It had been so difficult to ignore her. To stick to the facts. The facts as far as they are known through a few Roman historians and Cartimandua’s place within the historical context of first-century Britain.
Each time it happened she had fought it tooth and nail. Thrown down her pen. Another whole passage of the book to be erased. Romantic, imaginative rubbish. Her book was to be factual.
She had spoken to a colleague in the modern history department, cautiously, casually, not giving too much away, about getting too close to the subject of one’s biography.
‘Oh God, yes!’ he had said, roaring with laughter. ‘It’s spooky. You become so intimate with someone you get right under their skin. You feel you know them better than they know themselves. Don’t worry, old thing. We read too many letters and diaries in our job, that’s the problem.’
Viv had nodded and grinned and walked away. Too many letters and diaries?
No. Not in the Iron Age.
If only.
If Cartimandua had written letters and diaries they had long ago dissolved into the sodden mires of northern England where she had lived and loved and died, and academics are not supposed to know how the subjects of their biographies feel and think without those indispensable written sources.
Hugh was right. She was probably a novelist at heart. Someone who could write good convincing historical fiction.
‘But I’m not!’ The words exploded out of her, heard only by the pot plants on her window sill. ‘I am an academic, damn it! I have studied Celtic history for fifteen years. That’s why this has all come so easily. It’s not because of –’ She paused. ‘It’s not because of her.’
Viv’s editor had loved it. So had the publishers’ readers; the publicity department; the sales team. Parts of it which she had cut, her editor insisted on reinstating – the best bits – the most ‘imaginative’! And the first person to look at it who knew what he was talking about, Professor Hugh Graham, had spotted it immediately. Cartimandua’s voice was there. It shouldn’t have been.
And now Viv was hearing it again, more insistently than ever. The book was finished. The voice should have gone away. Instead it was louder and now there was no reason – no academic reason – not to listen. After all, there were so many pieces of the jigsaw still missing. So much she still wanted to know.
Walking slowly back into her living room, so empty after Steve’s departure, Viv was lost in thought. Where was the voice coming from? Was it from her imagination? Was it a memory? An echo? A ghost? Why did she have this strange feeling suddenly that on top of all the other reasons not to listen to the voice that called itself Cartimandua, there might be one overriding factor. That it was dangerous?
She stood staring at the phone thoughtfully. Perhaps she should tell Cathy what was happening. Cathy would know what to do. She was after all the psychologist; the expert. But then, supposing Cathy said it was stupid and potentially harmful and that she should stop?
The words of the first scene of her play resonated in her mind again suddenly. Once written, she had not been able to erase them. Most of them hadn’t gone into the book, but they were still there. In her computer. In her notes. In her head. They were the bit of the play that Maddie Corston had praised. They were the words that had first brought Cartimandua alive.
For as long as she could remember she had known that she would be a queen some day. It wasn’t a dream, or a memory of past existences or a knowledge of a destiny which was the result of birth or fortune. It was a certainty. A knowing in her blood. Besides, the goddess had told her. The first time she had heard the voice clearly she had been standing quite alone amongst the trees near the river in the lush valley below her hilltop home. She had left her pony to graze and was staring down into the glittering churning sweep of the brown waters, her mind a blank, mesmerised by the movement of the ripples.
Cartimandua
The voice seemed to echo off the stones beneath her feet, resound from the boulders, rustle in the leaves above her head. Cartimandua, Queen of the North.
Awed, she stared round. This valley was full of gods; it was a sacred place and this was a sacred river and a goddess had spoken her name. A goddess called Vivienne. She knew what she looked like, her goddess. She had glimpsed her green eyes in the reflections of the water, seen her hair, the russet of oak leaves in autumn, in weed streaming amongst the rocks. And it was there that, cautiously, shyly, for the first time, she answered the call of the goddess who called her queen.
Her brothers had laughed. Good-natured, tolerant, fond of their small sister, they encouraged her fantasy. They taught her all day, every day, to run, to throw a spear, to wield her small razor-sharp sword and to ride. To ride as though she were part of the horse itself. It was they who had given her her special name – Cartimandua, which meant Sleek Pony – teasing her as, soaked to the skin in the rain and the mist of her native Pennine Hills she leaned forward against the neck of her pale cream garron, her own long fair hair hanging in ropes about its neck, blending with its mane as they tore across the heather-clad fells and the dales and into the forest. It was her brothers and their friends who set her up to stand on an upturned box to address her troops, the children and young men and women of the hilltop fort on the high northern moors where they had been born, and who led the cheering as she rallied her followers to their next adventure.
She did not enjoy weaving.
Or sewing.
Or playing with other girls save those who, tomboys like herself, dreamed of being warriors alongside their menfolk.
It didn’t matter what she did. She was the apple of her father, the tribal chieftain’s eye, her uncle’s darling, and if she was the despair of her ambitious mother she didn’t care. She romped unchecked through the small township, her clothes peat-stained, her fingernails split and dirty, her straw-coloured hair unkempt. Until the autumn of her twelfth year. The year her world was to change forever.
Her own special hound, Catia, had whelped in the night. She was a small bitch and the sire had been huge. The birth had torn the dog badly. Gentle and strong as she always was with her animals Carta had done her best to help, her small fingers easing out the last of the pups, tearing apart the membranes the bitch was too weak to break with her teeth, plugging the baby to the teat even as she knew the mother was dying. Three of the pups were already dead. Her eyes full of tears, she was sitting in the watery dawn sunlight, her hand on the bitch’s head as it lay in the shelter of the log-shed outside the great round house, when a shadow fell across her and she looked up blindly. ‘She won’t live,’ she wailed. She did not ask for help. It never occurred to her to ask help from an adult. Already she was self-sufficient.
It was a stranger who stood over her. A tall lean man of some forty summers wrapped in a mantle of green and blue dyed wool. She had heard with some part of her the watchman’s horn and knew someone must be approaching the gates of the township, but had taken no notice, too preoccupied to care. He bent towards the dog, laying down his staff and the leather bag he carried and, going down on one knee he put a gentle hand on the dog’s flank.
‘She can still be saved.’ His voice was deep. ‘Take the surviving pups from her. She has no strength to feed them. Is there another bitch here to adopt them? If not I’ll twist their necks.’
‘No!’ Her eyes flashing fury Carta pushed at him, trying to place herself between him and the dog. ‘I will not have the pups killed. She has plenty of milk. They can feed till she dies. Then I will feed them myself with goat’s milk. And maybe she’ll be all right.’ Her certainty faded. ‘I will ask the goddess to bless her.’ She looked doubtfully down at the dog who lay, eyes closed, without moving.
The man studied Carta’s face briefly, then he reached forward and taking her hand examined her blunt, dirty little fingers covered in dried blood. ‘Is she your bitch?’
Carta nodded.
‘And