Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
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wrapped Catia’s body herself in a softly woven sheet and sprinkled it with flowers. Then a servant lifted it for her and carried it to the place of offerings where it was lowered down the deep shaft to the otherworld of Annwn from where the animal would find her way into the land of everlasting summer. After the body went her leash and collar, her food bowl and her mistress’s best comb. Then Carta went to the shrine of the goddess.
At home she had prayed at the sacred spring near the waterfalls. It was her nemeton, her special shrine, deep in the woods on the edge of the fells and very near the gods. It felt strange, here, amongst so many people, to seek for the other world, but there was a complex of temples sacred to the gods of the Votadini and she found her way to the shrine to Brigantia, the goddess of her own people and their land, known to her hosts and her new family as Brigit, after whom the king’s wife was named.
Slipping into the darkness, she sat quietly watching a Druidess sprinkling herbs as she tended the sacred flame. The smoke from the vervain and juniper made her cough and she saw the Druidess glance at her, frowning. She sat there for a long time, without a sound, then at last, standing up, she crept into one of the two tiny sleeping chambers off the main temple. It was here that people came to pray, to ask for healing, and to seek solutions to their problems. Lying down on the couch, she closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind as she had been taught by the Druids. ‘Sweet goddess hear me. Help me.’
Eventually she slept. The answer of the goddess would come in her dreams.
Viv sat up with a start. She could still smell the smoky incense in her nostrils, still hear the intense miserable young voice in her ears.
It was nearly dark in the room and she was extremely cold. She focussed on the table in front of her, confused, and then slowly she reached for the switch of the table lamp and throwing down her pen, stared at the notebook. Switching off the Dictaphone she wound it back a little way and pressed the play button. Silence. Then she made out a slight scratching sound. The sound of her writing. ‘Damn.’ She had so hoped she would speak out loud. Had tried to tell herself to speak out loud, to describe what was happening in her dream.
Or trance.
Or imagination, at last given free rein.
Or whatever it was.
It hadn’t worked. She wound back the tape a whole lot further. Still silence. Just the endless automatic scribbling. With a groan she turned back in her notebook to the beginning and pulling the lamp closer, she tried to read what she had said.
Frustratingly she found there were long passages where she appeared to have been writing so fast the words had turned into long undecipherable lines and were lost forever, but in others, for instance as Carta lay silently waiting for the goddess to speak to her, the script was clear and unambiguous:
Carta beware.
Who had said that?
She wants to kill you. She does not want you to marry. She does not want you to bear children. She does not want her own seed usurped.
And who was she?
Medb of the White Hands, the king’s youngest wife.
‘Oh God!’ Viv bit her lip, totally engrossed. ‘Does she know? Did I warn her?’
It didn’t matter of course. Nothing she did or said mattered. She couldn’t change the course of history.
Could she?
5
Pat turned over in bed with a groan and glanced at the small alarm clock near the lamp on the table beside her. It was ten past three and she was still reading. With a sigh she laid down the book and sat up. She couldn’t stop now. Padding down the stairs in her royal-blue pyjamas, she made her way through the silent flat to the kitchen. Turning on the light she reached for a glass and went across to the sink for some water.
She frowned. There was no mention of Medb in the book. None at all. She took a sip from her glass.
Medb.
Where had that name come from?
It had swum up from her subconscious while she was reading. Or had she dozed off without realising it and dreamed it?
‘Pat? Are you OK?’ Cathy appeared in the doorway behind her. She was wearing a dark red nightshirt.
‘Yes, sorry. Did I wake you?’ Pat leaned against the worktop, sipping from the glass. ‘I was reading Viv’s book. I didn’t realise it was so late.’
‘Is it any good?’ Cathy went over to the kettle. ‘I haven’t started it yet. No, I was awake anyway, worrying about Tasha.’
Pat glanced at Cathy across her glass. ‘Is she a problem? I thought you liked her.’
‘I do. It’s her mother I’m not so keen on. It’s such an issue each time she comes over. Pete’s got a meeting next time she brings Tasha so I’ve got to entertain the woman.’
‘Can’t you just grab the kid and shut the door in her face?’
Cathy gave a throaty laugh. ‘I wish! No, I’ll serve tea and cake and look all domesticated and try to outshine her at her own game as usual.’
‘That’s crazy. Pete lives with you. He didn’t like domesticated, remember?’
‘I know.’ Cathy sighed. ‘I may be a psychologist, Pat, but I’m still as insecure as the next woman.’ Cathy reached for a jar of teabags. ‘So, is Viv’s book any good? I must confess I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Pat rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘But it’s really strange. She’s an academic, right? And she’s making a huge issue of the fact, but whatever she says it does read like fiction, she’s right. It’s almost lyrical. Even I can see it’s full of stuff she could not possibly know for a fact and her professor is probably justified in his remarks. It is not kosher research. It can’t be. I don’t pretend to know anything about the subject, but I would have expected lots of other detail, social history, Roman background to the period, that sort of thing. Stuff which would be hard to convey in a drama documentary with no visual cues and not much time to spare, but this …’ She paused, sipping from her glass. ‘It doesn’t matter. From my point of view it’s brilliant! We can do a lot with it!’
Cathy shrugged. ‘She’s been translating old Celtic manuscripts and things and reading oghams, which are some sort of ancient Celtic sign writing, and running her hands over stones and stuff. She let on that much. She was really embarrassed about it!’ She grinned. ‘So, do I gather it is readable? After all, that is the important thing, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed, yes. It is readable. Very. And great material for a play, so I think we’re in business, and,’ Pat headed for the door, ‘I’m going back to bed to finish it. As far as I remember from looking her up before I came, no one knows about Cartimandua’s later life. I shall be intrigued to see what Viv has to say on the subject.’
The answer was, she didn’t. She described the final confrontation between the Brigantian forces and Rome and the story stopped abruptly.
No more is heard of the Queen of the Brigantes.
She disappears from history every bit as enigmatically, if with less drama, than did her sister queen, Boudica. Did she live to grow old?
Did she leave heirs? Did she meet her husband again? We do not know.
Pat closed the book and let it fall on the sheet. She felt absurdly cheated. The story had been exciting. Engrossing. Brilliant. Surely there must be more to the ending than that?
But of course even she, who was no historian, knew there wasn’t. History is not interested in happy endings. It is not indeed interested in endings at all. It moves on with the current of events, ever following the path to the future. And Cartimandua was not even a part of history as such. She belonged to pre-history, her name only known because of her interest to Roman historians