‘What a cow!’ Jess threw more logs onto the fire and poured herself another glass of wine. ‘So, what happened to him after that?’
The play did not reveal the answer. It followed the course of the queen’s life and loves; once Caratacus had been dragged away in chains by his Roman escort he was not mentioned again. She wondered if Cartimandua had given him another thought.
Jess sat for a long time after the play finished, gazing into the flames, listening to the crackle of burning logs. Had Caratacus been reunited with his wife and children? Was he killed? Were they all killed? She did not know.
But she had a strong feeling that Eigon and Glads would tell her.
In her dreams, or as they rampaged round the house in their rage and fear, the ghost children who had been Caratacus’s daughters would tell her the story whether she wanted to hear it or not. Jess shivered. She had no choice. A link had been forged between her and Eigon through the experience of rape and betrayal; as long as she stayed in the house she would have to listen to Eigon’s story.
Is Papa there?
The voice was thin and reedy, terrified, echoing against the sound of the wind and rain against the window. Jess lay still, clutching the sheet to her chin, staring up at the ceiling. It was two thirty a.m. She had just checked the clock again. Closing her eyes against the bedside light she turned over, humping the sheet over her shoulder against the glare, yet not daring to turn it off.
Have we finished playing the game? Papa will know where Togo and Glads are. He knows everything.
There was a click from the door. Jess turned over, staring at it in terror. Slowly it swung open. Beyond it the landing was pitch dark.
Clutching her pillow to her breasts, she sat up. Someone was walking towards her across the room. She couldn’t see them or hear them, she just sensed it. ‘Go away!’ she cried. Her voice wavered uncertainly. ‘Please go away. I can’t help you. I don’t know where they are. I don’t know where your father is!’
The presence stopped. It was listening. Jess clenched her fists into the cotton of the pillowslip. ‘Look, I would help you if I could. Your father went to the Queen of the Brigantes for help. I know that much. He was hurt, but he wasn’t killed in the battle.’
The silence in the room grew intense. It had a thick palpable quality; it was hard to breathe. Jess could feel her lungs straining; her mouth was dry, her eyes gritty. ‘Please, Eigon. Go away. I can’t help you. I would if I could. I know how you feel –’ She paused. ‘I understand.’ The feeling of invasion, of pain, deep within her soul, the anguish of a woman who has been raped and violated and left for dead. And this child wasn’t even a woman when she had been attacked by those men; she was barely more than a baby. Of course she understood!
‘Sweetheart, I know how hard it is. But it will get better.’ She shivered. How could she say that, utter platitudes to an invisible thought form standing in the middle of her bedroom floor when she didn’t even know if the child had survived; or her father, her mother, her brother and sister. All might have been dead within days or weeks of the battle. One thing was for sure. They were all dead now.
‘I’m asleep,’ she said suddenly to herself. ‘None of this is happening. This is a dream. I am asleep and there is no one here. I am all alone. Soon it will be time to get up and have breakfast in the sunshine and I will wonder what I was worrying about. In fact, I won’t remember anything about this. Nothing at all.’
The child was gone. Staring round the room she could sense it. There was no one there. The house was empty again; in the garden the moonlight was slowly spreading through the wood. In seconds it would have reached the window of her bedroom and thrown a silver gleam across her floor and her fear would go. Leaning back she began to breathe more easily again. Within minutes she was asleep.
She was sitting in front of a cup of black coffee next morning in the kitchen, still wearing her nightshirt, her feet bare, her hair tousled, when the phone rang. It was Rhodri. ‘Are you listening to the radio? Turn it on. Now. Speak to you afterwards!’
Her head was splitting; the amnesia she had promised herself in the moonlight had not happened. With a groan she stood up and went to turn on the radio.
‘Viv Lloyd Rees and Pat Hebden’s drama documentary Queen of the North was aired last night to huge acclaim,’ the announcer’s voice floated out across the kitchen. ‘They are here in the studio with me to talk about their play and the research that went into it and to share with us the quite extraordinary experiences which they endured as they unearthed their heroine’s story.’
Jess sat down and reached for her coffee mug as the two women told their tale. Somehow, by digging into the past, they had awoken it. Even now, so it seemed, embarrassed to talk about what had happened to them, they described the terrifying events which had occurred as they probed the story of Cartimandua, events which had led eventually to disaster and even death.
Jess listened to the programme with increasing horror and fascination until the discordant eerily Celtic echoes of the closing music broke the mood. Wearily she rose and went to turn off the radio, then she picked up the phone. ‘How did you know it was coming on?’ she said as Rhodri answered.
‘They said so last night. After the play. Didn’t you hear them? What did you think?’
She could hear music playing in the background, powerful orchestral music, and she wished suddenly that she was there in the Prices’ warm kitchen. ‘I thought it was terrifying. Do you believe what they were saying? I can’t think how they could have gone on to write a play about her. I’d have been afraid I would go on raising the dead with every word I wrote.’ She paused. ‘Is that what I’ve done, Rhodri? Woken the ghosts here?’ She had forgotten her initial hostility to this man. He understood.
‘I don’t know about you particularly,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘after all Steph has noticed things too. Although you do seem to have woken them up a bit!’
Jess bit her lip. Of course. He didn’t know what it was that she and Eigon had in common; the reason the child who was the daughter of Caratacus had come to her to share her tears. And, perhaps, to ask for help. She froze. Is that what she was doing? Asking for help …
‘It’s interesting, isn’t it, perhaps you should see if they’ve got a website?’ Rhodri went on cheerfully. ‘As long as you’re not scared! What a bit of luck I spotted that entry in the Radio Times yesterday – I was looking for one of my concerts – as it happens they are putting it on tonight.’
Jess gave a wan smile. ‘I’ll listen to it –’ She broke off as she caught sight of the reflection from a car windscreen as it flashed across the wall. ‘Sorry, Rhodri. Someone has come. I’ll call you later.’
Will’s red MG sports car had pulled into the yard. Already he had opened the door and was climbing out, pulling off his sunglasses, looking round. ‘Jess?’ He strode towards the open front door. ‘Jess, are you there?’ Moments later he was standing in the kitchen looking at her. ‘There you are! My God you’ve become elusive, Jess.’ He stepped towards her, then registering the panic on her face as she stepped behind the kitchen table defensively, he stopped. ‘What’s wrong? Sorry. Did I give you a fright? I thought you’d seen me from the window.’ He threw his shades down on the table. ‘Is there any coffee left in that pot? It’s still a hell of a drive from London, isn’t it? Do you remember, when we used to do it together and get here at dawn, before Steph was even up?’ He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, studying her face. ‘What’s wrong, Jess? What is this all about?’
Jess bit her lip. She sat down opposite him. ‘You know what it’s about, Will. And you know I would never want to see you again. So, why come?’
‘I’ve come because