22

I

‘I’ve rewritten your schedule, Viv.’ Sandy Collingham, the publicity manager in charge of Viv’s book launch, dropped her shoulderbag and laptop carrier on the floor and put a fat file down on the table. ‘You’re feeling strong, I hope?’ She grinned. ‘The book has gone straight into the bestseller list at number twenty! That’s fantastic! We’ve several new events scheduled,’ she went on. ‘Bookshops are queuing up for you, lady.’ She glanced up. ‘People want to meet you.’

‘Why?’ Viv was overwhelmed.

‘Because they are fascinated by the sound of the book. They saw you on the telly and that review has done you nothing but good.’

Viv stared at her. ‘What review?’

Sandy paused. ‘Oh shit. You haven’t seen it? The one by Professor Graham?’

‘We were driving back from Yorkshire. We didn’t see any papers. And I didn’t go out yesterday.’ Viv clenched her fists. Why had no one told her? ‘Have you got a copy?’

Sandy nodded. ‘Hold on to your hat, Viv. Don’t let it upset you.’

The review was crucifying. Viv put down the paper with tears in her eyes. Her face was white.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a bit unkind, that’s for sure.’ Sandy shrugged. ‘Ride it. Take no notice. In fact it’s so over the top it will be counter-productive from his point of view. And good from yours. People will read the book to see why he’s so vitriolic. It’ll help sell copies and that’s what matters. Now,’ she dismissed the topic briskly, ‘to the schedule. We’re starting this morning with a radio interview. Then the launch party tonight. Tomorrow afternoon we take a train to York. And then as you know it’s all points south, coming back up the west coast route.’

Viv barely heard. She was thinking, numbly, about Hugh’s review. Why? Why was he still doing this to her?

The interviewer, Mike Malone, stood up, shook hands, waved Viv towards the microphone and returned to his bank of controls. ‘This is going out tonight, OK? Part of the Books about Britain fortnight.’ He glanced at her quizzically. ‘Nervous?’

She nodded.

‘You’ll be fine. Just be natural.’

As always she enjoyed it once she had started talking. He was friendly, well informed. He appeared to have read the book. He didn’t mention the review. They stopped after ten minutes or so and he grinned at her. ‘We’ll be pausing here for some music. Then for the second half I’ll be a bit more aggressive.’

‘Aggressive?’ Viv frowned apprehensively.

‘You’ll be fine.’ It was obviously his stock phrase.

He waited for a fraction of a second, watching the clock, then he clicked a switch. ‘Listen to this and then we’ll talk afterwards, OK?’

Viv reached for the earphones.

The voice in her ear was Mike’s. ‘Now, Professor Graham. You have read Dr Lloyd Rees’s book. What did you think of it?’

‘There’s a base of good stuff.’ Hugh’s voice was warm. ‘Not bad at all. But there are too many inaccuracies to make this a book I could recommend. Viv is a talented writer but she’s allowed her imagination to run away with her here.’ It went on and on. Or that’s what it felt like. In reality it was probably no more than a couple of minutes. It stopped and Mike turned back to her.

‘So, Viv. How would you reply to your professor’s criticisms?’ Mike glanced at her, his face impersonal.

Viv could feel herself sweating. The red light was on. Her reply was being recorded. ‘Unfair. Small-minded. Mean.’ She forced herself to laugh. ‘We have to have progress, Mike. Without leaps of deduction made through the latest research into archaeology, philology, forensic techniques, we would stay with the Victorian take on history. Or in this case the Roman. We have to learn to expand our views.’

‘You have anticipated Professor Graham’s own book on the subject. Do you expect to be asked to review it in your turn when it comes out?’

Viv stared across the table. Mike raised his eyebrows gesturing at her to speak.

‘I did know he was writing a book, of course,’ she said at last. ‘And perhaps that explains his angst. And if and when he completes it, oh yes, I would be delighted to review it and I hope in my case I can give a fair and considered opinion.’

Mike grinned. He raised finger and thumb circled in triumph. Seconds later he had rounded off the interview and switched off.

‘That was a rotten trick!’ She glared at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had spoken to him?’

His shrug was mischievous.’ Your reaction was perfect. Natural. If I’d told you, you would have been nervous and angry.’

‘And you think I’m not angry now?’

‘Oh yes. You are. Great radio!’

‘Where is he?’ Viv had rung the DPCHC at once.

‘At home. He didn’t come in today.’ Heather didn’t have to ask who she meant.

Viv was on his doorstep in under an hour.

‘Why? Why are you doing this to me?’

Hugh was standing in the doorway, in an old cotton sweatshirt, sleeves rolled above the elbows and threadbare jeans, a pair of spectacles swinging from his left hand. As he stared at her she found herself incongruously noticing how the tight jeans suited him, but this was a different Hugh to the Hugh she had visited in the night the week before. He stared at her for several seconds, almost as if he didn’t recognise her. ‘Come in, Viv.’ When he spoke at last he sounded bored; even patronising. ‘Don’t make a scene on the doorstep.’ He turned into the hall.

‘Why not? It’s not as though anyone can see.’ She didn’t move.

He swung round to face her. ‘Did you bring the brooch?’

‘Ah. At last you’ve remembered I’ve got it; and have you remembered you were so frightened you begged me to take it away again?’

‘A stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘A very stupid thing to do. I need it back.’

She frowned. ‘Are you all right, Hugh?’ Her voice softened.

He laughed. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You sound odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘Different.’ She eyed him suspiciously.

‘Perhaps because I dared to criticise your book.’

‘You call that criticism? It was vicious and hurtful!’

‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s nothing more to say. I’m sorry you can’t take criticism. With study and discipline I’m sure one of these days you could find your way back into the academic world, but if you persist with this rubbish –’

‘Rubbish?’ To her embarrassment she found she was near tears. ‘You are trying to destroy me!’

‘No, no.’ He leaned against the doorpost. ‘You’re destroying yourself. This book is a disaster and it needs to be pointed out to people who might otherwise read it as serious history.’

‘It is serious history.’ She was beside herself with anger. ‘If you read it dispassionately, Hugh, you’d see that.’

He folded his arms. ‘Come on, Viv. You’ve entered novelistic territory. You are making stuff up.’

‘I see. OK.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Now we have it. You are terrified I have sources you don’t know about. I have done original research which you have not seen and you are afraid. Suddenly you are no longer the authority. I am. Poor Hugh.’ She began to move away from him. ‘Poor Professor Graham, fighting for mastery.’

‘The brooch, Viv,’ he called after her.

She paused and glanced at him with a frown. ‘It’s somewhere safe.’

‘I want it back. For the museum.’

‘For the museum, or for Venutios?’

For a while he didn’t reply. ‘Venutios was a dream. A hallucination,’ he said at last. ‘I was not myself when that happened.’

‘No, Hugh. You were almost a human being.’ Turning, she walked back to her car and climbed in. ‘Don’t worry about the brooch. It’s safe.’ As she reversed and turned the car towards the gate, to her amazement she was smiling.

Behind her he stood watching as the car disappeared between the banks of rhododendrons. Without realising it he was listening for the sound of the carnyx. All he heard was the crunch of her car tyres on the gravel.

II

Steve caught the train to Edinburgh. It was a fantastic idea, holding the party in the Museum of Scotland. Brilliant. Upmarket, a visible sign of faith from Viv’s publishers, and it was in full swing when he arrived. For a few minutes he could not see Viv at all, but he recognised Pat almost at once. Threading his way through the crowd he tapped her lightly on the shoulder and she turned.

‘Steve!’

‘Hi! Small world!’ he smiled. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Pat frowned. She looked pale and ill at ease; anything but fine.

He scanned her face ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shivered. A little champagne slopped from her glass over her hand. ‘A draught. It’s cold in here suddenly.’

They both looked round the huge room. Whatever else it was, it was not cold. She took a deep gulp from her glass. Someone pushed between them and for a moment he lost sight of her. He didn’t notice the slight frisson in the air around him. Plunging after her, he saw her talking to a group of media people. She raised a hand, he waved and moved on.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he spun round. ‘Hello, Steve.’ It was Viv. She was dressed in black trousers and a vivid scarlet top. Off the shoulder. Sexy.

‘Congratulations, Viv.’ He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I’m so pleased you came, Steve.’ She reached up and touched his face.

‘Of course I came. You knew I would.’ Steve reached for her hand, but Viv had gone, swept away by someone from her publishers to confront a man with a camera. With a grimace he held his glass out for a refill.

Hugh stood in the doorway, staring around him. It was a good turn-out. A media-fest. Why, for an unknown? He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and stepped into the room. Alison would have loved this. She would have been proud of Viv. Supportive. She would have told him to stop being such a horrible selfish grouch. She would have called him a dog-in-the-manger. She would have said – what she had said only a week before she had died: ‘You must marry again, Hugh. Don’t mope about, thinking of me. Marry someone like Viv. I’ve always suspected you fancied her a little bit. You do, don’t you!’ And she had lifted her poor thin arm and attempted to punch him and she had laughed.

As though Viv could replace her. As though anyone could.

‘Hello, Hugh.’ Steve Steadman was standing in front of him. He gave a puzzled smile, a bit wary, as though unsure what to say next. ‘Were you looking for Viv? She’s over there.’

Hugh frowned. Steve. Always Steve, constantly hanging around her. He shook his head. Were they having an affair? That was grounds to sack her if anything was. Inappropriate behaviour with a student. Steve shouldn’t be here. But then he wasn’t a student as such, was he, and he was obviously her friend. Hugh sighed. He was the one who shouldn’t be here. He should allow her this one piece of celebration at least. But it was too late. Viv was there in front of him. She hadn’t seen him. She looked stunning, beautiful, as she talked animatedly to a man in a green shirt. She was laughing, vivacious, happy and so very alive.

He stepped forward. Without thinking, he touched her arm.

She stopped in mid-sentence and swung round to face him, staring at him, frozen, a rabbit in the headlights.

‘Why have you come?’ In the noise of the room he had to lip-read the words. Perhaps she hadn’t actually spoken them out loud. Perhaps she could hear the distant sound of the carnyx in the background. Strange thing to have at a party, but perhaps not in the museum where there were the remains of real carnyxes on display.

‘I was invited.’ He smiled. ‘Presumably by you? She is too generous, but I am the head of her department.’ He was speaking to the man in the green shirt now. Explaining. ‘She can’t believe I think the book is crap. Can’t believe it at all.’ The man was smiling. Someone else was coming. A photographer. He felt drunk. But he hadn’t drunk anything at all. Had he? There was an empty glass in his hand. And she was shouting at him.

‘Why did you come? I didn’t ask you! Why did you have to do this?’ Camera bulbs were flashing. The man in the green shirt had produced a notebook. Hugh smiled sadly. Alison would not have been pleased with him. Not at all pleased. He was quite relieved when Heather appeared out of the crowds and gently took him by the arm. Perhaps she would drive him home. He couldn’t quite remember where he had left his car.

‘You OK, Viv?’ Sandy was standing on the doorstep beside her as Viv groped for her keys. Behind them a taxi was drawn up at the kerb, engine running. Viv nodded. She was exhausted.

‘Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we hit the world.’ Sandy chuckled. ‘I’ll be here with a taxi at nine, OK?’

‘Was that all as much of a disaster as I think it was?’ Viv had the door open and was standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

‘No, not at all. Viv, love, one would pay money for that kind of publicity. I’d be very surprised if you haven’t made the front page of every paper in the land! Publicity departments kill for that kind of scene. Don’t worry about it. Your sales will rocket. Hundreds, even thousands of people will buy your book just to see what all the fuss is about! Believe me, your drunken professor has done you a huge favour!’ She paused. ‘He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he!’ She laughed and leaning forward gave Viv a quick hug. ‘Go on. Get your beauty sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’

III

Cartimandua was thoughtful as they rode at last out of the Roman encampment at Camulodunum heading north. Venutios reined his pony back beside hers as behind them the long train of chariots and riders and packhorses wound out onto the newly built road.

‘He impressed you, the Emperor?’ He glanced across at her.

She nodded. ‘It would be foolish to deny it. He is the most powerful man in the world. And with reason. He is clever, a statesman. He has the power to make or break us.’

‘Which is why you grovelled before him like a slave?’ Venutios was scathing. ‘Why do it? Why agree to his plans and accept his bribes without consulting me or Brochan? Above all, without consulting Artgenos? Do you realise what you have done?’

She looked across at him and nodded, her face grave. ‘I have used statesmanship, Venutios. I have bought us time and I have bought us wealth. Those mules,’ she gestured behind them, ‘are laden with gold. Do not berate me! I have done what is best for the Brigantians. I have kept my head. I have negotiated with an emperor and I have made him respect me. What would you have done? Shouted? Sworn? Drawn your sword?’

‘I am not that stupid, woman!’ His face flushed with anger. ‘But I would not have kissed his hand!’

Carta laughed. ‘No? Perhaps not. But do not forget, that he also kissed mine!’ She kicked her pony into a trot, the finely tooled leather of the reins held loosely in one hand, Sun and Moon running effortlessly at the animal’s heels. ‘And now I am returning to my kingdom free of fear, without any threat of invasion hanging over me and we have all the time in the world to plan our strategy for the future, and no one has been waylaid on the journey. No one has died.’ She glanced at him again, as his horse paced alongside hers. ‘And in the meantime you might be interested to know that the Emperor asked if I had any plans to marry.’

‘He’s not the only one who wants to know that!’ Venutios retorted. He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows. ‘And did the Emperor also suggest who should be your consort?’

She smiled. ‘He did as a matter of fact. Or at least, I told him who I had in mind, and he gave the union his approval.’ Her pony sidestepped and shook its bridle. Their escort was several paces behind them now. They were not being overheard.

‘So?’ He leaned across and grabbed her reins. ‘Don’t play coy with me! Who are you going to choose?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you until we return home.’ She pushed his arm away.

For a moment she thought his anger would overwhelm him, but he pulled his horse back. ‘Have it your own way.’ He was biting down visibly on his impatience.

She shook her head. ‘First I need to consult the gods and then Artgenos and Culann. Then I will reveal my choice to the man I have selected. It will be a hard choice. Not only do I want an ally and a friend and a companion, I want a man who will please me in bed and father strong children.’ She was concentrating on her horse’s ears. ‘A man who will support my decisions and my alliance with Rome. A man who will bow to my leadership as high queen of the Brigantes.’ She looked at him at last. ‘He will be a hard man to find.’ Their eyes locked for an instant.

Her pony bared its teeth and took a nip at the neck of his as they rode on side by side. He swore under his breath.

‘Don’t look to me, madam, for a man to bring you posies of flowers and pretty trinkets!’ he growled at last. ‘A king of the Carvetii bends the knee to no one, never mind a woman.’

‘Then the king of the Carvetii will never marry a high queen,’ she retorted. She was soothing her pony’s neck. ‘He will kick his heels at her fireside as one of her advisers, but never as one of her trusted confidants.’ With a kick she sent her pony into a canter, leaving him reining in his own mount as it jibbed and bucked, trying to follow.

That night they camped at the edge of a broad, slow-moving river, the wagons and horses pulled up into a circle, the queen’s tent of skins and poles in the centre near the fire where the cooks began at once to prepare a meal of cold meats and biscuits and cheeses with hot broth and bread slops to wash it down.

A mist was rising from the water as Carta, leaving her ladies and attendants behind in the encampment, made her way along the bank. The water was dark, softly moving in amongst the reeds at the river’s edge. Somewhere a bird called out in warning and she heard a splash from a leaping fish.

‘Sweet goddess? Are you there? Come to me. Advise me. Have I done right to ally myself with these men of Rome?’ She groped at her girdle for a small pouch that hung there and drew out offerings for the spirit of the river. Some coins. Some grain. Some seed heads. Symbols of fertility and hope.

‘Vivienne?’

Her voice echoed for a moment across the water. The mist swirled, lapping at her cloak, dappling it with droplets of moisture.

There was no answer from the waters as she stood staring out into the darkness, shivering, unable to concentrate, aware suddenly of a movement in the mists nearby. Turning, she scanned the river bank, wishing she had brought Fergal or a guard, or her hounds with her. The voice that spoke without warning so close to her was not that of a goddess or a spirit of the river waters or of the woods and gentle mossy banks. It was the voice of a man.

‘So, my queen. Have you finished your prayers?’

Venutios materialised out of the darkness. ‘Then I think you and I need to talk some more about your choice of a husband, don’t you?’

He was very close. For all her height and strength he was the taller and now they were no longer on horseback, physically at a huge advantage. ‘My politics and my abilities as an adviser and a leader of men you have already tried but you have not taken me to your bed, madam. Should you not put my potential as a mate to the test?’

He was very close. She could smell the sweat on his skin, the leather of his jerkin, the wet wool of his cloak, pinned at the shoulder with the golden bird. His eyes were fixed on hers, his hands now on her shoulders as he pulled her towards him.

‘Would you rape me, Venutios?’ Her voice, as cold as ice, stopped him in his tracks.

His arms dropped to his sides. ‘Venutios does not need to rape a woman. Most would beg for his attention.’

‘Did you hear me beg?’

For a moment she thought he would hit her. Then he grinned. ‘I had assumed that a queen merely had to snap her fingers and raise an eyebrow. Perhaps I misinterpreted the signs. Would you like me to beg instead?’ He went down on one knee, lightly, on the wet grass. Then as she looked down at him in astonishment he seized her wrist. He pulled her off balance and she found herself on the ground beneath him. In the dark the whites of his eyes were very clear. ‘If you scream, my queen, I will throw myself into the river and give myself to the gods.’ His mouth was on hers, his hands dragging at her cloak, ripping the material away from her body, before tearing off his own and throwing his clothes aside into the reeds.

She did not scream. Breathlessly she felt her body respond to his, his strength and violence triggering a response in her, movement for movement, kiss for kiss. Only when at last their bodies had exploded into mutual orgasm did he slump exhausted across her, his head on her breasts, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

She gave a quiet laugh. ‘So. He is tired already. If this is your test performance, Venutios, I have to ask myself if a younger man might not have more stamina.’

This time she did scream, but it was not a scream of fear.

Exhausted they rolled apart and lay in the cold wet grass. He recovered first, staggering to his feet, making his way to the river bank where he knelt. ‘Blessed gods, I salute you! May my seed prove fruitful and my strength all that is desired by my queen!’ He splashed his face with the icy water and turned away to gather up his clothes.

She was lying staring up at the stars. ‘See. Caer Gwyddion, Llys Don, the Harp of Idris …’

He picked up her cloak. Throwing it over her he knelt and scooped her into his arms. ‘The stars and their gods are witness to my triumph tonight, Cartimandua and now the men and women of our party will witness it as well.’ As he staggered to his feet she struggled to free herself but somehow he had managed to pinion her arms with the cloak.

‘Put me down!’ Her fury was overwhelming. He was carrying, her, naked inside the cloak, like a trophy, heading towards the light of the fire and the noise of the camp, singing, shouting, laughter in the night.

‘I advise you to lie still in my arms.’ He chuckled. ‘Should I drop you, you would roll naked onto the grass at the feet of your servants and that would not be dignified.’

Her language, learned from a lifetime in the horse lines and amongst the tribe’s most seasoned warriors made him laugh out loud. Carrying her past the guards in between the wagons and across the fire-lit grass he strode directly into the middle of the camp. She was aware of the sudden silence. Closing her eyes she groaned.

Venutios laughed again. ‘Your queen and I have plans for this evening, my friends. Continue with preparing the food. We will join you later.’

Ducking into her tent he rolled her onto the pile of furs which had been put there as her bed and threw himself on top of her. ‘So, do you still think me too old, my queen?’ As he entered her again with a shout of triumph she was capable only of a small moan. Neither of them were conscious of the silence outside the tent or the immense roar of laughter and approval as the sound of his triumph was clearly audible in the night.

In her bath Viv dozed, the launch party long forgotten. The water had grown cold, the foam settled into a soapy scum. The only sound in the silent flat was the drip from one of the taps.

IV

Watching from the distance, Medb scowled He had taken off his clothes, tossed his cloak and the brooch aside and ravaged Cartimandua there on the ground, rutting with her like a boar in the woods. And he was going to take her as wife.

Sitting up, Medb overturned the bowl of water into which she had been gazing with a shout of anger and watched it splash across the floor. All but a prisoner at Caer Lugus, she could do nothing but wait and watch and scheme, alone, while Venutios danced attendance on his high queen.

In her sleep Pat groaned and turned over in bed.

‘So, Viv will be away for a week or so.’ She faced Cathy across the café table next morning. Both were drinking their coffee black. ‘Just as well, after that row with the Prof last night.’

Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the matter with the man? How small-minded and mean can you get!’

‘I keep telling you what the matter is. He fancies her.’ Pat reached for her cigarettes. ‘You should have gone, Cathy. She was really hurt that you weren’t there.’ She and Viv had finally confronted one another amidst the crowds, with Pat shouting above the noise. ‘I didn’t take it! I swear it! The brooch wasn’t there! Cathy and I searched for it and it had disappeared again! I imagined it! Imagined the blood! When we looked at the sheets in the laundry basket, there was no trace of blood anywhere! It was all a dream. We were all dreaming!’

She had moved out of the flat and, temporarily, into Maddie’s spare room by the time Pete got back from his showdown with Viv.

‘This will all blow over, Pat. Once we come back from Sweden I’ll get in touch with Viv and explain. It’s just,’ Cathy paused, ‘she’s going to make herself ill. If she goes on like this she really will need a psychiatrist. And so will you.’ She glanced up at Pat. ‘I mean it, Pat. You’ve got to stop all this stuff. No more Medb. No more dreams and nightmares and ghosts and –’ she shuddered, ‘blood!’

Pat shrugged. ‘I didn’t imagine it, Cathy. And neither did you.’ There was a long pause. ‘I think we all had too much excitement and booze at the party last night,’ she went on with a grimace. ‘Don’t worry. You go to Sweden and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you when you come back.’

Cathy gave a wry grin. ‘Too much booze and now too much publicity.’ She nodded towards the paper lying folded between them. There was a picture of Viv and Hugh on page three under the headline: ‘Academic Rancour explodes at Museum.’

‘All publicity is good publicity,’ Pat repeated the mantra solemnly. ‘Don’t worry about her. I think some time in the hard-headed company of a publicist and a non-stop schedule of talks and book signings will distract her sufficiently from her dreams and take her mind off the whole business.’

Hugh had not seen the paper Pat and Cathy were perusing. He was studying the Scotsman. It wasn’t a headline. In fact he had only spotted it by chance. ‘Amongst other projects under production is one by a new company, Daughters of Fire, who plan to turn Viv Lloyd Rees’s controversial book, Cartimandua Queen of the North into a drama documentary to hit the radio schedules this winter. As part of the BBC’s policy of producing good quality programmes to meet the public’s current passion for history, this kind of enterprise can only be encouraged.’

Hugh stared at the paper in front of him. That morning he had woken with a violent hangover and a feeling of overwhelming remorse. What was the matter with him? Why had he hurt Viv so badly yet again and probably trashed her academic career forever? He was contemplating ringing her to apologise for his crass behaviour, perhaps ask her out to dinner to see if he could mend some fences when the newspapers hit the mat. Scanning the article, his remorse had vanished. Career indeed. Obviously her career in his department was irrelevant. She had already sold out. She wouldn’t want her job any more. Well, he could easily fix that. He knew people at the BBC. It would only take one phone call to make them pull it from the schedules. Then where would this bright, clever innovative writer be? She’d be begging for her job back, that’s where. He was working himself up into a fury again. This was going to lead to yet more publicity for Cartimandua and once again she would take the opportunity to traduce Venutios.

Venutios!

Hugh gripped the edge of his desk, aware of the tension in the room around him. No. Please God, no! Not again. He shouldn’t even have thought the word!

‘Leave me alone, you bastard!’ he shouted out loud. He looked round nervously. It was all right. The room was normal again. Whatever had threatened to appear had changed its mind and drawn back. He listened fearfully but there was no call of the carnyx in the distance. Only the sound of the clock on the bookcase broke the silence.