Daughters of Fire by Barbara Erskine Page A

towards the Lammermuirs or down to the Eildon Hills, where he had scattered her ashes, the magical, Celtic hills where Thomas the Rymer met the faery queen, and where King Arthur sleeps with his knights. He shook his head in exasperation. No wonder she had liked Viv. They had both been wrapped up in all this myth and magic, legends and pseudo Celticism, fun in its own way, but not real. Never real. He had tried so hard to put her right, explained that the population densities around these great hill forts would have been high, probably far higher than today if aerial photography and archaeology were anything to go by. A crowded landscape of farms and round houses, walls and tracks, centred on a central township, which would probably have been a settlement already for some two thousand years at least before the Iron Age. A real, busy, populated place, not some misty magical other-worldly fairy land. And even if Alison had not been able to get her head around the reality beyond the myth, Viv should be able to. Viv of all people should understand the realities of history.
    Picking up his keys he abandoned the desk and the departmental review, left the house and headed for his car. He always found solace in the bracing air of the hills. There he could clear his headand concentrate on a new and strangely persistent backdrop to the lonely song of the skylark. The voice of Venutios.
V
     

     
    Cathy had invited Viv to supper the following Sunday. Her partner, Pete Maxwell opened the door. He was tall, painfully thin, with skimpy hair and the deeply tanned complexion of a man who has spent most of his life in the sun.
    ‘Sorry, I’m early.’ She handed him two bottles of wine she had picked up at the nearest off-licence and reached up to kiss his cheek.
    ‘Always good to see you, Viv, you know that.’ He glanced warily out onto the landing. ‘I’m expecting my ex with my daughter. Once she’s dropped her off I can relax,’ he said, by way of explanation.
    Viv grimaced in sympathy. Over the years she had heard a lot about Pete’s marriage from Cathy. The current point of contention was the daughter of the marriage, Tasha. Until now she had been no problem. She went to school in Edinburgh and had lived with her mother in Cramond. Holidays had been divided between Sweden and Scotland but now Greta wanted her to go to school in Sweden. Pete, dear laid-back Pete, hadn’t really thought about it at all. Problem? What problem? Tasha wanted to live with them in the term time and stay at school in Scotland. Something that ought to be OK in theory but of course it wouldn’t be. Greta, she gathered from Cathy, would see to that.
    ‘Cathy’s in the kitchen. Come through.’ Pete turned and led the way down the corridor.
    Cathy was peeling potatoes. ‘Hi, Viv. Grab yourself a glass. Did Pete tell you, Tasha is joining us.’
    ‘He did.’ Viv poured herself some wine as Pete disappeared into the depths of the flat to answer the phone in his study.
    ‘Let me do those.’ Viv perched on the bar stool at the worktop.
    As Cathy handed over the peeler she glanced at Viv’s face. ‘You look a bit peaky. Are you OK?’
    ‘Sure.’ Viv gouged a potato viciously. ‘Well, sort of.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘Call me paranoid!’ She took a gulp from the glass. ‘But Ithink I’m being haunted.’ She hadn’t meant to say it; but the words were out before she could call them back.
    ‘Haunted?’ Cathy frowned. ‘By whom? Or what? I hope you don’t mind bangers and mash. That’s the one thing I can be sure Tasha will eat.’
    ‘Sounds great.’ Viv grinned. ‘You know me. I love my nosh.’ She reached for another spud. ‘By Cartimandua, I suppose. By the book.’ Now that it was out she couldn’t stop herself. She gave a small shudder. ‘I suppose I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms.’
    Cathy glanced up at her as she laid the sausages out in a grill pan. ‘It sounds very likely. So, what exactly are the