Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

seconds Pat was forgotten.

      III

      ‘She has cursed me! Look!’ Carta held out the amulet with a shaking hand. She had found it on her pillow. ‘She has made me barren!’

      Truthac took it from her soberly. ‘This is bad work, daughter. Grave. But a curse can be unmade. The woman who put this on your bed is not a powerful seer and nor is the person who made this charm.’

      ‘You know?’ Carta stared at him through her tears. ‘You know who did this?’

      ‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘The spell maker came to me for advice after it was bought from her. It was undedicated and without power. You have nothing to fear.’

      ‘And you know who it was who bought it?’

      ‘And so do you, child. You have the strength and the knowledge to fight her viciousness.’

      ‘I might have.’ She didn’t sound certain. ‘But what about Mellia? She died.’

      ‘Of an accident.’

      ‘No. She was murdered. The gods have told me.’ Carta’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘As was my Catia. Are they to go unavenged? Is Conaire to go unavenged?’ Her voice rose passionately. ‘He spoke out against this vicious woman at the feast. He loved Mellia too. You are a great judge. You must deliver justice!’

      ‘And so I shall.’ He paused. A scandal at Beltane when the fort was full and the surrounding settlements overflowing with visitors in celebratory mood would be unpropitious. ‘It will be done at the right time, Carta. At Elembivios, you will bring me your charge and your evidence when I hold my court of justice, and at Edrinios, in the time of arbitration, I will give judgement.’ He paused, seeing her shoulders slump. ‘It’s but three moons away, daughter of Brigantia, and then justice will be done.’

      

      Medb was hiding in the shadows, watching the dancing.

      Riach and Cartimandua were holding hands, their vows made before the whole world. Gifts had been exchanged, her marriage portion safely lodged in the Votadini warehouses and the three days of feasting had begun. On their marriage bed lay silken sheets, brought by trade routes from the east through Galatia to Gaul, and rich soft brown bearskins from the northern forests of the Caledones. On her arms were gold and silver bracelets. Round her neck she wore her enamelled pony on its golden chain.

      Lugaid had given them their own house as a wedding present. Small, neat, newly thatched, it afforded them privacy as long as the members of their household – their servants and slaves and companions – were outside around the communal fire.

      All night they made love, sometimes in their own deep heather bed in the new house, sometimes wrapped in Riach’s cloak out in the hay meadows and orchards, staring up at Sarn Gwyddion, the great swathe of stars, which came to be known to the poets as the Milky Way. And then they danced, late into the night with their friends around them to the tune of pipe and lyre and harp. Or they sat with others listening to the songs of the bards and to the sennachies with their stories of long ago. Only Carta was aware of the sadness in Conaire’s eyes and the wistful lilt to his music and deep in her heart she vowed she would make it up to him. He too would be avenged.

      

      But all the time Medb was coming closer, her eyes narrowed, her heart locked in jealous rage.

      In the second week of the festival, as slowly the farmers began to drift back to their fields and the hunters sharpened their spears and arrows and the warrior parties drew apart to plan new raids, Carta bade a sad farewell to her parents and her brothers and the friends who had accompanied them to see her married and watched them ride away. Then at last she decided to act. Her husband knew nothing of his stepmother’s lustful rage. He had eyes for none but his wife. Truthac had still said nothing; whatever was to be done, it had to be done by her. It was her friend and her dog who had to be avenged. Her bard whose heart was broken. It was her life and the lives of her children to come that had to be saved. Even as she lay in Riach’s arms she could feel the threat approaching. Somehow she had to be free of it.

      

      Outside, at the street door someone rang the bell again and again. Viv did not react. In her dream there was no door. No sound other than the crackle of the fire in the fire pit and the bubble of boiling water in the cauldron suspended over it, as Carta sat alone in her new house, deep in thought.

      

      The first party of merchants of the year had arrived from Gaul. The members of the tribe were used to such visitors now. Traders from the Empire were commonplace in the coastal towns, but this far north it was unusual to see them in person. King Lugaid fêted them and talked with them long into the night, promising rich goods, wolfhounds and slaves from Erin, silver and gold and lead, skins and weapons, in exchange for their wine and olive oil, beautiful pottery, luxury fabrics, exotic herbs and spices.

      Listening to them talk, Carta had begun to form the beginnings of a plan.

      It would take three men of the Brigantes to carry it out. Men who would be richly rewarded and then sent home to her father’s service; one of those men she suspected had been as much in love with Mellia as was Conaire, and would look to his young mistress to avenge any wrong that had been done to her. The others would follow without question. No one would ever know what became of Medb of the White Hands.

      Two days after the Gaulish party had set off back towards the coast where they would embark into the Germanican Ocean and thence, down the coast and across to Gaul, Medb rode south with two of her maidens in response to an invitation to visit the dun of her friend, Étain. The small party travelled in an ornate wagon, escorted by three horsemen. What danger was there, after all, in the land of the king’s allies and compatriots?

      The raiders came upon them swiftly, weapons drawn. The warriors died hard, protecting their king’s wife. The three women were captured. Horses and chariot were part of the booty. The bodies were buried so no trace would be found, given to the gods in the hungry depths of a local marsh.

      The price for female slaves was high. The traders paid handsomely. No one believed women chained with neck rings and manacles when they cried that the king of the Votadini would pay handsomely for their release. Why should they? Slaves made claims like that all the time.

      At Dun Pelder, Carta danced in a circle of women round the fire and wondered with the rest of the township what could have happened to Medb of the White Hands.

      It was a long time before she dared to hope that Mellia and Catia could rest in peace. That they were avenged and that she was safe.

      

      Viv frowned, staring at the monitor. Page 143. She could see the numbers flashing at the bottom of the screen. 143 pages! Her arms were cramped, her fingers stiff and painful. In disbelief she clicked on the save icon and pushed back her chair. It was dark outside once more.

      IV

      ‘How many people sit down in this chair and announce that they think they’re going mad?’ Viv threw herself uneasily into the chair in Cathy’s office.

      ‘About sixty per cent.’

      ‘Is that all?’ Viv was silent for a moment.

      ‘Viv, whatever it is, if it worries you, tell me about it. It won’t go any further, I promise.’

      ‘What if I told you I sat in front of the computer last night and typed 143 pages without being aware of it. It took me several hours.’

      Cathy took off her glasses. ‘Have you read what you wrote?’

      ‘Not all of it, but it makes sense, if that’s what