25

I

Viv woke early and lay listening to the silence. Sliding out of bed she went to the window and, pushing it open she took a deep breath of the cold air. Outside the dawn lay like a pure veil across the hills and dales. She stared up at the table top of the hill with its drifting mist and knew with a stab of excitement that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

A few minutes later, fully dressed except for her shoes, she tiptoed down the passage, pausing with a wince at every creak of the floorboards. Padding downstairs and along the hall where the only sound came from the slow tick of the grandfather clock, she stopped in the kitchen to put on her boots and quietly let herself out of the back door.

It was very cold and the dew lay across the grass as a shimmering layer laced with spiders’ webs. She hurried towards the gate, past the lichen-draped apple trees and out into the lane. With a quick glance over her shoulder towards the sleeping farmhouse, she headed for the steps over the stone wall which would take her onto the track which led across the fields and up the hillside towards the summit. Her hands firmly wedged in her pockets against the cold, she set off up the steep track towards Carta’s birthplace; the place where the high queen of Brigantia had had her first encounter with a Roman and where she had begun to try her wings as a politician and a leader of men.

Pausing to catch her breath, Viv turned to look back the way she had come. Down there in the valley, the trees along the rivers and the valley bottom probably showed where the ancient oak forests had long ago grown up to the edge of the escarpment. Somewhere down there, in a shadowy sacred grove, Carta had witnessed that bloody sacrifice and established herself as a strong and ruthless leader. What had happened after that? Finding herself a flat rock to sit on, Viv put her hands in her pockets, huddled into her jacket and closed her eyes. She did not have to wait more than a second.

Carta was standing with her back against the great oak. Sun and Moon were seated at her feet, watching the three men who stood in front of her. A light breeze stirred the thick foliage over their heads as they spoke and Carta was aware of the gods nearby, listening to their every word. She shivered. The lives of men and women for generations to come depended on her decisions. In the south and west the fight against the Roman invasion continued. Messengers had kept them informed of Caradoc’s progress as he led the native opposition to Rome. His two brothers dead, he was the only surviving son of Cunobelinos, and the only man left who could defeat the invaders and chase them back to the coast.

Venutios was determined to send him support. ‘The more successful he is the more tribes will join him and the moment will come when the scale begins to tip in his favour and we should be there when that moment comes. Chase the bastards back into the sea!’

Carta had folded her arms, her chin set, taking strength from the tree. She was aware that Artgenos and Culann were nodding at her husband’s words. It was happening again. She was being made to feel the one in the wrong.

‘I have sworn to uphold the Roman governor.’ Aulus Plautius had returned to Rome. The new governor was Publius Ostorius Scapula, as yet an unknown quantity. ‘The Brigantians will not support Caradoc against him. Not yet.’ She was adamant.

Venutios gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘You do not have to stick to your oath! You are high queen. You do not bend the knee to the imperial lap dog. You have sworn no oath at all to Scapula.’

‘No, but I entered into an agreement to do what is best for the people of our hills.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not contradict me, husband.’

‘But you in your turn, great queen, should not contradict the urgings of the gods,’ Culann put in quietly. ‘Have you thought, lady, why the Romans are so anxious to move west and capture the lands of the Silures and the Ordovices? Their mountains protect the most sacred place in the Pretannic Isles. The Island of Môn.’

Carta hesitated. ‘They would not attack Môn. Surely the gods would not tolerate that.’ She closed her eyes, trying to think, aware of the rustle amongst the branches overhead as the messengers of the gods leaned closer in the west wind.

‘Ah, there you underestimate them,’ Culann continued. ‘They would indeed. They see us Druids at the heart of opposition to them. They see us behind every insurrection in Gaul and now in Britannia, as they choose to call the lands of the southern tribes who have been defeated by them or become their clients. They see the Druids supporting Caradoc, as indeed we do as he is now our only protector.’ He paused with a reproachful grimace in her direction. ‘The gods warn that the Romans mean to destroy us. They are not fools, Cartimandua. Far from it. Do not underestimate these people.’

She turned away sharply and walked a few paces away from them. Her dogs stood up at once and followed her. ‘I don’t underestimate them. Not for a moment!’ His rebuke had stung. ‘The gods are with us, Culann, not with the Romans.’ She threw a glance at Artgenos, who had remained silent. The old man did not respond. He knew as well as she did that the portents were not favourable. The eagles were circling over the fells.

As dusk fell she was once more at the shrine in the forest. She had to be certain what she did was right. Silently she knelt beside the dark water and gazed into its depths.

Vivienne?

It was a long time since she had called upon her own personal goddess.

Vivienne!

Whatever the goddess demanded, she would obey. To ensure success and victory only the greatest and most valuable offering would suffice.

Viv stirred uneasily.

What? What was the greatest and most valuable offering? Not a human life. She, as goddess, would never demand a human life. But as she looked deep into the eyes of the queen she felt her implacable resolve with a shudder of primitive fear. One day Carta would feel the need to offer human sacrifice to her goddess. She knew it in the depths of her soul. And when she did, nothing Viv could do would prevent it from happening.

II

What a brilliant start to a Monday morning! Hugh put down the phone and whistled. The bollocking Maddie Corston had just given him had taken him completely by surprise. All he had done was to warn her that she would be putting her credibility on the line if she persisted in scheduling any kind of programme based on Viv’s book.

‘What’s the matter with you, Hugh? You’re behaving like a spoilt, jealous, mean-minded vicious old goat!’ Maddie’s voice had filled the study, so loud he had had to hold the receiver away from his ear and check the door was shut.

‘Now, back off! Academic squabbles are all very well, but this is a nonsense. Go away and write your own book and leave Viv alone. I’m not having you interfere with my scheduling and I’m not having you trying to destroy my script writers. These two women have all the makings of a fantastic team and you will not poke your nose in. Is that clear?’

Suddenly, he laughed. He had really stirred up a wasps’ nest; maenads, all of them. Maddie was right. He should leave them to it and get on with his own research. And he owed Viv an apology. Another apology. He shouldn’t have done it. He was already regretting his interference, regretting everything, even before Maddie rang. But he had only wanted to stop Viv making a complete idiot of herself.

He shook his head. If truth were told, he was missing her around the department, and if she had gone for good, it was going to be his own damn fault.

Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and went in search of Heather. Perhaps she could arrange some flowers or something by way of an apology.

In Heather’s office downstairs the room was full of sunshine and busyness; her computer was frantically updating itself; her telephone was ringing on and off every few minutes; the coffee machine was making strange cranky noises and Heather was full of the joys of spring.

For a few happy moments he felt almost himself again. Viv, she told him sternly, had probably gone away to get some peace after the book tour and he should just leave the poor woman alone and give her some space. It seemed a good suggestion.

III

‘You took the brooch!’ Pat was waiting for her on the bench outside the front door when Viv returned later that morning. ‘What have you done with it?’

Viv stared at her, stunned. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I borrowed Maddic’s car. She won’t need it for a bit. Not very friendly of you to rush off like that.’

‘I’m sorry. I needed to be alone.’ Viv was flustered and angry. ‘What makes you think I took the brooch?’

‘Because I went back to Stanwick to look for it. I take it you’ve got it here? You haven’t sent it back to Hugh, I hope.’

‘You had no business to check upon me!’

‘Why not? We’re partners. Remember?’

Viv sat down beside her. ‘How did you know I’d come here?’

Pat laughed. ‘Medb told me.’

Viv blanched. ‘Oh God, Pat –’

‘No, no! You told me the name of the farm. It wasn’t hard to find it.’

Behind them Steve appeared in the doorway. ‘Breakfast is ready, ladies. Isn’t it great Pat came too, Viv.’ Steve glanced at her. ‘We’ve put her in the room next to yours.’

Pat had brought her script and all her recording equipment. She had, it seemed, abandoned Pablo and her catsitting duties to Cathy’s downstairs neighbour – Cathy and Pete would anyway be back on Friday – so Daughters of Fire made their first official ascent of Ingleborough Hill later that morning, laden with Peggy’s picnic lunch, notebooks and recording equipment. The air was clear and gloriously sharp and they found they had the place to themselves.

Surrendering as gracefully as she could to the fact of Pat’s arrival, once she had recovered from the shock Viv allowed her to select a couple of scenes and a section of narrative and if the ambient sound proved right up here they were going to try recording. If the idea worked out they planned to record trial sections in other places as well. Ingleton Falls, perhaps, with the thunder of water in the background, and somewhere where the muffled resonances of damp mossy limestone and caves with their echoing mysterious acoustics would fit in with the script. There were all sorts of possibilities.

For their first attempt to create some of the background atmosphere, they bivouacked in the lee of the shelter on the very top of the hill where the faint signs of the round houses of two thousand years ago were still visible within the ramparts. Around them the views stretched out over the full 360°: to the west the Irish Sea, a brilliant sparkling blue line, and in the distance the Isle of Man, hazy on the horizon. Northwards they would see the great Lakeland hills, nearer at hand the two sister peaks of Peny Ghent and Whernside.

The soundtrack to Viv’s introductory section was the gentle whisper of wind over the long dry grasses and the distant mew of a buzzard.

       NARRATOR: Just over two thousand years ago on a hilltop seven hundred and twenty-one metres above sea level in what is now the Yorkshire Dales National Park a queen was born. No one knew she would be a queen. Her father was a tribal leader. Her mother the granddaughter of the king of the Trinovantes in a region that would one day be called Essex. But for now, in this Iron Age fortress behind ramparts already hundreds of years old, the bright courageous little girl grew up, a tomboy amongst her brothers and her cousins.

‘Cut!’ Pat brought her hand down, beaming. Engrossed in their work, they had both put their earlier animosity behind them. ‘Perfect! At this point I think we should add in the sound of some young children playing and laughing. Maybe a dog barking. We’ll ask Peggy to find us some kids.’

Almost on cue they heard shouts in the distance. It was male laughter. Adult laughter. Pat swore. She had hoped to have the area to themselves a little longer. They stared round, trying to spot the intruders. There was no sign of anyone.

‘Ghosts?’ Viv whispered to Pat. She shivered, remembering Peggy’s account of the visitors’ experiences on the hill.

Pat shook her head. ‘If they’re ghosts, they’re very loud ghosts,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll check out where they are. We can’t risk them interrupting.’ Walking swiftly, she headed down towards a stone wall built at an angle across the hillside. From behind it she could just make out a wisp of smoke rising into the clear sky. As she approached a man rose to his feet from behind the wall. He was dressed in a tunic and leggings, a tartan mantle round his shoulders pinned with a large circular silver pin. He sported a large drooping moustache.

Staring at him, Pat let out a scream.

‘It’s OK. I’m not a ghost!’ The accent was modern Yorkshire.

For a moment she was too shocked to move.

He came towards her. ‘We’re up here for the weekend. Re-enactors? You know, Ancient Celts!’ He paused, gauging her reaction. ‘Not dangerous, I promise.’

Pat breathed again. She was laughing. There were behind him some dozen or so people, all in costume, clustered round a fire pit full of carefully smouldering peats. Their tents had been painted to look like skins. In fact, she realised, they had draped furs and blankets over the nylon. Nearby lay a stack of weapons. Swords. Spears. Bows. Shields.

Suddenly she had an idea.

It worked like a dream. Jake, Art, Dave, Lugh and their colleagues slogged it out with a will for the microphone. The clash of iron blades, the thwack of shields and twang of bow strings, the shouts and shrieks and groans were all Pat could have wished for. She and Viv pooled their twenty-first century farmhouse picnic with slightly underdone barbecued rabbit, doughy homemade bread, local cheeses and vast quantities of mead and then went on to record the sounds of girlish laughter, women’s gossip without words, difficult, but made easier by the mead and the ever-strengthening wind. No children, though; children would still have to be found down in the village, but now they had a wonderful repertoire of noises off to be used as and when required.

By the time the sun was beginning to sink towards the west they had gained an audience of climbers, plus a few intrepid Sunday afternoon walkers and had discovered that Jake and Art were drama students from Manchester. They were beginning to find their cast. At least six of them were planning to spend the whole week on the hill and would be available for further sound effects and auditions when needed. It seemed too good to be true.

As the distant sea disappeared into a turquoise haze they began the long walk home, tired but, Viv had to admit, triumphant.

Pat was astounded to find that she was enjoying herself. ‘Can you imagine living here for real!’ The fury which had driven her from Edinburgh in the hired Fiesta had dissipated; her certainty that even one day away from the emotional support of the city landscape would terrify her had not happened and here she was in the middle of nowhere, exhausted, her feet covered in blisters in borrowed boots, her skin sticky with sun cream and insect repellent, wearing a hat belonging to the farm which made her feel like a refugee from the outback and she was unutterably content. Sinking down on an outcrop of limestone she slipped off her rucksack and stretched out her arms.

Viv was staring out into the distance. ‘This is the place of my ancestors! The cradle of my blood and my bones!’ She raised her arms towards the west. ‘Sweet goddess, keep this place between your breasts; guard it in your hands; nestle it within your womb. Let no enemy come within its walls, no weapon strike in anger, no voice cry out in pain. This is a sacred place. May it be heavy with your blessings, fertile with the blood of your creation, kissed with sweet heaven’s tears and hidden from the world by the veils of sacredness.’

Pat narrowed her eyes. This was Cartimandua speaking. Her contentment vanished and she felt a wave of anger. Medb’s anger. She hesitated, then, remembering the play again, she dived into the rucksack for the recorder. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

Viv shook her head. Her arms dropped to her sides and she slumped down on the rock beside Pat. She gave a short uncomfortable laugh. ‘That re-enactment was all very real as far as it went, but we have to listen too.’ She shivered as though she could see the shadow of Pat’s alter ego standing between them. ‘Come on, Pat. Let’s be honest about this. Medb brought you here, didn’t she. So, why don’t you try. See what happens.’

‘Ask Medb to speak?’ Pat was nervous suddenly.

Viv hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘Why not. You made me do it.’

Pat shrugged. Why not indeed. She closed her eyes and waited, frowning.

There was a long silence.

‘Pat?’ Viv whispered. ‘Are you OK?’

Pat laughed. ‘He thinks I can’t see what’s going on. He thinks I have gone away to leave him with you. He’s betrayed me.’ The voice was quite different from her own. Lighter. Harsher. Medb.

‘I can see him, standing with you under the trees. You think the oaks have blessed your union. You think he will follow like the puppy dogs which fawn at your heels.’ Pat got up and walked a few steps away towards the edge of the track where she stood staring out towards the north. There was a strange silvery light in her eyes. ‘You are so wrong.’ She turned and looked at Viv – looked straight through Viv. There was real hatred in her expression. ‘I will take Venutios away from you and make you crawl before me and I’ll see him eat the dust under my shoes.’

Viv stepped back, shocked. ‘Pat?’ Her voice was husky with fear. ‘Pat! That’s enough.’ She took a couple of steps forward, grabbed Pat’s arm and shook her. ‘Pat!’

‘Let go of me!’ Pat pushed her away violently. She took a deep breath. ‘Bloody hell, Viv!’ She paused. ‘What happened?’ She was speaking with her own voice again.

Viv was staring at her, her face white. ‘You were Medb! You were speaking for her; threatening Venutios. You sounded vicious.’

Pat bit her lip. ‘It was that easy?’ she said softly.

Viv nodded.

Pat sat down on the out crop of rock and put her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t think it would work. I thought it was only in my dreams.’

Viv sat down beside her. ‘You scared me.’

‘Shit!’

‘As you say.’ They were both silent for a long time.

‘What are we going to do?’ Pat said at last.

Viv made a face. ‘Go on. We have to. We owe it to history. We have to find out the truth.’ She sighed, staring at the ground. When she looked up at last her eyes were blazing with excitement. ‘This is too interesting to stop, Pat, don’t you see! We’ve seen the most amazing things; heard history being made. Both of us! This is incredible. We can’t give up.’

‘But we’re being taken over.’

‘Are we? Or are we just mouthpieces for –’ Viv hesitated, spreading her hands helplessly, ‘spirits. Shadows. Echoes from the past. We’re not possessed.’

Pat grimaced. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Did you feel possessed?’

‘I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know it was happening that time.’

‘Exactly! That’s not possession.’

‘Isn’t it? Are you sure we’re not being set up against each other?’

Viv stared at her suspiciously. ‘No. No, Pat.’ She was dismissive. ‘Come on, don’t you see how exciting this is? We are mediums. Look at all the thousands of people all over the country who act as mediums. They don’t think it’s dangerous. They just relay what they are hearing. That’s all we’re doing. I wasn’t expecting it when it started, so it scared me, but now, up here, I understand what’s going on. It’s fantastic. And exciting. And after all, we know what happens. We know the history. No one gets hurt; no one gets killed. ‘She paused. ‘If we’re frightened by anything we can stop before it happens. Can’t we?’

IV

It was very dark in the narrow river ravine. Stumbling and slipping on the loose stone scree, Viv made her way down the path towards the sacred well, every now and then flashing the beam of torchlight in front of her feet as she drew nearer the small waterfall. Behind her the house was in darkness. Everyone else was asleep.

In the chamber it was cold and damp and very still. Carefully she dug in her pocket for matches and a nightlight, setting the little candle on the rocks beside the water basin. Someone else had been there recently. Fresh flowers in a small cut-glass vase were standing on the shelf in the rock and something else had changed too. She frowned, trying to see what it was and realised after a minute that the small figure of the goddess had been moved to the back of the shelf. In its place there stood a crude stone head. She felt herself grow cold. In the light of the candle the head stared at her balefully; carved from gritstone, its two round eyes and circular mouth were dark holes in the flat expressionless face. It was old. There was no doubt about that. As old as time itself. Repelled, she stepped back, staring back at it. If this was the true ancient god of this place it was to this head that Carta had prayed; this cold stone she had touched with her own hands. Dragging her eyes away from the impassive stare, Viv forced herself to sit down at the edge of the pool and study the reflections in the red-brown water.

‘Carta? Are you there?’ Her whisper was lost in the dripping and splashes of the spring and of the beck outside as it plunged over the limestone boulders, out of sight into the valley.

‘Carta?’ She raised her voice. ‘Speak to me. Where are you?’

There was no answer.

V

Hugh’s good mood had lasted all the way home from the department, but now as he hauled his briefcase out of the car and slammed the door, he hesitated. Something was different. Wrong. Cautiously he surveyed the house front. The grey stone building stood foursquare to the gravel parking space where he had pulled up. There were two windows evenly placed on either side of the square front door with its small cracked Corinthian pillars. Upstairs there were five windows, the central one arched, giving a slightly supercilious expression to the otherwise dour face of the house which was only softened by its shroud of honeysuckle and clematis. One of the things he loved about coming home to the house in the summer was the smell of those flowers.

He could smell nothing. Putting down the briefcase at his feet, he took a deep lungful of air. Nothing. No flowers. No grass. Nothing. All around him the garden was totally silent. Yet he could see the trees moving in the breeze. Cautiously he put out his hand in front of him, half expecting to touch something, a sheet of glass perhaps. His fingers shimmered slightly and then he heard it. The bronze note of the carnyx.

He froze. ‘Venutios.’ His lips framed the word, but no sound came. For several more seconds he remained immobile, trapped by his own fear, then he turned and bolted for the car. Throwing himself inside and slamming the door, he could feel his heart thudding inside his chest as he pushed down the locks and grasped the wheel white-knuckled, trying to steady himself. As he groped for his mobile and stabbed in Meryn’s number, he could see his briefcase standing where he had left it on the gravel. The garden looked completely deserted.