21

I

Viv woke to a furious knocking on the front door of the flat. Still knotting the belt of her dressing gown, she stood back and let Pete in. He was tight-lipped. ‘I’m sorry to call round so early,’ he followed her through into the living room, ‘but I had to talk to you. All this stuff about Cartimandua and ghosts and brooches has got to stop. You are upsetting everyone. Pat and Cathy were up all night. They were in a complete panic. You have to stop this play! Stop writing completely. Forget it. You are going to make yourselves mad. You’re both getting hysterical. Give it a rest, OK?’

Viv stared at him. ‘Pete –’

‘I mean it, Viv. This has all gone long past a joke. I’m going to suggest that Pat goes back to London.’

‘You can’t.’ Suddenly Viv was defensive and angry.

‘Cathy thinks it’s best. I think you’ll find that Pat will agree.’

‘No, Pete. I’m sorry. Why don’t you just mind your own business. You and Cathy. This is nonsense. Pat was as keen as I was on the play. She still is. I only dropped her off last night, for God’s sake! She hadn’t changed her mind then. Far from it –’

‘Something happened last night which frightened her.’

Viv was silent. ‘What?’ she asked at last.

‘She announced that she could see some woman called Maeve there in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She freaked out and Cathy got upset. The cat went ballistic. Tasha was screaming the place down. The woman from downstairs came up to see if someone was being murdered …’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Then on top of all that, when Pat went back to bed she found blood all over the place where some brooch had scratched her and they had to change the sheets. No, I’m sorry, Viv. I really am. But you see the position I’m in.’

Viv was speechless for several seconds. ‘Pat can come and stay here,’ she said at last.

‘I think you’ll find she doesn’t want to.’ Pete stood up. ‘Just give us all a break, will you? I’m going to persuade Cathy to come with me when I take Tasha to Stockholm on Friday and we’ll spend a few days over there. I don’t like leaving you alone, but this has to stop. Just pull yourself together, Viv, please!’

She stood listening to the sound of his footsteps as he ran down the stairs, then she pushed the door shut. She was white with shock.

Sitting down on the rocking chair she began to rock backwards and forwards gently, the only sound in the room the quiet squeak of the floorboard under the rockers. If the brooch had been in Pat’s bed, Pat must have brought it back with her.

Or Medb.

II

‘You summoned me, my Queen.’ Venutios gave a small bow as he greeted Carta. He was dressed in his finest cloak and tunic, the gold and enamelled bird brooch on his shoulder. He did not smile as he straightened and met her eye. ‘You find you cannot do without me after all?’ He couldn’t keep the irony out of his voice.

Carta’s lips tightened angrily as she held his gaze. ‘I summoned you because the kings of the Brigantian tribes must stand shoulder to shoulder before the Romans. I have also summoned Brochan. We have to maintain a united front. An envoy is on his way here from the Emperor as we speak.’

Venutios raised an eyebrow. ‘And you think Brochan will impress him?’ He gave a wintry laugh. ‘Do you know what this Roman is going to say? Or does he merely wish to see how sharp our weapons are?’

Carta smiled. ‘I know why he is coming. Artgenos’s spies have already told me. I need my kings at my side and my Druids behind me when I greet him.’ She stepped forward. ‘You look better than when I saw you last, Venutios. I trust you have recovered from your wound and that your new clothes have put you in a better temper.’ She reached forward, almost touching the bird on his shoulder, her gaze challenging his, then she gave a half-smile and stepped back as though aware of the eyes that watched her from far away.

Cartimandua had been impressed when word had arrived of the impending invitation from Aulus Plautius, commander of the invading Roman forces and now newly appointed governor of Britannia, to a meeting with him and the leaders of all the tribes of Britain, before the Emperor of Rome. She planned to receive the envoy in her feasting hall at Dun Righ. The Roman advance had halted. Their enemies were waiting to see what they would do next. The leaders of the tribes of Albion had not expected diplomacy after the appalling violence of the invasion. Impressed by the state and importance of her visitor and curious to see what these Roman invaders were like face to face, Carta ordered a feast in his honour which was designed to impress him and fill him with awe.

On one side she was flanked by Artgenos, and his colleague in the Druid college, Culann, a younger, more ascetic version of himself; on the other there was Brochan and Venutios, as the most senior kings of the northern tribes, a feat of diplomacy in itself to bring them together under the same roof without either drawing a sword. Venutios had been summoned by his high queen to the meeting with the envoy at three days’ notice. She had not expected him to come.

The envoy was dressed in the uniform of a military tribune of the XX Legion Valeria Victrix, and accompanied by twenty-five legionaries. His name was Gaius Flavius Cerialis. He was tall, dark-haired, with high cheekbones and even, handsome features.

Going down on one knee before her, he handed her the scroll which contained the invitation. If he was surprised to find himself confronting the woman leader of these wild northern tribes he hid it well. If he was even more surprised that she was young and beautiful and that these seasoned warriors all treated her with respect he made no comment until he penned his report back to Plautius later.

An even greater surprise was in store. ‘If you will permit, lady, I will read you the message from the governor.’ He held out his hand to take back the scroll, but Cartimandua had already unrolled it and was scanning the close-written lines with every appearance of being able to read and understand Latin. He glanced at her warily. He had heard rumours about the powerful warrior queen of the Brigantes, none of which he had believed. The whole concept of a queen was fascinating to the young Roman. Women did not rule in their own name in the Empire. Even the fearsome wives of the emperors were not rulers in their own right.

There was silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire as she read, then he realised that she was looking at him. He straightened his shoulders imperceptibly. She was good-looking; strong-featured, with haunting eyes. Red-gold hair, not stiff with lye as some of her countrymen and women, but luxurious and shining, plaited into heavy ropes and pinned in place with golden combs. For a moment as she lowered the document and looked at him their eyes met and he was tempted to smile.

‘So, I am commanded to meet your Emperor.’ If she was impressed she gave no sign of it. She handed the document to Artgenos. The envoy watched the old Druid read it, who in turn passed it on to one of the other men. Gaius had been told that unlike the southern tribes, who were closer to Gaul and in more contact already with Rome, these northern peoples were backwoodsmen and illiterate. That was clearly not the case. His information was wrong.

He glanced round surreptitiously, noting the richly woven hangings, the carved wooden furniture, the intricately decorated pottery – some of it undoubtedly imported from Gaul and expensive – on the tray which a slave was carrying towards him loaded with refreshments. Above all, he noted this young queen with her gold neckring and armlets, her soft, brightly coloured mantle trimmed with fur over a pale linen gown, the two great wolfhounds which lay at her feet watching him, and beside her the two formidable stern-faced warrior kings, with behind them the tall old Druid with his staff and his deep-set, all-seeing eyes. Gaius glanced at Queen Cartimandua’s face again and was embarrassed to find her eyes once more on his. Her expression was shrewdly focussed.

Though he didn’t know it, Carta was equally fascinated by her visitor. The handsome Roman was clean-shaven, and wore a long-sleeved tunic with a leather corselet trimmed with metal. He carried his plumed helmet under his arm and had been allowed to keep his sword. His shield bearer and two of his officers stood immediately behind him.

When the presentation of the invitation was over and he had been shown to the guest house to refresh himself and prepare for the feast, she turned to her advisers.

‘I have no intention of going. At the head of a war band, yes. As a supplicant to Rome, no.’

‘I agree.’ Venutios leaned towards the fire thoughtfully. His quarrel with Brochan, or for that matter with Cartimandua, was not at the forefront of his mind for the moment. Time enough for that later. Besides, he might be able to turn her position as high queen to his own advantage later. ‘Compliance will be seen as weakness.’

Carta glanced at him. ‘On the other hand, it would be interesting to see these people for myself and judge their position. They have treated me with respect. They have brought gifts.’ Not many, but nevertheless the quality of the gold-engraved cup which had been passed over was exquisite and Gaius’s explanation that the gift was small only because of the speed with which he had been required to travel had been accepted.

‘I wouldn’t go.’ Venutios scowled. ‘These men are two-faced. They invite with one hand and stab you in the back with the other.’

‘That is not their intention here,’ Artgenos put in at last. ‘They are thinly spread on this island and they are seeking allies. Why else would the Emperor of Rome himself have come here? It is unthinkable that we would agree to an alliance but it would do no harm to talk to them. To judge their strength and the pattern of their intentions. Cartimandua is right. I think she should go. And I think you two should accompany her.’ He frowned sternly. ‘You must put your enmity behind you. Unless the tribes are allies, we have no chance against their people. Watch these men. See how disciplined they are and learn.’

He was right. Carta studied the Roman at the feast that night with great care. She sat him next to her and saw that he was plied with dishes, and watched his every move. He had changed from his armour in honour of the feast and the men of the tribe stared at him in astonishment as he strode in, swathed in a toga with the narrow stripe of a career officer.

Carta found him easy to talk to. He was intelligent, charming, a little formal, but she put that down to the fact that he was undoubtedly awed by the circumstances in which he found himself. And he was, she had to admit it, attractive. He was a hand-span taller even than Venutios. Plied with wine, he talked freely of the invasion, the war, his experience on the battlefield and the building which was starting at Camulodunum, the capital of the Catuvellaunian-Trinovantian alliance and now the new capital of the province of Britannia.

While the men and women around him drank freely and the noise in the feasting hall grew louder, Gaius kept his head. He waved away the constant refills from the wine jug, and ate sparingly. Aware that his hostess too was keeping her drinking carefully in control he talked expansively and with a certain bravado as he had been instructed. He was not sure if she was fooled by his wide-eyed bonhomie, but he did, he had to admit, rather enjoy her company. After the Spartan order and discipline of the unmarried officers’ quarters this riot of noise and colour and music and indulgence was decidedly pleasing.

The next morning he had expected to find the whole place still locked in drunken sleep when he and his men mounted to begin their journey south. He had also expected her to play for time and delay the decision as to whether or not she accepted the governor’s invitation. To his astonishment she was there to bid him farewell, and in her hand she carried a fresh scroll, the reply to the invitation, penned with all the flurries and courtesies that could be wished for, agreeing to come to Camulodunum.

She inclined her head gravely in response to his salute. ‘I trust you have a safe journey, Gaius Flavius Cerialis.’ She held his gaze for a moment and then she smiled. ‘And I trust that we will meet again.’ Just for a second he thought he had seen a certain calculation in her eyes, but whether she was judging him as an enemy or as a potential ally he could not decide. The thought worried him on his way back south.

III

The sound of the rocking chair slowly brought Viv back to wakefulness. She smiled. She had seen the feast. Watched Carta taking her first steps in diplomatic dealings with the Romans. Watched Venutios wearing the brooch.

She frowned abruptly. So Hugh was right. The brooch was his. But where had he got it from? Since Carta had noticed it so obviously, she hadn’t given it to him.

Viv sat for a minute in silence. Outside somewhere on the rooftops a blackbird was singing, the liquid trill soaring above the muted roar of traffic. She frowned. Was it a warning? She must learn to listen to the birds like Carta. Listen to the wind, the rain; heed the messages the gods sent her. Alert now, she concentrated on the sound, attuned to the slightest nuance, her mind still half in the past.

How had the brooch come back to Edinburgh? Had Pat tricked her? Had she somehow retrieved it? Had Medb brought it?

‘Carta?’ She whispered the name tentatively. ‘Carta, are you there?’

The only answer was the distant wheezing and rumble of an early morning milk float stopping and starting on its way up the street and the cheerful chink of bottles in the rain.

She must ring Cathy. Find out what had happened. The bird wasn’t going to tell her. His message spoke of otherworldly things. Standing up unsteadily she went to the phone. Cathy’s number rang on and on without an answer. Pete had virtually forbidden her to see Pat or Cathy again. What was he thinking of? With a shaking hand she dialled Pat’s mobile. It was switched off. Frowning, she slammed down the receiver. They couldn’t just cut her out like this. It was nonsense. She would go over there and see them. Now.

She didn’t. Instead she rang Hugh. There was no reply.

Finally she called Winter Gill Farm. Peggy answered. ‘Steve is out on the fell with his father,’ she said when Viv enquired. ‘How are you, my dear? When are you coming back?’

Viv smiled with relief. The genuine warmth in Peggy’s voice was just what she needed. ‘I have the book launch tomorrow, Peggy, and then I’m away for a few days doing book signings and things, but I would love to come down again when that is over.’ She hesitated. ‘Is Steve coming upto Edinburgh at all?’

‘I’m sure he’ll come if you’d like him to,’ Peggy said quickly. ‘Shall I get him to ring you?’

‘I was going to ask him to the launch party tomorrow if he’d like to come,’ Viv said. ‘Don’t worry him. Just pass on the invitation. I’ll understand if it’s too lovely down there for him to drag himself away.’

Walking through into her bedroom she flung herself down on the bed wearily. No Pat. No Cathy. No Hugh and now no Steve. Tomorrow her book would be published and Carta’s life would be public property and she was scared and lonely and utterly miserable.

‘Carta? Are you there? I need you. Tell me about your visit to the Emperor.’ She put her arm across her eyes. ‘Tell me about the brooch. I’m sorry I didn’t keep it for you. I didn’t understand.’

IV

The journey to Camulodunum took ten days. She travelled in style as befitted a queen, with several chariots, her most beautiful horses and an escort of fifty of her most experienced warriors. With her went Venutios as king of the Carvetii, and Brochan of the Parisii, both invited in the end not just by her but by Plautius in their own right as petty kings of the Brigantian alliance.

The road they followed led down the flat lands, through forests and across ancient causeways. Once over the Wash and through the fens they made their way downwards on newer, straighter roads, already widened and reinforced by the Romans, and realised that now they were in the area which had been designated as the new province of Britannia.

The Brigantian party made camp on the banks of the River Colne and found themselves a part of a gathering of a dozen or so tribal kings all summoned before the Emperor Claudius. The ancient town of Cunobelinos was already in the process of being rebuilt by the Roman army, who had erected a fort in the middle of the British fortifications. It was clear immediately that the visiting rulers were in a conquered land where already the camp of the XX legion with its thousands of regimented tents and stores was in total command.

The Emperor himself was lodged with his entourage within the newly built area of fortifications and it was on the first morning after their arrival that Cartimandua was informed that an audience had been arranged. Followed by her own attendants, and arrayed in her finest gown and mantle and her richest jewellery, she made her way slowly from the chariot in which Fergal had driven her from the riverside camp. Venutios and Brochan were not invited.

Her heart was thudding uncomfortably as she looked around at the stern-faced sentries, the fluttering banners, the massed troops standing to attention in the meadows outside the fort and the spectacle, no doubt carefully arranged, but none the less awesome for that, of Claudius’s famous elephants, each with its attendant keeper, striding slowly around the outer ditch.

Taking a deep breath she strode towards the entrance, only hesitating slightly as the sentries crossed their spears immediately behind her, denying entry to her followers.

The Emperor was seated on a throne upon a dais at the far end of an imposing if quickly erected barrack house. Flanked by men on both sides, he stood as she approached him.

‘Queen Cartimandua, sir, High Queen of the Brigantian peoples.’ A voice announced her from the shadows behind the Emperor’s shoulder.

She stopped several yards from the dais so that she would not have to look up at him, her nervousness counterbalanced by a growing determination not to bow the knee to the invader. Claudius might rule a large part of the known world, but to her at least, he was not a god; indeed, on close inspection he was to all intents and purposes just a middle-aged man, thin and grey-haired beneath his splendid purple toga.

Behind him Aulus Plautius was flanked in his turn by other men in togas and many wearing military uniform. Along the side walls, shoulder to shoulder, stood more armed men, all smartly to attention, all looking curiously at this strange phenomenon, a barbarian queen. As far as she could see, in the quick glance she threw in their direction, Gaius was not there.

Her head high, her shoulders back, she met Claudius’s gaze squarely. She was not a defeated supplicant here. She was queen in her own right of an independent unconquered and unconquerable people.

Unsure what to do or how to address him, she waited in silence and was pleased at last to see him look away. He glanced back at Plautius and reached up for the scroll that was passed to him.

‘The Emperor is pleased to greet the Queen of the Brigantes,’ he said slowly. There was a slight hesitation in his voice as he spoke, the final trace of a stammer that had plagued him as a boy. ‘It is our wish that an alliance be made between the Roman Province of Britannia and the lands of the Brigantes. Such an alliance would be an honour and a great benefit to your peoples and you would be richly rewarded.’ His words were instantaneously translated into her own tongue by a man at his elbow. He looked at her again and unexpectedly he smiled. The fearsome cold face was transformed into that of a rather ordinary but essentially friendly man.

Carta felt her own mouth soften in response, an almost unavoidable urge to smile back, but she managed to keep her face grave. ‘The Queen of the Brigantes thanks the Emperor for his gracious offer.’ Her Latin, thanks to Truthac of the Votadini, was fluent and she saw his eyebrow rise a fraction. ‘She will consider his offer with the aid of her tribal leaders and Druids.’

She saw his face harden for a second and she felt a flash of fear. She had been intended, she realised, to accept immediately with delighted relief and thus ensure the northern part of Britain was his ally and no danger to the new province.

‘The Queen of the Brigantes is no doubt aware that the penalty for opposing the wishes of Rome is death. For herself and for her people.’ His voice was cold now. He waved away the interpreter. ‘But I will be gracious. I understand that a queen without a husband must turn for advice to others.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘My gifts will perhaps help you to make up your mind.’ He waved his arm and several slaves hurried forward carrying chests. These they laid before her and at a nod from the Emperor they flung back the lids. Carta bit back an exclamation of surprise and wonder at the glint of gold. Two were full of coins, two of jewellery.

As grave as he, schooling her face to absolute impassivity she bowed, not too low, but enough to acknowledge the richness of the gift. ‘The Emperor is too generous,’ she added.

‘The Emperor is always generous to his allies.’ Claudius narrowed his eyes. ‘And to seal what I hope will be a lasting alliance I invite you to a feast this evening, together with the other British kings and queens who have accepted our offer of friendship.’

They were all there, the kings and queens who had made peace with Rome and thereby, at least for now, kept their kingdoms: Prasutagus and Boudica of the Iceni, Cogidubnus of the Regni, the new king of the Votadini, Lugaid’s nephew, and the king of the Orcades amongst them, as well as Venutios and Brochan as two of the most senior tribal kings of the Brigantian peoples.

Lounging in the Roman fashion on couches before the laden boards, Cartimandua had been placed at the Emperor’s right hand, Venutios at her own. The latter glanced at her several times during the course of the evening and once or twice he caught her eye. His thoughts were easy to read. Do not be seduced by this demonstration; don’t be fooled. This man is dangerous.

He was, but he was also fascinating; the most powerful man in the world and charming now he put his mind to it, intent on winning her friendship and alliance. She enjoyed the evening, the more so because in the distance she had spotted the envoy, Gaius Flavius Cerialis, seated lower down the table, his eyes fixed on her face. She acknowledged his gaze with a raised eyebrow and was pleased to see him blush.

Later, in their own encampment, Venutios came to her fireside as she sat, sipping from a goblet of thin beer, trying to clear her head of the heavy wine from Appulio.

‘The sooner we’re away from here, the better I’ll be pleased.’ He sat down beside her, uninvited.

She did not reply. Thoughtfully she took another sip from the cup. ‘How many troops does he have?’

‘Five thousand men to a legion. I believe there are now four legions in Britannia.’ He emphasised the word sarcastically. ‘Plus auxiliaries, plus the traitors who gobbled like pigs at a trough at his table tonight. The Dobunni, the Dumnonii, the Catuvellauni.’

‘Still not enough to win the whole land.’ She was staring thoughtfully into the fire. ‘We are safe for the time being. These southern tribes lie open to attack. No one is fighting save my cousin, Caradoc, and he won’t last long by all accounts.’ A gust of wind blew through the camp, scattering sparks from the fires, blowing rags of smoke amongst their tents. She shivered, pulling her soft bearskin cloak more closely around her shoulders. ‘We have to accept that the Roman eagle casts a long shadow over this island. It has power and strength, and probably infinite resources. Our gods bid us be very wary.’

He frowned, making the sign against the evil eye. ‘Our gods are mighty. They will help sustain us if we are strong.’ He was studying her face in the light of the leaping flames. ‘They will not respect weakness.’ He glanced up beyond the smoke towards the sky where Mars, Roman god of war, shone red on the western horizon and he too gave an involuntary shiver.

The room had grown dark. The fireside and the companionship of the Brigantians had disappeared into the night and Viv was shivering uncontrollably now that the heat of the camp fire had gone. She looked around for a notebook.

Eleven. There were eleven kings at Camulodunum on that occasion. She frowned, trying to recall the facts. It was recorded on the inscription on the triumphal arch in Rome, which was erected after Claudius’s return after his six-month absence. His state visit to Britannia had lasted sixteen days and during that time he had received the submission of eleven kings. Or ten kings and a queen, presumably. Slowly she began to scribble down what she remembered.

Through the open door of her bedroom Viv could hear the faint noises of the street from the open window. Otherwise the flat was silent. It was almost tomorrow, when Cartimandua, Queen of the North would be published and her new life as an author would begin.