Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
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shivered. The night before it had been the turn of Carta’s bard, Conaire, to sing. He had risen to his feet and with a bow to the king reached for his small harp. The song he had sung was one of Carta’s favourites. It told how she had raced across the moors against her three brothers and won. It told how well she rode, how she was one with her pony as it galloped through the Setantian mists. It told how she had won her name.
The men and women in the crowded hall listened as they lounged round the fire glancing from time to time at Carta who sat next to Riach, with Mellia beside her, the girl’s eyes fixed on the young man’s face with adoration. The servants and slaves had cleared away the dishes and the food. Fresh logs had been thrown on the hot ashes and mead and wine were being passed round the assembled company as, outside, the heavy spring rain watered the growing crops of the farms which spread out across the plain below the high terraces of the fort and drenched the roofs of the round houses, splattering on the mud beneath the eaves.
Carta stared down at her own small goblet, half embarrassed, pleased by the looks of admiration being cast in her direction. She was glowing with pride.
The music was slowing. Conaire drew his fingers across the strings in a vivid, dramatic chord.
Carta came to the court of a king,
And all who looked upon her smiled.
His voice rang to the roof timbers.
But deep in the heart of the friendly crowd
Lurked a worm who her name reviled.
There was a dramatic pause, then a gasp spread around the great chamber. The words of the bard implied that the sacred vow of hospitality and friendship had been violated. Such an accusation was unheard of, but the accusation of a trained bard had the blessing of the gods as his words came direct from them through their inspiration. It had to be heard.
The king rose to his feet and silence fell on the company. Carta could feel her cheeks flaming. She did not dare to look around at the faces of the king’s family, her foster family. Beside her Mellia was holding her breath.
‘You make a grave accusation, my friend.’ Lugaid’s voice was calm. ‘And you make it in a public place.’
Conaire bowed. He set his harp down at his feet. ‘I speak the truth.’ His voice was quiet, but it carried to every man and woman there.
Carta found the courage to look up at last. Her eyes met Medb’s. The king’s youngest wife was white to the lips, her eyes radiating anger and hatred. Carta looked away. Somehow she forced herself to stand up and face the crowds in the room. The silence was intense. ‘I don’t know what I have done to earn such dislike,’ she said, her voice ringing out clearly, ‘but I am sorry for it. I would have hoped to be a sister to every woman here.’
There was a second gasp and a rapid murmur of voices ran round the fire. She had added her support to the accusation; and she had confirmed that her enemy was a woman.
Truthac, the king’s Druid leaned forward and murmured in his ear. Lugaid nodded and sat down as Truthac rose in his place and stood, leaning on his staff. ‘This must be spoken about further. But for now I would invite our own bard to sing us another song; perhaps a song about Carta’s family and her heritage of courage and dedication.’ He smiled gravely at the silent crowd, his eyes resting for only a fraction longer on one face than on the others. His gaze was met by stony defiance.
By the fire Carta resumed her seat on the cushioned bench, so close to the woman who was her enemy. The nervous thudding of her heart had subsided a little. She glanced at Conaire as Mellia slipped away from her side and made her way towards him, shyly touching the young man’s shoulder in a gesture of support. Carta hadn’t realised he knew what was going on, but the gods had chosen to speak through him and all she could do now was to wait patiently and see what Truthac and Lugaid advised, and in the mean time she would pray to her goddesses to help her.
‘Strong Lady of the sun; Sweet Lady of the moon; guardians of this place; spirits of this land; keep me safe. Shield me from her curses. Turn them back as arrows to her heart. Tell me what to do –’
‘Viv? Are you asleep?’
The voice beside her made Viv jump violently. Heather was standing in the doorway with the coffee jug in her hand. ‘I thought you might like a top up. You’ve been up here for ages.’
Outside her office the sun had moved on round. The bench where Hugh had been sitting was in deep shadow. And empty.
Viv stared at it for a moment, numb with shock, her heart thumping under her ribs. Carta had gone. Vanished in an instant in the middle of her prayer as though a door had slammed, separating them so abruptly that the shock she felt was like a pain. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Heather and somehow she managed to pull herself together, forcing herself to concentrate on the present and put the dream behind her. Her first coherent thought was of the professor. ‘Is Hugh here?’
‘Yup. In his office. He’s got a meeting with Hamish later.’
‘I think I’ll go home, then.’ Viv reached for her mug and held it out. Her hand was shaking. ‘Thanks, Heather. Just half. Then I’ll go and work at the flat for the rest of the week. Keep out of his way. If you need me give me a call.’
The vision had come without invitation. Suddenly. Completely. For over an hour she had been sitting there in another world, unaware of anything around her. Not even hearing the door open. Aware of nothing until Heather spoke to her. Slowly she began to pile books and folders into her bag, realising as she did so that her hands were still trembling.
‘There shouldn’t be any problems. All the exam papers are marked. I don’t think there will be any queries. There aren’t any resits this year, thank goodness.’
After Heather disappeared she stopped her frenetic activity for a moment and took a deep breath. She mustn’t forget the dream. She had to fix the details in her mind. The sounds and smells of the feasting hall, the haunting beauty of the song, the background noise and then the total silence, the bolt of fear that had shocked Carta as she sat and listened to the prophecy. Somehow she had to find her way back to the scene as soon as possible. As soon as she reached the privacy of her own flat.
Her desk cleared, she let herself out of her office and stood for a moment on the landing, listening. Hugh’s door was closed. The building was silent. Holding her breath, she tiptoed along the corridor, pausing as the floor creaked beneath her feet. The last thing she needed now was another encounter with Hugh and the discussion which would surely follow about the Cartimandua Pin.
Heather was right. She needed to chill.
She had made her escape, pulling the heavy outside door behind her when, only a few paces from the building, a voice accosted her. ‘Hi, Viv.’
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
It was Steve Steadman. The bag on his back hung open to reveal several books and files. ‘I’ve just been to the library.’
‘So I see.’ She did not stop walking so he fell in step beside her, his long strides adapting at once to hers. He was smiling, his pleasant face relaxed and friendly.
‘When are you planning to go home to Yorkshire?’ She glanced across at him, pleased suddenly to have his cheerful, straight forward company.
‘Next weekend.’
‘You must be looking forward to it.’ She was making conversation to compensate for not stopping; for walking so fast. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and the office and Hugh as possible.
‘I am.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll probably stay there for a bit over the summer and give them a hand on the farm. I can come back up to the library if I need to as I work on my thesis. So, might I see you down there?’ He gave her his usual relaxed grin. ‘It would be great if you could visit us.’