29

I

Climbing out of his car the next afternoon, Hugh stared for several seconds at the cottage. He had looked up an old bed and breakfast directory and found the phone number of the cottage only about three miles from Winter Gill Farm. At the end of the small picturesque village it nestled into its garden at the foot of a gentle hillside, the windows of the first floor open beneath the heavy thatch. It was very pretty. With a sigh he picked up his case and walked towards the door. It was opened by a grey-haired man in his late sixties. Dressed in an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled up over tanned, rope-veined arms, and with deeply weathered skin he beamed his welcome. ‘James Oakley. You must be Hugh Graham? Welcome, sir. Come in. My wife is out at present but I can show you to your room and I’m capable of putting on a kettle.’

Having seen the small attractive bedroom and the neatly appointed shower and loo which would be, he was assured, his alone, Hugh dropped his bag on the bed and ran his fingers through his windblown hair, a gesture to tidiness, before following his host back downstairs. He had immediately liked the man, sensing a kindred spirit perhaps, and warming at once to his host’s gentle enthusiasm. As they walked through the cottage to the kitchen he noted a pretty chintzy sitting room with a fire smouldering in the inglenook, a small dining room and a well-used study. All had low ceilings and were lined with books. Ignoring a plea to make himself comfortable in the sitting room, Hugh followed his host’s example, ducked under the murderously low lintel of the kitchen door and stood just inside the room watching him fill the kettle. He did indeed seem competent.

‘You appear to be something of a scholar, Mr Oakley,’ he commented. There were books in here as well. Some cookery, but by no means all.

‘Our passion and our failing – books.’ James Oakley reached down a tea caddy. ‘My wife and I collect them. And I plan to add to them with one of my own.’

‘Indeed?’ Hugh leaned against the doorpost. ‘May I ask what about?’

‘Christ.’ Two spoons of leaves – not teabags – were carefully measured into the pot. ‘I should explain, I’m a clergyman. A retired clergyman. I’ve always been intrigued – perhaps seduced would be a better word – by the idea that Our Lord may have come to England – to Britain, perhaps I should say. ‘‘And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green’’. You are aware of Blake’s words, of course. Who isn’t.’ He picked up the kettle and began to fill the pot, unaware of his guest’s quizzical expression. ‘I like to think he came as a young man or a boy with his uncle Joseph of Arimathaea, to Glastonbury as legend has it, and that he then stayed during at least some of the hidden years to study with the Druids at one of their colleges.’ He turned and put the pot on the tray. ‘Ah.’ At last he caught sight of Hugh’s face as incredulity, horror and finally benevolent amusement chased one another across his guest’s features. ‘I see I have a sceptic here. Never mind. If you are interested, perhaps I can try and convince you. We have a holy well some four miles from here, you know. I think Jesus may have visited it on his tour round Britain. For many reasons, this is a very special part of the world.’

II

Fidelma was dead. Called suddenly to her mother’s bedside after she had collapsed unconscious at her loom, Carta had watched as Gruoch and Artgenos frowned over her and shook their heads. There was nothing to be done. She sat throughout the night holding her mother’s hand as her life ebbed away and as the first rays of sunlight warmed the rain-soaked fells she knew Fidelma’s soul had departed. Leaning forward she kissed the papery skin of her forehead and saw her own tears falling onto her mother’s hair. ‘Bless me, Mama and watch over me,’ she whispered. She reached for her mother’s cold hand and pressed it against her own gently swelling belly. ‘And bless your grandchild, too.’ She bit her lip, aware of a terrible loneliness sweeping over her, a loneliness compounded only weeks later when her brother Bran fell victim to a vicious fever which left him dead after two short days of torment. In a township full of men and women, family and kinsmen, nothing would be the same again.

By the time Venutios returned, Carta had moved her court south over the high moors and down through the forests to Elmet. He followed her there with a large party of Carvetian warriors from Caer Lugus, leaving them encamped on the far side of the beck opposite the north gate of the township, and it wasn’t until the day after his arrival that he finally strode to greet her, followed as always by Vellocatus.

She was waiting for him seated in the sun, with Culann on one side of her and Mairghread on the other, the dogs lying at her feet.

‘So, have you come at last to offer your condolences over the death of my mother?’ she asked wearily.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a small bow. ‘It had not occurred to me, but of course you have them.’

She reined in her anger at the slight. ‘So, you came to beg forgiveness for your disloyalty in not supporting me; in leaving my court without permission? And to acknowledge that I made the right decision. Rome has rewarded me well for giving up Caradoc.’

‘So I hear.’ He did not greet her with a kiss. ‘It was clever of them to isolate us. Brigantia has no friends now amongst the free kingdoms. You may be rich, wife, decked in Roman gold, but you have no friends amongst the gods or amongst the peoples. Does that feel good and honourable to you? Does it feel good to you, Culann?’ He turned to the tall Druid who stood beside her. ‘No, I can see that it does not. It’s written all over your face.’

Artgenos had declined to travel south with her, pleading old age and stiffness in his bones. So it had been Culann, thinner and more austere than ever, who accompanied her to Elmet as her senior Druid; Culann, who, she knew, strongly disapproved of her actions.

Carta’s gaze had shifted from the face of her implacable husband to the young man behind him. Vellocatus, bearing her husband’s sword and armed with a dagger, looked uncomfortable. He did not meet her eye.

‘Tell me, husband,’ she asked suddenly, ‘why you feel it necessary to bring an army with you?’

‘I frequently travel with my warriors,’ he retorted. ‘Not so long ago you were glad to have them around.’

‘As I am now,’ she said coolly. ‘Provided I am certain of their loyalty to their queen.’

His face darkened. ‘I hope you are not accusing me of disloyalty!’

‘Indeed not.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But I expect support from my husband in my dealings with Rome. And I expect his warriors to be there at my command should I need them. We do not need them at the moment.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘Rome is our ally, Venutios.’

‘And the Corieltauvi and the Cornovii and the Selgovae –’

‘Are our neighbours. We respect their boundaries as long as they respect ours. If or when they become part of the Roman province, that is no longer our business.’

Venutios snorted. ‘You will regret the day you believed Plautius’s platitudes, you mark my words! You may trust Scapula and his gifts. I do not. And I do not intend to leave our boundaries open to visitors. If you will not defend them, I will.’

‘Part of our agreement leaves our people fully armed, Venutios,’ she warned. ‘So that we can defend our borders.’ Why was he incapable of understanding? ‘Those of our neighbours who have been defeated have been stripped of everything with which they might have defended themselves. The penalty they pay if so much as a sword is found in one house is terrible. Don’t open us to such a possibility. We are trusted.’

‘More fool them! I doubt if the Romans trust me.’ He was standing before her, hands on hips, his chin jutting aggressively as he looked down at her. Beside her she could hear Sun growling quietly deep in his throat. She put a warning hand on the dog’s head as Venutios went on. ‘Now that Caradoc has gone, the tribes are looking in my direction for a new leader. They are trying to persuade me to take up his mantle. I tell them we must wait until we know his fate. Whether he lives or dies.’

Culann raised his head. He looked from one to the other. ‘My spies tell me that the lord Caradoc and his family have been sent to Rome,’ he said dryly.

Carta closed her eyes as she whispered a silent prayer. It was Venutios who spoke. ‘Then may the gods help them,’ he said with a shudder. ‘And may he remember, when he steps into the arena to be torn apart by lions, who it was who sent him there.’

Carta went cold. In the pause which followed his words Culann stepped forward. ‘My queen, King Venutios, may I suggest that if we talk further it is in private. Such discussions should not be held in the hearing of the entire township where who knows what wind will carry Venutios’s doubts to the four corners of Albion and to our enemies, if such they be.’ He gave a grim smile.

Venutios glared at him aggressively. ‘Right. But my wife and I will talk in private and we will talk alone, Culann.’ Venutios moved towards the queen’s house.

‘Vellocatus, my friend, send these folks back to their work and see my men are settled in their encampment and I will speak to you later.’ He turned back to Culann. ‘I will come to your lodging after I have spoken to my wife. I have word from nys Môn.’

He strode after Carta, ducking into the entrance behind her. Inside he dismissed her women.

Carta opened her mouth to contradict, but already they had fled. She rounded on him. ‘Is what you have to tell me so private my ladies are to be sent away like slaves? That you dismiss a senior Druid like a horse boy?’

‘Yes.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Culann will understand. Now, listen to me once and for all. Why did Artgenos not attend the Archdruid on Môn when he was summoned to the meeting of the most senior Druids? They came from as far away as Armorica and eastern Gaul to consult our gods.’

‘Artgenos is no longer strong, Venutios.’ Carta felt suddenly guilty. He had asked her permission to leave her and travel to the Island of Môn and she had begged him not to go. She had not forbidden his journey. Not even the high queen of Brigantia could forbid a Druid from visiting one of the most sacred places on earth but he had sighed and agreed she needed him with her. She did not know that he had consulted the gods as well and they had warned him to stay close to her, that he would be needed in Brigantia and soon, or of his despair when his illness had made him so weak he could not come with her to Elmet.

Venutios was staring at Carta, his eyes narrowed. ‘Something is different about you.’ It was as if he had only just looked at her.

She gave a faint smile. ‘I am with child.’

His face lit with delight, then it darkened again. ‘Mine?’

‘Of course yours, husband. There has been no one else –’ She paused.

No one save the Roman.

He saw the doubt in her eyes at once. Again he seized her wrist. ‘So, the great queen has had lovers while I was away.’

‘I take whomever I like to my bed, Venutios, as does every free-born woman. Do not question me!’ she flared at him. She refused to let him cow her.

‘I’ll question you on this. I’ll question every man, woman and child in this township. I’ll question your bards and your servants and your slaves. Don’t doubt it, woman! I’ll not recognise a child that is not mine.’ His voice was rising in fury.

‘It is yours.’ She wrenched her wrist away from him. ‘Ask Mairghread. She saw I was breeding before you left.’

‘But still you took a lover!’ He leaned closer to her. ‘I saw it in your eyes. Who?’

‘I told you, Venutios. Whoever it was, if there was such a person, it was my business. It is not for you to question me.’

‘And I told you, Cartimandua, that it is my business – ‘He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. ‘Is he here, in Elmet?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t free herself from his grip as she struggled, too proud to call for help. Closing her eyes she breathed deeply, trying to calm her panic.

He pulled her against him. ‘My lovely, honourable queen –’

‘No.’ She turned her head away from him.

‘Now, who I wonder, would lure you into his bed? Who, amongst the warriors and princes of Brigantia could tempt a queen?’

‘Stop it, Venutios!’

‘I need to know. I need to know who could have sired the child that will call me father.’

‘It was you, Venutios.’ He was holding her arm so tightly she thought the bones would crack. ‘Ask Mairghread.’

‘Perhaps I will.’ He turned and shouted towards the doorway. Mairghread came in so fast it was obvious she had heard every word.

‘So, Mairghread, tell me. Has my wife entertained a man alone while I was away?’

‘No, my king.’ Mairghread was pale. ‘No one save Artgenos and Culann.’ There was a pause. ‘And the Roman.’

There was a long silence. Venutios felt the tension in her body like a charge. Slowly he dropped her arm.

‘So. I do not suspect the Druids. Such would be a treason against their gods and against their own wives. But the Roman.’ He paused, then suddenly he was shouting. ‘So now we know why you are so keen on this Roman alliance, so eager to please, so anxious to flatter. They fascinate you, do they, wife? They intrigue you, these powerful men? And was he good? Was he as strong as a Brigantian warrior? Was he as virile? Did he satisfy you? Did you reward him for his dalliance, or did he reward you?’

Grabbing her by the shoulders he shook her hard, then spitefully he punched her in the stomach. ‘That is what I think of the Roman. And that!’ Another blow, harder this time, that left her doubled up on the floor, retching.

With a furious bark Sun launched himself at Venutios’s throat. With a yell of fury he dragged a knife from his belt and thrusting it into the dog’s side he pushed the animal away from him and stood panting as with a scream of pain Sun fell to the floor, twitching, then lay still.

Carta let out a cry of agony, reaching in despair for the dog as he drew back his foot and aimed another kick at the animal’s body.

‘My lord! Stop!’ Mairghread was screaming. ‘The queen was with child before you left. Before the Roman came. It is your child, King Venutios. I swear it. May I be cast beyond the ninth wave if I tell a lie! Stop, my lord, please … !’

It was too late. Already the first blood was seeping through onto the skirt of Carta’s gown. Collapsing back onto the ground, she lost consciousness as Moon sniffed at her brother’s body and raised her head in a howl of misery.

Mairghread and two of her slaves carried Carta to her bed and called Gruoch to attend her. Venutios had gone and by dusk the Carvetians had packed their tents and vanished into the rolling mists. Carta was unaware of anything around her, lost in a swirling sea of pain. As Gruoch bent over her sweating, contorted body she tossed and twisted and screamed in her agony.

Twice she awoke briefly, staring up at the roof above her bed. Putting her hand down to the bedside she felt Moon’s cold muzzle touch her fingers. The dog had refused to leave her and no one had the heart to force her out of the room. Hugging the animal in despair, Carta closed her eyes and wept. Then she opened them and screamed at Venutios in her anger and her pain, calling down the curses of the gods against him. Then she wept again. Hands tended her gently and changed her linen as she bled, and sponged her forehead. Through the haze she dimly recognised Gruoch’s gentle face bending over her. Another woman was there with her, helping, holding the silver bowl of rose water. Tossing and turning in her pain, Carta caught sight of the woman’s face in the dim light, as her veil slipped from her hair. She tensed, a shaft of terror cutting through the pain as the woman reached forward with the damp wash cloth and Carta cried out in fear. It was Medb.

‘You?’ She groaned as her body went into spasm again.

Medb smiled. ‘I am here to help, great queen.’ A touch of sarcasm tainted the words. ‘The lady Gruoch is my teacher.’ She lowered her eyes meekly, then rinsed the cloth once more in the silver basin of fragrant water and pressed it on Carta’s brow. ‘It is so sad, is it not, lady, that you can never bear a child,’ she whispered. ‘Never!’ For an instant the gentle smile was replaced by a look of utter hatred. As Carta struggled to sit up, the woman pushed her back against the pillow. ‘There is nothing you can do, Cartimandua,’ Medb whispered again. ‘Nothing you can do at all.’

When Carta awoke Gruoch was alone, with Mairghread to help her. By moonset she had been delivered of a tiny female foetus. By sun up Gruoch had given the child’s body to the gods.

III

‘Are you OK now?’ Pat had been watching her closely as Viv went on with the story. She was clutching the microphone after rescuing it from the rocks where it had fallen as Viv leaped to her feet.

Viv nodded, rubbing the tears from her eyes. ‘That was too real; too close! Childbirth is not something I know anything about!’ She shuddered. ‘And Medb. There, in the room.’ She looked up. ‘Did you know this was going to happen?’ She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘I don’t think I can do this any more. It was –’ She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.

‘It was awful.’ Pat did it for her. She was as much in shock as Viv. ‘No, I didn’t know that was going to happen. Do you think Gaius was the father?’ She perched on a flat piece of rock, her arms around her knees. Nearby a patch of bog cotton nodded in the breeze.

‘She swore he wasn’t.’

‘Of course she swore it, but do you think he could have been?’ Pat leaned forward and tucked the voice recorder into the small rucksack at her feet.

‘She had morning sickness before he arrived.’

‘She said it was food poisoning,’ Pat sighed. ‘Maybe she was lying. I suppose we’ll never know.’

Viv stood up. ‘Medb was there. You did know that was going to happen, didn’t you! She was there, as Gruoch’s helper.’

Pat shrugged. She smiled. ‘I told you this was Medb’s story as well.’

Viv rubbed her face with her hands. ‘Did she make Carta lose the baby?’

‘I think Venutios did that.’

Viv shuddered.

‘Every time you do this –’ Pat gave a wry smile, ‘– describing it all, the experience gets more vivid and more violent doesn’t it? Does it frighten you?’ She glanced up.

‘Yes, it does.’ Viv nodded.

‘But it’s exciting?’ Pat went on thoughtfully. ‘And you’re not going to stop, are you.’

Viv shook her head. Her misgivings were returning.

‘Aren’t you afraid of what might happen if Venutios gets too angry?’ Pat went on after a pause. ‘Supposing he hurts her. Supposing he kills her.’ There was a long silence.

‘He doesn’t,’ Viv said slowly. She wrapped her arms around herself miserably. ‘He doesn’t kill her and to my amazement she didn’t kill him! We know what happens. It’s all there, in the Roman histories.’

‘Is it?’ Pat raised an eyebrow. ‘But did they know the truth?’

‘Of course they did. Something important like this.’ Viv’s uncertainty was deepening.

‘Then why don’t we go on.’ Pat looked at her watch. ‘Peggy’s not expecting us back until supper. Why don’t we go on and find out what happened next.’

Viv hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. I think you want to know really badly. I think you want to know what happened to Medb.’ Pat smiled. She reached in her bag again. ‘And I think you’re going to tell me.’

Cartimandua had walked into the forest with Gruoch at her side, Mairghread following a few paces a behind, carrying a basket. It was nearly dusk. Two months had passed since her miscarriage, two months without a word or sign from Venutios, and the royal household had moved back to Dun Righ. For the first time in her life Carta had allowed Fergal to drive her almost all of the way. Her ponies were led at the back of the long train of horses and wagons as, sore and exhausted and still weak from loss of blood, she huddled in the chariot, Moon at her side, and for some of the journey even lay on a bed of rugs and furs in one of the wagons as it jostled over the rough mountain tracks.

Of Medb there had been no sign. She had vanished into the mists as though she had never been, and Gruoch, questioned about her assistant, had shrugged and admitted only that the woman had been knowledgeable, studious and keen to please.

Now, still tired and in pain, Carta moved slowly, her head held high by sheer willpower. The place of offering and sacrifice was shadowy in the mist which rose over the river and the falls. In the bushes clinging to the sides of the ravine, a blackbird let out its ringing alarm call. The women stopped.

‘Druidh dubh, the black watcher is guarding the entrance to other worlds. That is a good sign,’ Gruoch whispered. ‘He has announced you, and left the gateway open.’

Carta turned to Mairghread and held out her hands for the basket. Inside were two golden bangles, a bag of Roman coins and a carved wooden doll, the representation of a baby.

Taking them out, Carta gave the basket back and stepped forward to the edge of the falls alone, feeling the cold spray clinging to her skirts. She was at the sacred meeting place of the gods, between earth and water, between night and day, between forest and river, the place of nowhere and of no time. Behind her Mairghread and Gruoch withdrew along the bank of the river where the birch and ash, hazel and wych elm grew right down to the edge of the water, clustering thickly at the very edge of the torrent. Above them on the cliffs clung sacred yew trees, dark in the shadow of the rocks. Glancing at each other the two women stopped to wait.

Carta was alone.

‘Vivienne?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘Why did you take my baby from me? What must I do to bear a child?’ She stood staring out into the spray, the crude wooden baby cradled in her arms. ‘Sweet Lady, take this offering. Do not ask of me another child of my body. Save me from Medb’s curse, I implore you.’ Tears were pouring down her cheeks. ‘Bless me with fertility and strength.’ She stood for a long time without moving, waiting in silence. In the distance a bird cried once up on the moor high above her head. It was growing darker.

‘Vivienne? Why don’t you answer?’

Pat was smiling.

Viv swallowed. ‘Carta, I hear you,’ she said softly in her own voice. ‘This child was not meant to be. Say farewell, and leave her to the gods.’ She paused. ‘Go back. Become strong and well again. More babies will come in due time,’ Viv went on. ‘I can help you. I will see the curse is lifted.’

Pat frowned and shook her head. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’re not really a goddess!’ she mouthed.

Viv ignored her. ‘Farewell, Cartimandua, Queen of Brigantia. Tend your kingdom. Leave the rest to the gods.’

There was a long silence, then at last Viv’s voice resumed, speaking into the microphone. ‘She has kissed the doll’s head, pressed two fingers against its mouth in the sign of blessing and farewell and now she has thrown it into the waterfall where it disappears, sucked into the curtain of water. It bobs out for a moment on its torrential journey down the long fall then it is lost in the great whirlpool at the bottom. Now she has thrown in the bracelets and the bag of coins. They too are dragged out of sight. There is no chance the goddess is going to reject these. Her maw is ever greedy for gold. Carta watches the distant pool at the bottom for a long time, then she turns and walks slowly back along the bank towards the spot where her women are waiting amongst the trees.’

IV

The Reverend James Oakley lay back in his chair and surveyed his visitor with a certain smug pleasure as the two men sipped his best brandy. At his own suggestion Hugh had eaten with him and his wife Margaret, and now that Margaret had retired to her own little sitting room to watch TV, the two men had settled down to a comfortable gossip. Now that he was here Hugh found himself in no hurry to contact Viv. Venutios seemed a million miles away, a figment of his imagination, and the whole sorry episode was best forgotten. The rector had taken a while to fathom the fact that this Hugh Graham was THE Hugh Graham, the Celtic scholar. He had, it appeared, all of Hugh’s books in his library. He had also bought a copy of Cartimandua, Queen of the North.

‘Have you read it?’ Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow. He was not going to allow anything to spoil the evening.

‘Not yet, I must confess.’ James Oakley took a sip from his glass. ‘I read your review, of course.’ He glanced up cautiously.

Hugh smiled. ‘I feel now that I was a bit hard on her but then I’m a purist.’ He crossed his legs, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his knee. ‘Tell me,’ he changed the subject hastily, ‘do you know the Steadmans? Their son is one of my graduate students.’

‘Peg and Gordon?’ James nodded. ‘Salt of the earth. Gordon’s family have farmed around here for hundreds of years.’

‘They run a B&B, I gather?’

James laughed. ‘Indeed. Much more elaborate than this, I fear. Margaret and I have only the one room. Well, one and a half, perhaps. I think they have about six. It’s a rambling old place.’

Nodding, Hugh thought for a few seconds. ‘I believe that Dr Lloyd Rees is staying there. To research a new enterprise. She believes Cartimandua lived upon Ingleborough.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction, his eyes on the golden liquid in his glass.

James shrugged. ‘Who knows. She must have come from somewhere. It is frustrating, you must admit, to know we may never be able to find out more about our more distant past. If only they had written something down!’

‘Of course forensic archaeology improves all the time.’ Was it Viv who had pointed out that very fact to him? Hugh took another small sip, unsure if he would be offered a top up, and so making the glorious experience last. ‘I would like to stroll up there while I’m here. This is not an area I know at all, I’m sorry to say.’

‘A bit more than a stroll, old boy.’ James smiled. ‘But you look fit and dapper. You could do it all right. The forecast is good for tomorrow. Perhaps you should take the opportunity while it’s nice. And do please feel free to use the phone if you want to ring the Steadmans. I’m afraid most people’s mobiles don’t work around here.’

Hugh gave a small smile by way of acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps I’ll just surprise them,’ he said.