He pursed his lips.
Greta stared at her. Then turned to Pete. ‘What is this nonsense?’
‘As Cathy said, Greta. A joke. Take no notice.’ Pete glared at his daughter.
‘Well, I have no time for jokes. I have to go,’ Greta retorted. ‘Tasha!’ The name hurled across the kitchen made the child jump guiltily. Her hand was inside her mother’s purse.
‘Is this what you teach her?’ Greta grabbed the bag. The accusation was aimed at Cathy.
‘Certainly not.’ Cathy was flustered.
Tasha scowled. ‘Cathy was hiding from you, Mummy. In her study. She knew you were here and hid! She didn’t want you to know about the ghost. It was in there with them. It follows Viv everywhere.’
There was a moment of silence. The kitchen seemed to have gone cold as Viv looked around at their faces, Tasha’s smug, Greta’s lip curling with disdain, Pete frowning, Cathy astonished.
‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ Viv tried to smile and failed.
‘No, wait. Our consultation …’ Cathy reached out towards her.
‘Was brilliant. You’ve given me lots to think about.’ Viv gave an uncomfortable gesture of surrender. ‘Tell Pat I’m sorry. I’ll call her.’
Outside the door at the top of the stairs she paused, her heart thudding in terror.
Carta had been standing there next to her. Tasha was right. This time she had seen the hazy figure herself.
V
Slamming the door of her flat behind her, Viv tried to force herself to be calm. She sat down on the rocking chair and closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. Cathy was right! Her brain was dreaming up a story which her intellect had rejected. There was nothing sinister here. Tasha was only trying to stir things. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. The flat was unusually quiet and cold. She looked round nervously. It was several seconds before it dawned on her that the computer was switched on. She frowned.
Surely it had been off when she left home? Standing up reluctantly she moved across to her desk and sat down again in front of the screen. Beside the keyboard her answer machine was flashing. She ignored it.
Carta was pregnant. Ecstatic and excited, she stood for long periods, her hands gently cupped over her belly where as yet there was barely any sign of the life not yet quickened inside her. For now Medb was forgotten.
Riach was as excited as she was. He presented her with an exquisitely carved and decorated chariot and two matched ponies to pull it. ‘So you don’t need to ride when the child is larger.’ He rested his hand on the place where only moments before she had been stroking her own belly. ‘A soft and gentle ride for my son!’
The young charioteer was called Fergal. He was the son of a warrior, one of Riach’s older warrior comrades, elevated to a position of honour as her driver and her bodyguard.
She still rode daily, but the novelty of her own war cart was an exciting one and she planned excursions to visit the duns and homesteads of the women she had met at the Beltane and Lughnas-adh gatherings in the fort. Fergal drove her all over the territories of the Votadini. He was a serious young man, tall and well-built, with fair wavy hair and blue eyes. By inclination he would have preferred to study as a bard, and later maybe as a Druid, but his father was adamant that he should carry weapons in the king’s service and Fergal, good-natured and always willing to oblige, gave up his hopes. Driving the prince’s young wife was a perfect compromise. As he escorted her around the district he listened to bards and learned their songs. He carried his lyre in the war cart with his sword and spears.
Carta’s baby quickened at the time of the autumnal equinox as violent gales roared across the land from the west, tearing the leaves from the trees. The cailleach, goddess of the winter storm, had arrived early. It was time for hunting and reiving, the cattle raids which would augment the herds brought in for slaughter from the shielings. One man’s feasting is another man’s starvation. That was the way it was. No amount of grain would fill the belly in the same way as beef or mutton or venison salted down and stored away in safety for the long winter months.
‘Do you want to go with them, Fergal?’ Carta had been watching the young man’s face as Riach called his men together. They had been sharpening and polishing their weapons for days, drawing up plans, waiting for the runners to return with news of when the herds were being brought down from the pastures of neighbouring tribes. Rich pickings, with the added excitement of the chance to capture slaves and take prisoners for ransom.
‘I’d rather stay with you, lady.’ Fergal gave a rueful grin. ‘I have my orders. The king and Riach have spoken.’
‘Poor Fergal.’ Carta shook her head. ‘Watching women is not much fun. Being a woman is not much fun either.’ Her wry pout echoed his own. She had been feeling sick and uncomfortable and hated having to stay at home. ‘But once this child is born then you and I will join the next raids with the men.’ The glint in her eye showed the tomboy was still alive and well. ‘My women can take care of the baby.’
They laughed easily together and he went to groom the ponies who had caught the excitement in the horse lines and were expecting to go out with the others.
Carta walked back out of the wind and rain into the small round house which was now her home and stood staring down at the central fire. The flames flickered in the draught. Riach had said his farewells the night before, holding her in his arms so that she was completely enfolded in his cloak. ‘Take care of our son, my Carta,’ he whispered. ‘And of yourself. You are my two treasures. I don’t know why I need more.’
She laughed, snuggling against his chest. ‘To feed your men and your father’s followers. That’s why. A thousand hungry mouths.’ She reached up and kissed him on the lips. ‘And to make me proud. My husband must be the greatest warrior who ever lived.’
He gave a shout of laughter. ‘I’ll remember that. My bard goes with me to record my every move and when we return he will tell the whole court of my courage and feats of arms!’
‘And I will listen to every detail as we sit together by the winter fires.’ She wound her fingers into the fine linen of his tunic under his cloak. ‘And sing them myself to your son as he waits to be born.’
She watched them ride away, her companion Mairghread by her side, a comforting presence as the horses, the chariots, the great wolfhounds from Erin baying at their heels drew away into the distance. It was then she found herself shivering with apprehension.
She felt it again now as she stared down into the fire. Mairghread, sensitive as always to her every mood had rounded up the other women and ushered them out of hearing so that she could be alone with her thoughts. Sitting there, she lost herself in her dreams, gazing at the tongues of flame licking around the glowing logs, hissing their message as they threaded patterns through the fragrant smoke.
Danger.
Her hand went automatically to her belly where her child, Riach’s child, nestled in the darkness below her heart. It was safe there. The flames crackled and a log split with a bang. Suddenly her head was spinning. She was falling towards the fire.
There was an arm around her. Then another. ‘Come on, lady. Let me take you to your bed.’ It was Mairghread. ‘I saw you grow dizzy. Lie down and rest.’ Two other women reappeared from the far side of the room where they had been sitting talking, out of the cold wind. They guided her through to the bedchamber and drew the wicker screens around her.
‘My baby …’
‘Your baby is fine. Women often feel as you do now. It is quite usual. Your baby is greedy. He is sucking at your strength from within. It shows he is already big and strong.’ Mairghread smiled reassuringly. She placed a cool hand on Carta’s forehead. ‘I’ll bring you some chamomile infusion and you must sleep for a while. Then you will be yourself again, your own strength recovered. You’ll see.’
In her sleeping chamber Mairghread went to her herb cupboard. There, neatly arranged on the shelves behind the door were bundles of dried herbs, gathered in the
spring and summer, each neatly labelled with a small wooden tag engraved with a symbol. Twice married and twice widowed already, although she was less than ten years older than Carta, and childless herself, Mairghread had elected to remain unmarried and instead to study with the Druid healers and to look after her young mistress and companion, under-standing the gap Mellia had left in Carta’s life, and wishing she could fill it. She took some chamomile and went to ladle boiling water from the cauldron. Frowning, she waited while the herbs were steeping in their flagon, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. What had Carta seen?
The whole fort had turned out to look for Medb of the White Hands when she disappeared. Search parties were sent far and wide, messengers despatched the length and breadth of the land, to Brigantia and beyond to the lands of the Selgovae and the Novan-tae, the Venicones and even further north, to the lands of the Picti. The seers consulted their auguries to see if she had been killed by wolves or bears, and the bards constructed magical lays to bring her home had she been stolen by the gods. There was no sign of her. It was as if she and her two slaves had never been. Only two people asked themselves if they could guess. Truthac, Archdruid of the Votadini, and Brigit, senior wife to the king. Both looked at Carta’s wide-eyed innocence and concern and both wondered. Both kept their thoughts to themselves.
The Archdruid came to Carta’s bedside, when her message reached him. She was lying wrapped in warm furs, the brazier near her throwing out heat which did not seem to be able to dispel the chill from her bones.
‘The curse is working.’ She was white-lipped. The small chamber was empty - they could hear the subdued chatter of the other women around the main fire pit beyond the wattle walls. Some were spinning in the firelight, others just sat listening to the soft voice of one of the women bards as she told a story, accompanying the narrative from time to time with a few chords on the small harp on the table at her side. At Carta’s request Mairghread had gone to join the others so she could talk to Truthac alone.
‘The curse that condemned me to barrenness. I can feel it worming its way into my womb.’
The Archdruid leaned his staff against the wall and, sitting down beside the bed, took her hand. It was ice-cold and clammy. He was frowning. ‘Mairghread told me she thought you saw something in the flames.’
‘I did. I saw blood.’ Carta took a deep shaky breath, trying to still her own panic.
‘But there is no issue of blood from your womb. The child lies securely?’ His eyes were fixed steadily on her face. She was reminded of that other Druid years before who had saved her dog’s life. He had had the same calm certainty, the same ability to reassure. She nodded.
‘Then allow your ladies to take care of you. Rest. Do not ride horse or chariot for a while and do not consult the oracles yourself.’ He gave a grave smile. ‘It is commonplace, so I’ve noticed, for women in your condition to see troubles where there are none.’
‘And the curse?’
‘The curse tablet had not been awakened. It would not have worked.’
Carta bit her lip. ‘Supposing -’ She hesitated.
‘Suppose nothing, princess.’ He put a stern hand on hers. ‘Think no more about it, or about the person who wanted it.’ He raised his eyes to hers and held her gaze. ‘The gods know the truth, Carta. They know who is honest and who deserves punishment here.’ There was a pause. He saw the pupils of her eyes contract with fear. She looked away into the corner of the room. ‘My goddess knows what happens in my heart,’ she said quietly. ‘And what happened to Medb. She is not dead. She did not come to harm.’
The old man frowned but he made no comment. He stood up slowly, drawing his robe around him and reached for his staff. ‘Rest now, child, and forget Medb. And pray that your baby stays safe.’
Carta watched him disappear between the screens, then she huddled down into the bed, pulling the covers over her head.
The vision returned in her dreams that night. Three ravens were sitting in a storm-swept tree staring down at a blood-soaked body as the wind and rain tore through a narrow glen. ‘Who is it? Who is dead?’ Her screams woke the other women and they ran to her bedside, holding up lamps in the darkness. The central fire had been smoored for the night, carefully covered by a layer of peats so that in the morning it would be ready to stir back into life. Someone grabbed the poker and in a short while it was blazing, bringing warmth back to her chilled body.
‘Someone is dead!’ Carta was crying. She clutched at Mairgh-read’s hand.
‘No one is dead, Carta!’ The young woman was trying to comfort her. ‘Everyone is safe. See, your little one kicks. You have woken him.’ They all saw the slight movement beneath her nightgown.
But someone was dead. Two days later the remnants of the hunting party returned. Riach’s body was carried in the chariot in which he had so proudly ridden away from Dun Pelder. Four of the young men who had accompanied him had died with him, the others came home badly wounded.
Concentrating so completely on Carta’s baby, no one had given a thought to the raiding party which had ridden with such optimism towards the western hills, the lands of the neighbouring Selgovae, favourite targets for autumn raids, so news of the hunters was not expected for a long time. Their arrival back was a devastating shock.
Mairghread tried to hold Carta back. ‘Don’t look. Stay in here by the fire. You don’t want to see him.’
Carta swept her aside. Walking very straight, wrapped in a cloak against the icy wind she stood beside the chariot and stared down. For a few moments her composure held. He looked the same. So serene, so eager, so strong. The arms which had held her, the lips which had kissed every inch of her body, were undamaged. The terrible wounds which had drained his life were hidden beneath the fur rug.
‘He fought with honour. It is we who survive who are dishonoured.’ His own arm nearly severed through, a gaping wound in his shoulder, Riach’s charioteer gently wiped the mud from the prince’s face. ‘We could do nothing against them, my lady. There were two dozen of them. They came out of the clouds and mist. There was no warning. We read no omens.’ He stood, staring down, his own eyes brimming with tears of shame. At least they had left him his head. Two of his companions had not been so fortunate.
Carta was biting her lips. ‘I saw omens and I did nothing to help him.’ She knelt beside her husband and kissed his cold, bloody forehead. It was then that her tears burst through the dam. Shaking with sobs she clung to his body and wept as though her heart would break.
When she rose at last to her feet she found the king and Brigit at her side. Lugaid was staring down at his son, weeping openly. Behind him men and women were flocking out of their houses as the news spread. They parted to let Carta through as she turned away, her face white and strained. She headed not towards the round house behind her but towards the shrine where she had made her offerings to her goddess.
‘I gave you rich gifts. I begged you to take care of him!’ Her voice rose to an anguished shriek of misery as she stood before the wooden statue in a darkness lit only by dim lamps fed by sweet oil. ‘You promised. You promised you would watch over me and mine. You came to me and you assured me. Why did you let him die? Why?’
Her hand went to her stomach suddenly and she gave a sharp cry of pain. ‘My baby!’ She fell to her knees on the stones. ‘Sweet Lady, forgive me. Help me!’
No one had followed her. They had held back in respect. As blood began to soak into her skirt, Carta screamed in her rage and fear and desolation, alone but for the woman who watched, helpless, two thousand years away.
VI
She didn’t realise that she had picked up the phone. As she put it to her ear her eyes were fixed on the scene in the smoky shrine, her ears full of Carta’s screams.
‘Viv? It’s Steve. Viv, are you there? Viv, is something wrong?’ The voice in the receiver echoed into the past unheard.
Wrong? Of course something was wrong. Everything was wrong. Suddenly she was crying. Heart-rending sobs she coul
dn’t hold back.
‘Viv, it’s Steve. Wait there. I’m coming over!’
Then the doorbell was ringing. The scene in the temple drew back into the shadows.
‘Viv, let me in!’ She could hear a voice calling; hear frantic banging on the door.
Wearily she dragged herself to her feet.
‘Steve.’ She saw him staring at her as she pulled the door open and realised after a second how she must look. She was pale and exhausted. Her eye make-up had run, leaving streaks of coppery green on her cheeks. Her hair was on end and her clothes crumpled.
‘Are you all right? Viv, what’s wrong!’ He seized her hands and pulled her to him protectively. He was scanning the living room apprehensively. ‘Is there someone here?’
‘No. Yes.’ Oh God! She shouldn’t have opened the door. Gently she pushed him away, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. There wasn’t any need for you to come.’
‘Of course I had to come. You’re upset. You sounded so frightened.’ He stepped past her, still looking round. ‘What’s happened? Is it Hugh?’
‘Hugh?’ She stared at him. ‘No, it’s not Hugh.’ The tears were coming back. She was disorientated and confused. Shaking her head she pointed helplessly to the flickering computer monitor on the desk.
He followed the gesture, puzzled. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong with the computer?’
‘Look at it.’
He frowned. ‘All I can see is text.’
‘Read it.’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself as Steve sat down at the desk but before he could start reading she had begun to talk, unable to stop herself, words falling over one another in her hurry to get the story out.
‘She grabbed me by the throat!’ Her hands were shaking. ‘As soon as I came in she was in my head. It’s automatic writing, Steve. Oh God, what am I going to do!’ She sat down abruptly, rubbing her palms up and down her face.
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