Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

in the flat a door banged. Cathy sat back in her chair, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. ‘Look, that must be Pete and Tash,’ she said gently. ‘Hang on a minute while I let them know we’re here –’

      Before she had a chance to move the door was flung open and Tasha stood there, an evil grin on her face. ‘I thought so. You’re hiding! Mummy’s here. Don’t you want to talk to her, Cathy?’

      Cathy laughed uncomfortably. ‘Tasha, we are having a meeting. I’ve asked you before not to burst into my office. I might have had a patient here.’

      ‘But you haven’t,’ Tasha retorted.

      Cathy groaned. ‘Nevertheless, we are having a meeting. When it’s finished Viv and I will come and say hello, OK?’

      Tasha looked both quizzical and smug. It was an extraordinary feat of facial gymnastics which brought Viv to the conclusion that the child would go far on the stage.

      ‘Should I surrender now?’ Cathy smiled wryly as the door closed behind the girl. ‘May as well.’

      Greta greeted Viv and Cathy with a patently insincere smile. ‘I’m so sorry not to be able to stay. I have an appointment.’

      ‘That’s all right.’ Tasha smiled. ‘We want to talk to Viv about her ghost, don’t we, Cathy.’ Turning, she reached for her mother’s handbag. ‘Mummy, please. You promised me some extra pocket money.’

      ‘Ghost?’ Greta frowned. ‘What ghost?’

      ‘It’s nothing, Greta.’ Cathy glared at Tasha repressively. ‘A joke, that’s all.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Greta turned towards her daughter. ‘Put my bag down!’ She was peremptory.

      Viv clenched her fists. Cartimandua was a ghost; not a dream, not imaginary, not a disembodied memory. She was a ghost and she had shown herself in this room.

      ‘I’m frightened of ghosts!’ Tasha continued firmly and glanced at her father as Cathy sighed.

      He pursed his lips.

      Greta stared at her. Then turned to Pete. ‘What is this nonsense?’

      ‘As Cathy said, Greta. A joke. Take no notice.’ Pete glared at his daughter.

      ‘Well, I have no time for jokes. I have to go,’ Greta retorted. ‘Tasha!’ The name hurled across the kitchen made the child jump guiltily. Her hand was inside her mother’s purse.

      ‘Is this what you teach her?’ Greta grabbed the bag. The accusation was aimed at Cathy.

      ‘Certainly not.’ Cathy was flustered.

      Tasha scowled. ‘Cathy was hiding from you, Mummy. In her study. She knew you were here and hid! She didn’t want you to know about the ghost. It was in there with them. It follows Viv everywhere.’

      There was a moment of silence. The kitchen seemed to have gone cold as Viv looked around at their faces, Tasha’s smug, Greta’s lip curling with disdain, Pete frowning, Cathy astonished.

      ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ Viv tried to smile and failed.

      ‘No, wait. Our consultation …’ Cathy reached out towards her.

      ‘Was brilliant. You’ve given me lots to think about.’ Viv gave an uncomfortable gesture of surrender. ‘Tell Pat I’m sorry. I’ll call her.’

      Outside the door at the top of the stairs she paused, her heart thudding in terror.

      Carta had been standing there next to her. Tasha was right. This time she had seen the hazy figure herself.

V

      Slamming the door of her flat behind her, Viv tried to force herself to be calm. She sat down on the rocking chair and closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. Cathy was right! Her brain was dreaming up a story which her intellect had rejected. There was nothing sinister here. Tasha was only trying to stir things. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. The flat was unusually quiet and cold. She looked round nervously. It was several seconds before it dawned on her that the computer was switched on. She frowned. Surely it had been off when she left home? Standing up reluctantly she moved across to her desk and sat down again in front of the screen. Beside the keyboard her answer machine was flashing. She ignored it.

      Carta was pregnant. Ecstatic and excited, she stood for long periods, her hands gently cupped over her belly where as yet there was barely any sign of the life not yet quickened inside her. For now Medb was forgotten.

      Riach was as excited as she was. He presented her with an exquisitely carved and decorated chariot and two matched ponies to pull it. ‘So you don’t need to ride when the child is larger.’ He rested his hand on the place where only moments before she had been stroking her own belly. ‘A soft and gentle ride for my son!’

      The young charioteer was called Fergal. He was the son of a warrior, one of Riach’s older warrior comrades, elevated to a position of honour as her driver and her bodyguard.

      She still rode daily, but the novelty of her own war cart was an exciting one and she planned excursions to visit the duns and homesteads of the women she had met at the Beltane and Lughnasadh gatherings in the fort. Fergal drove her all over the territories of the Votadini. He was a serious young man, tall and well-built, with fair wavy hair and blue eyes. By inclination he would have preferred to study as a bard, and later maybe as a Druid, but his father was adamant that he should carry weapons in the king’s service and Fergal, good-natured and always willing to oblige, gave up his hopes. Driving the prince’s young wife was a perfect compromise. As he escorted her around the district he listened to bards and learned their songs. He carried his lyre in the war cart with his sword and spears.

      Carta’s baby quickened at the time of the autumnal equinox as violent gales roared across the land from the west, tearing the leaves from the trees. The cailleach, goddess of the winter storm, had arrived early. It was time for hunting and reiving, the cattle raids which would augment the herds brought in for slaughter from the shielings. One man’s feasting is another man’s starvation. That was the way it was. No amount of grain would fill the belly in the same way as beef or mutton or venison salted down and stored away in safety for the long winter months.

      ‘Do you want to go with them, Fergal?’ Carta had been watching the young man’s face as Riach called his men together. They had been sharpening and polishing their weapons for days, drawing up plans, waiting for the runners to return with news of when the herds were being brought down from the pastures of neighbouring tribes. Rich pickings, with the added excitement of the chance to capture slaves and take prisoners for ransom.

      ‘I’d rather stay with you, lady.’ Fergal gave a rueful grin. ‘I have my orders. The king and Riach have spoken.’

      ‘Poor Fergal.’ Carta shook her head. ‘Watching women is not much fun. Being a woman is not much fun either.’ Her wry pout echoed his own. She had been feeling sick and uncomfortable and hated having to stay at home. ‘But once this child is born then you and I will join the next raids with the men.’ The glint in her eye showed the tomboy was still alive and well. ‘My women can take care of the baby.’

      They laughed easily together and he went to groom the ponies who had caught the excitement in the horse lines and were expecting to go out with the others.

      Carta walked back out of the wind and rain into the small round house which was now her home and stood staring down at the central fire. The flames flickered in the draught. Riach had said his farewells the night before, holding her in his arms so that she was completely enfolded in his cloak. ‘Take care of our son, my Carta,’ he whispered. ‘And of yourself. You are my two treasures. I don’t know why I need more.’

      She laughed, snuggling against his chest. ‘To feed your men and your father’s followers. That’s why. A thousand hungry mouths.’ She reached up and kissed him on the lips. ‘And to make me proud. My husband must be the greatest warrior who ever lived.’

      He gave a shout of laughter.