Almost certainly Cartimandua spent her formative years at the court of a neighbouring tribe, fostered into the leading household. The Parisii, maybe, or the Votadini.
Rubbish! Guesswork! Exactly the sort of inventive ‘intuitive’ idiocies he knew he would find in it. The worst kind of ill-informed fact stuffing! Her reputation as a scholar was not going to survive this and by association, neither would his.
Artefacts found in excavations at Traprain Law, for instance, may lead us to guess …
Guess!
He frowned. What, he wondered suddenly, did she have to say about Venutios. Flipping over the pages he began to read again.
Twenty minutes later he slammed the book shut and stood up. Venutios was the villain of her story, of course. It was an un-balanced, uninformed, pro-Roman confection of half-truths and misrepresentations. Behind him a gust of wind blew in through the open French doors and the curtains billowed into the room.
The sound of the horn was very close this time. Paralysed, he stood staring out into the darkness.
Venutios.
The name came to him out of the garden. Venutios demanding recognition. Venutios insisting on the truth. Venutios, who had been traduced in the book which lay on the table beside his chair.
IV
Viv dragged herself up to her front door, let herself in and switched on the lights. Dumping the bag of books on the floor near her desk she went straight over to stare at the mirror. Her mouth was dry with fear, her hands shaking, but the face that looked back at her was her own, her hair tousled, her eyes strained and exhausted.
With a sigh of relief she turned away, then she paused and glanced back. Was that a shadow at her shoulder? Another woman looking at her? The woman Tasha saw? And Pete? And the crowd of youths outside the pub?
There was nothing - no one - there.
Taking a deep breath, she headed for the kitchen to get a glass of wine. The message light was flashing on her phone. Twelve missed calls.
‘Viv, where are you?’ ‘Viv, we need to talk urgently. Where are you?’ ‘Viv, are you OK?’ ‘Viv, listen, call me. Your mobile is switched off.’ There were several from Pat, one from Maddie, two from her editor, one from Sandy, the publicist who was planning her book tour, and all the rest were from Cathy. No doubt there were e-mails as well - she hadn’t logged in to her account for days. Viv sighed. There had been no network coverage at Winter Gill Farm and she had turned off her mobile while she was there. Strangely it hadn’t occurred to her to turn it on again when she got back to civilisation. Well, it was too late to call any of them now. They would have to wait till morning.
The glass in her hand, she went to the window and looked out at the darkened roofs, then with a rush of claustrophobia she pushed it open. She stood listening to the quiet hiss of the rain on the roof slates, wishing suddenly, illogically, that Alison’s had been one of the voices on the machine, remembering how in the old days she had been able to confide in her friend, count on her support, be certain of her reassurance.
Vivienne
Viv jumped. The call was like a punch inside the head, some-where between her eyes.
Vivienne
She gulped some more wine, moving her head uncomfortably as though she had a stiff neck. Go away!
Vivienne
His name was Diarmaid. A warrior of noble birth, he often marched and trained at Triganos’s side and once or twice, sitting idly watching the men on the parade ground, Carta’s eyes strayed to follow him. He had a lithe feral grace as he wielded the sword, the sunlight catching the planes of his face, the painted whirl of muscle and sinew as the blade flashed in the air, the arrogant set of his mouth and the secret smile as he threw the sword in the air and deftly caught it before thrusting it home its sheath. As he ran from the ground with the others, joining their shouts of laughter, she looked away. But somewhere, deep inside, she could feel a deep yearning. She was lonely. Two years had passed since the death of Riach and their baby. It was little enough time in her mind to mourn, but her body was eager again for the comfort of a man’s arms around her; for the excitement of his touch. For several days she watched Diarmaid cautiously, content to let her imagination take the lead, never speaking to him, never showing any outward signs of interest, but he knew. Now and then their eyes met and a spark seemed to fly between them.
She was in the stables, running her hand down the foreleg of her mother’s favourite mare, sensing the heat and tension in the fetlock, gentling the animal and crooning words of healing spells when she became aware suddenly of someone standing behind her.
Straightening abruptly, she turned to find herself staring into his eyes. ‘You never speak to me, lady.’ His voice was deep and musical. ‘But I know you want to.’
She felt a deep blush mantling her cheeks.
‘Do you know anything of horses, Diarmaid?’ The mare nudged her, resentful of the interruption.
He smiled, his face suddenly boyish and open. ‘Only how to ride them. You are the expert.’
For several seconds neither moved, then he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. ‘If I can be of service in any other way,’ he murmured, ‘you have only to call.’
She had raised her hand and rested it for a moment on his chest, overwhelmed with the violence of her sudden longing for him to take her in his arms when the horse behind her let out a shrill whinny and at the other end of the building they heard the clank of a bucket. He stood back as a stable lad ducked into one of the stalls.
‘I’ll think about it.’ She raised a finger and touched his lips gently, then she dodged away beneath the horse’s head. When she turned back he had gone.
As a free woman she was entitled to take whomsoever she pleased as a lover. Walking up and down her darkening bedchamber as the light faded she chewed her lip in an agony of indecision. What would Triganos say if she took his henchman to her bed? And did she care? She had no desire for a new husband and her brother had shown no signs of coming up with the list he had so fulsomely promised. So why not? No one’s honour would be harmed. Caught between her passionate longing for the man, the touch of whose lips she could still feel on her own, and her pragmatic common sense, common sense lost out.
She waited until Mairghread had smoored the fire in her chamber and bade her goodnight then snatching up her cloak she tiptoed from the house. The young men were lounging around the fire on the edge of the training ground drinking, exchanging jokes, one by one rolling themselves in their cloaks and turning their backs on the fire to sleep as exhaustion overcame them. From the shadows she watched, her face shrouded by her hood, scanning the shadowy figures until she saw him. Her body was alive with anticipation; she could feel a fluttering on her skin, an excitement which caught at her throat and sent tremors through her belly. Quietly she stepped closer. The men had their backs to her. No one could see her. Her eyes lighted on some stones. With a silent chuckle she picked up a small pebble and lobbed it at Diarmaid. It was one of the childhood skills which had not deserted her and she hit him squarely in the small of the back. He turned, staring into the dark-ness, frowning. She could see his face clearly in the firelight. Not seeing her, he shrugged and turned away again. With a grin she scooped up another pebble, slightly larger this time. This one caught him on the back of the head. Clapping his hand to his hair he leaped to his feet. The men around him glanced up idly, then went back to their ale. She waved and this time he saw her as, pulling her cloak around her, she ran towards the stables.
He caught her in the harness room, enfolding her in his arms, pressing his mouth to hers, his hands fumbling for the brooch that held her cloak fastened. Gasping with pleasure and excitement she pulled him close, her hair slipping from her hood, reaching for his hands, guiding them to her breasts as the door creaked open behind them and a lantern was thrust into the darkness.
‘I thought so.’ For a moment she didn’t recognise the harsh voice. Frozen to the spot they both stood staring at the flickering light, unable to s
ee the face of the man holding it.
‘Get out, Diarmaid. Do you dare to meddle with the king’s sister! Men have died for less.’
Suddenly she recognised him. It was Venutios.
Pulling her cloak tightly around her and pushing her hair out of her eyes she stepped forward into the circle of light. ‘How dare you! What business is this of yours?’
He smiled. She could see his face clearly now as he lowered the lantern and the light shone upward over the line of his jaw. ‘It is very much my business. If your brother seeks a husband for you he’ll find it hard if you are known to have spread your favours around the clachan.’
Beside her, Diarmaid stepped forward, his dagger in his hand.
‘Don’t!’ Carta grabbed his wrist. ‘Get out of here, Venutios! Leave me to be the keeper of my own reputation!’ she flashed at him, her eyes blazing. ‘If and when I marry it will be on my terms, not my brother’s.’
‘It will be on my terms, if I’m to be your husband!’ Venutios threw the words back in her face.
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry on that score. I would rather die than come to your bed!’ She whirled round towards the door. ‘Come, Diarmaid. I have had enough of this conversation!’ She ran a few steps past the long line of bridles hanging from their pegs, then she stopped and turning, flung a final word: ‘Why would you ever think that I would even consider you as a husband, Venutios?’
He laughed harshly. ‘Because your brother wants you to marry a king, Carta. And there aren’t very many of them around!’
The next morning Diarmaid had left Dun Righ. When she asked Triganos where he was her brother gazed down at her thoughtfully for several seconds before telling her that he had been sent on a mission south to the lands of the Cantiaci and would be gone for several months.
Venutios himself rode north that afternoon, but not before wishing her a polite farewell, bowing as he took her hand and raised it to her lips. When he straightened his eyes were full of triumphant laughter.
Her brother was weak. It took her a while to notice it, but once she had she saw the signs everywhere. When he had been elected with general acclaim to succeed their father at last he had everything it took to be a successful leader. But he found it hard to take the advice of his council of Druids and warriors. His judgement was poor. He lavished riches on some men to secure them as his allies when they were already handfasted to his cause, while others whom he should have wooed he ignored or worse, insulted. He would go with enthusiasm to the feasting and the mock battles but he ignored the council of elders. As the months passed it was Carta who attended these meetings under the great oak tree in the forest or in the chieftains’ hall, slowly taking her place as a right which no one questioned, between Artgenos, the Archdruid of Brigantia, and Brochan, King of the Parisii. At least in the matter of attacking their closest allies Triganos had deferred to her advice, claiming it had never been his serious intention to do such a thing at any time. Firmly putting thoughts of husbands and babies and lovers behind her, she listened quietly to the men’s discussions, unconscious of the fact that at some meetings she was the only woman present and that at others she was by far the youngest; the women who gave advice to kings and warriors were normally old in their wisdom and experienced in the ways of politics and war.
Her father was there too, as advisor and counsellor. He had set down his leadership with relief, no longer trying to hide the stiffening of his joints, and his words were listened to with respect for his experience and his knowledge of the law, almost as great now in his fortieth summer as that of the Druid sitting next to him.
In front of them on these occasions, whether indoors or out, the fire smouldered, fed by branches of juniper and rowan, blessed by the seers to spread wisdom with the fragrant smoke. Behind them the best harpists in the land took turns to play tunes designed to bring the wisdom of the gods to their deliberations.
Carta did not speak much. Once or twice her opinion was sought by Artgenos and listened to with respectful attention by all who were present. Once she was questioned about her opinions of the King of the Votadini by Venutios, who had returned to Dun Righ and sat in the seat where her brother should have been. She had stiffened at the question, searching his face with narrowed eyes, seeking for some mocking ulterior motive which would discredit her, but it had been well founded and he had listened with every appearance of respect to her answer. Venutios, like the other men, experienced warriors all, gave her the respect which was her due when her responses showed wisdom. For now.
These meetings were very different from the more usual informal gatherings, held in the feasting hall where men already drunk on mead or Gaulish wine or ale deliberated, argued and, their voices rising as their faces reddened, from time to time rose unsteadily to their feet, their hands reaching for their weapons as the debate escalated swiftly into a brawl. Carta loved them. The discussions fascinated her. In her studies as a seer she was becoming more and more learned in the interpretation of the auguries, in consulting the omens, considering the prophesies and she had learned to prophesy herself. But this was an extra layer of learning. This was the planning, and the making of leaders. The combination of experience, something of which she had little herself as yet, with intuition, common sense, the knowledge of one’s potential adversaries, be they the men of neighbouring tribes or the gods of the wind and storm, the movements of the sun and the moon and the stars, famine or plenty. Trade was one of their most important topics. The trade routes which crossed the Brigantian country had made them rich; and they were crucial for the import of the tin which could not be found in their own country. The current confederacy had taken a long time to establish. It consisted of a loosely linked collection of large and small tribes under one high king, whose aim was to preserve as much peace as possible between its members. Hard, within a society whose love of fighting was legendary, but something which the Druid advisers to the chieftains and kings worked hard to promote.
Artgenos sometimes called Carta to his house within the walls of the college at the foot of the hill, where he would explain things further to her, encourage her to have confidence in her opinions and to have the courage to voice them clearly. She never wondered why she was singled out for such attention, never suspected that her intelligence and learning were greater than those of the men around her. They wondered, though, and muttered into their moustaches about the tall, slim young woman who had become a part of their deliberations, occasionally at her brother’s side, but more often without him.
‘Why don’t you come to the meeting?’ She confronted him on the second day of Beltane as he stood, his hand on his pony’s bridle, his small group of chosen companions already mounted, jeering at him to hurry and stop lingering to discuss spinning with his sister. None of the other leaders was there.
He gentled the excited horse. ‘Because it bores me. I’m a man of action, not words, Carta.’ He swung himself easily into the saddle of the small sturdy garron, his favourite mount. His feet nearly touched the ground but the creature was strong and as agile as a goat on the moors. ‘You go. Speak for me, sister. I trust you to decide what’s best.’
And he was gone, with his men around him, their shouts and whoops of excitement echoing across the hillside, horses bucking, dogs barking at their heels as they disappeared through the eastern gate in the rampart wall plunging down the hillside towards the forest, leaving her standing alone as the noise died away into the distance.
Carta stared after him in dismay. For days men and women had been arriving from every corner of Brigantia. Laden wagons, war chariots, ox-carts full of gifts and wares to be traded, horses, dogs, servants, slaves, had wound their way through the glorious last bright days of Giamonios, in the time of the waxing moon, to arrive in time for the Beltane feast. The township was filling up with market stalls, and tents and awnings to shelter the overflow of new arrivals, impromptu playing fields were being cleared of stones with picket lines for the hundreds of extra horses. Young men were p
ractising their skills at the sword and spear, the sling and bow, in boisterous competitions. The place was full of noise and bustle and the eyes of the entire northern confederation were upon them. They were all here. As well as the whole tribe of the Setantii, representatives from the Corionototae, the Parisii, the Lopocares, the Textoverdi, the Carvetii, and even the Cornovii from their south-western borders were there and more besides. There was a bigger than usual gathering because the Druids had sent word that on this occasion there was an extra item on the agenda. The escalation of the threat from Rome. And Triganos, High King of the Brigantes, could not be bothered to attend.
With a sigh she turned and made her way towards the great round house where as the weather was too bad for the traditional meeting ground beneath the three oaks at the foot of the hill, the meetings were to be held. Taking her place amongst the leaders of the tribes, Carta felt many eyes upon her. Most of them knew her. Some had not seen her before except at the feast the previous night. Word that the sister of the leader of the Brigantes was a power to reckon with was filtering through the community. Men were eyeing her with curiosity. She was as tall as her brother, broad-shouldered yet slim with hair naturally the colour of sun-baked barley, eyes that were brilliant green in some lights, in others the colour of the dawn grey sea. A handsome woman, still young, already a widow but as yet without a new husband. There were quite a few men present who were considering her with the professional eye of a marriage-maker seeking a wife for one of their sons or indeed for themselves.