Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

I will listen to every detail as we sit together by the winter fires.’ She wound her fingers into the fine linen of his tunic under his cloak. ‘And sing them myself to your son as he waits to be born.’

      She watched them ride away, her companion Mairghread by her side, a comforting presence as the horses, the chariots, the great wolfhounds from Erin baying at their heels drew away into the distance. It was then she found herself shivering with apprehension.

      She felt it again now as she stared down into the fire. Mairghread, sensitive as always to her every mood had rounded up the other women and ushered them out of hearing so that she could be alone with her thoughts. Sitting there, she lost herself in her dreams, gazing at the tongues of flame licking around the glowing logs, hissing their message as they threaded patterns through the fragrant smoke.

      Danger.

      Her hand went automatically to her belly where her child, Riach’s child, nestled in the darkness below her heart. It was safe there. The flames crackled and a log split with a bang. Suddenly her head was spinning. She was falling towards the fire.

      There was an arm around her. Then another. ‘Come on, lady. Let me take you to your bed.’ It was Mairghread. ‘I saw you grow dizzy. Lie down and rest.’ Two other women reappeared from the far side of the room where they had been sitting talking, out of the cold wind. They guided her through to the bedchamber and drew the wicker screens around her.

      ‘My baby …’

      ‘Your baby is fine. Women often feel as you do now. It is quite usual. Your baby is greedy. He is sucking at your strength from within. It shows he is already big and strong.’ Mairghread smiled reassuringly. She placed a cool hand on Carta’s forehead. ‘I’ll bring you some chamomile infusion and you must sleep for a while. Then you will be yourself again, your own strength recovered. You’ll see.’

      In her sleeping chamber Mairghread went to her herb cupboard. There, neatly arranged on the shelves behind the door were bundles of dried herbs, gathered in the spring and summer, each neatly labelled with a small wooden tag engraved with a symbol. Twice married and twice widowed already, although she was less than ten years older than Carta, and childless herself, Mairghread had elected to remain unmarried and instead to study with the Druid healers and to look after her young mistress and companion, understanding the gap Mellia had left in Carta’s life, and wishing she could fill it. She took some chamomile and went to ladle boiling water from the cauldron. Frowning, she waited while the herbs were steeping in their flagon, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. What had Carta seen?

      The whole fort had turned out to look for Medb of the White Hands when she disappeared. Search parties were sent far and wide, messengers despatched the length and breadth of the land, to Brigantia and beyond to the lands of the Selgovae and the Novantae, the Venicones and even further north, to the lands of the Picti. The seers consulted their auguries to see if she had been killed by wolves or bears, and the bards constructed magical lays to bring her home had she been stolen by the gods. There was no sign of her. It was as if she and her two slaves had never been. Only two people asked themselves if they could guess. Truthac, Archdruid of the Votadini, and Brigit, senior wife to the king. Both looked at Carta’s wide-eyed innocence and concern and both wondered. Both kept their thoughts to themselves.

      The Archdruid came to Carta’s bedside, when her message reached him. She was lying wrapped in warm furs, the brazier near her throwing out heat which did not seem to be able to dispel the chill from her bones.

      ‘The curse is working.’ She was white-lipped. The small chamber was empty – they could hear the subdued chatter of the other women around the main fire pit beyond the wattle walls. Some were spinning in the firelight, others just sat listening to the soft voice of one of the women bards as she told a story, accompanying the narrative from time to time with a few chords on the small harp on the table at her side. At Carta’s request Mairghread had gone to join the others so she could talk to Truthac alone.

      ‘The curse that condemned me to barrenness. I can feel it worming its way into my womb.’

      The Archdruid leaned his staff against the wall and, sitting down beside the bed, took her hand. It was ice-cold and clammy. He was frowning. ‘Mairghread told me she thought you saw something in the flames.’

      ‘I did. I saw blood.’ Carta took a deep shaky breath, trying to still her own panic.

      ‘But there is no issue of blood from your womb. The child lies securely?’ His eyes were fixed steadily on her face. She was reminded of that other Druid years before who had saved her dog’s life. He had had the same calm certainty, the same ability to reassure. She nodded.

      ‘Then allow your ladies to take care of you. Rest. Do not ride horse or chariot for a while and do not consult the oracles yourself.’ He gave a grave smile. ‘It is commonplace, so I’ve noticed, for women in your condition to see troubles where there are none.’

      ‘And the curse?’

      ‘The curse tablet had not been awakened. It would not have worked.’

      Carta bit her lip. ‘Supposing –’ She hesitated.

      ‘Suppose nothing, princess.’ He put a stern hand on hers. ‘Think no more about it, or about the person who wanted it.’ He raised his eyes to hers and held her gaze. ‘The gods know the truth, Carta. They know who is honest and who deserves punishment here.’ There was a pause. He saw the pupils of her eyes contract with fear. She looked away into the corner of the room. ‘My goddess knows what happens in my heart,’ she said quietly. ‘And what happened to Medb. She is not dead. She did not come to harm.’

      The old man frowned but he made no comment. He stood up slowly, drawing his robe around him and reached for his staff. ‘Rest now, child, and forget Medb. And pray that your baby stays safe.’

      Carta watched him disappear between the screens, then she huddled down into the bed, pulling the covers over her head.

      The vision returned in her dreams that night. Three ravens were sitting in a storm-swept tree staring down at a blood-soaked body as the wind and rain tore through a narrow glen. ‘Who is it? Who is dead?’ Her screams woke the other women and they ran to her bedside, holding up lamps in the darkness. The central fire had been smoored for the night, carefully covered by a layer of peats so that in the morning it would be ready to stir back into life. Someone grabbed the poker and in a short while it was blazing, bringing warmth back to her chilled body.

      ‘Someone is dead!’ Carta was crying. She clutched at Mairghread’s hand.

      ‘No one is dead, Carta!’ The young woman was trying to comfort her. ‘Everyone is safe. See, your little one kicks. You have woken him.’ They all saw the slight movement beneath her nightgown.

      But someone was dead. Two days later the remnants of the hunting party returned. Riach’s body was carried in the chariot in which he had so proudly ridden away from Dun Pelder. Four of the young men who had accompanied him had died with him, the others came home badly wounded.

      Concentrating so completely on Carta’s baby, no one had given a thought to the raiding party which had ridden with such optimism towards the western hills, the lands of the neighbouring Selgovae, favourite targets for autumn raids, so news of the hunters was not expected for a long time. Their arrival back was a devastating shock.

      Mairghread tried to hold Carta back. ‘Don’t look. Stay in here by the fire. You don’t want to see him.’

      Carta swept her aside. Walking very straight, wrapped in a cloak against the icy wind she stood beside the chariot and stared down. For a few moments her composure held. He looked the same. So serene, so eager, so strong. The arms which had held her, the lips which had kissed every inch of her body, were undamaged. The terrible wounds which had drained his life were hidden beneath the fur rug.

      ‘He fought with honour. It is we who survive who are dishonoured.’ His own arm nearly severed through, a gaping wound in his shoulder, Riach’s charioteer gently wiped the mud from the prince’s face. ‘We could do nothing against them, my lady. There were two dozen of them. They came out of the clouds and mist. There was no warning. We read