17

I

Hugh sat for a long time in the car, outside his own front door, staring at the house without seeing it, his hands clamped to the wheel, his face damp with sweat, his body ice-cold and shaking. He wasn’t sure how he had managed to drive home.

He remembered walking, running, sliding, down the hillside. He remembered seeing faces, hearing the sounds of men, of shouting, the notes of horns and above them all that floating deep bay of the carnyx. Somehow he had dragged himself into the car and locked the doors. Had he really seen faces at the windscreen, shouting at him, banging on the glass? He wasn’t sure. There had been so much pressure inside his head. The anger. The arrogance. The certainties.

He must have sat there for ages, fighting for his sanity, his face running with sweat, his body gripped by a succession of rigors which racked him with violent shivers. He might have sat there all day had it not been for the arrival of another car. It had pulled in beside his, all four doors had opened and people and dogs had leaped out. They were talking and laughing and one of them stooped beside Hugh’s door to adjust a bootlace. As the man straightened to follow his companions towards the stile he glanced at Hugh and shouted a cheery greeting. In a flash Hugh’s tormentors had gone. The scene changed. The world was normal again.

Suppressing the growing waves of nausea as best he could, Hugh had backed the car out onto the road and headed for home, but it was a long time before he managed to climb out and stagger across to the front door. Fumbling for his keys he found them at last and let himself in, slammed the door behind him and stood, his heart thundering in his chest, waiting for it to steady before he groped his way along the wall towards his study. Flinging himself down in the chair at his desk he reached for the phone. He had not noticed Viv’s note lying on the floor in the hall. With a shaking hand he punched out a number. ‘Meryn? I need you. Can you come?’

He was drinking black coffee when the phone on his desk rang. ‘Meryn? Where are you?’ His voice was steadier now and his hands had stopped shaking.

‘Sorry, old boy. I think you’ve got the wrong chap.’ The editor of the Daily Post’s book page, Roland McCafferty, sounded puzzled. ‘I thought I’d give you a buzz and see how you are.’ He was at his most affable and urbane.

‘I’m fine.’ Hugh took a deep breath, groping for normality. Pulling himself together as best he could, he frowned, thinking back to yesterday’s review writing. It seemed a lifetime away. Normally his reviews were acknowledged by e-mail. He and Roland met infrequently for lunch. Otherwise their relationship was elegantly minimal. ‘Is there a problem with the review?’ He was in no mood to discuss it. His hand on the receiver was trembling again.

‘No problem, old boy. Very much to the point as always.’ There was an infinitesimal hesitation. ‘You meant this to be a public execution, did you?’

Hugh hesitated. ‘I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Roland.’

‘So, you don’t want any changes? No second thoughts?’

‘No. The book was a mistake. That needs to be pointed out. For the author’s own sake.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Right then. OK. I thought you’d like to know we’ll run it next week to coincide with publication. Catch the publicity.’ He chuckled. ‘Good work, old boy.’

As he hung up at the other end of the line, Roland grinned to himself wryly and shook his head. What in God’s name could the poor cow have done to Hugh!

Hugh sat there, looking down at his desk, lost in thought. Had he been too harsh? If so, it was no more than Viv deserved. She could have been such a fine historian if she had been able to discipline herself more. She still could be; perhaps this was what she needed to spur her into a more accurate mindset.

He sighed, running his fingers through his thick hair. The sound of Roland’s voice had re-established a sense of reality. The echoes had gone. Suddenly he was thinking properly again. Taking a deep breath he straightened his shoulders. Somehow he had to face Viv; he had to talk to her again, to explain what he was trying to do.

What was he trying to do?

He shook his head. He wanted to help her. He wanted to encourage her. Damn it, he wanted to hold her in his arms.

For a few seconds his mind drifted, conjuring up the feel and the sound of her, the scent of the rain in her hair when he had taken her in his arms before, then suddenly he tensed, swinging round to face the window, every sense alert, Viv forgotten, adrenaline pumping. Venutios was back!

He was still staring paralysed at the window when, only seconds later the doorbell rang into the silence of the house.

‘Meryn!’ He gawped at his visitor. ‘How on earth did you get here so quickly?’ He grabbed Meryn’s arm and, Roland and the review forgotten as completely as Viv, pulled him inside, closing the door behind him and leading Meryn into his study as the clouds drew back and sunlight began to flood through the windows at last. ‘Venutios!’ He could hardly bring himself to say the word as he scanned Meryn’s face. ‘He’s here. He followed me!’

Striding over to the leather armchair by the bookshelf Meryn sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Dressed in a dark threadbare shirt of the black watch tartan, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a pair of faded jeans he leaned back and fixed Hugh with a thoughtful gaze. A silver charm hung on a leather thong around his neck almost out of sight. As he moved it caught the light. ‘Tell me what’s been happening.’

By the end of his increasingly agitated account, Hugh was pacing up and down the room, his fists clenched, his face drawn and exhausted.

‘So, where is the brooch now?’ Meryn asked calmly after a moment’s thoughtful silence. He did not allow Hugh to see how shocked he was.

Hugh shrugged. ‘I told her to take it away.’ He felt himself colouring slightly as he remembered the hug; the feel of her warm body in his arms.

‘Thereby possibly putting her at risk instead of yourself,’ Meryn pointed out.

Hugh sat down abruptly. ‘That didn’t occur to me. Dear God, I didn’t mean that to happen –’ He paused. ‘I know you said anyone who touched it could be affected by its, what did you call it, psychometry? But she’s had it for weeks and nothing’s happened to her –’

‘As far as you know.’

‘As far as I know. It can’t have done. She would have said.’

‘Would she?’ Meryn smiled wryly. ‘It doesn’t sound to me as though you two have much of a dialogue going at the moment.’

Hugh didn’t answer.

‘Have you spoken to her since?’ Meryn went on.

Hugh shook his head.

‘Then you must contact her and make sure she is all right,’ Meryn said firmly. ‘But first, we need to sort you out.’ He stood up. ‘I need my bag of tricks from the car.’ He grinned easily, determined not to let Hugh see the depth of his anxiety. ‘I take it you are going to leave this to me, Hugh? No protestations of cynical mirth? You do understand that this is serious, my friend?’

‘I wouldn’t have rung you otherwise,’ Hugh said slowly. ‘I admit defeat. There are more things in heaven and earth and all that. I am scared.’

He followed Meryn back into the hall and watched warily as Meryn pulled open the front door. Sunlight streamed in and Meryn stooped to pick up the piece of paper lying on the mat. He glanced down at it. ‘Well, here is the answer to at least one of our questions,’ he commented quietly. ‘‘‘Called to make sure you were OK. Ring me about the pin. V’’,’ he read out loud.

‘She must have come while I was up at Traprain,’ Hugh said shamefacedly. ‘I didn’t see it.’ He held out his hand and Meryn put the scrap of paper into it, then watched as Meryn went over to the old green MG and pulled out a battered leather holdall.

Shoving Viv’s note into his pocket, Hugh managed a watery smile. ‘Mumbo jumbo?’

Meryn nodded tolerantly. ‘Lots.’

‘Shall I tell you what Venutios would probably have done if he were in your position and being threatened in his own home,’ Meryn said affably as he put the bags down in the study and opened the holdall. ‘He would have planted a circle of skulls around the garden, facing outwards, to ward off the enemy.’

Hugh blanched. ‘A ghost fence,’ he said weakly. ‘The archaeologists found traces of them at Stanwick. His last stand against the Romans. I’d hoped we might have become rather more sophisticated in our techniques. Please tell me you haven’t got a bunch of skulls in there.’

Meryn smiled. ‘Don’t talk about sophistication in that superior way, Hugh. We are the ones who are unsophisticated. In our wild rush over the last few hundred years for what we now consider to be rational and scientific we have lost so much which has been known and valued for thousands of years and which is vital to our survival as human beings. Venutios would consider us naïve babes in arms if he could see what we believe now. He probably can see it,’ he added, with a mischievous smile.

‘When you say, we,’ Hugh added quietly, ‘you obviously exclude yourself from the generalisation. You mean me.’

Meryn shrugged. ‘It’s not your fault, old son. It’s our culture. Remember the world he lived in was an animistic, rainbow world of links and connections which included vast echelons of spirits and gods and ancestors, people dead and people yet to be born, all of whom could be summoned to his aid.’ He unpacked various bags and boxes. ‘To fight him we have to use techniques which he will understand and which will work.’

‘Is he a ghost, then?’ Hugh sat down. He rubbed his face with his hands wearily.

Meryn was piling his containers on Hugh’s desk. ‘The Celts believed in the immortality of the soul. They believed in reincarnation and transmigration of the soul, what the Irish Celts called tuirigin, which means that they believed one could come back as more or less anything until the experience of one’s soul was complete. People, yes. But also animals. Birds. There is a wonderful poem in the Irish tradition called the ‘‘Song of Amergin’’. In it the narrator recalls being a salmon, a bull, the wind, a wave. Or Taliesin, from the Welsh – he remembered being a spade, and fire tongs! As well as a stag, a stallion, and a cockerel. “I was dead. I was alive.”’

‘I know the literature.’ Hugh scowled.

‘Of course you do. Then you know that Venutios could have come back a thousand times in any form. His soul is still alive. Will always be alive. At present I am assuming it is between existences, ducking back and forth between this world and the otherworld, and very interested in you and your views on what went on in the life he lived in the first century Anno Domini.’

‘We call it the Common Era now,’ Hugh objected weakly.

‘Why? Politically correct tosh.’ Meryn grinned. ‘The counting of our history in our current Western calendar starts from the birth of Christ. Why try and pretend it doesn’t?’ He straightened and looked at Hugh. ‘No, don’t tell me. It’s all arbitrary anyway. Now. Let me show you what I have here.’

He waited for Hugh to drag himself out of the chair and come over to the desk. ‘This is a Druid’s protection kit,’ he said with a smile. ‘Luckily you don’t have to believe in it. All that matters is that Venutios does.’

Hugh watched while Meryn produced a bag of white pebbles, a jar of crushed herbs, a censor and charcoal, a small bronze bowl, various packages, a bottle of spring water and other things he couldn’t identify. He managed a feeble grin. ‘Forget mumbo jumbo. This is hocus pocus!’

Meryn laughed out loud. ‘Indeed. Even more powerful. What I am going to do is to protect your house. Like the ring of skulls but maybe more hygienic; less liable for European Community interference. I am going to protect you, and then I am going to send you to bed for a rest because you look, to put no finer point upon it, knackered. I will see to it that you do not dream and that you are not attacked in any way so you can get a decent rest and while you are doing that I will work out our plan of strategy.’

‘Do I actually have to be here for any of it?’ Hugh managed a self-deprecating grimace. This was very hard. In the past their relationship had always degenerated into unconfrontational banter when they touched on topics which were to Hugh completely incomprehensible. That was thanks to Alison. She had been so good at easing him past no-go areas like this. Now he had invited Meryn here to do the very things he ridiculed and he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

Meryn glanced up at him. He relented. Too much scepticism would be counter-productive. ‘Probably not. Go on up and have a shower and a few hours’ kip. Leave me in charge down here.’

Hugh did not argue. Mounting the stairs he realised just how stiff and tired he was. Not letting himself think about what might be happening in his study, he walked into his bedroom and threw himself down on the bed. It did not occur to him that Meryn had not yet had time to do more than unpack his bag; that Venutios might already be waiting for him.

II

It had been so easy to cut round behind Triganos and his brothers. Venutios, with a hand-picked band of followers, had broken away from his own army and cut across the country, keeping to the deep forest, following the broad river valley where there were no settlements, until they had found Triganos’s encampment. Luring him away from the main band of men was child’s play. A secret challenge to single combat, delivered by hand, attended only by his brothers and the fool accepted. Venutios himself had thrust the blade into his friend’s back. He would make it up to him in another life. This was no dishonour. This was to save the great Brigantian alliance from annihilation; the sons of Bellacos and Fidelma were not the right men to take on the mantle of the high kingship at such a crucial time. Triganos’s reign at the head of the tribes had been a disaster. With him and his two brothers dead there could be no one to contest the high king’s throne.

The murders completed, he and his companions slipped away. The abandoned stolen Roman broadswords would be enough to throw suspicion elsewhere. No one would suspect him anyway. Leaving Triganos’s followers to find the body of their king he melted away into the night, leaving six bodies on the ground – The three brothers and their three charioteers. The challenge, accepted with so much excitement and bravado, was over. As always Triganos had misjudged the situation. That two of the sons of Bellacos were not actually dead did not occur to Venutios. If it had it didn’t matter. They would not have recognised the faces of their attackers, masked as they were by wolves’ heads, and, dishonoured by their brother’s death, wounded and scarred, neither would be fit anyway now to contend for the title of high king.

Returning to his own army, Venutios waited for word of the murder. It was four days in coming, four days during which he champed with impatience and fury. As soon as the news came, appropriately shocked and angry, he ordered his two most senior warriors to lead his troops south to rendezvous with Brochan and his army, heading for the Roman front. He himself planned to set off with two companions on the long ride north, back towards Dun Righ. There he would have himself declared high king.

Riding through the territory of the Corieltauvi, they were following the ridgeways and forest roads, avoiding hamlets and farms where curious strangers might delay them, heading north as fast as their horses would carry them. There was a three-quarter moon to light their way and before dawn they had made camp, eating, resting the horses, taking turns at sleeping, then they rode on.

They were once more approaching the Trisantona, riding in single file beneath the trees of the great forest when they were attacked. Exhausted, unprepared and greatly outnumbered, they were overpowered by their attackers before they knew what had happened. When it was over they had been left for dead without weapons, stripped and without their horses, lying unconscious under the trees.

When Venutios awoke it was dark. He was lying on a bed in a small room, a rushlight on a table there. Putting his hand to his head he groaned. Immediately there was someone beside him. A cool hand rested for a moment on his forehead. Dragging his eyelids open, he tried to see. A young man in the white robe of a Druid was standing beside his bed.

‘Rest, good sir. You have been very ill.’ The voice was gentle.

‘Where am I?’ His mouth was dry. It felt as though it had been scoured with ash.

‘You are in our temple of healing, my friend. We found you unconscious on the track. You had been robbed of everything, even your clothes.’ The young man glanced at Venutios cautiously. ‘I’m afraid your two companions were dead, friend,’ he went on, gently. ‘Their souls had already begun their onward journey when we found you.’

Venutios lay looking up at the ceiling. He frowned, trying to think. To remember. For a long time his mind remained a blank. He submitted to the healing ministrations of the Druids, accepting food and remedies, simple woollen clothing and a healing amulet around his neck and it was only on the third day that his memory began to return. Aching from his bruises, he made his way to the chamber of the senior Druid who ran the temple complex and informed his hosts that they had been caring for the king of the Carvetii. The old Druid bowed and smiled. ‘Sir, as is our sacred duty we entertain all who come here without asking their name or fortune. I am only sorry you received such poor treatment from whoever waylaid you on the forest road. Sadly there are all too many outlaws living out there these days.’ He shrugged.

Venutios grimaced. ‘I am going to have to beg a further lien on your hospitality, my friend. The loan of a horse and a sword so I can make my way northward again. I have to reach Dun Righ in the land of the Setantii before they receive news of the high king’s death. He was murdered a few days ago by Roman war bands.’

The Druid raised an eyebrow. ‘I had heard that sad news, sir. I fear you are too late to bear the tidings to the Brigantian people. They heard it many weeks ago. They have already chosen a new leader.’

Venutios stared at him, white to the lips. ‘That is not possible. There hasn’t been time!’

‘It is two moons since Triganos died, sir king.’

‘Two moons?’ Venutios echoed the words soundlessly. ‘I have been ill for two moons?’

The Druid nodded.

‘And who –’ Venutios could hardly bring himself to ask the question. ‘Who has been chosen in his place?’

‘His sister, Queen Cartimandua. I believe the ceremonies are to be held at the next full moon in two days’ time.’

Venutios sat down on the old man’s stool and put his head in his hands. The room was suddenly spinning, the blood pounding in his veins. Blindly he grabbed the flagon of mead that was pushed into his hands. He tipped it back and felt the sweetness flood his throat. ‘Too late!’ he whispered.

‘You can be there for her coronation, if you ride fast,’ the old man said solicitously. ‘I’m not sure you are well enough, though.’

‘I’m well enough.’ Venutios spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Give me a horse and a guide, my friend. I will repay you, you have my word.’

He left the temple within the hour. If he could reach Dun Righ before she was put upon the throne, by the gods he could stop the coronation!

‘Stop the coronation!’ Flinging his head from side to side on the pillow Hugh moaned out loud, his fingers shredding the bedspread. ‘It cannot be allowed! It has to be stopped!’

‘Hugh?’ Meryn opened the door and looked in. ‘Hugh, are you all right?’

One look told him he wasn’t. It was too late. Venutios was already in the house. No amount of boundary protection would work now.

It was a long time since he had gone into shamanic trance to encounter spirits in their own world and it was dangerous, but what was the alternative? With one more look at the man thrashing back and forth on the bed, Meryn turned and ran down the stairs to his car. With his Druid cloak, his deerskin bodhran, and his own personal amulet of protection, Meryn sat himself cross-legged on the floor in the corner of Hugh’s bedroom and quietly began to pick out a rhythm on the drum. Not only did he have to try and save his friend, but, he suspected, he had to save the woman who had charge of Cartimandua’s brooch as well. As the low rhythmic beat of the drum set the shadows vibrating he heard it answered by the deep resonating note of the carnyx from the misty distances closing in around the house.

III

Cathy was already in bed. The curtains were undrawn, the windows open onto the warm night air. By the light of the single lamp on the side table the room looked calm and inviting. It was peaceful in there. Reaching into her briefcase Pat pulled out the typescript which she had taken to Viv’s but not shown her. The typescript about Medb. It would have to be edited of course, she recognised that. There wouldn’t be room for the full account of Medb’s journey across France – Gaul, she corrected herself – nor her agonising wait at the port before she found a ship which would carry her across to Albion, her soulful promises to the ship’s master, her trip with him to the market to buy new shoes and a warm cloak, the voyage during which she had been too sick to fulfil her side of any bargain with her rescuer and then her journey north, giving him the slip, avoiding the Roman invaders and the native townships with the cunning of the night-eyed owl. She was in the territories of the Corieltauvi, dressed in the white woollen robe and veil of a Druidess, when she heard about the death of Triganos. Still there when news came of who had been chosen as his successor.

Pat threw the file down on the table with a satisfied sigh. It was good; exciting. Suspenseful. Climbing to her feet, she wandered into the kitchen. Opening the fridge and scanning the contents she found a half-drunk bottle of white wine. Helping herself to a glass, she went back into the living room.

Medb was standing by the table. With a gasp of fear Pat dropped the glass, pinned to the spot by those clear pale eyes as the glass rolled harmlessly across the rug and lay there in a pool of crystalclear sauvignon.

‘What do you want?’ Pat’s voice was a husky croak.

The figure did not respond.

‘I’m telling your story.’ Pat was starting to shake. ‘Please, go away.’

The figure didn’t move. It seemed solid. Pat could see every detail of the woman’s face. Her blonde hair was braided into tresses beneath the woven veil which had embroidery along its edge. She wore no make-up or tattoos; her face was hard, with an unhappy line etched from the mouth downwards; the eyes were almost colourless, like the water of a mountain stream and they bored deep into Pat’s soul.

‘Please, go,’ Pat repeated faintly. ‘I’ve done everything you wanted. I’ve written your story down.’

Behind her a light came on in the hall. ‘Pat? Is that you?’ Cathy’s voice rang out from the stairs.

The figure vanished.

Pat closed her eyes. She took a deep gasping breath as Cathy came into the room.

‘Pat, what’s happening –’ Cathy looked round and spotted the glass on the carpet. Are you drunk?’

Pat pointed towards the table. ‘There! Medb! She was there.’

Cathy wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, Pat! For God’s sake!’ Stooping, she picked up the glass and set it down on the coffee table with a bang. ‘I’ll get a cloth for the wine. Why don’t you go to bed! Sleep it off !’

Pat scowled. Picking up the manuscript, she headed for the stairs. ‘Sorry. But I did see her. And I hadn’t had a drop. I never got that far!’

Lying in bed later she stared up at the ceiling, too scared to close her eyes. Medb was prowling round the room. She could feel her. Her mouth dry, her eyes gritty with lack of sleep, Pat clenched her fists under the sheet, hardly daring to breathe. When at last, unable to keep them open a moment longer, she felt her lids begin to close it was in the knowledge that Medb was already inside her head.

Cartimandua must die.

Was it an order? A statement? She didn’t know. The voice that filled her head was angry; bitter; vicious in its insistence. As it filled Pat’s whole being she knew she couldn’t fight it any longer. Drifting further and further into sleep, she surrendered to the darkness.

IV

Hugh gradually was aware of a strange low thudding sound somewhere in the room near him. He frowned. It was not unpleasant. In fact it was strangely soothing, leading him out of the grey silences of sleep back towards the daylight. The sound was growing louder. More insistent. It was telling him to open his eyes.

With a groan he stretched and sat up. The drumming stopped.

‘How are you?’ Meryn was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room.

Hugh stared at him in astonishment. ‘What?’

‘We’ve been on a journey.’ Meryn set the drum down beside him. ‘A very interesting journey. To the Brigantia of your nightmares.’

Hugh swallowed. Swinging his feet to the floor he groaned again. ‘What happened?’

Meryn rose and stood looking down at him thoughtfully. ‘I followed you into your dreams in order to confront Venutios if he would let me.’ For the first time Meryn frowned.

Hugh grimaced. ‘Did he?’ He couldn’t quite hide the scepticism in his voice.

Meryn shook his head. His approach had been met with anger and derision.

‘So, he’s going to go on haunting me?’ Hugh could not keep the fear hidden. ‘Why?’

Meryn was silent for a moment. His glimpse of the whirling distances which surrounded Hugh had been terrifying and confusing. The past had been reawakened, and like a sleeping giant who has been prodded and goaded into life it was gaining strength and momentum with every second that passed.

Venutios was not amenable to reason or persuasion. Nor were the two women whose shadows swirled around him.

‘Hugh, I want you to listen to me.’ Meryn spoke slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes on Hugh’s face. ‘Venutios has gone for now but he is dangerous and I believe he poses a real threat to you and to anyone involved with this brooch of yours. You must retrieve it. As long as Viv has it in her possession she is in danger.’

‘Danger?’ Hugh stared at him. ‘What sort of danger?’

Meryn remained silent for a moment or two, thinking. ‘Danger of possession; of physical harm.’

Hugh blanched. ‘Then what. What do I do with it?’

‘I suggest you give it back to the museum. It has lain there for a long time without interference. It may be that it is safe there.’

Or maybe not. Was the brooch the catalyst that had awoken this angry man from the sleep of ages, and if so, why did he want it back so badly? Meryn sighed. ‘Ring her, Hugh. Ask for it back and bring it to me.’

His cottage was a safe environment. Venutios would not be welcome there. On his own ground, maybe Meryn could fight him.

V

‘Pat!’ Viv caught her arm and pulled her in through the door. It was just after nine a.m. and Pat was panting from the stairs. Her face was white and strained and drawn with exhaustion. ‘The brooch has gone. It’s been stolen!’

Pat put down her bag and, hand to chest, tried to regain her breath. ‘What do you mean, stolen?’

‘It has gone. Look!’ Viv gestured towards her desk. The drawer in which she had put the brooch was lying on the floor, the contents scattered on the rug. ‘After the TV programme I took it back to Hugh. He told me to keep it until it could be returned to the museum so I put it back in that drawer.’

Pat sat down on the rocking chair. ‘Christ! Did someone break in? Have you called the police?’

Viv shook her head. ‘It was Carta.’

‘What?’ Pat froze.

‘Carta was here again last night. Standing there –’ She pointed towards the desk.

They both stared at the spot, then at each other. ‘Something happened to me last night, too,’ Pat said quietly. ‘When I got back. Medb was there.’ She shivered, eyeing Viv’s face ‘What’s happening to us?’

Viv sat down on the sofa. ‘I don’t know what to do. I brought the brooch back because Hugh thinks he is being haunted as well – by Venutios.’

‘Have you told Hugh it’s gone?’ Pat’s eyes were fixed on the drawer still lying on the floor.

Viv shook her head.

‘Do you think, if Carta took it, it will all stop?’

Viv shrugged. ‘It’s worth a fortune. It can’t disappear. Who would believe us?’

‘Hugh would.’ Pat looked at her hopefully. ‘Wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve tried ringing him. There’s no reply.’

They sat for a moment in silence, then Viv stood up. Wearily she stooped and began to collect the bits and pieces lying on the floor around the drawer. Throwing them inside it she slotted it back into place.

‘What about fingerprints?’ Pat said suddenly. ‘Does it matter that you’ve touched it?’

‘Fingerprints!’ Viv retorted. ‘Do you think a ghost has fingerprints? No one else was here last night. The door was locked –’ She stopped abruptly. Once before the door had opened in the night when she had thought it closed. She shook her head. ‘Besides, I saw her standing there.’

Pat stood up. ‘I can’t stand this any more. Let’s get out of here.’ She turned towards the door. ‘Are you coming? Let’s get some breakfast as Georgio’s, then go for a walk or something. Let’s just get out of this flat.’

As they headed down the winding stone stairs towards the street neither woman heard the crash and splinter of breaking glass or sensed the wave of anguish and frustrated anger which exploded behind them.

VI

They went to Traprain.

‘Bloody hell!’ Pat was bright red in the face. ‘Remind me to give up smoking, somebody. You mean these people lived on the top of this thing?’

Viv laughed. Think of the view when you reach the top. It’ll be worth it, I promise. The Celts followed on in the tradition of making a point of living in high places where possible. Some people think that is what Brigantia means. People of the high places.’

‘Shit!’ Pat was not seeing the romance of the setting. She paused, catching her breath. ‘But hang on, this isn’t Brigantia, is it.’

‘This is the land of the Votadini. Their northern neighbours and at least in my book, allies.’

‘And your professor doesn’t agree with this, right?’

‘No, he thinks we should avoid all supposition.’

‘And from your point of view it’s not supposition.’

‘No way. I’m certain.’

‘Good enough for us.’ Pat laughed. ‘OK. Race you to the top!’

The excursion cheered them both and windblown and tired, they returned just before four.

‘What next?’ Pat waited while Viv fumbled with her keys. ‘A trip to Brigantia proper?’

‘Why not.’ Viv pushed open the lower door and they stepped into the chilly vestibule at the foot of the stairs.

Pat frowned. She could feel it already. The strange oppressiveness which had permeated the flat that morning. They climbed the stairs, then she waited as Viv slotted her key into the lock. As she pushed open the door Pat heard her give an exclamation of irritation. ‘It smells awfully odd in here –’ Her next words were cut off by a small cry of fear. ‘The mirror! Oh God, the mirror!’

‘Viv, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Pat moved forward but was brought up short as the door slammed in her face.

‘Viv, let me in!’ She banged on it with her fist. ‘What’s wrong? Oh God! Viv! Let me in!’ She knelt down and forced open the flap of the letter box, trying to see through it. There was a strong smell of damp and an icy coldness coming from the flat. And total silence. There was no sign or sound from Viv. Desperately Pat banged on the door with her fists, then at last with a sob of frustration she sat down on the top step of the stairs and dragging her bag off her shoulder began to rummage in it for her mobile.

VII

The ceremony began before dawn. Dressed in plain undyed linen, her feet bare, Cartimandua was led in a procession of her Druids, bards and seers to the place on the hillside ordained by the gods for her union to the goddess of the earth. In days gone by, as told by the bards, such ceremonies were prolonged and secret, but now in a celebration before the tribes she was elevated onto the place where her foot would fit the footprints of the goddess and onto the stone upon which she sat, and which held all the knowledge of the earth and the sun and moon and stars.

Artgenos, Archdruid of the Brigantes, stood before her in his finest robes and turned to face the people. ‘Cartimandua has been brought here before you to take up the mantle of high kingship which was worn by her brother and before that by her father. She has been chosen by the Druids after consultation with our gods, and by the warriors who will follow her leadership. Before I place upon her head the diadem of the gods, is there any here who will challenge her right?’

He paused. Silence fell over the hundreds of men and women who were crowded around the high rock. Every pair of eyes was focused on her. Cartimandua held her breath. No sound was heard. No voice. If anyone was going to contend for the title they could do so now. They could claim precedence. A man could claim he could better lead men into battle. Then from the distance a circling eagle let out a yelping cry. There was a sharp intake of breath from those around her. Was this a message from the gods? Did the eagle support their queen or was it crying out in its despair? Every eye switched to Artgenos who stared up, his hand shading his eyes to follow the great bird with its golden feathers catching the light of the hidden sun as the horizon in the east grew ever brighter.

Carta swallowed. She could feel the chill of the dawn creeping over her. Her bare feet on the rock were like ice. It seemed an age before Artgenos turned back to the people. ‘The gods have spoken,’ he shouted. ‘They confirm their choice. Cartimandua is high queen of all Brigantia.’

As the cheers rang out around them he reached for the golden diadem and as the sun broke the horizon in a blaze of glory he set it upon her brow, then as the sun rose clear of the hill he anointed her with blessed water and sacred oil. Into her hands he placed a wand of sacred wood, and an orb of rock crystal. Then he bade her stand and repeat the sacred words of the tribes after him.

Her vows made, the tribe’s genealogy recited by the sennachie, her praises sung by three bards and three harpers, the people’s songs of praise and rejoicing sung, echoing across the fells, she led the procession back down to the forest where, beneath the great council oak she was placed on her high seat, and there safely within the circle of her tribe she ordered the first of the three days of feasting and celebrations to begin.

Conaire, having sung her praises until he was hoarse, had disappeared into the crowds to replenish his cup of mead. When he returned he fought his way through the crowds to her side, his face white. ‘I have just seen an outrider from the fells. Brochan is approaching at the head of a huge army, great queen.’

Carta met his gaze. ‘You think he comes to oppose my election?’ She glanced across at Artgenos who was seated some way from her. The old man caught the look and wearily he rose to his feet and approached her. He frowned at the news. ‘He is too late to oppose your election in law, but that is not to say that he might oppose it by force.’ He shook his head. ‘I saw no signs of opposition in the stars. Nor in the auguries I performed last night.’

‘Then there are none.’ Carta rose to her feet. Stepping forward she lifted her arms for silence, feeling the weight of the great gold bracelets slide up her arm, and slowly the shouts and laughter and singing died away. ‘My people,’ she cried as she stood before them, an imposing figure in her white gown and tunic and her golden diadem and torcs. ‘It seems that our neighbours the king of the Parisii and the king of the Carvetii are on their way with the armies they led to fight against Rome. We must bid them welcome and have our feast prepared in readiness for their arrival.’

Sitting down again as a great cheer rang out around them she grinned at Artgenos. ‘At least they are prepared for visitors,’ she said. ‘I would not believe that Brochan would oppose me. Never in a dozen lifetimes would he put himself forward as high king.’

Artgenos shrugged. The decision was made. Her fate was sealed. All he could do now was leave it in the hands of the gods.

Her estimation of Brochan’s reaction proved right. When the vast army drew up to camp on the fells outside the walls he came at once and knelt before her, offering his homage and support. He brought news of her missing brother. Fintan was still sick from his wounds and being cared for in a healing temple far to the south but sent her his blessing; Bran was far more sorely wounded. He had not yet awoken though he still breathed.

‘And Venutios?’ Carta had scanned the crowds around Brochan and seen no sign of him. ‘Is he not with you?’

Brochan frowned. ‘I had thought Venutios would be here already, my queen. He left a fortnight before we turned back north, anxious to be at your side.’ He looked away suddenly and she read his embarrassment correctly.

‘He set off to stand in opposition to my claim?’

Brochan shrugged. ‘Who knows what he decided. Perhaps he changed his mind. Perhaps he rode back to Caer Lugus.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I have many of his men in my army, lady. He left them under my command.’

Carta smiled at him. ‘Then let it be your command that all your men, and his, join our celebrations.’

That night she lay awake for a long time in her lonely bed going over the events of the day in her mind. Amongst all the glory and excitement and beauty of the ceremonies and celebrations, one thing stood out as a dark shadow cast over the sun. The absence of Venutios. His presence there would have conveyed his approbation; his approval; his blessing. The fact that he was not there denied her all three. She thought back over the ceremony and again heard the cry of the eagle above her as the sun rose. Was Artgenos wrong? Had Venutios returned home to the centre of the land of the Carvetii to invoke the great god, Lugh, the protector of his tribe, the god of victory and light against her?

Unable to sleep she rose and, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, walked out into the central chamber of the house. It was deserted. Her guards remained outside, her ladies were asleep at last in their own quarters. Walking over to the fire she stirred the peats, kindling a flame from the smoky embers and sat down in the flickering light, reaching into her bag for the bundle of yew slips she used for prophesy. Praying over them, she let them fall upon the floor and leant forward to read their message.

There was a blackness which she could not read in the pattern of the staves though they showed clearly that Venutios was not at Caer Lugus. Puzzled, she shuffled them and tossed them down again. He had gone to Dinas Dwr. Why? And who was the woman there with him? A shiver of apprehension settled across her shoulders as a figure appeared from the shadows behind her. ‘My queen?’ It was Mairghread. ‘You need your sleep. There is so much to do tomorrow.’ The woman stood looking down at the pattern of the sticks on the floor at Carta’s feet. ‘Do you see blessings in the future?’

Carta shuffled them together and put them back in their linen bag. ‘I see many things, Mairghread.’ She rose to her feet with a smile. ‘Will you bank the fire again, my dear, while I go back to my bed. I need to wake at dawn.’

She was woken by the clear fluting of the blackbird and she lay still for a moment listening to its message. The gates to the other worlds were open. In the cold dawn light the township slept in silence as she made her way to the shrine among the rocks and knelt before the stone head of the goddess. She made her offerings, then she bent to look into the dark depths of the ice-cold water. There the picture was clear; Venutios lay on a bed of furs. In the crook of his arm she could see the woman’s blonde hair spread across the pillows. Even though those chilling eyes were closed she recognised the face. The woman in his arms was Medb of the White Hands.