Daughters of Fire (46 page)

‘All publicity is good publicity,’ Pat repeated the mantra solemnly. ‘Don’t worry about her. I think some time in the hard-headed company of a publicist and a non-stop schedule of talks and book signings will distract her sufficiently from her dreams and take her mind off the whole business.’

Hugh had not seen the paper Pat and Cathy were perusing. He was studying the
Scotsman
. It wasn’t a headline. In fact he had only spotted it by chance. ‘Amongst other projects under production is one by a new company, Daughters of Fire, who plan to turn Viv Lloyd Rees’s controversial book,
Cartimandua Queen of the North
into a drama documentary to hit the radio schedules this winter. As part of the BBC’s policy of producing good quality programmes to meet the public’s current passion for history, this kind of enterprise can only be encouraged.’

Hugh stared at the paper in front of him. That morning he had woken with a violent hangover and a feeling of overwhelming remorse. What was the matter with him? Why had he hurt Viv so badly yet again and probably trashed her academic career forever? He was contemplating ringing her to apologise for his crass behaviour, perhaps ask her out to dinner to see if he could mend some fences when the newspapers hit the mat. Scanning the article, his remorse had vanished. Career indeed. Obviously her career in his department was irrelevant. She had already sold out. She wouldn’t want her job any more. Well, he could easily fix that. He knew people at the BBC. It would only take one phone call to
make them pull it from the schedules. Then where would this bright, clever innovative writer be? She’d be begging for her job back, that’s where. He was working himself up into a fury again. This was going to lead to yet more publicity for Cartimandua and once again she would take the opportunity to traduce Venutios.

Venutios!

Hugh gripped the edge of his desk, aware of the tension in the room around him. No. Please God, no! Not again. He shouldn’t even have thought the word!

‘Leave me alone, you bastard!’ he shouted out loud. He looked round nervously. It was all right. The room was normal again. Whatever had threatened to appear had changed its mind and drawn back. He listened fearfully but there was no call of the carnyx in the distance. Only the sound of the clock on the bookcase broke the silence.

Viv and Sandy walked slowly back through the streets of York to their hotel and sat in the bar for half an hour, unwinding after a tiring day which had culminated in a book signing which had seemed to go on for hours. Tomorrow they were going to Nottingham, the day after that to London. It was midnight when they wished each other goodnight and Viv wearily unlocked her bedroom door.

Cartimandua, High Queen of the Brigantes and Venutios, King of the Carvetii, were married at the feast of Beltane. There were a thousand guests in attendance, including Carta’s mother, her younger brothers Bran and Fintan, both recovered at last from their wounds, and the rest of the family, Venutios’s brother Brucetos, his wife and baby, his uncle and his cousins, Prasutagus and Boudica of the Iceni and their baby daughter, the kings of the Atrebates and of the Dobunni, all of whom where now allies of Rome. Medb was not there. When Venutios had returned to Caer Lugus to prepare for the wedding he had been furious to find she had evaded those set to watch over her. He had no idea where she had gone. His anger had lasted only a few hours. He was glad to be rid of her.

Two days before the ceremony Aulus Plautius, governor of Britannia, arrived in person with ten wagons of wine in amphorae and furs, spices and gold, wedding gifts to impress and hold firm the loyalty of these new allies, so crucial to the north-western frontier of the Empire.

The ceremony was held at Dinas Dwr, the site selected by Cartimandua and her consort to be the new capital of their great confederacy, following her father’s original decision to enlarge it and embellish the buildings there, creating what the Romans called an oppidum. They would after all need a centre from which to trade and negotiate with their new allies, who were nothing if not reluctant to make their way into the high hills and moors of the Brigantian kingdom, so this sheltered rich valley would be perfect.

The line of the new walls would be chosen and marked and blessed and men brought in from all over the north to start constructing the great new ramparts and build dozens of extra houses.

The gods smiled upon the wedding day. The sun shone, the winds were soft and smelled of the sweet grasses of the hills and Carta, wearing a gown of green and pink as befit a queen, linked hands with her husband-to-be and walked out of the gates, down the path garlanded with flowers and strewn with herbs, into the forest to the great oak tree under which Artgenos and Culann stood ready to bless them in the presence of their followers and friends and guests. At the right hand of Aulus Plautius stood his military tribune, Gaius Flavius Cerialis, his eyes fixed on the figure of the barbarian queen.

At the feast and dancing that followed the ceremony Cartimandua of the Brigantes danced late into the night. Once she was partnered by the governor himself, once by his tribune, who passed her in the circle dance, broke away, touched her hands with his own, bowed and danced on. She had met his eye and bowed and laughed, reaching out to touch his cheek and then she was gone in the thick of the dance again, whirled away on the sound of pipes and harps and drums as the sparks flew up from the dozens of fires and the luminous night closed in across the countryside.

Two days later the Romans were gone.

As soon as the building of the new walls had commenced, Carta and Venutios set off on a tour of their northern kingdoms, anxious to reinforce their own authority and the alliance with Rome, heading first up towards the lands of the Textoverdi and then onwards to visit the Votadini, still secure under the strong rule of Lugaid and part of the northern alliance as clients of Rome.

In the main guest house on Dun Pelder, Venutios sat down and bent to unlace the thongs of his sandals with a groan. ‘Too long on horseback. It will be good to stop here a while with friends. These
are good people. We will enjoy our visit here. Come, wife, can you not undo this knot for your husband?’ He extended a foot in her direction. Carta turned from the mirror where she had been contemplating her dusty, dishevelled hair, remembering another arrival here, another day, when her hair had looked like a birds’ nest, remembering the young man who had laughed her out of her bad humour.

‘A queen does not unlace anyone’s shoes, not even her own. Call a servant, if you cannot do it yourself.’ She softened the words with a smile. ‘Why don’t you go and have a bath and spend some time in the sweat house? Lugaid plans a great feast for us at dusk.’

‘Are you sending me away?’ He had undone the knot. Kicking the sandal towards the wall, he stood up. ‘Because I don’t intend to be banished so easily.’ In two strides he was beside her, grabbing her wrists, wrestling her down onto the deep heather bed. ‘My wife, queen or not, does not dismiss her husband like a servant. She does his bidding first!’

He knew just how much he could anger her, and what it took to arouse her, diverting her passionate fury into lust. He had done it many times now, mostly in the privacy of their bedchamber, but from time to time outside, careless of who saw them. To hold the high queen helpless and obedient by the touch of his hand and his thighs gave him the same satisfaction he felt as he mastered an unbroken horse. He rode her exultantly and at last fell beside her on the bed, exhausted.

When Carta extricated herself from the sheets he was already asleep. Wrapping herself in a cloak, she went to the door and stood in its lee, staring round the camp. Once more she was remembering Riach and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Lady?’ A gentle voice at her elbow made her start. It was Vellocatus, her husband’s shield bearer. ‘Are you all right?’ The young man was clearly torn between embarrassment and concern. ‘I’m sorry, lady. The king told me to wait for him out here.’

She straightened her shoulders, vividly aware of how weak and dishevelled she must appear. ‘The king is asleep. Leave him for now. Find Mairghread for me, then go to your companions in the warriors’ house. I doubt if the king will need you again tonight.’

As she lay back in the large wooden bath in the women’s house, luxuriating in water warmed by stones straight from the firebed, wearily soaping her arms as a slave poured jugs of warm water over
her back, Carta had a vision suddenly of Aulus Plautius, governor of all Britannia and his envoy, Gaius Flavius Cerialis in the bath. The picture of Gaius, with his muscled, well-built body was not altogether unpleasing. The Romans, so she had been told, never used soap to make them clean. The Romans did not know what soap was. They oiled themselves, apparently, like haunches of meat and scraped off the dirt with their knives. The thought made her laugh out loud.

Viv dropped her bags on the floor of the flat and stared round. The taxi had dropped Sandy at Waverley to catch her train back to London after two last book signings, one in Glasgow and then this morning in Dundee. The book promotion was over. It was time to go back to being a writer. Viv went to open the window. The whirlwind tour, the plaudits of her audiences, a handful of complimentary reviews and some really good radio and TV interviews had restored her faith in herself and in her book. It was good to be home.

Sighing, she threw the pile of post onto her desk and pressed the play button on the answer machine. The first message was from Steve. ‘Viv? I didn’t see you again after the party. I came round but you had already gone. Sorry to miss you. Ring me when you get back.’ Bugger! She had forgotten all about him. The slight reproach in his tone was unmistakable. Poor Steve, she had brought him all the way back to Edinburgh for the party and then only spoken to him for a few seconds. She would ring him back today. Shuffling through the letters, she listened to the second message. It was from her editor. ‘Congratulations, Viv! The book has rocketed to number nine in the bestsellers. All that publicity worked, my dear. Well done! Talk soon!’ Viv grimaced. Most of that publicity had not been intentional, far from it, but still it was fantastic to be in the top ten. She could hardly believe it. The next message was from Pat. ‘Ring me as soon as you get back. We need to do some work. Hope the trip was good. I’m back at Abercromby Place - catsitting while the others are away!’

One of the letters had an Irish postmark. She stared at it puzzled as she listened to the third message. It was from Hugh. ‘I believe I owe you an apology. And I need to collect the brooch. Ring me.’

Tearing the letter open she gaped in astonishment as her eyes skimmed the contents. ‘… impressed by your scholarship … you would be a senior part of a friendly department here in southwest Ireland … we invite you to come and look round to discuss our proposition …’ They were offering her an academic post, in spite of, perhaps because of, everything that had happened! A prestigious job. Stunned, she sat down. She was still staring at the letter five minutes later when there was a sharp double ring on the doorbell.

Hugh was standing on the landing. ‘I have come to apologise.’ He stepped in uninvited and walked straight past her into the living room, skirting her suitcase and holdall as if they were not there. ‘Whatever I thought of your research methods I should have been more supportive.’

Viv stared at him, the letter forgotten as her hurt and anger came flooding back. ‘After trashing me in public! In the most public way possible, you are apologising in private? Now that it’s too late? Now my book tour is over!’ She threw the letter down on the desk.

‘Book tour?’ He looked puzzled for a moment, and then seeming to see her bags for the first time, nodded. ‘I see. Of course. The celebrity tour. Something us academics seldom get to indulge in.’

‘Probably because you are sour and embittered old fogies!’ she retorted. ‘I’ve only been back a few minutes. How on earth did you know I was here? Did you set up a watch on my doorstep?’

The idea had clearly never occurred to him. ‘No, I was passing. I was afraid I might have been too harsh and it was unfair of me to speak to Maddie Corston. After all, what harm can a play do? But you still have a job at the department, Viv. I am sure we can resolve our differences -’

Viv stared at him. She didn’t even hear the last conciliatory sentence. ‘You’ve spoken to Maddie?’

He nodded almost sadly. ‘I told her to bin the play. Hasn’t she told you?’

For a moment Viv was too stunned to speak. ‘And she listened to you?’ At last she managed a husky response.

‘Oh yes. I’ve known Maddie for years She was a student of mine. Before your time of course.’ He smiled apologetically.

‘So you can speak to her again. Tell her to unbin it. We have a contract, Hugh! You can’t do this!’

‘I think you’ll find I can.’ He folded his arms. She was looking exhausted. Untidy. Her hair on end, her face pale, her shirt unbuttoned just low enough to show her cleavage. She was wearing some sort of pendant on a chain, he noticed. It had slid down between her breasts so he could not identify it. An amulet, maybe. Not for the first time it crossed his mind that he had been stupid in refusing Meryn’s suggestion that he wear one. But, for goodness’ sake, this was the twenty-first century! And there had been no further appearances from Venutios, beyond that one scary moment in his study when he was reading the paper, nor ghostly fanfares of the carnyx, which confirmed his suspicion that it had all been in his imagination, for all he knew triggered by something Viv had said in the first place!

He was staring at her, he realised, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t sure why he kept on harassing her like this. Because that’s what it was. Harassment. Perhaps it was because she refused to be impressed by him. Maybe she even despised him a little. The thought hurt.

‘You could make her change her mind. Hugh, this is important to me. You can’t wreck everything like this!’

She was devastated, off guard. Transparent with shock. She was, he realised, about to beg. It did not make him feel better. Turning towards the door he shrugged. ‘Clearly you were about to unpack so we won’t discuss it now.’

‘Please, Hugh. Don’t do this.’ She hadn’t moved from the centre of the floor, pinned to the spot.