27

I

‘I want to know what happens next and I want you to monitor it, so that we don’t miss anything,’ Viv said. Steve had not appeared for supper and she and Pat had reconvened later in her bedroom. As Pat was here, she might as well make use of her. Viv glanced at her, firmly suppressing any doubts she might feel about trusting her. ‘I want you to ask me questions. Guide what I’m saying.’

Pat eyed her doubtfully. ‘I don’t think we should. I’m scared. Peggy can see Medb, Viv. She’s afraid of her and so am I! I don’t want to risk her coming back.’

‘We won’t let her. This is about Cartimandua.’ Viv pushed open the windows, The sharp scents of peat and grass and sheep and the sweet overlay of honeysuckle and roses drifted into the room. She stared out briefly at the mist shrouded height above them. The brooding silence of the hill top was overwhelming. She stifled her momentary fear and turned to face Pat. ‘Let’s do it. Peggy won’t know and I have to find out what happens.’

‘What about Medb?’

Viv shook her head. ‘Forget Medb. This isn’t her story.’

‘I think you’ll find it is. Medb came here to Dun Righ.’

Viv frowned. ‘She can’t have!’ She didn’t want to hear this. She was biting down on her fear, concentrating on Carta.

‘She did. I don’t think she’s a very nice person, Viv. I don’t want to get involved.’

‘Then don’t. Refuse to listen.’

‘Easier said than done. Peggy thinks she’s dangerous.’

‘She told you that?’

Pat nodded. ‘And I told her about the brooch, Viv. You shouldn’t have brought it here. Why did you? Is it somewhere safe?’

Viv nodded.

‘Just don’t tell me where, OK?’ Pat sighed and reached into her bag for the voice recorder, setting it on the sill and pinning the mike to Viv’s shirt as she sat on the window seat. Then she went and switched off the light. She had a bad feeling about this.

The room grew damp and cold as the night air seeped into the open window.

‘Carta?’ Pat’s voice was husky suddenly. ‘Are you there? Talk to me.’

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Venutios was white with anger. He strode up and down the chamber several times before coming to a halt in front of his wife. ‘There is still time to release him. You can still save the day.’

‘No.’ She looked up at him wearily. ‘I have made my decision. I do not want to discuss this any further.’

‘But I do!’ He seized her wrists and pulled her to her feet. ‘You cannot allow him to be taken! You cannot do this!’ Beside her the two dogs were growling. Venutios ignored them.

‘Let me go!’ She did not flinch. ‘If you touch me again I will call my guards.’

‘Your guards!’ His tone was scornful. He released her and moved away from her. ‘Your guards, trained by me. Loyal to me, if truth were known!’ He folded his arms and stood facing her. ‘Are you going to put their loyalty to the test?’

She drew herself upright, then unexpectedly doubled over with a groan.

He frowned, taken aback. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’

She nodded. ‘Call Mairghread. I’m sick.’ Her face had grown hot and clammy. The walls were spinning before her eyes.

Venutios strode from the room. When Mairghread appeared he did not follow her.

‘You know what is wrong, of course.’ Mairghread sponged her forehead gently.

‘I’ve eaten something bad.’ Carta lay back on her bed with a groan.

‘You’re breeding at last.’ Mairghread smiled. ‘About time, too. That will distract you from politics, my lady, and remind you of your duties as queen.’

‘My duties as queen,’ Carta repeated slowly. ‘You dare to tell me my duties as queen! Perhaps I had better instruct you. My duties are to my people.’ She put her arm across her eyes. ‘I am bound to do the best I can for them. And you’re wrong. I am not with child. I can’t be.’

She had made sure of that. Or had she? She frowned. The day Caradoc arrived Venutios had come to her room and forced himself on her. She had not been expecting him that night. She had not used the herbs which would prevent a man’s seed implanting.

‘The gods make their own decisions, lady.’ Mairghread had been watching her closely, seeing the various expressions fleetingly written on the queen’s face. ‘Perhaps they do it to remind you of your place as their representative and the protector of their wishes.’ She pursed her lips primly.

‘Don’t presume to criticise me!’ Carta did not move her arm from her eyes. ‘You understand nothing of my decisions.’ With a groan she rolled over onto her side. ‘I have eaten bad meat, that is all. Bring me some snakeweed steeped in hot water. It will settle my stomach.’

Venutios strode back into the room as she finished the drink. ‘So, is it true? Are you with child?’

‘No.’ Mairghread hadn’t taken long to allow that little piece of speculation loose on the township. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she stood up wearily. ‘Do not even hope for it.’

‘Then perhaps I had better replant my seed.’ He reached for her. ‘A child would no doubt distract you.’

‘Don’t touch me!’ She pushed him violently as he tried to grab her wrist. Off balance, he stepped back. His face darkened. Furious, he made a second grab for her and she countered with a stinging slap. Sun and Moon edged closer to her protectively, growling furiously at him and cursing loudly. Venutios aimed a kick at them.

Outside the room Mairghread stood, uncertain whether or not to go in. Her nerve failed her and she turned away from the door.

The next morning there was no sign of Venutios. He had ridden out before dawn. When the queen appeared a swollen bruise had shadowed her cheekbone below her left eye.

Her sickness passed as quickly as it had come, but as she donned her finery to greet the Roman escort sent to collect Caradoc, two weeks later, her face was grim. One by one she drew on the golden armlets, the torc, fastened the brooches to her finest gown and mantle, then she went to stand in the council chamber amongst her men. All the senior Druids were there and all the Brigantian kings save one. She looked around, her eyes narrowed, as from the watch tower a bronze horn announced the arrival of the Romans.

‘Is any one here going to defy me and argue against handing over Caradoc?’ One by one she scanned their faces. One by one the men looked away. Many were uneasy; none defied her.

At the head of the deputation was the military tribune of the XX legion, Gaius Flavius Cerialis. He saluted with outstretched hand, his face grave. ‘The governor sends his greetings, great queen. He has told me to thank you personally for your loyalty. It will be well rewarded.’

She bowed. As they waited for Caradoc, Artgenos on one side, her brothers, Fintan and Bran on the other, her warriors and her advisers forming a sullen ring around them, Carta saw Gaius move uncomfortably from foot to foot. Drawing himself up stiffly he squared his shoulders, distracting himself by looking away from the men around him, scanning the building. She watched him surreptitiously, following his gaze, trying to see the huge room as he did, comparing its comfort and richness perhaps to the austerity of his barracks. The great chamber smelled of woodsmoke and scented herbs and the flowers which stood near them in silver jugs. Under their feet lay a woven rug, another lay across her seat. Everywhere the colours of the tartans and curled designs that he would have seen before perhaps in the houses of the Keltoi in Gaul brought life to the dimness of the interior of the house. She could see that he was, however reluctantly, impressed and she suspected that the feeling did not change when Caradoc was brought in. His wrists were chained, but she had given orders that as always he be treated with courtesy and honour by the guards who escorted him, orders which were, she knew, superfluous. Everyone at Dun Righ respected and admired this man.

He was brought to a halt in front of the Roman and he gave a small bow, acknowledging defeat but losing none of his dignity by the action. He was a man who would never beg for his life. Carta, watching intently, bit her lip as she saw Gaius bow back. These were two soldiers, summing one another up, man to man. She saw their mutual respect and for a moment she felt excluded by it. Suddenly she was full of doubts.

‘Prince Caradoc has been wounded. He is not yet fit to travel with you,’ she said to Gaius abruptly. ‘Your men may wait outside the walls, Gaius Flavius Cerialis.’

She toyed with his name as though it were an exotic trifle and she saw him raise an eyebrow. She had not realised that it might occur to him that she found him as strange and exciting as he probably found her and there was a challenge in her glance as she addressed him. ‘You and your officers will remain as our guests until the Prince has recovered sufficiently to ride.’

She saw that Gaius noticed the sudden light of hope on Caradoc’s face and saw his wry inward chuckle as he realised that, sadly for the prisoner, the game, if it was a game she was playing, was with him, not with her cousin. If she wanted to keep the Romans dangling so be it. He was in no hurry. If she wanted to trifle with him for a few days then he would be happy to oblige. More than happy. Poor Caradoc. It merely prolonged the man’s suffering.

Carta met the Roman’s eyes. This man was sensitive and intelligent; he was observant. Her thoughts had been carefully guarded as she exchanged glances with him but it occurred to her suddenly now that he understood her far better than she had realised. The thought was not reassuring.

II

Pat couldn’t sleep when she returned to her room. She showered and put on her pyjamas, then she sat for a while in the lamplight, staring at her laptop, the recording equipment and a pile of books and papers on the table near her. They were making progress. Viv’s recording had been fantastic. There would easily be enough material for at least two programmes.

About Medb …

She stiffened. No. Not about Medb. She did not want to think about Medb.

She stood up abruptly. ‘Go away!’

The sound of her own voice in the silence was unnerving.

She held her breath, listening.

The house was quiet, the night very still outside the window. She glanced round the room suspiciously. Had something changed? She thought she could feel a presence there in the shadows, watching. ‘Go away!’ she said again, more loudly this time. ‘I am not listening!’

Oh God, someone was laughing. A quiet chuckle. A cynical, evil, female chuckle. It was the most frightening thing she had ever heard. She took two steps backwards and stood, her back to the wall, staring round the room again. There was no one there. The room was small, low-ceilinged, pretty. Furnished with chintzy prints and dried flowers, with a small armchair, a dressing table, a writing table in the window, the table where all her notebooks were stacked, a cupboard and the stand on which she had put her large scarlet holdall. There was nowhere to hide. Taking a deep breath she tiptoed towards the cupboard and after a moment’s hesitation she dragged the door open. It was empty except for her own clothes and a folded down ironing board. She slammed it shut again and spun round.

‘OK, lady. Listen. I am not getting involved in this. This play is only a job!’ Her fists clenched, she took another deep breath. ‘Do you hear me? I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be involved in your nasty vicious little schemes. Count me out.’

She walked over to the door and flicked the switch, throwing the light of the central hanging lamp over the room. It was dazzling after the low light of the lamp in the corner. Blinking, she surveyed the scene again. She was still standing there when both lights suddenly went out.

‘Shit!’

She licked her lips nervously. Don’t be frightened. She had overloaded some ancient circuit by turning them both on together. This wasn’t sinister. There was a scented candle in a pretty dish on the writing table. All she had to do was find her lighter. Her bag. Where had she left her bag?

She groped her way towards the window and drew back the curtains. The room filled with moonlight suddenly and with a sigh of relief she turned.

Medb was standing right behind her.

III

Viv too had found it impossible to sleep. Part of her was hyped with excitement, part of her desperate to go on with the story; part of her was afraid. It was all getting too easy. With Pat as line manager, director, Svengali, the story had become ever more dramatic and real. She had to stop. For her own sanity she had to stop. Come back to the real world. But she couldn’t. Not now that Pat had Medb under control and was happy to continue with Carta’s story. Wearily she sat up. An hour later she was still scribbling in her notebook by the light of her bedside lamp, putting down every detail before it slipped away. Seeing the Celts through Roman eyes she had become more acutely aware of the differences between the two races. This was interesting. This was history! The round house of Cartimandua had acquired the wild beauty and sophistication of the tent of a desert sheik. The Roman spin that these Northern tribes were primitive backwoodsmen was true maybe of the peasants as it was throughout the ages, but there was learning here and artistic exuberance. Because they built round houses in hilltop compounds and disliked the concept of town dwelling so beloved of the Romans, that did not make them uncivilised. Conflict between town and country; mutual suspicion and incomprehension. Nothing changes!

Rubbing her eyes she wrote faster. His clothes. Her clothes. The way their eyes met. Measuring each other up. Thoughtful. Calculating. Both intensely conscious of the greater stage upon which they played, but aware, too, of a personal interaction. To be experienced before the audience around them. Hidden. Subtle. Challenging. Suddenly the history had become personal again.

Viv stopped writing and stretched out her fingers with a quizzical smile. ‘My God, they fancied each other!’ Her whisper was full of admiration.

Throwing down her pen at last she lay back on the pillows with a sigh. There was so much to write. So much to describe. How could she get it all down on paper? This was going to be an electrifying book.

The Roman and his junior officers fed that evening with the queen and her tribal leaders. In the face of the constant music and laughter, poetry and loud exuberant conversation he sat almost silent at her side. He did not eat much, Carta noticed, and she scanned the board, trying to see the food as he saw it. Flavoured with wild garlic and mustard and mint, chives and horseradish and watercress and juniper berries. There were meats, obviously. Fish. Game. Bread. There was butter and cheeses and fruit. Was nothing to his taste? He drank moderately too, though there was wine and mead and ale. There was even milk for the children. When the Brigantian chieftains were deepin their cups, squabbling and shouting and one by one falling asleep where they sat, he remained alert. So did she.

At length she stood up. Those who kept their wits about them rose too, bowed and waited. Once the queen had departed their drinking would continue until no one was left conscious.

Artgenos and Culann had long ago gone back to the Druid college in the forest, preferring not to share meat with the Romans. Caradoc too had withdrawn after eating only a small amount seated at Cartimandua’s left hand, pleading weakness from his unhealed wounds.

She glanced at the Roman. ‘Accompany me to my private rooms. We can talk there more easily.’ As if to underline the reason for her words, two drunken men embarked upon a loud and tuneless song to the beat of a goatskin drum.

Gaius stood up and bowed. She was followed, he noted, by the tight-lipped female servant who had stood behind her all evening. Two of his officers rose with him. He gestured at them to remain. He was intrigued by what she would do. If she had messages for Scapula which she did not want to impart in front of the tribesmen or the Druid spies he would be happy to carry them. A messenger with welcome news was always rewarded.

The fire in her own rooms was bright and fragrant with neatly chopped lichen-covered apple logs. Warmed wine and honey cakes awaited them. To his delight, after seeing they had all they needed, the sour-faced woman withdrew, motioning the servants and attendants to follow her. He waited to see what would happen.

Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes, stood for a moment, staring down into the fire, then she seated herself on one of the cushioned stools drawn upto the circular hearth. He didn’t move, nor did she bid him be seated. For a while she ignored him completely and he found himself wondering if she had forgotten he was there. Then at last she looked up and smiled. She had kept him waiting long enough to intrigue him. She beckoned him forward. ‘Sit down.’ She gestured at the floor.

He tensed. Was she telling him to sit at her feet? The two other stools were on the far side of the fire. He moved towards the nearest, picked it up and brought it to stand near hers. Not too near. Then he seated himself on the cushion, leaning forward towards her, elbow on knee, aware that in comparison to the trousered legs of the tribesmen his own knees beneath his armoured skirt were all too bare above the thongs of his sandals. He was aware also that he was assuming the position of an equal and possibly making a huge mistake.

She remained inscrutable, staring down at the fire, affecting not to notice what he had done. Perhaps she genuinely had not noticed. Her concentration on the fire was too intense. Too focussed to be casual. Suddenly he was aware of what she was doing. Like some temple priestess she was reading the omens in the flames. Perhaps at this very moment her gods were deciding his destiny. He felt the short hairs rise upon the back of his neck. A brave and experienced soldier, he did not shrink before a man’s sword or a javelin. A woman – a queen – speaking to the gods was a different matter. He felt the sweat starting on the palms of his hands but he did not move. She would never be allowed to guess at the wave of terror which had swept over him as he became aware of the human heads – two of them – hanging by the doorway in the shadows. Were they real? He knew the Celtic tribesmen pickled the heads of their enemies and collected them as trophies. He sniffed cautiously. There was nothing putrid in the room. It smelled of the fire. Smoky. Spicy. Pleasant.

He realised suddenly that she was watching him. He saw the amusement in her eyes and wondered, just as she had, if she had read his mind.

‘If you wish to drink you will have to serve yourself. The servants have gone,’ she said at last. ‘And you may bring me some wine as well.’ She was speaking careful Latin.

He stood up and went to the side table where a jug of ornately beaten silver stood on a tray beside two goblets. Clever. She had made him stand up. Made him serve her. He obeyed, pouring the wine with a steady hand, aware that she was still watching him.

She took the wine from him, her fingers just brushing his and gestured him back to his seat. Clever again. Now she had invited him to sit, keeping the initiative. He took a deep gulp of the wine. It was good. Better than the wine at their meal. So, she had kept a stash for herself of the best vintage. The thought cheered him. He glanced at her and again saw the humour in her eyes.

‘So, why did they choose you to come and collect my captive?’ she asked at last.

He inclined his head. ‘The governor knew that I had been to Brigantia before.’

‘So, he knew you wouldn’t get lost?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And this time as well, you have brought thanks and recompense from Scapula in exchange for me handing over Caradoc.’ He caught a note of bitterness in her voice. And not to be wondered at judging by the hostility he had sensed amongst the men in the feasting chamber.

‘It was the right decision, to hand him over, great lady,’ he replied carefully. ‘Rome appreciates your loyalty,’ he paused, ‘and your courage.’

‘And will show her appreciation?’ She looked at him sharply. She wondered if he realised just how unpopular her decision had been.

‘And will show much appreciation.’ There were indeed two wagons of silver and gold at the foot of the hill with his men at this moment. Or he hoped so. The wealth had been rounded up for delivery to the legionary fort of Viroconium for the slow journey north and east. He and his men had ridden expediti, fast and unladen, from the south-east. The hope was that they would arrive at about the same time in Brigantia. He took a deep breath. ‘There will be more, great queen, once Caratacus reaches Camulodunum. Much more.’

‘Caratacus?’

‘Forgive me. You call him Caradoc, I notice. Our scribes have rendered his name into the Latin. I will see it is amended in the records.’ He gave her an encouraging smile.

She studied him gravely. ‘If the Brigantians are not sufficiently rewarded I cannot guarantee to persuade them next time to uphold our treaty with Rome.’

By the gods! He was not qualified to make these promises. Did she think him of higher rank than he was? But she probably did think him of high rank. After all she had seen him in the company of the Emperor; and he had been designated as a go-between for the governor, an undertaking he had not entirely welcomed. ‘I will see that your message reaches the governor, great queen.’ He managed to keep his voice steady.

She was, he reckoned, no older than he was. But her authority here was absolute. If she raised one finger her men would no doubt flock in and drag him away to be offered as some gory sacrifice to her bloodthirsty gods. He glanced in spite of himself towards the heads hanging at her doorway. Reaching for his goblet, he gulped the rest of his wine.

Again the look of amusement. ‘Perhaps you should fetch the jug. We will keep it warm on the hearthstone.’

He did as he was bid, filling her goblet first. This time he was sure of it. Her fingers touched his deliberately. He met her eyes, startled. He did not know of her quarrel with Venutios, or her longing to feel a man take her in his arms without violence. Did not know that this good-looking Roman intrigued her. Or that she had wanted him from the first moment she had seen him, intrigued, tempted, hungry for a handsome man who would not cause mayhem in the township because she had taken one of her own tribesmen to her bed. A handsome man who had the added allure of being different and dangerous.

She played him like a fish on a line, pulling him in, letting him go, herself refilling his goblet, touching his hands and his face, his knees beneath the aproned tunic. When at last she stood up and moved towards her bedchamber he was in thrall.

‘Finish your wine and follow me.’

‘Is that a royal command?’ He was not too drunk to know what he was doing.

‘It is.’

He finished it slowly, savouring every sip, then he stood up. The fire had died down to ashes. The lamps had burned low and nobody had come to replenish them. He moved slowly towards the curtained doorway and ducked inside. She was lying on the bed naked but for her jewellery. He stared at her body. By Jove, but she was beautiful. He eyed the heavy breasts. The curve of her hip. The delicate swirling tattoos on one shoulder and across her back and thighs and he reached upto unpin his mantle.

She eyed his body critically. Well muscled. Nicely proportioned. But strangely pale in parts. She chuckled. Her own men frequently fought and hunted naked. They were tanned, tattooed and painted. Their bodies were works of art. This white-skinned Roman, only his arms and legs and face browned by sun and wind was, all said and done, strangely beautiful, like marble. And where it mattered most he was far from lacking in size and power.

It was good. Very good. But to her disappointment he tired before she did. Watching him sleep, still curious about this foreign stranger in her bed, she assumed it was the unaccustomed quantities of wine that had sapped his vigour. It did not matter. There would be other times. Tracing the lines of his cheekbones and his strangely smooth clean-shaven upper lip and chin with her finger, she wondered if it would be amusing to send him back to Camulodunum sporting a tattoo or two to identify him as a trophy of the Brigantian queen. Then at last she lay back and slept herself.

When he awoke next morning she was long gone from her bed and from the township. Her servants brought him hot water and shaving gear and served him breakfast and he found himself the recipient of a lavish gift from the queen – a young wolfhound of the best breeding.

He did not see her again before he left for the south with his prisoner. He was not sure whether to be flattered by the gift, relieved at her absence or insulted that she had left so abruptly. At least his head had not joined the other trophies in her collection. Perhaps she had not thought him worth it.

Half asleep, Viv grasped at the dream. What a triumph. Cartimandua had seduced a Roman. She smiled. And what a dish. She might have fancied him herself given half a chance. Did this explain Carta’s strange loyalty to Rome, her fascination with all things Roman, or was it just curiosity? Or something altogether more pragmatic? Was she playing deeper politics or was she just pissed off with Venutios?

The creak of boards on the far side of the room sent the dream out of her head. She froze. Her eyes flew open. The only movement in the room came from the shadows of the leaves around the window, thrown by the rising sun as it appeared for a moment in a distant notch between the hills. In minutes it had swung southwards behind the lowering moors and the room was dull again as she clutched the sheet to her chin.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She held her breath, frightened. Was that a figure near the door? Someone was in the room with her. She edged herself up in bed. ‘Pat? Is that you?’

There was no reply.

Then she heard a quiet click as the door closed. Leaping out of bed she ran to it and dragged it open. The landing was deserted. There was no one there. Closing it again thoughtfully she turned the key in the lock and went to climb shivering back into bed. Someone had been in her room. Pat? Or Carta? Or Medb?

The next time she woke it was full daylight and there was only one thought in her head. The brooch. Whoever had been in her room had been trying to find it. Leaping out of bed she went straight to her bag and rummaged in its depths. To her relief she found it at once, still zipped into the inner pocket where she had left it. Taking it into the little bathroom she looked round. There was a small cupboard above the towel rail where she had found a supply of miniature soaps and shampoos and after a moment’s hesitation she tucked it in behind them. The plastic box blended perfectly. It would have to do as a temporary hiding place until she thought of somewhere better.

Pulling on her clothes after her shower, she sat down at the dressing table and began working her comb through her wet tangled curls, wondering if Pat was awake. It was Pat who had warned her not to divulge the hiding place of the brooch to anyone, Pat who was her colleague; her partner; a Daughter of Fire. But Pat was Medb.

And Medb was Pat.