Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

in her head.

      Gulls don’t cry at night.

      Do they?

      Carta, be careful. The omens are not good.

      

      A hunting party had arrived, bringing in more food for the Beltane feast and cattle were being rounded up from the grazing grounds ready for slaughter. A king’s wealth is judged on the numbers of his cattle, augmented regularly by raids on neighbouring tribes and King Lugaid’s wealth was enormous.

      Excitement was beginning to build at Dun Pelder. Wagons loaded with food and goods creaked and groaned as they made their way along the tracks towards the township. A party of Gaulish traders laden with wine and another with bales of richly-coloured silks from the eastern frontiers of the Roman Empire joined the crowds thronging the fields around the base of the hill.

      Carta was sick with excitement. Her parents, the year before confirmed as High King and Queen of all Brigantia, would be arriving any day now and with them would come two of her brothers, Triganos, the eldest, and Bran, the youngest who several years before had accompanied her to Dun Pelder. With them would come Brigantian priests and Druids who would help officiate at the marriage.

      It was while she tried to distract herself from the excitement by watching the grooms attending to her ponies in the stable lines that Riach sought her out at last. Darting out of the shadows he caught her hand.

      ‘I hardly ever see you nowadays.’

      She shrugged, suddenly shy. ‘Then you have not tried hard enough. I sit at your father’s feet often enough. I ride with your mother and your sisters.’

      ‘And I have been into the hills with the hunting party.’ He grinned. ‘So I wasn’t there to see. But I am now. Your parents are nearby. Word has come. Their baggage train has been seen on the road.’

      Carta shivered with excitement. ‘And the feast starts tomorrow at sundown.’

      ‘And our wedding is the day after.’ He reached into the leather bag that hung at his waist. ‘I have a present for you. It is special. We so seldom get the chance to be alone. Shall I give it to you now? No, not here.’ He pushed whatever it was back into the bag. ‘Come with me.’ He caught her wrist and drew her away from the horses across the busy muddy yard and onto the track. Together they ran between the houses, across the warriors’ training ground and scrambled down the ramparts, through the open gates, and giggling like the children they still were, dodged at last out between the gatehouses and into the fields. Riach led her over a bank and into an orchard. Around them sweet early blossom on the crab apple trees and thick creamy hawthorn flowers with their musky provocative scent cast a dappled shade on the grass. ‘Here.’ As they faced each other under the trees he produced a small bundle, wrapped in blue linen.

      She glanced up at his face. He was excited, his eyes dancing as he pressed it into her hands.

      Slowly, trying to prolong the anticipation, she began to unfold the material, conscious of the heavy flexible weight of the present in her fingers.

      It was a golden chain and hanging from it a tiny enamelled golden horse. She gasped with delight. ‘It’s beautiful.’

      ‘My wedding gift. Here, let me put it on.’ He slipped the chain over her head and rearranged her hair carefully on her shoulders. ‘A glossy pony. After your name. I had it made specially by my father’s best goldsmith.’

      She could guess which one, the old man who lived near the ironsmith. She had wandered into all the craft houses on the hill. Each one housed a family business. There were more scattered down amongst the farmhouses. Potters, harness makers, woodturners, stone carvers, jewellery makers, weavers, three weapon makers and swordsmiths, but the best, the absolute best, were up there on the top of Dun Pelder near the king.

      She glanced up. ‘You are so generous.’ The shyness vanished. She flung her arms around his neck and touched her lips against his.

      The impetuous childish gesture hovered for a moment between them, then his arms closed around her. A man’s arms, claiming his woman. The kiss deepened. Her eyes closed as their bodies pressed closer and she felt him pulling aside her tunic as his lips left hers to move down her neck into the nest of her shoulder and then on towards her breasts.

      Pausing only a moment to tear off his cloak and throw it onto the ground beneath the trees, he pulled her down with him, and they lay there in one another’s arms, exploring each other’s bodies, touching and kissing throats, breasts, shoulders, until at last he pushed her legs apart with his knee, and then gasped with surprise and delight as with a shout of glee she gripped him with her thighs and pulled him inside her.

      For a long time they were oblivious of the world about them. If anyone glanced over the bank into the orchard they smiled tolerantly and moved on. It was the spring. The blood was high. What else would a man and a maid do given half a chance beneath the newly warm sun?

      Only one creature saw them and stayed to watch. A hoodie crow in the spiny apple boughs above them swayed in time with the gentle breeze, fixed them with a baleful eye and kept unaccountably silent.

      

      ‘Watch out for the bird!’ Viv was struggling to make herself heard. ‘Can’t you see it’s a spy? Oh please, be careful.’

      Her own voice in the silent room precipitated her out of her dream and she found herself sitting at her desk, trembling with cold and exhaustion. Carta and Riach were gone. It was 3.30 a.m.

       8

      I

      Arriving early at the department next morning, Hugh glanced in at the office. There was no sign of Heather. The room was silent, the computer off, the coffee machine cold. He frowned in disappointment. His easy banter with her always cheered him up, but of course it was Saturday. He probably had the building to himself. Thoughtfully he climbed the stairs and walked along the narrow, dark corridor with its squeaky floorboards, past the three closed doors with their labels announcing Dr Hamish Macleod, Miss Mhairi Mackenzie and Dr Viv Lloyd Rees. He paused outside Viv’s room and listened. There was no sound from within. Cautiously he reached out and turned the knob. The door was locked. He stood for a moment, lost in thought, then he turned and retraced his steps swiftly down the stairs and into the office. There behind Heather’s impressive cheese plant, which was threatening to take over the entire room, was a small cupboard in which hung duplicates of all the department’s keys. Scooping Viv’s key off its hook, he turned and made his way once more towards the stairs.

      Her room was unnaturally tidy, the desk cleared of its usual piles of books and papers, her bookcase neatly ordered, the chairs pushed back against the walls. She had taken most of her files, her boxes of old floppy disks, her CDs, her notepads, her correspondence. There was nothing of her there. The room felt abandoned. Walking over to her desk he sat down in her chair. For a moment he didn’t move, sitting, staring into space, then slowly he leaned forward and began methodically to open the drawers of her desk. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He knew the pin would not be there but somehow he couldn’t stop himself searching. As he scanned the contents, the notepaper and envelopes, the old pens and biros, the notepads, the files of old papers and letters, a couple of unused birthday cards, still in their Cellophane slips, he found himself trying to gain a sense of her presence. A scent. A sound. There was nothing. Giving up abruptly he slammed the drawers shut and walking out of the door, locked it once more behind him. Going straight into his own room he flung himself down at his desk and thumped the surface with his fist.

      ‘Stupid, silly woman! Why in God’s name did you do it?’

      There was no reply.

      Pulling the phone towards him he lifted the receiver and punched in a number. ‘Meryn? I’ve looked everywhere. The brooch has gone. I’ve