Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

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 you are wondering.’

      ‘Can I ask what it is about?’

      ‘Cartimandua.’

      ‘Viv, we’ve been here before! You’ve just finished a book about her. She is very much on your mind for all sorts of reasons. This is normal.’

      ‘This is about her life before the book starts. The part of her life no one knows about.’

      Fiction.

      The word hovered on Viv’s lips but she didn’t say it. It wasn’t true. ‘I’m not making it up, Cathy. I can’t stop. She’s talking to me.’

      Cathy nodded. ‘I’m sure it feels like that. Your brain has gone into overdrive. The exhaustion from writing the book and then the hassle with Professor Graham has probably triggered the same reflexes which give us nightmares and make us sleep walk. That, combined with your very real frustration at finding there are so many aspects of her life you can’t ever know about.’

      Viv slumped back in the chair. ‘I suppose so. But it’s so vivid!’

      ‘As are a lot of dreams.’

      Viv hesitated. ‘So you don’t think she is actually communicating with me?’

      ‘No.’ Cathy shook her head.

      ‘Or that Tasha and Pete really saw her the other night?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you don’t rule out the possibility of some sort of communication between the living and the dead?’

      Cathy frowned. ‘Like spiritualism, you mean? I think, on the whole, most of that is a con.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe in some paranormal stuff, in fact, yes, I do believe in some things, but not that you’re being stalked by some Celtic female with tattoos, no.’

      ‘So, Tasha told you what she looked like.’

      Cathy nodded.

      ‘It was Cartimandua.’

      ‘I don’t think so. Look,’ Cathy leaned forward in her chair, ‘you have a story to tell. You are putting on a radio play. So your brain is providing you with the story. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter where this stuff is coming from. Who ever knows where creative stuff comes from? It is a wonderful story. You now have an extra scene or two to go at the beginning of your drama: her childhood; her marriage. Who cares if it’s fact or fiction?’

      ‘I care.’ Viv shrugged. ‘I care very much. I’m a serious academic.’

      Behind them there was a slight click as the door opened a fraction and Pablo pushed his way into the room. He sat down, carefully surveying them both before beginning to wash his ears.

      ‘You can’t tackle this academically and I think that fact is at the root of your problem,’ Cathy went on. ‘Your brain is creating a let-out for you. Just use it. Tell Pat what’s happening. Let her help you write it into the play.’

      ‘And give Hugh Graham even more ammunition to use against me?’

      There was a pause. ‘Why do you really care so much what he thinks?’

      ‘Because he is my professor. The head of department.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘What do you mean, and?’

      ‘What is wrong with an academic writing a semi-fictional piece? I am not saying any of your book was sourced like this –’ Cathy stopped abruptly. ‘Or was it?’

      Viv shook her head. ‘No! No, of course not! At least …’ She looked at Cathy in despair. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all got so muddled up.’

      Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to lose, if you ask me. Exploit your dreams and your creative visions. Turn them into, what do they call it, faction?’ She grimaced. ‘Use all this as a kind of catharsis to clear Cartimandua out of your system.’

      ‘Catharsis, maybe.’ Viv shook her head wearily. ‘But for me professional suicide.’

      ‘Why?’ Cathy looked genuinely bewildered. ‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against it. You are an academic writing fiction. It’s been done before.’

      ‘No, Cathy, I’m not a fiction writer. I can’t make these leaps of deduction. It’s not allowed.’

      ‘Who says?’

      ‘It’s just part of the rules.’

      Behind them Pablo finished his ablutions and sat watching Viv intently. Neither woman noticed him.

      ‘Yet in your book, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Cathy said slowly, ‘everything is supposition because it is pre-historic in the literal sense of the word, and all your sources are suspect in that they are Roman spin! Didn’t you tell me that? So, how come that is allowed?’

      ‘It just is.’

      ‘Well, now you have Pat on board to keep the academic in check. Use her, Viv. You really upset her by chasing her away yesterday, you know. And then this morning. She is threatening to go back to London.’

      ‘Perhaps it would be better if she does.’ Viv was getting more and more stressed.

      Behind them Pablo stood up. He was staring at her in a panic, eyes wide, ears flattened against his head, and leaping off the chair, he fled through the door. Once more neither of them noticed.

      ‘You don’t mean that,’ said Cathy.

      ‘I do. She’s going to interfere.’

      ‘That’s what she’s here for.’ Cathy frowned. ‘Be reasonable. Don’t upset her. Listen to her.’

      ‘And