Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘So, child. What do they call you?’ His voice was deep and melodious. He took his hand away and she felt for a moment bereft.

  ‘My birth name was Áine. Radiance. But my brothers call me Sleek Pony.’ She shrugged in acceptance. ‘Cartimandua.’

  ‘And does it suit you, this new name?’ He was smiling.

  Her father answered for her. ‘Indeed it does.’ He gave a roar of laughter. ‘Carta is a child of Epona and no mistake.’ A huge muscly arm encircled her bony shoulders and he gave her a bear hug.

  ‘And what does your mother plan for you?’ The stranger was looking down at her thoughtfully.

  ‘Nothing. Or if she does, there is no point.’ Carta looked up at him and fixed him with large eyes which were in some lights blue-grey and in others the green of the mountain lakes. ‘I am going to be a queen.’

  Her father’s shout of laughter was echoed by the men and women around them who had overheard the exchange. It was warm, loving laughter. She was popular, their leader’s small daughter, much loved and much admired for her courage and her wild beauty.

  The stranger didn’t laugh. He was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Who told you this, child? Your mother?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘The Lady.’

  She saw his pupils dilate as he held her gaze and she felt a moment of fear. ‘She speaks to me when I’m by myself sometimes,’ she said defiantly. ‘She is called Vivienne.’

  A hush had fallen on the hall. The stranger was nodding wisely. ‘Remind me, Bellacos. This child is a daughter of Brigantia. Through your blood a daughter of the Setantii. But also of the Trinovantes through her mother, is that not so?’

  Carta’s father sobered rapidly. He shot a quick glance across his daughter’s head towards their guest. ‘Indeed. The bards tell us that her mother’s mother’s mother was the daughter of Mandubraccios of the Trinovantes. After his death, his wife, also a princess of Brigantia, of the Corionototae, brought her home to her people here in the north. It was not safe to remain in the south. Cassevellaunus’s heirs were hunting for anyone of his blood. To wipe them out.’

  ‘And your mother’s line?’

  ‘The daughter of the king of the Textoverdi.’

  ‘So. This little one has many lines of royal blood in her veins. A bloodline which makes you the most likely choice as next high king of the Brigantes in your turn.’ The Druid stroked his chin for a moment. ‘And she has no sisters? Only brothers?’ When Bellacos nodded he thought for several more moments, then abruptly he made to stand up. ‘I will retire to consult with the gods. Her destiny is written, Bellacos, and she knows it.’

  Bellacos’s mouth dropped open. ‘But she is only a child.’ ‘Children grow up, my friend.’ The Druid had climbed to his feet. He rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘And the time may come when there is no one else of the royal blood to lead your people. When you and your sons and your brothers’ sons have gone to join the gods she may be the only one left of the family.’ In the silence that followed everyone held their breath. He was foretelling not only Carta’s future, but the death of the king and of his sons. His eyes held those of his host calmly. What the gods ordained would come to pass whatever attempts were made to circumvent their plans. ‘If it is her destiny,’ he went on into the silence,‘if she is to be chosen as queen, then she will need to be trained for her life to come and no longer allowed to run wild with the ponies.’ He touched Carta lightly on the forehead with his index finger. ‘I will look into the future for her tonight. Tomorrow we will speak further.’

  IV

  Hugh Graham was sitting at his desk at home in his grey stone Gothic house behind its tall hedges of laurels in the pretty village of Aberlady. The story of Venutios was ringing in his head. Cursing, he tried once again to banish it. The notes on his desk were about the Roman invasion; legionary dispersements; the south of England. He had not yet reached the part of his book where he would concentrate on the Brigantes, let alone the story of Venutios. He was wishing profoundly that he hadn’t mentioned the book to Viv. He had implied that it was to be about the Brigantian king, and it wasn’t. Oh yes, Venutios would feature in it, indeed play an important part, but not to the exclusion of all else, so why was the man’s story suddenly obsessing him like this?

  He glared at the piles of books around him. It was the third time he had sat down. He had been walking restlessly up and down the floor, unable to settle at anything since his interview with Viv. He frowned in irritation. He should be in the department this morning; had had two important appointments this afternoon which now he had been forced to ask the departmental secretary to reschedule. Why?

  Why had he left in such a hurry after Viv had stormed out yesterday? Too much of a hurry to check where the brooch was in the litter of his desk and lock it up for safe-keeping. That worried him. He was treating it with almost deliberate carelessness and he wasn’t sure why. He shivered. He hadn’t wanted Viv to touch it for a very good reason. It felt poisonous. When, cautiously, with his fingertips because he had no special gloves on, he had touched it himself, he had almost dropped it, appalled by the cold sense of evil the thing exuded.

  So, why had he left it on his desk at all? Because for some insane reason he had wanted it to sit, if only for a few moments, in a ray of clean, hot sunshine. For a few seconds he contemplated the irrationality of the thought.

  The atmosphere in the room had been Viv’s fault of course, not the brooch’s. The anger she had left behind her had been tangible. No one could settle down to work after that. He sighed, even more irritated with himself to find he was thinking about her again, especially considering the annual review upon which he was supposed to be working. He dragged his attention to the backlog of papers on his desk.

  The exams had gone well this year. There would be fewer resits over all, and none in the second year and that was largely down to Viv. She was a good teacher, he had to admit it. He frowned. She was also an infuriating woman, wasting her life with this popular - and there was no doubt it would be popular - claptrap !

  He pushed his chair back again and went to stare out of the window at his garden. It was a mess. Alison used to adore the garden. Perhaps it had taken the place of the children they had never had. She had had green fingers. Everything she touched flourished. It was as if all her life force had seeped away into the flowers, leaving her with nothing of her own to fight the vicious cancer that had taken her in only seven short months.

  ‘Look after my plants, Hughie.’ She had reached out to take his hand only a day or two before she died. ‘I know you. You’ll stick your head in your books and forget them.’

  She had indeed known him so well.

  He cleared his throat loudly and walked back to his desk, staring down at the letter lying there on top of all the other papers. It was about the funding of research projects in his department. With an angry exclamation he noticed Viv’s name was still there. Snatching up his pen he scratched through it three times. The odd thing was he could picture Viv’s hurt and anger so clearly he could almost see her standing there in the room with him, with her unruly red hair and vivid eyes, a vision which recurred strangely often. In the silence of the house he could imagine Viv’s voice. Her peels of laughter; her irreverence. Even the thought of her anger made the place seem less lonely. He scowled and drew the pen through her name a fourth time before throwing the letter down on the blotter.

  Alison had liked Viv. ‘She’s a natural historian, Hugh.’ She had giggled at the unintended ambiguity of the phrase. ‘Instinctive. Women can make leaps of deduction which turn out to be right, you know.’ She would have loved Viv’s article in the Sunday Times and the profile of Viv herself, devoured every word and rung Viv to enthuse about it for hours on the phone.

  One of Alison’s favourite excursions had been to drive out to Traprain Law with its Iron Age fort; to stand, staring out at the view from the top, or to go on perhaps towards the Lammermuir
s or down to the Eildon Hills, where he had scattered her ashes, the magical, Celtic hills where Thomas the Rymer met the faery queen, and where King Arthur sleeps with his knights. He shook his head in exasperation. No wonder she had liked Viv. They had both been wrapped up in all this myth and magic, legends and pseudo Celticism, fun in its own way, but not real. Never real. He had tried so hard to put her right, explained that the population densities around these great hill forts would have been high, probably far higher than today if aerial photography and archaeology were anything to go by. A crowded landscape of farms and round houses, walls and tracks, centred on a central township, which would probably have been a settlement already for some two thousand years at least before the Iron Age. A real, busy, populated place, not some misty magical other-worldly fairy land. And even if Alison had not been able to get her head around the reality beyond the myth, Viv should be able to. Viv of all people should understand the realities of history.

  Picking up his keys he abandoned the desk and the departmental review, left the house and headed for his car. He always found solace in the bracing air of the hills. There he could clear his head and concentrate on a new and strangely persistent backdrop to the lonely song of the skylark. The voice of Venutios.

  V

  Cathy had invited Viv to supper the following Sunday. Her partner, Pete Maxwell opened the door. He was tall, painfully thin, with skimpy hair and the deeply tanned complexion of a man who has spent most of his life in the sun.

  ‘Sorry, I’m early.’ She handed him two bottles of wine she had picked up at the nearest off-licence and reached up to kiss his cheek.

  ‘Always good to see you, Viv, you know that.’ He glanced warily out onto the landing. ‘I’m expecting my ex with my daughter. Once she’s dropped her off I can relax,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  Viv grimaced in sympathy. Over the years she had heard a lot about Pete’s marriage from Cathy. The current point of contention was the daughter of the marriage, Tasha. Until now she had been no problem. She went to school in Edinburgh and had lived with her mother in Cramond. Holidays had been divided between Sweden and Scotland but now Greta wanted her to go to school in Sweden. Pete, dear laid-back Pete, hadn’t really thought about it at all. Problem? What problem? Tasha wanted to live with them in the term time and stay at school in Scotland. Something that ought to be OK in theory but of course it wouldn’t be. Greta, she gathered from Cathy, would see to that.

  ‘Cathy’s in the kitchen. Come through.’ Pete turned and led the way down the corridor.

  Cathy was peeling potatoes. ‘Hi, Viv. Grab yourself a glass. Did Pete tell you, Tasha is joining us.’

  ‘He did.’ Viv poured herself some wine as Pete disappeared into the depths of the flat to answer the phone in his study.

  ‘Let me do those.’ Viv perched on the bar stool at the worktop.

  As Cathy handed over the peeler she glanced at Viv’s face. ‘You look a bit peaky. Are you OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ Viv gouged a potato viciously. ‘Well, sort of.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘Call me paranoid!’ She took a gulp from the glass. ‘But I think I’m being haunted.’ She hadn’t meant to say it; but the words were out before she could call them back.

  ‘Haunted?’ Cathy frowned. ‘By whom? Or what? I hope you don’t mind bangers and mash. That’s the one thing I can be sure Tasha will eat.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Viv grinned. ‘You know me. I love my nosh.’ She reached for another spud. ‘By Cartimandua, I suppose. By the book.’ Now that it was out she couldn’t stop herself. She gave a small shudder. ‘I suppose I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms.’

  Cathy glanced up at her as she laid the sausages out in a grill pan. ‘It sounds very likely. So, what exactly are the symptoms?’

  Viv shrugged. ‘An inability to separate myself from the story, I suppose.’ She kept the description deliberately vague.

  ‘I think you should start a new book as soon as you’ve got this play sorted.’ Cathy put the sausages under the grill. ‘Start incubating the next child.’

  Viv gave wry nod. ‘I thought it would be to do with umbilical cords. It’s all a bit physical, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Cathy picked up her own glass. She stood for a moment, thoughtful. ‘Yes, it really is. After all, you’ve been living with that book for, what, two years? It was bound to be a shock to your system to stop writing suddenly. I bet you were longing to finish and get it over and another part of you was dreading it. In fact, I know that’s how you feel . You’ve more or less said so.’

  ‘Have I?’ Viv looked surprised. ‘Well, I was right, I suppose. And I wanted Hugh to be supportive. I thought he would be. I suppose I thought the book would make him acknowledge the fact that I am an authority on my subject.’

  ‘And it’s done the opposite.’ Cathy was watching her over the rim of the glass.

  ‘Quite the opposite. It’s stupid, but you, know, I feel really disappointed now that the anger has worn off a bit.’

  Behind her the doorbell rang. Moments later they heard voices in the hall.

  Viv watched amused as a tall, blonde woman appeared in the doorway followed by her daughter, a small, slim child with her mother’s pale hair and delicate features. There was no sign of Pete. ‘Cathy, you will have to take Tasha to the orthodontist after school tomorrow, and she wants new sandals for the summer. I won’t have time at the end of term before I take her to Sweden, so you must do it. I have written down the makes that are acceptable.’ The woman put a piece of paper down on the worktop.

  ‘Greta, I don’t think you’ve met my friend, Viv.’ Cathy ignored the paper.

  Greta glanced at Viv briefly and nodded. She didn’t smile. ‘I have to go. Don’t let Tasha stay up late as you did last weekend.’ Her accent was very faint, her words precise.

  ‘I thought you might stay and have supper with us, Greta.’ Cathy’s expression was eager. Too eager. Viv suppressed a smile.

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ The glance Greta threw around the kitchen implied incipient botulism at the very best. In a moment she had gone, without goodbyes to her daughter or Pete who were hovering in the hallway, leaving only a faint whiff of expensive scent behind her.

  As the door closed, Cathy and Viv subsided into giggles. ‘What would you have done if she had said yes?’ asked Viv weakly.

  ‘Died of shock.’ Cathy sobered with an effort.

  ‘Does she always behave like that?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Wow.’ Viv took another deep swig from her glass. ‘And what is the daughter like?’ It seemed incredible that she had never met Cathy’s almost-stepdaughter and her mother before, but Cathy was usually careful to keep Pete’s family at arm’s length from her friends.

  ‘I’m very fond of her, but she can be a handful, I have to admit.’

  As Viv was about to find out.

  ‘I have become a vegetarian! How could you eat poor dead animals!’ Tasha had taken one look at the table and the pan of sizzling brown sausages and assumed an expression of extreme disgust, so like the one her mother had displayed only minutes before.

  ‘No probs.’ Cathy was unfazed. ‘Eat the mash and vegetables and tomorrow we’ll go and buy some special stuff at Sainsbury’s on the way to the orthodontist. I think you’re quite right, you know. It’s much more healthy to be a veggie.’ She put three sausages on Viv’s plate. ‘Help yourself to onion gravy, Viv. No, sorry, Tash. It’s non-vegetarian.’

  The child was staring at her plate. ‘Mummy thinks potatoes make you fat,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Mummy is probably right.’ Cathy shrugged. ‘So, just peas, then?’

  Pete was sitting in silence, watching the scene. Viv thought there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘There are some tomatoes in the fridge, Tash.’

  ‘Dad! You know I hate tomatoes.’ The child was almost in tears.

  ‘You know …’ Viv thought it was time she said something helpful. ‘As those are free-range sausages, and organic -
organic, Cathy?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Cathy nodded firmly.

  ‘They come from happy, healthy animals. It is tremendously important to support organic and free-range husbandry. Unless we do, farm animals will go on being treated badly.’

  Tasha frowned. ‘But my friend Susie says -’

  ‘Viv is a university lecturer, Tasha,’ Cathy said quietly. ‘She knows about these things.’

  ‘Have one sausage, Tasha, for the sake of the poor animals.’ Viv caught Cathy’s eye. ‘And you can eat the gravy too. For the same reason.’

  ‘This puts an interesting spin on the range of Celtic history.’ Cathy grinned. ‘You being an expert on free-range and organics and stuff. But then they did do human sacrifice, didn’t they. Were they cannibals, too? If they ate their victims they would obviously have been organic so I’m sure a few pork sausages wouldn’t have been a problem.’

  ‘What?’ Tasha threw down her knife and fork.

  ‘Joke.’ Cathy held up her hands. ‘Got you!’

  ‘Oh yuck!’ Tasha made a face. For a moment, as the plate was put down in front of her she hesitated and Viv watched in amusement to see if Cathy had mishandled the situation fatally. She needn’t have worried. Within seconds the child was tucking into her supper.

  They had all been eating for several minutes, enjoying the food and wine, when Viv noticed that Tasha had thrown several quick curious glances in her direction. Viv, still considering the concept of the organic Celts, met them with a grin but as Tasha stared at her more and more intensely she began to feel uncomfortable. ‘What is it, Tasha. Have I got a bird’s nest in my hair?’ she asked at last.