32

I

Carta and Venutios were at Dinas Dwr. ‘The ramparts are nearly finished.’ Venutios strode along the inside of the wall approvingly. ‘But they will still have to be strengthened in places. They would not withstand an attack.’

‘There will be no attack.’ Cartimandua turned her back on the wall and surveyed the township which had swelled in size to fill the huge area inside the new walls. Houses, workshops, granaries, store houses, craftsmen’s dwellings, sweat houses, temple, barns, all prosperous and new, together with a new parade ground where the young men of the township were playing Hurley, had sprung up around the main central enclosure within which stood the great round house.

Some of the round houses were linked now by passages. Her private lodging, her bedroom, her meeting house led off the high council chambers to the west. The guest house was in the far side of the compound and between were a dozen new dwellings.

‘There will undoubtedly be an attack.’

They had been quarrelling all day. Sometimes, it felt to Carta, all their lives. He was pushing at her constantly, undermining her, countermanding her orders. He leaned back against the warm stone and squinted into the sun. ‘Don’t delude yourself, woman. These Romans are not going to be content to stop at the Trisantona. Once they have caught their breath they will cross the river and start looking north!’

‘When will you believe that the Romans are our allies.’ Carta sighed wearily. ‘They won’t attack unless we provoke them.’

‘But we will provoke them.’ Venutios laughed grimly. ‘As soon as we’re ready, that is exactly what we’ll do.’

She narrowed her eyes. So, it started again. Would he never learn? ‘Luckily you are in no position to dictate the policy of Brigantia.’

‘No?’ He glared at her. ‘I think you’ll find I am. Culann will be chief Druid to the Brigantians after Artgenos’s time. He is for a war. So is Artgenos, if truth were told. And my brother. Brucetos has a good head on his shoulders. He studies the way the Romans think. And the men. Ask every chieftain and king when they assemble here for Samhain. To a man they will follow me.’

‘Then they will die as rebels.’ She drew herself upto her full height. ‘Don’t defy me, Venutios. You cannot deny that I have brought peace and prosperity to my people. Look at this place if you do not believe me. And I do not intend to let it all slip through my fingers.’

‘Pah!’ He looked at her in exasperation. ‘No one wants peace. And prosperity can be obtained by force. All we need to do is capture some Roman wagons and liberate some of the stores they extort from the peoples they have conquered. Have you any idea of the amount of grain they are demanding from the next harvest? Men and women and children will starve, while the legions grow fat!’

‘Then it is our duty to try and persuade them to lessen the burden of taxation. But we will not do it by adding ourselves to the list of their victims.’ Her voice had grown hard. ‘Leave me, Venutios. Your endless hectoring bores me.’

‘Does it indeed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you left me to deal with these matters and turn to something less complicated, wife. Politics obviously confuses you!’

She could feel the anger boiling up inside her. Their truces were so short-lived and every time they were ended by a quarrel; a quarrel which each time was more violent. More bitter. ‘Don’t insult me, Venutios! The gods will not tolerate such infamy and neither will I.’ Nevertheless, it was she who turned and walked away from him, aware that many pairs of eyes were watching surreptitiously.

That night he came to her bedchamber after the meal. He was very drunk. Tripping in the doorway, he almost fell into the room.

‘So, wife.’ He slurred his words. ‘I think it is time to put another child into your womb. A Brigantian child, who will fight against Rome alongside his father.’ He staggered towards her.

Carta was sitting in the lamplight playing gwyddbwyll with Mairghread. As Venutios approached them he staggered, knocking the wooden board off the chest between them scattering the little silver and gold pieces in all directions.

Carta stood up, furious. ‘Lay one finger on me and I will call my guards. I forbid you to touch me.’

As Mairghread retreated into the outer chamber, Carta dodged away but he lunged after her and caught her arm. ‘My beautiful, vicious wife. It is time for bed –’

She wrenched herself away from him and he cursed, grabbing at her. She lurched away from him again, tearing her gown, and gasped as he slapped her hard across the face.

Her punch to the side of his head sent him reeling. He lost his grip on her and fell to his knees.

‘That is the last time you attack me!’ she hissed at him. Her lip was bleeding. ‘The last time you hit me! Leave this house now.’

‘Never, my love.’ He gave a drunken laugh. ‘Not till I have sired that little Roman-hater!’ He threw himself after her, slipped and, cursing, landed once more on his knees. He was clawing at her when Culann walked into the room with Mairghread behind him.

‘Venutios, do you dare to hit your wife?’ The Druid’s voice cut like acid though the sound of Venutios’s heavy breathing.

‘Oh yes, I dare.’ Venutios let out a furious bellow. ‘Indeed I dare. And I’ll hit her again if I can just lay my hands on her!’

‘That is enough!’ Carta spoke very quietly, but the tone of her voice had the effect of stopping Venutios in his tracks as she pulled her mantle more tightly round her shoulders. She grabbed at a rough linen towel hanging near the bronze basin on a stand beside the bed and dabbed at her lip. ‘This has happened too often. You conspire against me; you ally yourself to my enemies; you lay hands on me, your wife and your queen. And you come to me drunk and stinking! I divorce you, Venutios. You are no longer my husband. You have insulted me and betrayed me and threatened and assaulted me and I call on the laws of our peoples to end this marriage. I have more than enough just cause. I shall declare it tomorrow before the whole gathering.’

‘You can’t!’ He staggered away from her, sobering rapidly. ‘I am your husband before the gods.’

‘And you have betrayed your promises and your position. You have forfeited your status as my husband.’

‘She is right, Venutios.’ Culann spoke with rigid authority. ‘Leave this house now. We will consult with Artgenos in the morning and with the queen’s leave you may plead your case, but I do not believe her to be in the wrong.’

Carta turned her back on her husband. She walked over to the lamp, holding the towel to her face. ‘I shall not change my mind.’

‘Then may the gods protect you, woman!’ Venutios spat out the words. ‘Because you and I shall be at war!’

II

‘What an extraordinary story.’ The Reverend James Oakley had cooked dinner and proved himself an excellent chef. His wife, he explained, had retired to bed with a migraine. He and Hugh had finished the zabaglione which he had whipped up for dessert and had adjourned once more to the book-lined snug with their coffee and brandy. Apple logs smouldered in the fireplace and Hugh felt himself to be extraordinarily content. Or he would have been, but for a niggling sense of guilt and fear.

‘I have persecuted the woman. I confess it,’ he said slowly, astonished at himself for finding how comforting confession to a man of the cloth could be. ‘And now I’ve discovered why she’s been making these claims. This actress person –’ He said the words with the same distaste with which he would have described a peculiarly disgusting piece of litter sticking to his shoe, ‘has been encouraging her to go into some sort of trance and declaim like a Greek oracle while they record the process for a radio play.’

‘Really?’ James stared at him over the rims of his glasses. ‘How incredibly interesting. Some kind of spiritualist contact, you think? Or is she merely improvising?’

Hugh was contemplating the gently hissing logs. ‘Surely a man of your calling doesn’t believe in spiritualism?’

James sipped his brandy. ‘Not as a religion, of course. Or as a do-it-yourself shortcut to proof of the afterlife, but as a philosophical concept and as an esoteric reality, yes, I do.’

Hugh sat back in his chair. ‘You astound me.’ He shivered.

‘I’m surprised myself, that you as a historian don’t have an open mind to the cycles of existence,’ James went on mildly. ‘And as a Celticist, how could you not have absorbed some of the more palatable of their beliefs?’

Hugh chuckled. ‘More palatable? You mean not human sacrifice? I confess that that idea has occurred to me once or twice,’ he said dryly. He glanced at the bookshelves near him. ‘I see you have books on modern Druidry here as well as historical. I have to say that astonishes me. If you are a Christian, how can you study such a thing?’

‘The Druids have much to teach us, and I study it, as do quite a few Christians, including the Archbishop, as you know.’ James smiled in quiet reproof. ‘I think of it as a philosophy, not a religion. And as I told you I happen to believe the Druids may well have taught Our Lord.’

There was a long silence. Hugh leaned forward in his chair again and pulled a book from the shelf near him. ‘This one. By Meryn Jones. What do you think of him?’

‘A great scholar. And a genuine Druid in every sense.’ James smiled again.

‘I know him,’ Hugh said thoughtfully. ‘Like you he believes in intuitive knowledge and the reality of the supernatural. But I have great respect for his scholarship. His books are deeply intelligent. We have often agreed to differ, but I wouldn’t hesitate to turn to him for advice on occasions.’ He paused. ‘I have turned to him.’

‘For instance in the matter of your enthusiastic playwrights and the shade of Cartimandua?’ James probed gently.

Hugh nodded. ‘This all worries me. I can’t get the sound of Viv declaiming to the heavens out of my head. I should have been impressed. I was impressed, but it frightened me. A great deal about this frightens me.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I tell you a bit more about it?’

James listened in silence as Hugh, at first hesitantly and then with more and more candour related what had been happening to him. ‘I am terrified that I shall find myself doing something I have no control over. Venutios wants Cartimandua dead. I’m not sure even now, if this man, this person, this spirit,’ he hesitated, unable to describe Venutios with any certainty. ‘My character, the hero of my book, the hero, no the villain of Viv’s book – is he haunting me? Possessing me? I don’t know. And I don’t know what to do.’

‘What about Meryn Jones, where does he fit in?’ James was studying Hugh through half-closed eyes.

Hugh shrugged. ‘I phoned him. But I didn’t wait. There was no time.’

‘Does he know where you are?’

Hugh shook his head.

‘In my opinion it might be wise to call him. I am very willing to help, old chap, but I don’t think my brand of spirituality will be of much use when it comes to banishing an Iron Age king.’

‘No! We don’t need Meryn.’ It was a flat denial.

James frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He put down his brandy glass.

‘I said no.’ Hugh shook his head violently. There was a buzzing in his ears which alarmed him. ‘And I don’t need you.’ He stood up agitatedly. Something was happening. Venutios was there in the room with them. ‘I need to see Viv. And I need to get that brooch back. She said she had hidden it. I have to find out where.’

‘Maybe. But not tonight.’ James spoke quietly but there was a firmness in his voice which pulled Hugh up. ‘Go in the morning,’ he went on. ‘Have another brandy and relax now. I am sure nothing can be done in the dark.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Hugh sat down restlessly. He noticed that James was studying him with some care. ‘Can you see him?’ he asked abruptly.

James looked thoughtfully down at his hands. ‘I’m not sure. I am not in any way psychic, to my intense sorrow,’ he smiled. ‘But I do get a very strong impression –’

‘God Almighty!’ Hugh leaped to his feet. ‘What?’

‘A shadow. A presence in here with us.’

‘And it doesn’t scare you?’ Hugh’s eyes widened.

‘No.’

‘Well, it scares me.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to get out of here!’ Turning, he headed for the door and let himself out into the night.

III

Tiptoeing down the landing, Viv paused outside Pat’s room. There was no sound from inside. ‘Pat?’ Cautiously she knocked. ‘Pat, are you there?’ There had been no sign of Pat all evening. She tried the handle. The door opened. The room inside was dark and she reached for the light switch. The window was open and the curtain flapped in the wind as she surveyed the litter of Pat’s clothes and papers and books. Her headphones and a pile of CDs lay on the table beside her laptop. She had disappeared.

Turning out the light, she pulled the door closed and crept to the top of the stairs. The light was on in the hallway but there was no sound from any of the rooms. Her heart in her mouth, she made her way downstairs. Pat. Peggy. Hugh. Suddenly they were all enemies. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to leave, to run away and never come back. Only one thing stopped her. Carta. The voice was there, in her head, constant and insistent until she thought she too was going mad.

The farm office, beside the front door, was in darkness. Quietly she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Picking up the phone she stood for a moment listening to the silence in the house behind her, then she punched in the number of Steve’s mobile. The sound of his voice, even as a recorded message was reassuring. ‘Steve? It’s Viv. Can you come back to the farm? I need you. Please. It’s really urgent.’ She slotted the receiver gently back onto its base, then she paused, staring round. She had heard something; a slight scraping sound on the flagstones in the hall. She froze. She wasn’t alone after all. There was someone standing immediately outside the room. She could hear breathing. Soundlessly she flattened herself against the wall, waiting for the door to open. It didn’t and after a minute she heard cautious footsteps heading down the passage. Seconds later the front door opened. It closed again and she was left with a cool waft of night air, then nothing. Whoever it was, had gone.

Silently she pulled open the office door and ran on tiptoe to the front window. Pat was hurrying up the path. She let herself out of the gate into the lane and turned up towards the hill.

Without a sound Viv eased open the door and with a cautious look back at the sleeping house, followed her.

Pat walked swiftly up the track to the steps over the wall, climbed over them and set off across the hillside, walking easily in the bright moonlight. Cautiously Viv followed her, hoping she wouldn’t turn round. Once they were on the open hill there was nowhere to hide. Almost at once Pat veered off the track across the rough grass, skirting limestone outcrops and tell-tale patches of bog cotton with ease. Viv walked more slowly. This was dangerous country but Pat seemed to know exactly where she was going. She was heading for the limestone pavement. Her heart in her mouth, Viv closed the gap between them, out of breath now as she hurried on. Pat was walking at the most extraordinary speed, heading directly for the spot where Viv had hidden the brooch.

Medb.

Medb knew where she had put it and she mustn’t be allowed to get her hands on it!

Stumbling on the rough ground, Viv swore to herself. How was it possible that this was happening? Hurrying again, she tripped and half fell, catching her knee on an outcrop of rock. A shaft of pain shot through her leg, but already Pat was drawing away again. Forcing herself to her feet, Viv stood up and hurried on, limping.

Reaching the pavement, Pat climbed onto it and at last she stopped, looking round. Viv was only about ten yards from her when Pat turned and looked back the way she had come. Viv froze but Pat didn’t seem to see her. Viv could see her face clearly in the moonlight. It was closed and angry and in a strange way totally blank. Viv crept closer. ‘Pat?’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing?’

Pat continued her scan of the horizon as if looking for landmarks. Slowly she turned away from Viv. There had been no hint of recognition in her face. Viv bit her lip, trying to steady her breathing. She crept closer. ‘Pat? Can you hear me?’

Again there was no response.

Turning, Pat walked a few steps further on. The pavement was like moon rock beneath the moonlight, the stunted thorns contorted figures throwing black skeletal fingers of shadow across the fissures in the smooth limestone, leading deep into the underworld. Viv stared round. By this strange eerie light she couldn’t tell herself where she had hidden the brooch. Every area of rock, every thorn, looked the same. She felt a bolt of panic shoot through her. What if she couldn’t find it again herself?

Pat moved on, looking down now at her feet. ‘Where is it?’ Her voice was clear in the silence of the night.

Viv was only a couple of yards from her now. ‘Leave it, Pat,’ she whispered. ‘You won’t find it.’

Pat didn’t react.

‘Leave it, Medb,’ Viv tried again. ‘The brooch is not for you.’

Nothing. In the distance a flicker on the horizon showed where another storm was drifting across the hills. She could smell the rock and the grass and the pale, sweet meadowsweet growing in the deep cracks in the stone around her feet.

‘It’s gone, Medb. Back to the gods,’ Viv whispered.

Pat moved on a few steps. She stared round again, pausing as she looked at Viv, so close beside her, then looking away without comment, continuing her sweep of the countryside. ‘It must be here,’ she said, suddenly. She sounded petulant. Was it Pat’s voice, or Medb’s? Viv wasn’t sure. ‘But there is nowhere to hide it.’

Viv smiled. On the contrary, there were a thousand places to hide it; the problem would be finding the right one.

‘You won’t find it, Pat,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s go home. The storm is coming back.’

‘I have to find it.’ Pat’s voice suddenly sounded nervous. Viv wasn’t sure if she was responding to her or speaking to herself. ‘I can’t go without it.’

‘You have to go without it. It’s gone. The gods have taken it.’ Viv grimaced. For all she knew that was true, and she couldn’t look for it herself with Pat here. There was a rumble of thunder from far away. ‘Did you hear that? Come on. You don’t want to get wet again.’

Pat walked a few paces further on. She was standing very near one of the twisted thorn trees. Its shadow lay before it, a grotesque silhouette across the ground, but was it the right one? Viv bit her lip. She was looking down studying the area as behind them black shadows were racing across the limestone as clouds streamed across the sky. The wind was rising; she could hear it moaning in the distance. The fells were coming alive with the sounds of the night and suddenly they were enveloped in darkness as the clouds obscured the moon. Viv didn’t dare move. ‘Pat?’ There was no response. ‘Pat, be careful. One could so easily fall in the dark.’ Why hadn’t she brought a torch, that was stupid. ‘Pat, can you hear me?’ She was no longer whispering.

A patch of moonlight showed up in the distance, illuminating part of the ramparts above them. It shifted and the spot of moonlight moved swiftly across the ground towards them. It reached Viv’s feet and she gasped. Pat had gone.

She scanned the rocks desperately, and at last saw a movement in the distance. Pat was walking back the way they had come, once again moving with astonishing speed down the hillside. As she plunged into the darkness, she did not appear to slow down.

It took Viv a long time to find her own way back to the track and walk down to the farm. The house was once more bathed in moonlight as she opened the gate and headed up the path. There was no sign of Pat. Pushing open the front door, Viv stood for a moment in the hall, listening, before creeping upstairs and back to her own room. She had no idea if Pat had come back and she was not sure if she cared.

IV

‘Steve? … I need you!’

When Steve picked up Viv’s message he was sitting in the almost empty bar of a small pub in the Scottish borders. He frowned, glancing at his watch. If he got in the car now he could be back at the farm in the early hours. He glanced at the half-drunk pint on the table in front of him and pushing it away, got up and walked out into the rain.

He had had no luck in tracing his father. Every possible avenue he had followed had drawn a blank and he was seriously worried. More than worried. Frightened. He had even driven upto see his sister in Stirling. That was where he had been earlier in the day, wondering if Gordon had gone to his daughter’s and asked her not to tell Peggy where he was. It turned out that she had been telling him the truth when she said on the phone that she hadn’t seen their father for months. Now she was as worried as he was.

Pulling open the car door he threw himself inside with a sigh. What could have happened to upset Viv? She had sounded really scared. Backing out of the car park he swung the car onto the deserted road and put his foot down, his anxiety deepening with every second.

Cartimandua. Pat. Medb. Peggy. The energies whirling round the farmhouse had been building for days. It had been a relief to get away, but he hadn’t stopped thinking about Viv.

He would never stop thinking about Viv.

She was fond of him, he knew that. The fact that she could turn to him in a crisis proved she relied on him. If Hugh would just bugger off and leave her alone she would be able to relax and enjoy her success. And maybe see what was under her nose. That he, Steve, was there for her. Was always there for her when she needed him.

He swore as a signpost flashed towards him out of the rain and he hauled the car onto a side road. It was a shortcut home.