Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
the pillows, on the bedside table, the bookshelves.
She had put it in the desk drawer. She knew she had. ‘Perhaps it was another drawer.’ She was talking to herself – another sign of madness! ‘Dear God, what have I done?’ Going back into the living room she pulled all the drawers out one by one and emptied them onto the floor, scattering papers and pens and pencils over the carpet. There was no sign.
In the street below Pete climbed thoughtfully back into the car and put the key into the ignition. With a glance up at her window at the top of the house he pulled away from the kerb.
Viv sat down on the sofa, her head in her hands. The flat was totally silent. The script of the play with its forest of red stickers courtesy of Maddie Corston lay on her desk in mute reproach. On top of it sat a small box. She stared at it for several seconds, her mouth dry, then leaping to her feet she pounced on it.
The enamelled pin shone in the lamplight as she opened the lid. It was exquisitely crafted. Shaped like the head of a crane, with an elegant elongated beak and curved neck, the gold was engraved and moulded into intricate designs, and set with scarlet and green enamels. For a long time she stared at it, then almost reluctantly she stroked it with her fingertip. A slight haze appeared on the surface of the gold from the contact with her skin and she pulled her finger away, with a shiver, biting her lip. The brooch was so cold. She glanced over her shoulder almost guiltily, sensing accusing eyes watching her from the corners of the room. She should not have touched it.
She should not have taken it at all. Why had she? Had someone else prompted her; guided her hand?
Outside the window the luminous night had settled over the city and slowly it was growing more silent. In the distance she heard a shout, then another and a short burst of music as somewhere down the Lawnmarket a door opened and then closed again.
The shadowy woman standing in the lamplight near the desk was staring at the brooch with intensity, her eyes the only part of her that seemed alive. As Viv picked up the lid of the box and carefully fitted it back into place, the figure reached out a hand as if in protest, then slowly faded into the darkness.
II
The ponies were kept at the far side of the compound. They were stamping impatiently, waiting for Carta and Triganos to appear from their mother’s house.
Silently, careful not to be seen, a figure was creeping along in the shadow of the great wall, climbing over the rubble where it had fallen, coming closer to the horses every second. First one, then another cocked their ears watching and Carta’s pony shifted restlessly, backing away as far as its halter would allow.
The boy glanced left and right, then ran sure-footed in between the animals. There was something in his hand, half-concealed behind his back. Ducking under the rope he approached Carta’s pony and thrust something under the saddle cloth. The horses all moved restlessly now as he turned and ran out of sight, chuckling.
When the king’s children appeared a few moments later the horses had settled again. Triganos was laughing. ‘Come on. I’ll race you! To the forest and back before sundown.’ He vaulted onto his own pony, leaning forward to pull the rein free, and turned it already galloping as he headed for the gates. Carta was not far behind him. As she leaped for her pony, bareback as his was, but for the backcloth, the animal let out a scream of pain and reared up. Carta flew over the horse’s back and landed on the ground on the far side, winded. For a moment she didn’t move.
From the shadows Venutios appeared. He stooped to help her climb to her feet. ‘Are you all right? What happened.’ His face was bland. Then concerned. Kindly. Behind him two men working at the bellows outside the smith’s house dropped the great wooden handles and ran to her aid, as did another of Carta’s companions, Mairghread, a tall dark-haired girl with buck teeth, who was just emerging from the house. Shaken and with her dignity wounded Carta scrambled to her feet and shook off Venutios’s arm. ‘I’m all right! I’m fine. How is Olwen?’
Venutios was beside the pony already, soothing it and gentling its trembling skin. The bunch of holly leaves had gone, tossed into the sunshadows out of sight beyond the other horses.
To his delight Carta was taken away, back to her mother to be cleaned and soothed and reprimanded for not checking the pony’s saddle cloth was firmly fixed, for not approaching quietly, for not mounting carefully, and long before she was allowed once more to emerge into the sunshine Venutios had climbed onto his own pony and ridden in pursuit of Triganos, followed by some of the other boys and leaving Carta at home to sulk. It was a long time before she managed to slip away at last from her mother’s eagle eye, but when she did she hurried straightaway over to the horse lines and whispering to the pony, fed it handfuls of titbits. Then carefully she ducked under the rope and began to search the ground.
From the top of the wall she could see far into the distance, beyond the forest, the scarlet gleam as the sun began to set into the sea. Pushing her hair out of her eyes she stood for a long time, listening for the voice. It wasn’t there. All she could hear was the gentle moaning of the wind. Silently she watched as the colours changed to deeper richer red, then to orange, then slowly they dulled into night. Behind her the coming darkness was already thick on the fells. There was no trace of Triganos and his friends.
There was a rattle of stones behind her and she turned. Mellia had scrambled up beside her. For a moment she too stared at the sunset, then she shrugged. ‘It’ll be dark soon. Is there any sign of them?’
Carta shook her head.
‘You think they’ll spend the night in the forest?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘And you wanted to go with them.’
‘You know I did.’ Carta pursed her lips. ‘Someone had put some holly under my saddle cloth.’
Mellia’s eyes rounded. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I found it. And then the scratches on poor Olwen’s back.’
‘But who would do such a thing?’
‘Venutios. He didn’t want me to go with them. If I’m there Triganos looks after me and does what I say. If I’m not, then the boys can do what they like.’ She gave an elaborate shrug.
Mellia studied the other girl’s profile with misgiving. She recognised the set of the jaw. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think of something.’
When the boys finally returned they brought with them a fine haul of game and had clearly enjoyed themselves enormously. Carta was not there to greet them. She had decided unaccountably to sit in the sunshine and watch Mellia’s attempts at mending some of the tears in her friends’ gowns; a thankless task, but one she seemed happy enough to try. Triganos brought his sister the gift of a pair of soft leather slippers which he had wheedled from the shoemaker near the entrance gates in an attempt to console her for leaving her behind. She smiled and accepted the gift with a gracious smile which filled him with foreboding.
Two days later Venutios was taken violently ill after the evening meal. Crouching behind the feasting hall as he vomited again and again into a latrine pit he glanced up at last, wiping his sweating face, to see Carta watching him. She was wearing her best gown and new slippers. And she was smiling. ‘Poor Venutios … Aren’t you well?’
‘Obviously not.’ He groaned and leaned down towards the stinking mess again.
‘No one else has been ill.’ She did not come any closer, wrinkling her nose fastidiously. ‘The gods must be punishing you for something. I wonder why.’
‘I can’t imagine.’ He looked up at her. ‘I hope you haven’t poisoned me, you little bitch!’
Carta