He reeled back. What the hell was going on? Throwing himself into his chair he felt a film of sweat break out on his forehead again. This was because of the stolen pin. It was Viv’s fault. Well, he had given her every chance. If he called the police now she only had herself to blame. Without giving himself time to think he picked up the phone.
12
I
High above a skylark was singing as early sunlight slanted across the soft tussocky grass. Wrapped in her jacket and scarf, Viv had woken early and now sat cross-legged in the lea of a stone wall, her notebook open on her lap. She was writing fast. In her head it was the end of June as well. The soft warm wind from the west contained the scents of summer two thousand years ago as surely as they did in her waking life.
Carta stood staring up at the great cliffs which guarded this side of her hilltop home and beyond them to the stone ramparts with their entry gatehouses, one here, to the north, the other two out of sight behind the flat plateau on the high hill where she had been born. She was listening as the echoing cry of the horn announced her arrival. Behind her the wagons and chariots of the men and women who accompanied her and all her belongings were strung out some mile or so along the trackways which traversed the territories of her father the king. Her fists were clenched on the guardrail at her side and she braced herself easily as the chariot, driven by Fergal, lurched over the rutted ground, following now the steep stony roadway which wound up the sloping side of the hill towards the walls.
Physically she had recovered quickly from the loss of her baby, and as far as those around her could see she had put the event behind her. That she still mourned Riach with a bitter intense sorrow and anger perhaps only four people guessed, Mairghread and Gruoch, who had both elected to return with her to her father’s kingdom, Conaire, her bard, and Fergal at whose side in her chariot she spent so much time as she grew stronger. She had been away for some six years and the young woman who rode now into the hilltop fortress of the Setantii was an educated, self-possessed, more thoughtful version of the wild untameable child who had ridden out at the age of twelve.
As she stepped down from the vehicle in front of her father’s great round house he was waiting to greet her with arms outstretched, Fidelma beside him. But his welcoming hug though warm, was feeble and she could see at once that something was wrong. The strong vital man who had attended her wedding was gone. His face was thin, his hair greying, his arms beneath their gold bracelets feeble.
Kissing her mother, Carta was surprised to see her turn away and walk back towards the women’s house. Two tall, handsome warriors had taken her place at the king’s side, their very vitality, their virility seeming to emphasise his weakness. One, Carta’s eldest brother, Triganos, surreptitiously took their father’s arm as soon as they turned towards the great house and once there, helped him to his seat, the other following closely behind. Carta frowned, resenting the presence of the stranger who had almost elbowed her mother away on such a special family occasion. She subjected him to a searching stare, meeting his eyes coldly and realising with a sudden shock of recognition that it was Venutios who stood there. The boy who had plagued her as a child was now, it appeared, chieftain and king in his own right of their neighbours, the Carvetii. He was a man in his prime, his face adorned with blue swirls and flourishes, his eyes still the deep rich agate which had seemed so hard and resentful when they were children and which, she saw wryly, were hard and resentful still. Whilst her brother and her father were smiling, he looked at her with nothing but hostility and challenge.
Tearing her eyes away from his with a shiver of distaste, she stared round as the dark round house filled with men and women. He was not alone in his resentment, it seemed. Instead of the unrestrained welcome she had been expecting, the atmosphere throughout the township was tense. It was Triganos who now stood to welcome her officially, Triganos’s bard with his branch of silver bells, the symbol of his office, who spoke the words of praise and joy and welcome that she should have returned to her father’s roof. Her father said nothing. Neither did Venutios.
At the feast which followed, amidst the noise and bustle and music she watched her father closely. He ate almost nothing. Her mother did not reappear. Only the next day did she find a chance to speak to Triganos alone. ‘What has happened to him? Why was Mama not at the feast? Why is no one pleased to see me?’
Her brother looked down at her sadly. ‘We are pleased to see you, Carta. Do not doubt it. It is just that father’s health is failing. He was ill some four months ago with a bad fever and he has not properly recovered. On top of that, when we were out hunting only a fortnight ago he was gored by a boar. Not badly, not enough to hurt him seriously, but it has left him scarred. We all hoped he would get better, continue to be our king, but it is not going to happen as we would wish it. The elders of the Setantii and of the Brigantes as a whole, feel a new king should be chosen. It is time. Mama does not agree. She is angry. That is why she didn’t come to the feast. The worry of all that has distracted us from the welcome we should have given you. I’m sorry.’
Carta slumped down on the bench nearby. ‘Poor Father.’
‘He can no longer claim the respect of his men, Carta. He can’t lead them any more. It is time to stand back and enjoy the pleasures of old age.’ He shrugged. ‘Talk to him. He’ll tell you, he doesn’t want to fight the decision. He is prepared to stand down at Samhain. And in the meantime his chosen successor will lead the men should the need arise.’
‘And his chosen successor will be?’ Carta raised an eyebrow.
‘Almost certainly me. There is no one else in contention.’ Her brother grinned at her. He was a tall, well-built man, handsome, unscarred, exactly the choice the gods would make. And the people.
‘So, your dream comes true.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘What about Fintan, or Bran or Oisín? Do they agree?’ Their brothers or the son of their father’s sister were all of the royal blood, all eligible for choice. The Setantii would want the best man of the tribe to lead them, but to lead the whole confederation? That was different. ‘What about the leaders of some of the other tribes?’ she asked quietly. ‘They will have a view. After all, it does not follow that the leader of the Brigantes should come from the Setantii.’ She looked up at him quizzically.
‘No, but it helps.’ He grinned.
‘What about Venutios? Why is he not back amongst his own people?’ She studied Triganos’s face, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.
The young man raised an eyebrow. ‘You remember him then?’
‘Of course I remember him!’ she replied hotly. ‘How could I forget! Why is he here?’
Triganos shrugged. ‘He visits from time to time. Perhaps he’s come to greet you.’
Carta snorted. ‘I don’t think that is likely. Perhaps he has another reason. Perhaps he wants to become high king.’
Triganos shook his head. ‘He knows the position is mine.’
Carta nodded doubtfully. Perhaps he was right. Her own childhood dream to be a queen had died with Riach. Had he been chosen to succeed his father as leader of the Votadini she would have been his consort, his senior wife, his only wife - he had sworn it - and his queen. But that was not to be either. Not now. Folding her arms across her chest she half turned away from her brother. ‘And what will become of me?’ She hated saying it. It was weak. To her own ears her voice sounded pathetic, almost pleading.
Triganos stared at her in surprise as though the answer was too obvious to need voicing. ‘It will be for me to find you a new husband, sister.’ He followed her and gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll find you someone special, sweetheart. A lusty chieftain. Perhaps even a king. We’ll draw up a shortlist and you can choose. You know I wouldn’t force you to take someone you didn’t like.’
‘Indeed you won’t!’ She spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘For that would be against the law.’ Extricating herself from his arms, she went to stand in the doorway. The chieftain’s house was shado
wy and empty at this time of the day. The sun had moved on and the low south-facing doorway no longer caught the long warm rays. Only the fire, smouldering gently in the centre of the floor, glowed with gentle light. Outside, the township was quiet. From the forge came the sound of hammering and from the stonemason’s house on the far side of the township the regular sharp chink of chisel on rock. A group of women were sitting with their querns in the sunshine outside or spinning and sewing as they chatted and sang. Most of the male population were out, far away from the hill, working in the fields or with the slaves in the lead mines, or with the cattle and sheep on the surrounding moors. The warriors were practising their skills with sword and bow and sling. The men and women of her own train had dispersed, some to the horse lines, some to the men’s lodgings, some to the servants’ quarters.
Carta was not staying in her father’s house. She had been given one of the largest guest houses as her own. There with Mairghread and Gruoch and her closest attendants she would settle for the time being. Around the circular stone walls of the house were the small private rooms much as there had been at Dun Pelder. Her father’s township was shabby though, in comparison. In places the walls of the houses were crumbling; the thatch pulled by the birds; the great rampart walls falling down. She stared out across the compound with a sinking heart. A flock of small chickens were scratching in the dust. Nearby a dog slept in the sun, ignoring them. She frowned at the sight. The animal reminded her of Catia. It was probably related to Catia. Her heart ached for a moment for the faithful dog which had been such a friend to her. There had been no animal since to fill that special place. She loved all her dogs and horses equally but there was no hound now constantly at her heels or sleeping across her threshold. She had been content with Riach’s dogs and they had stayed behind.
‘What’s happened, Triganos?’ She turned back inside. ‘Father may be ill, but he is High King of the Brigantian peoples. He is rich in cattle and gold. He has a dozen high forts to choose from, so why stay here?’ This was a place she had loved, the home of her own special goddess, but there was no disguising the shabbiness and lack of care.
‘We are here only for the summer.’ Triganos shrugged. ‘Father has ordered the building of a great new township at Dinas Dwr at the other side of the mountains. The roofs are being replaced and the walls refurbished and the place extended as a trading centre. We will go there before next winter.’ He seemed a little uncertain; he had not looked at his home before with such a dispassionate eye. As long as it provided food and shelter and sport it served him well enough.
Carta stared at him. ‘And in the meantime this, the great township of the king of The Setantii, Dun Righ on Pen y Righ, the king’s hill, looks like a cluster of peasants’ hovels!’ She frowned. ‘Are you saying that father has allowed everything to fall into this state?’
Triganos shrugged sulkily. ‘It’s not his fault. The cattle did not breed well this year. The gods did not watch over us and father has lost their favour.’
‘Then it is his fault.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And it is for you,’ she added tartly,‘to win their favour back.’ She could feel her old impatience with her brother returning. The streak of indolence, of lazy arrogance, was still there.
‘I’m doing so.’ He looked angry. ‘I am waiting for the advice of the Druids. I have asked what sacrifices the gods need and while I await their deliberations I am making plans of my own.’ He pulled her away from the doorway and lowered his voice. ‘I am planning a raid on the territory of the Parisii. They are rich in cattle. They wouldn’t miss a few head.’
‘They are our allies, Triganos!’ Carta was shocked. ‘They are part of the Brigantian federation. Or they were under father’s rule. You will not succeed if you alienate our closest friends. That is foolish. And these cattle raids are senseless. Better far to trade new stock if it is needed.’
‘Nonsense!’ he contradicted her scornfully. ‘They will enjoy a good scrap as much as we would. There’s nothing like a battle or two to get the blood moving!’ He did not see the tactlessness of his remark, or the pain in his sister’s face as almost on cue a group of young men passed the doorway on their way to the training ground, their cheerful shouts finding their way into the silent room.
‘And what about trade. How is that?’ Carta was tight-lipped. ‘The Brigantes control the routes bringing gold and slaves and dogs from Erin into our Setantian harbours and rivers. We produce lead in the fells and dales and corn from our fields. We should be rich!’
‘We are rich.’ He was very much on the defensive now. ‘Father has ordered all this work to be done at Dinas Dwr - and some building here, too. That is expensive. And the chieftains resent paying too much in taxes. It is hard to collect from them if they don’t cooperate.’ He turned and headed towards the door. ‘Leave it, Carta. It is enough that you are home. Don’t stir things up. Everything is in hand. Come. You haven’t yet met my wife, Essylt. It is time you greeted her.’
She followed him, her heart sinking. Of course he was married. How could he not be? Yet no one had told her. Another wave of loneliness swept over her as they entered the room where Essylt was sitting beside the fire, a baby at her breast. Younger than Carta by some five years, with pale, almost white hair hanging in heavy plaits and eyes of soft cornflower blue she smiled a welcome. ‘Greet-ing, sister. I have so looked forward to meeting you.’ Her voice was gentle and shy. ‘Come. Kiss your new nephew.’ Detaching the child she held him out.
Carta hesitated. A wave of anguish shot through her as she stared at the baby. For a moment she couldn’t move, overwhelmed by her sense of loss and longing.
‘Carta?’ Triganos didn’t understand why she was hanging back. ‘Take him.’ He was full of pride. ‘Isn’t he splendid? This is Finn. My eldest son!’
Stooping, he kissed his wife on the top of her head and she looked up at him in adoration.
Carta forced herself to smile. Somehow she managed to hold out her arms and take the baby, hugging it to her as she looked down at the small face with its fuzz of blond hair, its wildly waving little hands, the milky bubbles at the rosebud mouth. It fixed her with a serious stare and then suddenly smiled.
She kissed his head gently, biting back her anguished tears. ‘He’s lovely. May the blessings of the goddess be upon him.’ Her voice was husky.
‘Triganos!’ Fidelma walked into the room. ‘Were you not going to tell me that Cartimandua was here?’ She took in the situation at a glance. At once the baby was returned to its mother, Triganos was despatched elsewhere and Fidelma had led her daughter to an alcove where they could sit in private as Essylt returned to her milky worship of her child.
By the time she was facing her mother’s astute gaze Carta had brushed away her tears and won the fight to regain her composure.
‘It will get better with time, child.’ The older woman was not fooled for a second. ‘You will have other babies of your own. I lost children. It happens. But I have you and your brothers as comfort.’ The quizzical glance she sent after Triganos underlined the wry smile which hovered for a moment round her mouth. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to marry again Carta,’ she added softly. ‘Wait to choose the right man.’
Carta took her hand. ‘The right man died, Mama. No one will be able to replace him.’
‘But you will remarry.’ It was not a question.
‘Of course. In time.’ Carta grimaced. ‘When I see someone suitable.’
Fidelma chuckled. Carta had grown up indeed She doubted if anyone married to her daughter would have an easy life, or a boring one. But she would be a rich prize in more ways than one.
‘Why were you not at the feast yesterday, Mama?’ Carta scanned her mother’s face. Even in the dim rushlight she could see the lines of strain.
‘I felt I should stay with Essylt.’ Fidelma’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘There were enough people there without me.’
‘You don’t approve of Triganos’s desire to take father’s place?’
<
br /> Fidelma shrugged. ‘It’s not up to me. If his Druid advisers think it best then it must happen.’ She paused. ‘Your father is tired, Carta,’ she conceded. ‘Perhaps it is time to step back. But is Triganos the right man to follow him?’
Carta frowned. ‘Triganos is your son!’
‘And I look on him with a mother’s pride. But I can be dispassionate.’ Fidelma sighed. ‘I see his faults as well as his strengths.’
‘He only needs experience, Mama.’ Carta defended him
Fidelma nodded.
Her daughter frowned. ‘You wouldn’t want Venutios to succeed father as high king?’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Then support Triganos, Mama. Give him the benefit of your strength and your experience.’ Carta smiled. ‘He’ll take it from you!’
Fidelma gave a low chuckle. ‘I shall try, my dear. Indeed. I shall try.’
Walking later onto the hillside outside the walls Carta stood, her back to the fort, staring out towards the Western Sea. On a clear day it was possible to see right out across the gilded waters towards the Manannan’s Isle, halfway to Erin. Today it was hazy. Fold upon fold of cloud shrouded the distant hills. She missed, she realised, the clear bright view of the cold Northern Ocean with its great rocks, shrouded in gannets. Its ever-changing freshness. She had become a stranger in her own soft, rain-swept lands.
Below her, in a fold of the moor on the edge of the forest nestled the Druid college, one of the most respected in the whole of the Pretannic Isles. Gruoch had promised to stay at Carta’s side as long as she was needed, but above all, she wanted to make her way down to the guest house at the college. ‘It is important I meet my colleagues here and continue my studies.’ She had laid a gentle hand on Carta’s arm. ‘As you must if you are to fulfil your destiny.’ The two young women had held one another’s gaze for a moment.