots, each carrying a driver and a warrior with a full compliment of weapons and several hundred levied men. With him, as he had predicted, went Venutios of the Carvetii and Brochan of the Parisii each with nearly 1000 men and women of their own. It was an impressive sight. On their way south they would collect more from the forts and settlements along the trackways and high drove roads until by the time they crossed the Trisantona, which later men would call the River Trent, they would have more than 10,000 followers. That was the plan.

The whole settlement had gathered to see them leave. With tears and cheers the remaining women and the children, the old men and the lame had waved until they were out of sight, then slowly they turned away. Carta sighed, standing in the doorway of the feasting hall which was silent and empty. She knew she would not see her brother again. Behind her, quiet footsteps rustled through the dried heather on the floor. Their father came to stand beside her. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘A brave man, your brother,’ he said softly.

She nodded.

‘I have decided –’ He spoke huskily. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘With Artgenos’s advice and agreement, to call upon your cousin Oisín to lead the tribe while Triganos and Fintan and Bran are away. We need a strong decision-maker to take Triganos’s place for the time being.’

‘What!’ Carta turned in disbelief. ‘You can’t do that! I will lead our people –’

‘No, Carta. Not yet.’ He sighed. ‘You are not ready, sweetheart, ambitious though you are. Maybe you will never be ready. Who knows. You will need to marry again before you can think of leading us, and Oisín is a sound steady man.’

‘He is wounded!’

‘Which is why he cannot fight at your brothers’ side. But his injuries do not incapacitate him. They are healed.’

‘They disqualify him from being king!’ She clenched her fists. ‘The king must be unblemished or the gods will not bless him –’ She broke off in mid-sentence but it was too late. Her father’s rueful smile was serene however. ‘As I know to my cost, daughter. I lost the throne because I was wounded, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘Without a council to elect him Oisín will not be our king. He is our leader for the time being.’

‘And will tell me, as my brother did, to go and sit with Essylt and attend to women’s work?’ She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Our men despise Rome and talk of chasing away the Roman legions but they are quick enough to copy the Roman way with women, relegating them to their beds and their kitchens as though they are slaves!’ Her face was flushed with anger. ‘Well, I for one will not stay to be ruled by him!’

‘I’m sure he will try and do no such thing!’ Her father laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think he would have the courage.’

But already she had swept out of the house towards her own. The heather thatch was slick beneath the rain, the smoke flattened and heavy as she ducked inside. There were no lamps lit and her women had not yet returned to her fireside. It did not matter. She did not intend to stay there. Her belongings bundled into a leather bag, her thickest beaver fur cloak snatched from its peg and wrapped around her shoulders, she was outside again before her father had made his way back to his own fireside. He watched sadly from the doorway as she splashed her way through the township towards the great gates which still stood open and disappeared between the ramparts. She was heading towards the Druid college in the valley. There was no need for him to have her followed to make sure she was safe. Artgenos had told him what she would do. Bellacos chuckled. Headstrong but determined, his daughter was nothing if not predictable. So be it. It would make life easier for Oisín as he looked after the remaining men, women and children and helped them prepare for winter without their menfolk there to protect and support them.

Carta did not go straight to the Druid college below the falls. First she went to the hidden cavern of the goddess.

Every part of this mountain was sacred. Every tree, every stone had its living spirit. Every part of the whole land was blessed and alive, watched over and guarded by the gods and goddesses of place, of the elements, of the seasons themselves, but some places came closer, far closer, to those other secret realms than others. Places of power, marked by the great stones of the ancients, by the sacred Cursus, and by the caves and hollows of the earth. And this place was one of them, guarded by an angry spirit that roared and howled its rage into the night when the storms sped over the high peaks and the waters rose in the rivers and streams. But she had braved it alone, initially in the dark, later with a torch lit by iron and tinder and she had gasped at the beauty and awesome grandeur of the goddess’s home. A low tunnel led a long way into the hillside hidden behind gorse and thorn, both trees sacred to the goddess, then abruptly the passage opened into a vast cave, snug within the huge belly of the high peak itself. The flaming torch, held high above her head revealed stalactites and stalagmites of giant proportions, patterns of rock, dark, still waters and everywhere the reverberation of greater hidden rivers somewhere beneath her feet.

On one wall she found drawings of creatures the goddess especially called her own. Bears. Great deer. Aurochs, and in a corner she found their bones.

She brought offerings of gold and silver, food and wine and left them there at the entrance to the goddess’s own house. Then she put out her torch and sat down alone in the dark to meditate and to pray.

‘Goddess. Great spirit of the mountains and of our land, Brigantia, our queen, come to me here. Advise me. Give me the knowledge and strength I need to rule my people.’ She waited in the dark, aware of a strange glow amongst the rocks and coming from the water itself. This ordeal would make her strong. And after that she would summon the handmaid of the goddess, the woman who listened and spoke to her amongst the rocks and from the sacred well and from the heart of the land itself. Vivienne

‘Oh God!’ Had she wanted this? Had she deliberately summoned Carta in the small hours of the morning or had Carta forced her way into the flat? Stiffly Viv climbed to her feet, glancing at the clock on the bookcase and with a violent shock realised it was midday.

Hugh! She had to speak to Hugh! Punching out the number, she sat listening to the phone ringing and ringing the other end. No answer. No answer machine. Just the ring tone, on and on. At last she rang off and dialled the department. ‘Heather? Is Hugh there?’

He wasn’t.

The Cartimandua Pin was sitting on her desk. Its box had been left behind. Staring at it almost distastefully for several seconds she picked it up at last and carefully wrapping it in tissues, she tucked it back into the drawer where it had lain for so many days, then she went to find her car.

Hugh’s house was deserted. Cautiously she made her way through the rain and peered in through the kitchen window. Their mugs still stood on the central table where they had put them down the night before, and the empty Perspex box was still there as well. Walking round the back she found the curtains in the living room open and she stared in. There was no one there. The French doors when she tried them were locked. It was only then that it occurred to her to look in the garage. His car was gone. Relieved, she walked back round the front. All the upstairs curtains were open as well. If he had driven off in the night after she had left he would have left them closed, surely, so wherever he had gone he had gone there this morning, and hopefully, a great deal more sober than he had been the night before.

She stood for several seconds, listening. Had they really heard the sound of a trumpet in the night? Unlikely. Had he really put his arms around her and for that short split second held her close? She gave a small wistful smile. That was probably her imagination as well. Rooting through the glove box in the car, she found a notebook and tore out a page. Her message was brief: ‘Called to make sure you were OK. Ring me about the pin. V.’ Pushing it through the letter box she gave another quick glance round, then she climbed back into her car.

II

Standing on the summit of Traprain Law, Hugh stared out towards the sea. The clouds were low on the ground, the rain still pouring down his neck, splashing the grass, turning the trackways to mud. The car park had been empty. There was no one on the hill at all. His head was throbbing, his eyes sore, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He stood for several minutes feeling the cold rain running down his face and into the collar of his shirt without registering any discomfort, then at last he began to move, walking slowly across the spongy grass towards the lochan.

It was here, according to Viv on TV last night, that Cartimandua had met and married her Votadini prince. He smiled grimly. Here she had learned her arts and her skills. Here in this small muddy pool she had gazed down into the eyes of her goddess.

He laughed, an awkward harsh sound above the pattering of the rain on the surface of the water. A sound quite unlike his own voice. The voice of Venutios. Foolish woman. Did she really think she could hold her head high as a queen and a warrior among men like him?

He groped in his pocket and finding a coin flipped it carelessly into the water. A gift for the gods. Her gods. To his gods he would give something far more valuable, the gift of life blood.

It was several minutes before he moved, retracing his steps towards the eastern slope of the hill. This time when he heard the call of the carnyx, he smiled. His men had found him. He was ready to join them.

III

Pat knew there was something wrong as soon as she pushed open the door. She dropped her bag on the carpet and listened intently. The flat had a strange congested feeling, as though dozens of people were there. Or had just left.

‘Viv? Are you here?’ She headed for the living room.

Viv was standing by the desk.

‘Are you OK?’ Pat stood in the doorway, suddenly apprehensive.

Viv didn’t answer.

‘Viv? Did you hear me?’

Again there was no reply.

Cautiously Pat stepped into the room and tapped Viv on the shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Can you see her?’ Viv’s voice was tight with fear.

‘See who?’ Pat glanced round the room. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to stir.

‘There.’ Viv seemed paralysed. She gave a half-nod towards the window.

‘I can’t see anyone.’ Pat stared round. She could feel something, though. The tense, swirling anger, rage, frustration. And then it was gone. The room was empty.

Viv gave a small cry and put her hands to her face. ‘Oh shit!’

‘It’s all right.’ Pat exhaled rapidly. ‘She’s gone. It’s gone. Oh, Viv. What was it?’

But she knew. That was Cartimandua. Queen of the North.

The two women sat down side by side. Viv was shaking.

‘After you rang to say you were coming over I thought I would cook us some supper. I came through to put some music on and all at once she was there in my head.’ Viv was almost in tears, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I’m so tired. I couldn’t face any more, but she wanted to talk – and she was angry. I don’t know why. It’s as though she blames me for something.’ She raced on incoherently. ‘Perhaps I’m not listening hard enough, but I’m getting so tired with all this writing and trying to sleep, and when I do she comes into my dreams as well.’

Pat glanced round the room with another shiver. ‘I thought this was something you were doing deliberately,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Something you initiated.’

‘I was.’ Viv ran her fingers thorough her hair in agitation. ‘But she’s taking over.’ It had happened when she came back from Aberlady. Carta was angry. Unstoppable. All consuming.

‘And you couldn’t walk away from it?’

‘No.’

Pat shook her head. ‘What do you want to do? Shall I ring Cathy?’

‘What can Cathy do? She’s already told me there’s nothing wrong with me! She thinks it’s my imagination. She thinks I can switch it off if I try.’

Pat grimaced. ‘I tell you what. Let’s have a drink. That’ll make you feel better. I’ve brought some wine.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sure you can’t stop?’

‘I can’t. And I don’t want to.’ Viv stood up wearily. ‘That’s the point. I want to know. I have to know what happened. I just don’t want to do it non-stop, all the time. I want to pick my moment.’

Pat found some glasses in the kitchen and a corkscrew and brought them through. She glanced at Viv cautiously as she opened the bottle. ‘I saw you on TV last night. You were great.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And it’s confirmed in my mind that you should do the narrative in the play yourself. You’d be a natural at it.’ She passed Viv a glass. ‘I’ve written some more of the dramatic scenes for you to read through when you feel up to it, but I think we should try recording a bit of the narrator’s introduction soon to see how it sounds.’

‘Record it? Ourselves?’

‘Why not?’

‘How will we find the people to play the other parts?’ Viv sat down shakily on the sofa and took a gulp from her glass.

‘Audition.’ Pat smiled. It would take some juggling to get Viv to relinquish her hold on the script, but this would appease her; let her play the part of the academic which she craved. Distract her from the terrifying visions. Make way for Medb.

Viv woke suddenly, staring round in fright.

She had lain for a while in a hot bath after Pat had finally left, trying to soak away her increasing fears but it hadn’t worked. The insistence of the voice in her head, her worry about Hugh, the ever-growing suspicion that Pat was up to something, her own exhaustion and her restlessness had all contributed to an uneasy sleep.

She lay still for a while trying to recall her dream. It had not been about Cartimandua and the people of Dun Righ but about Andrew Brennan, the man she had left behind in Dublin. In her dream he had held her in his arms, and tipping her face up towards his with an imperious hand, he had kissed her long and firmly on the mouth. She was, she realised, aching with longing. Which was idiotic. Andrew had been firmly consigned to the past. She could guess what had given rise to the dream. The feel of Hugh’s arms around her. Her body’s recognition of its utter loneliness. The knowledge that when she had left Ireland and returned to Edinburgh she had fallen hopelessly in love with another married man. She gave a wry grimace in the darkness. Hugh. Widowed, technically free, she supposed, since poor Alison had died but now her arch enemy. Her undeniably attractive arch enemy, driven into her arms not by love but by a phantom Iron Age king.

It was a long time before she eventually dozed off again but her sleep was still uneasy and suddenly she found herself fully awake once more, her senses alert. It had not been a dream which awoke her this time. She listened. Nothing. The flat was silent. Cautiously she sat up and pushing her feet out from under the bedclothes she stood up. Without turning on the light she made her way towards the door and quietly reached for the handle. The hall was in darkness, as was the sitting room beyond. She could see the outline of the open doorway clearly. On tiptoe she made her way towards it.

There was a figure standing by her desk in the shadowy darkness.

‘Pat? Is that you? Why’ve you come back?’ She groped for the light switch. As she clicked it on she caught a fleeting half-glance of a woman standing by the desk, bending over the drawer which held the brooch. It was not Pat. This woman had long red-blonde hair, thick bundled clothes, startled aggressive grey-green eyes. For two seconds she met Viv’s gaze, then she was gone.

‘Oh my God!’ Viv clung to the doorknob. Her knees buckled. For several seconds she couldn’t move, once again overwhelmed by a fear she couldn’t control. At last she managed to straighten and step into the room. There was nothing there. No sign. No smell. No feeling to substantiate what she had seen.

‘It’s my imagination.’ She whispered the words to herself firmly. ‘Or a dream.’

Or a reality.

It was Cartimandua.

IV

Some messages come on horseback. Some are carried on the wind like thistledown. Carta had known the moment her brother died. She knew before he did. She knew he hadn’t even been killed honourably in battle. There was a skirmish with a Roman outpost. His pony had stumbled and as it fell one of the men had hurled his sword like a spear with such force it pierced his flesh to lodge in his spine. He took only minutes to die. Fourteen of his men died that day. It was all that was needed to persuade the others to turn back.

The tribesmen had divided at Isurios, travelling in two war bands. Triganos and Fintan had taken the main roadway down through the flat eastern side of the country, following the well-used trade route through the lands of the Corieltauvi. Venutios had led the others further to the west, venturing more cautiously towards the Roman-held south-east through the lands of the Cornovii and the Dobunni.

Taking Essylt by the hand, Carta led her away from the fireside, leaving the latest baby asleep in his cradle as the women crooned their weaving songs around him. ‘I must prepare you for bad news, sister,’ she said gently. ‘Triganos is dead.’

Essylt stared at her, her face white, her eyes enormous. ‘No.’ It was a protest, not disbelief.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Carta’s eyes filled with tears. ‘When the messengers come, I wanted you to be prepared.’

Essylt did not question her knowledge or hold out any hope. She sat for several minutes staring before her, her shoulders slumped, tears pouring down her face while Carta held her hand. Gradually the other women became aware of their distress and one by one they crept closer. The signs had been there for all to see. The raven of death had sat upon the roof of the royal house only two days before, two of them had seen it. Another had dropped her brooch on the floor and pricked her finger picking it up. She had thought the omen was for her. As the sound of keening began to spread through the town Carta made her way towards her father’s house. The hardest task of all would be to tell him and Fidelma what, she suspected, they too would already know. When the messengers reached Dun Righ at last, the township was already in mourning.

Carta made offerings to the gods for the safe passage of Triganos’s soul to the land of the ever young, and vowed to give him a piece of her mind when they met in their next lives. When she wept, she wept alone in the silence of her bedchamber late at night. She wept for the handsome carefree boy who had taught her to ride, to climb trees, to fight with a sword. She wept for the adoring brother who had given her the name ‘Sleek Pony’ and laughed with her when to their delight the family and then the tribe adopted it as her proper name. She could cry for him, and rage against the gods who had taken him so young, just as they had taken Riach. But for the stubborn, thoughtless young warrior who had become a king and given no more thought to the honour than he had to the bestowal of his first tattoo, and for his wasted chances, she felt nothing but anger.

Over the next few weeks the remnants of the Setantian war party trickled back to the north. Brochan with his Parisians, it appeared, had continued south towards their destiny with the invaders; of Venutios and his army there was no word.

With the high king dead, Oisín had no choice but to declare that another must succeed to the leadership and word went out that any contestants for the title should declare themselves before the next full moon. Bran had returned, but he had been wounded by his brother’s attackers and was weak and unsteady on his feet. He had no desire to put himself forward. Fintan had not yet returned, though word had come that he was alive. Brochan sent messengers that he would not put himself forward. From Venutios there was no word.

Carta went to see Artgenos. ‘I want to stand for election. I can rule the Brigantians. I am ready.’ She fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘You can’t deny that I could do it far better than Triganos.’

Artgenos nodded sagely. ‘It would be hard to deny that, my child.’

‘And better than any of the others who are suggesting themselves for the position.’

‘That too may be true.’

‘Then I shall do it!’ Her eyes blazed with triumph.

‘I think the time has come when you can put your name forward, Cartimandua.’ The old man nodded slowly. ‘But it is up to the people. They will have to choose you.’

‘They will choose me!’

‘Then pray to the goddess to support you.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Has there been word yet from Venutios?’

She frowned. ‘None that I have heard. Why?’

‘Because I would have expected him to put in a claim. He covets the high kingship as you must realise. Perhaps we should wait until he returns.’

‘No!’ Carta slammed her fist down on the table between them. ‘If he doesn’t come, then he loses his chance. He is not going to win anyway. The people will choose the heir to the Setantian claim.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Artgenos shook his head. ‘Venutios has the advantage of experience, and age and strength, child. Could you win him over, do you think?’ The old eyes twinkled.

That night Carta went to the sacred spring. Overhead the moon swam through a sea of cloud, four days from the full. With her she took offerings and her divination sticks. If the waters would not tell her what she wanted to know, perhaps the slivers of yew wood would do so.

‘Where is Venutios? Do I need to fear him?’ She whispered the words into the cool dark waters, conscious of the flickering candle flame behind her. Her breath seemed to clutch at her throat; her heart thudded unsteadily as she peered down. The water glowed with refracted light but the goddess was silent. She bit her lip. Feeling in the bag at her waist she brought out the bundle of sticks, with their secret markings, and held them to her breast. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she murmured. ‘Do I need to fear Venutios?’

As the sticks fell onto the rock beside her she held her breath for a moment, eyes closed. Then at last she opened them and read the prediction of the trees: ‘Yes.’ She hissed the word between her teeth. Yes, she should fear him.

‘And will he contest the kingship?’ She gathered them up and tossed them again onto the ground.

‘Yes.’

She sat for a long time there beside the water, then at last she gathered her sticks into their bag and with a bow to the goddess within her watery bower she walked slowly back up the track towards the township gates.

That night he came to her in her dreams. With his strong, handsome face, tall muscular body, hard agate eyes, he appeared in her bedroom, arms folded, golden torc around his neck, a cloak of bearskin over his shoulders. For a moment he watched her in silence, then at last he raised a hand and pointed at her. ‘Do not dare to steal my throne!’ His voice echoed with the thunder over the fells.

She woke with a start and lay staring up at the darkness of the roof. Far away the thunder rumbled again and she heard the hiss of rain beyond the doorway. Venutios had called upon the thunder god Taranis to support him.

On the day of the full moon before the council of the Druids and the warriors and princes of the confederation only three men stood up to claim their right by descent to the high kingship of Brigantia, two of them sons of the Setantii, one, the young king of the Textoverdi, a cousin of Fidelma, and one woman. Cartimandua. From Venutios there was still no word.

Carta’s grieving for her brother had been done. His soul had moved on. Now it was her turn. Her ambition, so long damped down, burned up brightly, fired by certainty that she was the best candidate and that the gods would smile on her success. She wore a scarlet gown, with a gold headband and armlets at the gathering, and fixed the senior men and women of the tribes with a gaze so determined that they quailed. Her Setantian cousins almost at once resigned their claim without argument; Fidelma’s nephew surrendered with a smile and a bow and vowed to support her to the death. Even so, it was a near thing. Without the support of Artgenos and her father and mother she would not have been chosen. It was the former who stood and argued that she was ready and Artgenos who called upon the gods to send a sign if she was not fit to be queen. In the silence that followed his challenge she waited with a thousand others, holding her breath, for a sign from the thunder god, but there was none. It was Artgenos, also, who when the choosing was finished under the branches of the great oak, and her name had been shouted to the skies by the assembled tribes of the people of the high hills, saw the great rainbow arc across the forest and touch the bare peaks with a kiss of approval.

Alone in her bedchamber that night as Carta prepared for the ceremony that would bring her before the gods and confirm her marriage to the land of her fathers and mothers, she smiled at herself in the polished bronze mirror, seeing her reflection faintly in the candlelight. There were no shadows there. No black penumbra. No sign of Venutios. The gods and goddesses were at last looking on her with favour.

She had just allowed Mairghread to clasp her cloak around her shoulders against the sharp cold of the night when Artgenos was announced. Now in his early seventies, he was as upright and sure of foot as he had been when she was a child. He dismissed her women with a snap of his fingers. ‘So, you have achieved your dream, Carta.’

‘Indeed.’ She pushed her bangles up her arm and began to select rings from the box on her candle stand. There was a fluttering of nerves in her stomach and firmly she suppressed it.

‘I trust you appreciate the burden you take on your shoulders tonight. When you stand in the footprints of the gods, up on the sacred rocks, and sit upon the stone of enthronement, you take responsibility for thousands of people.’ He was very stern.

‘Do you think Triganos ever really realised what he was doing when he stood there?’ She glanced at him, watching his face in the flickering candlelight. Her mouth was dry with fear now that the time had come.

‘No. I don’t. I would not have had him chosen as king. But the goddess did not feel that you were ready, Carta. So Triganos was put on the throne to keep it in trust for you. And he has died to make room for you, so give him thanks in your prayers, Carta, for his sacrifice. This is a heavy burden you are taking on, my lady, and you are young. You have not finished your full training as a Druidess, and now you won’t do so. But you must never forget what you have learned. You are a Druid by blood and our learning and strength will always be yours.’ He paused. ‘You have picked up another weight of duties, Carta,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘and they are duties you cannot be expected to perform unaided. You must marry again. And soon.’

‘I don’t need a husband to be queen.’ She raised her chin.

‘Maybe not, in theory. But the warriors will not all be happy to follow a woman at such a time as this. The skies to the south are red with bloodshed. The auguries are full of warnings. The Brigantian federation is large. It could split asunder very easily. Be warned. Think about this and pray to the goddess Brigantia. It is my belief she has already chosen your mate.’

Carta smiled warily. ‘You think so?’ She was fond of this old man, who had steered her so carefully through her childhood and through these last years. ‘And the goddess has no doubt confided in you who this man is?’

Artgenos chose to look enigmatic. ‘I believe so, but it is important that you consult her yourself.’

‘Only after I am enthroned and blessed by all the gods of the tribe tomorrow.’ She set her chin stubbornly. ‘Then I will take a husband, if I choose to, as queen, and he will have to recognise me as such. Otherwise there will be no marriage.’

His eyes narrowed as he studied her face but he said nothing. The gods would decide how she should rule and only the gods.

Suddenly he was full of misgivings.