Daughters of Fire

Hugh opened his mouth to answer, said nothing, and shrugged. ‘I didn’t want her to be harmed.’

‘Harmed in what way?’

Hugh sighed. ‘Something happened when she left the room. The sudden cold. The atmosphere. It didn’t make sense at the time. I thought it was me. The quarrel I’d had with her. But now,’ he looked up with a frown, ‘I’m frightened, Meryn. I think the brooch could be dangerous. That’s why I came to see you.’

III

Meryn sat for a long time after Hugh left, staring deep into the smouldering embers of the fire, reaching with tentative fingers into the past. Hugh had left him a postcard of the brooch, its exquisite craftsmanship obvious in the intricate swirls of gold and the jewelled colours of the enamels as it sat on its black velvet plinth in the museum showcase. The card rested on his knee as his mind quested the darkness behind the glowing logs at his feet. The craftsman who had made it had been proud of this his most beautiful achievement. It was an artefact fit for a god. But it had not been given to a god. Meryn frowned. The shadowy figure who was stalking Hugh was not alone. There were others there, drifting in the room, conjured from the otherworld by the very thought of this piece of jewellery. Who else had been affected by it, he wondered. He shivered as his thoughts strayed to the museum where it had lain, the malign chill of its presence cut off from the world by its glass case. Conservators and curators had admitted to him more than once in private that they could feel the vibes coming off some of the treasures in their care. Alone, when the public had gone, in the empty galleries or the work rooms behind the scenes they saw and felt echoes of the past which were far from dormant. This brooch had probably done the same.

He lifted the picture off his knee and studied it in the flickering glow of the firelight. At some point in its existence it had been imbued with power which, whatever the original intention, was now malign. Why? By whom? How? Why had these sticky threads of danger remained to contaminate all who touched it? He looked back into the fire. Tendrils of grey smoke were seeping out into the room and he screwed up his eyes with a frown, sensing a swirl of conflict, of love and hate, of fear and tragedy as the last of the logs collapsed into the bed of ash and for the time being the window into the shadows closed.

IV

‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, are you coming to hand in your notice? As a popular author, you clearly no longer need the pittance you earn with us.’ Hugh had just managed to ease his car into a much coveted parking space near George Square. He was pocketing his car keys as he turned and found himself face to face with Viv.

She could feel her face flaming in response to the comment. Somehow she clamped down on the retort which fizzed in her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper again. She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a while, yet, Hugh. Someone has to try and bring our attitudes out of the ark and into the world of modern research, after all.’

Damn! Why had she said that? Why antagonise him further?

He had started it, though.

She gripped the strap of the tote bag on her shoulder until her knuckles turned white. Don’t say another word, Viv. Wait for him to mention the brooch. Did he even know it was missing? If he didn’t he soon would if he was heading into the office. She chewed her lips nervously, watching as he bent to retrieve from the pavement the heavy briefcase which he had just pulled out of the car.

For a moment they both stood unmoving there on the footpath. It was the professor who turned away first. Swinging on his heel without another word he strode off, carrying his heavy case with him. He had said nothing about the pin. At the corner he veered away from the office, walking briskly into the square. In spite of herself she smiled with relief. At least they were not going to the same place, but he wouldn’t want to carry that briefcase far.

Following him at a safe distance she headed away from him, seeking the sanctuary of the small book-lined room she had called her own for five years now on the first floor of the small Georgian terraced building on the west side of the square.

Turning up the steps she ducked in through the door to look in at the office where the departmental secretary, Heather James, was sitting at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen. The coffee machine was gurgling quietly. ‘Can I grab one on my way upstairs?’ Viv dropped her bag on the only empty chair and reached towards the tray of mugs. ‘I suppose you saw that through the window?’

‘Saw what?’ Heather’s large blue eyes seemed to grow larger behind her glasses as she glanced up, then went back to her letter.

‘The Prof heading off towards the library rather than come in here with me.’ Viv grinned. She poured herself a coffee, then realised that her legs were shaking. She sat down abruptly beside her bag, cupping her hands around the mug.

Heather raised an eyebrow. Her light-hearted daily flirtations with her devastatingly attractive boss were part of office life, as was her ability to soothe his notoriously short fuse. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Viv.’ Her fingers flashed across the keyboard; her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

‘It’s hard not to.’

‘But not impossible. He’s done it before, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Bullied people. I think it means he likes you.’ There was an unexpected chortle from behind the piles of files on her desk. ‘Keep cool. He’s won if you lose it.’

Viv exhaled audibly. ‘Lose what? Temper or job?’ Heather clearly hadn’t heard about her attempt at grand larceny.

‘Either or both. Take some time out this summer and chill. Get right away from the department.’

It was a tempting idea. Upstairs Viv stared round her office. Book-lined walls, desk, chairs for students. Piles of papers and the view out across the square. How many days and months had she spent in this room in all? She didn’t like to think. It was beginning to feel like a trap. It smelled dusty. Depressing. She could cross the floor in three paces. Throwing up the sash window with its old frayed cords juddering on the brink of stasis, she stood looking out. Hugh hadn’t headed across towards the library as she had assumed after all. He was sitting in the square. She could see him easily from here. His briefcase on the bench beside him, he was leaning forward, his hands clenched between his knees, his face set in deep lines as he stared down at his feet, the dappled shadow of the trees playing over his features. He looked up briefly as someone walked past him, then he looked down again. His whole body language spelled out dejection. She frowned. She wasn’t about to feel sorry for him.

Twice she looked out of the window again. He hadn’t moved. Then as she was about to sit down at her desk at last she saw him climb to his feet and slowly turn back towards the department.

V

Standing in his office doorway, jingling his keys in his hand, Hugh was surveying the room as though he had never seen it before. The building was quiet. Further up the corridor Viv’s door was closed. Taking a step inside he shut the door behind him, dropped his heavy bag on the floor, and stood, taking in the over-laden book-shelves, the piles of books and papers on the floor, the worn rugs, the untidy desk, the ancient chairs some of which also bore piles of books.

Slowly he walked across to the desk.

‘Just make absolutely sure the brooch has actually gone, Hugh,’ Meryn had said. ‘Go for the obvious first. Check and double-check you haven’t hidden it, lost it, dropped it. Then decide what you want to do.’

Methodically he began to tidy the desk, collecting files and letters into neat stacks, returning books to the shelves, capping pens and biros and putting them into the mug which sat beside his computer for that purpose. Twice he paused, looking round, listening. The room was empty. He had no sense that there was anything, or anyone, there. The strange overwhelming feeling that someone had been watching Viv as she left his room with the brooch, the feeling about which he had told Meryn, had gone. Emptying the two filing trays and refilling them methodically with the letters and reports and memos which they were supposed to contain but somehow didn’t any more, he slowly began to bring order to the chaos. Before he was halfway through his task he knew for certain that the brooch wasn’t there.

Finished at last, he sat down and considered the empty blotter, the tidy filing trays, the piles of files, the whole neat area in front of him, then he put his head in his hands. His mind was a blank.

‘Do you want to sack her? Do you want to call the police?’ Meryn had said before Hugh left. The blue eyes had held his for a second. ‘If she has stolen the brooch, she’s given you cause.’

Hugh sighed with frustration. What had possessed her to take the wretched thing? He pictured her standing there in front of him, a vision in magenta, her eyes betraying her every thought as she looked at him. Angry. Challenging. Frightened. Indignant and then guilty. Even before she had taken the darn thing. Guilty.

Guilty because she was the cause of the war.

Guilty because she had betrayed her people.

Hugh frowned and took a deep breath, clenching his fists on the blotter in front of him. He had done it again. For one frightening moment he had confused her in his mind with the woman who had owned the brooch nearly two millennia before.

‘Be careful, Hugh,’ Meryn had said quietly as they had sat together before the gently smouldering fire in the cottage in the Pentland hills. ‘Don’t let yourself identify too closely with Venutios. I don’t know why yet, but his link with that brooch was only too real.’

Hugh had laughed.

VI

The sun had risen out of a bank of opal mist. Above it scraps of pink cloud floated like spun gauze in the clear blue bowl of the sky. The sea slumbered still, the colour of knapped flint, save where a path of light, carbuncle red, led towards the shore.

Her horse’s rein over her arm, Carta stood on the clifftop watching. In a moment the gauze would be too flimsy, the sun’s brilliance too strong and she would have to avert her eyes. The sweet symbol of the goddess of fire who hung her cloak upon its golden rays and whose warmth would sustain and comfort them through the summer would in a moment remind her of its implacable strength.

Dropping the rein she waited, ignoring the animal, who wandered a few paces away before beginning to graze, then as the crimson sliver broke through the mist she raised her arms in greeting.

She could feel the goddess’s kiss of warmth on her skin. Feel her power touching the land. As her gentle fingers touched the horse’s flank it raised its head and in turn it whickered greeting and acknowledgement before dropping its head once more to the grass.

The time of her marriage was coming close. Carta was a woman now. Several moons ago her bleeding time had started. There was a celebration for her in the women’s hall and a blessing. The king’s Druids and the king and his sons had met and messages had been sent to her father, recently elected high king of Brigantia. Her marriage portion had to be agreed and brought to Alba and her father and mother would come to celebrate the Beltane feast with gifts and feasting. Her husband was chosen and she was happy – so happy.

Were it not for one deep cloud like that which hovered across the sea and now covered the great rock out there amidst the gathering sun paths through the mist. Someone who did not want her to marry. Someone who had cursed her.

She shivered. The night before it had been the turn of Carta’s bard, Conaire, to sing. He had risen to his feet and with a bow to the king reached for his small harp. The song he had sung was one of Carta’s favourites. It told how she had raced across the moors against her three brothers and won. It told how well she rode, how she was one with her pony as it galloped through the Setantian mists. It told how she had won her name.

The men and women in the crowded hall listened as they lounged round the fire glancing from time to time at Carta who sat next to Riach, with Mellia beside her, the girl’s eyes fixed on the young man’s face with adoration. The servants and slaves had cleared away the dishes and the food. Fresh logs had been thrown on the hot ashes and mead and wine were being passed round the assembled company as, outside, the heavy spring rain watered the growing crops of the farms which spread out across the plain below the high terraces of the fort and drenched the roofs of the round houses, splattering on the mud beneath the eaves.

Carta stared down at her own small goblet, half embarrassed, pleased by the looks of admiration being cast in her direction. She was glowing with pride.

The music was slowing. Conaire drew his fingers across the strings in a vivid, dramatic chord.