23

I

Viv and Sandy walked slowly back through the streets of York to their hotel and sat in the bar for half an hour, unwinding after a tiring day which had culminated in a book signing which had seemed to go on for hours. Tomorrow they were going to Nottingham, the day after that to London. It was midnight when they wished each other goodnight and Viv wearily unlocked her bedroom door.

Cartimandua, High Queen of the Brigantes and Venutios, King of the Carvetii, were married at the feast of Beltane. There were a thousand guests in attendance, including Carta’s mother, her younger brothers Bran and Fintan, both recovered at last from their wounds, and the rest of the family, Venutios’s brother Brucetos, his wife and baby, his uncle and his cousins, Prasutagus and Boudica of the Iceni and their baby daughter, the kings of the Atrebates and of the Dobunni, all of whom where now allies of Rome. Medb was not there. When Venutios had returned to Caer Lugus to prepare for the wedding he had been furious to find she had evaded those set to watch over her. He had no idea where she had gone. His anger had lasted only a few hours. He was glad to be rid of her.

Two days before the ceremony Aulus Plautius, governor of Britannia, arrived in person with ten wagons of wine in amphorae and furs, spices and gold, wedding gifts to impress and hold firm the loyalty of these new allies, so crucial to the north-western frontier of the Empire.

The ceremony was held at Dinas Dwr, the site selected by Cartimandua and her consort to be the new capital of their great confederacy, following her father’s original decision to enlarge it and embellish the buildings there, creating what the Romans called an oppidum. They would after all need a centre from which to trade and negotiate with their new allies, who were nothing if not reluctant to make their way into the high hills and moors of the Brigantian kingdom, so this sheltered rich valley would be perfect.

The line of the new walls would be chosen and marked and blessed and men brought in from all over the north to start constructing the great new ramparts and build dozens of extra houses.

The gods smiled upon the wedding day. The sun shone, the winds were soft and smelled of the sweet grasses of the hills and Carta, wearing a gown of green and pink as befit a queen, linked hands with her husband-to-be and walked out of the gates, down the path garlanded with flowers and strewn with herbs, into the forest to the great oak tree under which Artgenos and Culann stood ready to bless them in the presence of their followers and friends and guests. At the right hand of Aulus Plautius stood his military tribune, Gaius Flavius Cerialis, his eyes fixed on the figure of the barbarian queen.

At the feast and dancing that followed the ceremony Cartimandua of the Brigantes danced late into the night. Once she was partnered by the governor himself, once by his tribune, who passed her in the circle dance, broke away, touched her hands with his own, bowed and danced on. She had met his eye and bowed and laughed, reaching out to touch his cheek and then she was gone in the thick of the dance again, whirled away on the sound of pipes and harps and drums as the sparks flew up from the dozens of fires and the luminous night closed in across the countryside.

Two days later the Romans were gone.

As soon as the building of the new walls had commenced, Carta and Venutios set off on a tour of their northern kingdoms, anxious to reinforce their own authority and the alliance with Rome, heading first up towards the lands of the Textoverdi and then onwards to visit the Votadini, still secure under the strong rule of Lugaid and part of the northern alliance as clients of Rome.

In the main guest house on Dun Pelder, Venutios sat down and bent to unlace the thongs of his sandals with a groan. ‘Too long on horseback. It will be good to stop here a while with friends. These are good people. We will enjoy our visit here. Come, wife, can you not undo this knot for your husband?’ He extended a foot in her direction. Carta turned from the mirror where she had been contemplating her dusty, dishevelled hair, remembering another arrival here, another day, when her hair had looked like a birds’ nest, remembering the young man who had laughed her out of her bad humour.

‘A queen does not unlace anyone’s shoes, not even her own. Call a servant, if you cannot do it yourself.’ She softened the words with a smile. ‘Why don’t you go and have a bath and spend some time in the sweat house? Lugaid plans a great feast for us at dusk.’

‘Are you sending me away?’ He had undone the knot. Kicking the sandal towards the wall, he stood up. ‘Because I don’t intend to be banished so easily.’ In two strides he was beside her, grabbing her wrists, wrestling her down onto the deep heather bed. ‘My wife, queen or not, does not dismiss her husband like a servant. She does his bidding first!’

He knew just how much he could anger her, and what it took to arouse her, diverting her passionate fury into lust. He had done it many times now, mostly in the privacy of their bedchamber, but from time to time outside, careless of who saw them. To hold the high queen helpless and obedient by the touch of his hand and his thighs gave him the same satisfaction he felt as he mastered an unbroken horse. He rode her exultantly and at last fell beside her on the bed, exhausted.

When Carta extricated herself from the sheets he was already asleep. Wrapping herself in a cloak, she went to the door and stood in its lee, staring round the camp. Once more she was remembering Riach and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Lady?’ A gentle voice at her elbow made her start. It was Vellocatus, her husband’s shield bearer. ‘Are you all right?’ The young man was clearly torn between embarrassment and concern. ‘I’m sorry, lady. The king told me to wait for him out here.’

She straightened her shoulders, vividly aware of how weak and dishevelled she must appear. ‘The king is asleep. Leave him for now. Find Mairghread for me, then go to your companions in the warriors’ house. I doubt if the king will need you again tonight.’

As she lay back in the large wooden bath in the women’s house, luxuriating in water warmed by stones straight from the firebed, wearily soaping her arms as a slave poured jugs of warm water over her back, Carta had a vision suddenly of Aulus Plautius, governor of all Britannia and his envoy, Gaius Flavius Cerialis in the bath. The picture of Gaius, with his muscled, well-built body was not altogether unpleasing. The Romans, so she had been told, never used soap to make them clean. The Romans did not know what soap was. They oiled themselves, apparently, like haunches of meat and scraped off the dirt with their knives. The thought made her laugh out loud.

II

Viv dropped her bags on the floor of the flat and stared round. The taxi had dropped Sandy at Waverley to catch her train back to London after two last book signings, one in Glasgow and then this morning in Dundee. The book promotion was over. It was time to go back to being a writer. Viv went to open the window. The whirlwind tour, the plaudits of her audiences, a handful of complimentary reviews and some really good radio and TV interviews had restored her faith in herself and in her book. It was good to be home.

Sighing, she threw the pile of post onto her desk and pressed the play button on the answer machine. The first message was from Steve. ‘Viv? I didn’t see you again after the party. I came round but you had already gone. Sorry to miss you. Ring me when you get back.’ Bugger! She had forgotten all about him. The slight reproach in his tone was unmistakable. Poor Steve, she had brought him all the way back to Edinburgh for the party and then only spoken to him for a few seconds. She would ring him back today. Shuffling through the letters, she listened to the second message. It was from her editor. ‘Congratulations, Viv! The book has rocketed to number nine in the bestsellers. All that publicity worked, my dear. Well done! Talk soon!’ Viv grimaced. Most of that publicity had not been intentional, far from it, but still it was fantastic to be in the top ten. She could hardly believe it. The next message was from Pat. ‘Ring me as soon as you get back. We need to do some work. Hope the trip was good. I’m back at Abercromby Place – catsitting while the others are away!’

One of the letters had an Irish postmark. She stared at it puzzled as she listened to the third message. It was from Hugh. ‘I believe I owe you an apology. And I need to collect the brooch. Ring me.’

Tearing the letter open she gaped in astonishment as her eyes skimmed the contents. ‘… impressed by your scholarship … you would be a senior part of a friendly department here in south-west Ireland … we invite you to come and look round to discuss our proposition …’ They were offering her an academic post, in spite of, perhaps because of, everything that had happened! A prestigious job. Stunned, she sat down. She was still staring at the letter five minutes later when there was a sharp double ring on the doorbell.

Hugh was standing on the landing. ‘I have come to apologise.’ He stepped in uninvited and walked straight past her into the living room, skirting her suitcase and holdall as if they were not there. ‘Whatever I thought of your research methods I should have been more supportive.’

Viv stared at him, the letter forgotten as her hurt and anger came flooding back. ‘After trashing me in public! In the most public way possible, you are apologising in private? Now that it’s too late? Now my book tour is over!’ She threw the letter down on the desk.

‘Book tour?’ He looked puzzled for a moment, and then seeming to see her bags for the first time, nodded. ‘I see. Of course. The celebrity tour. Something us academics seldom get to indulge in.’

‘Probably because you are sour and embittered old fogies!’ she retorted. ‘I’ve only been back a few minutes. How on earth did you know I was here? Did you set up a watch on my doorstep?’

The idea had clearly never occurred to him. ‘No, I was passing. I was afraid I might have been too harsh and it was unfair of me to speak to Maddie Corston. After all, what harm can a play do? But you still have a job at the department, Viv. I am sure we can resolve our differences –’

Viv stared at him. She didn’t even hear the last conciliatory sentence. ‘You’ve spoken to Maddie?’

He nodded almost sadly. ‘I told her to bin the play. Hasn’t she told you?’

For a moment Viv was too stunned to speak. ‘And she listened to you?’ At last she managed a husky response.

‘Oh yes. I’ve known Maddie for years She was a student of mine. Before your time of course.’ He smiled apologetically.

‘So you can speak to her again. Tell her to unbin it. We have a contract, Hugh! You can’t do this!’

‘I think you’ll find I can.’ He folded his arms. She was looking exhausted. Untidy. Her hair on end, her face pale, her shirt unbuttoned just low enough to show her cleavage. She was wearing some sort of pendant on a chain, he noticed. It had slid down between her breasts so he could not identify it. An amulet, maybe. Not for the first time it crossed his mind that he had been stupid in refusing Meryn’s suggestion that he wear one. But, for goodness’ sake, this was the twenty-first century! And there had been no further appearances from Venutios, beyond that one scary moment in his study when he was reading the paper, nor ghostly fanfares of the carnyx, which confirmed his suspicion that it had all been in his imagination, for all he knew triggered by something Viv had said in the first place!

He was staring at her, he realised, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t sure why he kept on harassing her like this. Because that’s what it was. Harassment. Perhaps it was because she refused to be impressed by him. Maybe she even despised him a little. The thought hurt.

‘You could make her change her mind. Hugh, this is important to me. You can’t wreck everything like this!’

She was devastated, off guard. Transparent with shock. She was, he realised, about to beg. It did not make him feel better. Turning towards the door he shrugged. ‘Clearly you were about to unpack so we won’t discuss it now.’

‘Please, Hugh. Don’t do this.’ She hadn’t moved from the centre of the floor, pinned to the spot.

He shrugged. ‘It’s done, I’m afraid.’

‘Hugh.’ She followed him and put her hand on his arm. ‘You don’t need to be like this!’

She saw his face soften as he stood looking down at her. He reached up and touched her cheek lightly with his finger. ‘Viv.’ He shook his head, almost sadly as he whispered her name and Viv knew with absolute certainty that more than anything in the world she wanted him to kiss her. She could feel herself being drawn towards him irresistibly. They were very close when she looked up into his eyes.

And saw the eyes of someone else.

She jerked away with a cry of fright.

‘Where is the brooch?’ His voice was deeper suddenly and threatening. It was the voice of a stranger. ‘By all the gods why do you think I came here?’ He seized her arm and she screamed as his fingers tightened on her wrist. ‘Give it to me and I’ll go.’

‘Hugh! Fight him!’ Viv screamed in terror. She was struggling frantically, trying to free herself. His fingers were ice cold, like an iron clamp on her skin. ‘For God’s sake, fight him!’

‘Viv! What’s going on?’ Pat’s voice in the doorway interrupted them and suddenly it was over. Hugh, white as a sheet, slumped back, releasing her. He reeled towards the door. ‘Dear God! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!’ Pushing past Pat, he headed blindly for the stairs and disappeared, the sound of his footsteps pounding into the distance.

Pat looked at Viv, astonished. ‘What in heaven’s name was going on?’

‘He was possessed! Literally.’ Viv was trying to stop herself shaking. Sitting down on the rocking chair she put her head in her hands. ‘I thought he was going to kill me. He wanted the brooch.’

‘Did you tell him where it is?’ Pat walked over and closed the door. Turning the key in the lock, she came back and sat down opposite Viv. Her eyes narrowed.

Viv shook her head. ‘It all happened so quickly. We were talking about the play and suddenly he changed. His eyes changed. He was somebody else.’

‘Who?’

‘Venutios.’ It was a whisper.

‘Shit!’ Pat dived into her bag and brought out her cigarettes.

‘Where is the brooch, Pat?’ Viv frowned. ‘Pete said you had it at the flat.’

Pat shook her head. ‘No. That was all a bad dream. It wasn’t real. It’s still at Stanwick. It must be.’ She blew out a cloud of smoke.

Viv bit her lip, looking down again at her hands. ‘What’s happening to us?’

Pat shrugged. ‘They want it, don’t they. They all want it. Carta. Venutios.’ She paused. ‘And Medb.’ She took another drag on the cigarette. ‘Why? What is so special about it? Christ, this is scary.’ She glanced at Viv. ‘So what did Hugh say about the play before he was dragged away by our friend?’

‘That he’s had a word with Maddie, who he knows, apparently, and he told her to bin it.’ Viv’s hands were still shaking.

‘What?’ Pat stared at her, her mouth hanging open.

‘I know. I don’t believe it either.’ Viv gave a stilted laugh. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we can sort it.’

‘Too bloody right we can sort it!’ Pat stared at her. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. We’ve got a contract! I’ll ring her now. That man’s impossible!’ Her mobile was already in her hand and in a matter of seconds she was through to Maddie’s office.

The short conversation with Maddie’s assistant was inconclusive. Pat switched the phone off impatiently. ‘She’s out. I think I’ll go round there. I’ll camp on her door step if necessary. I’m not letting that bastard spoil everything now.’ She paused. ‘You know, in spite of himself I’ll bet Hugh has done you a bit of good. The book is selling like mad – mostly to people who want to know what the row is all about!’

Viv gave a watery grin. ‘Thank you, Hugh!’ The irony made her feel better.

With a sigh she stood up and walked over to the desk as soon as Pat had gone. What had happened to Hugh just now? She had seen Venutios. Felt Venutios. Dear God, Venutios had taken him over so completely he might have done anything in his rage. She shuddered. Picking up the letter, she read it through again. It hadn’t been a dream. It was true. She had been offered a job. A prestigious job, far away from Edinburgh and away from Hugh. A job which presumably was not dependent on a reference from him as it implied that the author of the letter knew all about their quarrel. The question was, did she want it?

It was three hours before Pat rang her back. ‘Viv? I’ve spoken to Maddie. It’s OK. She had no intention of listening to the mad professor. None at all. She said she let him rant away and assume he’d persuaded her. It was easier that way. What is it with the guy? Anyway, she’s going off on maternity leave at the end of the week but she thinks they’ll be scheduling the play probably for the late autumn or early winter. So, my darling co-writer, we have a deadline. Does that make you feel better? Nothing but writing for the next week or so, OK?’

III

Carta, watching from the shadows, frowned. Venutios and Medb. Their story was nothing. They were leaves blowing in the wind. She smiled grimly. Venutios she had dealt with at once. He knew where he stood.

‘They are your own people!’ Venutios was furious.

‘They disobeyed me.’

More than a hundred men had died, the rebellion suppressed as fast as it had flared into being, and now she was confronted by the surviving ringleaders. In chains they awaited summary justice here at Dun Righ, in the place of judgement under the great oak near the falls.

She had given orders that no Brigantian would fight Rome. In exchange Plautius confirmed the guarantee that Rome would not attack Brigantia. That was the way the client status worked. They were allies. She would hold the northern frontier and her people would keep their weapons. They were a free people. So, if Brigantians broke the agreement and sent men to support her cousin Caradoc in his war against the legions, she had to act swiftly and she had to act hard to stop them.

Artgenos and Culann, like Venutios, counselled restraint.

‘They have been punished enough. They have lost face; they have lost their best warriors. Leave well alone,’ Artgenos advised, sitting by her fireside, wrapped in his undyed woollen mantle, his face grey with fatigue. He sensed Carta rapidly moving out of his control. The woman was wilful. And she had strength. He sighed again.

Cartimandua’s popularity amongst her people was enormous. She was bringing them peace and prosperity. Through her intervention the gods had smiled on Brigantia. Their granaries were full, their beasts fat and fertile and unlike their conquered southern neighbours in the province they did not have to watch endless wagons of food and provisions that should have been their own, plodding down the trackways to feed the ever-hungry legions of their conquerors. If her warriors needed to fight there were distant northern tribes to be raided for cattle and women. The cream of the fighting men were part of her own army. Her personal praetorian guard! Any doubts she harboured deep in her heart were buried and hidden. She was determined no one would ever see her weakened by uncertainty or by misplaced compassion.

She sat, the heavy gold torcs, symbols of her power and status at neck and wrists, within the sacred grove with Artgenos and his fellow Druids seated on either side of her. Behind them the tribe was gathered in awed silence. The prisoners had, to a man, chosen their death. Better by far to elect to die in the sacred grove as messengers carrying offerings to the gods than to be executed as cowards and criminals. These men were brave warriors. They would die full of honour and explain their rebellion to their gods, confident of life and contentment in the land of the ever young until such time as their souls chose to be reborn. One was barely more than a boy, by far the youngest; the son of the tribal chieftain and a mere stripling, he stood close to his father, his face set, trying with every last ounce of courage he possessed not to cry. Every now and then his eyes strayed from Carta’s face, up into the great branches of the tree, and she could see him watching the leaves, the sunlight, feeling for the last few minutes the warmth on his face. He could see a squirrel, carefree, leaping about in the topmost branches and she guessed how desperately he longed to join the squirrel in its freedom.

Carta did not allow herself to flinch as she watched the men die. If they could be strong, so could she. Only once, when the boy knelt in the bloody place of death, next to his father’s body to receive the triple death blows did she close her eyes and sigh. She saw him glance up. Saw him look one last time on the green leaves of the oak and the sunshine and the life that would never now be his, then he closed his eyes and waited for the blow. His would be one of the heads she would take as a trophy, making herself the keeper of his soul and the inheritor of his valour and his strength and finally, in private, she would tell him how sad his death had made her.

As the men, women and children of the tribe watched, the boy’s body slumped to the earth. Above the trees the kites and buzzards were already circling. The squirrel fled.

For a moment she saw the boy’s shadow hover over the body, then it had gone. He had made the crossing into the land of the gods. She looked across at Artgenos, who nodded. He too had seen the boy’s soul leave. It was well done.

It was strange how the Romans, brave men undeniably, did not understand this transition of the soul. They professed shock and horror at stories of the priests being present at executions and supervising this the most important moment in a man’s life. Their own prisoners they butchered without honour, condemning the frightened souls to roam eternally. Such crude viciousness was beyond comprehension.

Slowly she stood up, signalling the end of the ceremony and the end of the rebellion. However bravely a man met his death he did not court it. Better to serve the queen than defy her. The message had gone home.

She paused, allowing Venutios to walk beside her and realised that he was watching her with something like awe. Behind him Vellocatus was following them slowly, carrying his king’s sword. His handsome young face was ravaged with grief and shock at what he had witnessed.

Venutios glanced at his wife again. ‘You were strong today.’ He sounded almost impressed.

She met his gaze gravely. ‘I had to be. There must be no more defiance of my authority.’

His face was grim. ‘I doubt there will be.’

‘Then the deaths have served their purpose. I gave Artgenos the order that their heads be preserved. They were all brave men, if misguided. We will honour that bravery.’ She reached out to touch his arm. Behind her the two dogs which followed her everywhere were, like her husband, uneasy. They had smelled the blood and sensed her resolution and perhaps, unlike him, her inner sorrow, and their hackles were up.

Venutios looked across at her, his jaw set, his eyes veiled. She had made her first big mistake.

Viv shuddered violently. She awakened without warning to find herself sitting on the edge of the rocking chair. She was sweating and shaking with horror and she was, she realised, about to be violently sick. Running to the bathroom she vomited again and again, the sight and stench of the killing grounds still inside her head. So, those were the bloodsoaked groves described with such horror by historians, the human sacrifice so abhorred by the hypocritical Romans who preferred to throw their prisoners to the lions and watch them die as a spectacle in the arena.

How could she? How could she order it? Stand and watch. Not flinch. But then she was a queen and all her reputation and power depended on the fact that she could be strong. Besides, she was warning Venutios that she would not be defied. Venutios, whose eyes Viv had seen looking out at her from Hugh’s.

Splashing water on her face, Viv groped for a towel and pressed it hard against her eyes. She was still shaking uncontrollably.