Kitabı oku: «Daughters of Fire», sayfa 4

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 Lammermuirs 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.

Tasha frowned. She looked scared. ‘Who is that woman behind you?’

Viv froze.

Cathy and Pete were staring in the direction of the child’s pointing finger.

‘What do you mean? What woman?’ Cathy said, puzzled.

Tasha scowled. ‘There! Behind her.’

Viv put down her knife and fork. She felt a trickle of icy fear between her shoulder blades.

‘There’s no one behind her, Tash, don’t be silly,’ Cathy said sternly.

‘There is.’ The child looked confused. ‘I saw!’

‘Get on with your food, Tasha,’ Pete put in. ‘Stop making things up. It’s boring.’

‘No!’ Viv leaned forward. ‘Tell me. What did you see?’ She put her hand on Tasha’s wrist.

Tasha pulled her hand away. ‘Nothing!’ She had gone scarlet.

‘Please, Tasha.’ Viv said anxiously. ‘Tell me!’

‘I didn’t see anything! It was a joke!’ Tasha stood up and ran out of the room.

‘Take no notice, Viv,’ Pete said. ‘Don’t let her upset you.’

‘No.’ Viv gave an uncomfortable smile.

‘She was winding you up. You know she was.’

‘Was she?’ Viv glanced at Cathy. Suddenly she was pushing back her chair and, leaping to her feet she headed for the bathroom. Slamming the door behind her, her heart pounding with fear, she stared hard at the mirror.

VI

‘That dog will never be good for anything again. Why not have it knocked on the head. It would save a deal of trouble!’

The arrogant young voice behind her made Carta spin round. She had been encouraging Catia to walk slowly round the compound in the gentle sunshine.

‘Mind your own business, Venutios!’ Her cheeks flared with anger at the sight of her brother’s friend lounging against the wheel of a wagon drawn up at the side of the kitchens. He was chewing the end of a piece of straw.

He laughed. ‘Sorry. I forgot your new game. Still playing at healers, are we – instead of warrior queens? Your mother must be pleased to see her little girl doing that!’

The taunt was expertly aimed. Carta’s anger was instantaneous and violent. Forgetting the dog, who sat down wearily where she was, Carta flew at the boy, more than a head taller as he was, her fingers clawed ready to scratch his eyes out. With a shout of laughter he dodged easily out of reach, dancing backwards away from her, jeering until he collided with the two carters emerging from the fragrant darkness of the baking rooms to collect two more sacks from the wagon.

One of them grabbed Venutios by the back of his tunic. ‘Prince or no prince, you watch where you’re going young man or I’ll tan your backside for you!’

Venutios’s strangled expletives were drowned by Carta’s crow of laughter as her tormentor was held helpless within her reach.

Before her small fists connected, however, the angry voice of her mother from the doorway of the house behind her froze her in her tracks.

‘Cartimandua! Come here now!’

The two waggoners dropped their captive and stood back as Venutios regained his feet and scrambled out of sight.

Carta scowled. For a second she contemplated running after him, but one look at the queen’s face changed her mind. Meekly she followed her mother indoors.

Sighing, Fidelma surveyed her daughter. Of the queen’s twelve children only four had lived beyond babyhood. Triganos, Fintan and Bran, the three boys and this the only surviving girl. The child had torn her gown yet again. Her face was grimy, her hair a bird’s nest and the vivid grey-green eyes were blazing with anger.

‘I want you to send Venutios back to his father. I hate him!’

Fidelma sat down on a stool beside the fire and drew her cloak around her shoulders. She sighed. ‘The king of the Carvetii has sent his son here to learn how to be a warrior and a prince. We can’t send him away,’ she said patiently. ‘His presence here, as you should know, seals the friendship and brotherhood between our two tribes.’ It was hard to believe that at this moment her husband and their Druid guest were continuing to discuss this girl’s destiny as a matter of the highest importance for the tribe, or that it was more than likely that she and not Venutios would be the one to be sent away. Fidelma, usually at her husband’s side at all the important meetings with his advisers, had left them to it not long since, curious to find out what the young woman in question was actually doing with her time. Carta was too often, she had ruefully realised, out of sight and out of mind. ‘Have you completed your tasks for the day, child?’ She noted without comment that the dog had followed her daughter in and was now leaning trustingly against Carta’s legs.

Carta shrugged. ‘Mellia said she would do them for me.’

Fidelma bit back an angry retort. The child wasn’t even remotely repentant that her convenient arrangement should be discovered. Somehow she managed to smile. ‘Mellia is far too kind for her own good, Carta. It is you who needs to practise your skills with the needle and spindle.’ She glanced across the room where Carta’s companion, the daughter of one of Bellacos’s senior warriors and almost the same age as Carta, had appeared. Neat, tidy, nimble-fingered and biddable the child was everything that Carta was not. Nor was she strictly speaking Carta’s friend. Fidelma knew perfectly well that her daughter preferred the company of her brothers and their companions – barring Venutios – to that of this gentle child. She suffered her, no more, and, it appeared, exploited her as well. Fidelma shook her head wearily. Secretly she admired her daughter’s spirit and her ambition if not her endless rebellion. As Bellacos’s daughter she could look for a rich and powerful husband – almost certainly the heir to one of the neighbouring tribal kings – but she would need a modicum of education and restraint.

Eyeing her daughter’s mutinous face, Fidelma gave a wry smile. The husband would need the blessing of the gods and the strength and determination of a bear to manage Cartimandua – but then the gods, their decisions interpreted by the Druids of the tribe, were going to choose her husband and so would presumably send her somewhere she would meet her master!