given to Mellia as a gift only a few days earlier. Mellia, who was like a sister to her.
‘Mellia?’ Her strangled whisper hardly made a sound. For a moment she stood still, paralysed with terror, then she ran frantically down the long flight of steps. ‘Mellia? Mellia? Are you all right?’
Mellia’s eyes were still open, her hand clutched around a lump of raw wool. Her spindle lay crushed beneath her.
‘Mellia?’ Carta touched the girl’s face with incredulous fingers. ‘Mellia? Speak to me!’ She could feel the panic welling up in her throat. ‘Mellia! Wake up!’
But the girl’s skin was cold, her head twisted to one side at an impossible angle, her neck broken.
For a long time she knelt there, Mellia’s cold hand clutched in her own, willing warmth back into the stiffening fingers, tears pouring down her cheeks. No one came. The busy township went about its business on the hill above her as usual, unaware of the tragedy.
It was a long time before someone appeared at the top of the steps. It was Éabha. She stood there for a moment, calling, ‘Mellia? Where are you? Are you out here?’ Then she looked down and saw.
‘She tripped, child.’ Truthac was summoned at once. Gently he raised Carta to her feet. ‘See, the thongs of her shoe are unlaced. She was concentrating on her spinning as she walked.’
‘It’s not true.’ Carta could not control her tears as Mairghread, summoned by Éabha’s screams, put her arms around her. ‘She was killed. Someone pushed her.’ It was a certainty deep inside her. Something she had known the very moment she realised that Mellia was dead.
Truthac looked hard at her face. He did not attempt to contradict her, or to question. She could feel his mind reaching out to hers, questing, seeking the truth.
After a moment he nodded. He believed her, as he had believed her all along. ‘I will consult with the gods. And so, child, must you. They watch over you, Carta. If you ask, they will answer.’ He gave the order and Mellia’s body was lifted and carried away.
Sadly Carta stepped away from Mairghread. She stooped and picked up the broken spindle. ‘I will ask my goddess,’ she muttered to herself. ‘She sees everything. She will know what to do.’ Anger was coming now and the tears were drying on her face. She knew who had done it, whether with her own hands or through someone else’s action at her command, or by magic, by weaving a spell to unlace the thong around Mellia’s ankle. By whatever method Mellia’s death had been accomplished, Carta vowed she was going to find out the truth. Above all else, that was what mattered here. That was what the Druids taught. Truth and justice and finally retribution. Mourning could come later.
She stared round. Truthac had gone. Trying desperately to compose herself she sent the women away. For a moment they hesitated, then they moved back towards the house, shooing away the crowd of sightseers who had gathered to watch the young woman’s body being carried back up the cliff. She was alone again now, save for the one pair of eyes that watched her constantly from the dark corners of the settlement, jealous, vicious eyes which could see her from wherever their owner was hidden. Eyes which held power and hatred. Carta shivered, then she turned and headed towards the shrine.
‘What shall I do, Lady? The king will never believe me. How can I prove what she has done?’
She had brought offerings of milk and a pot of wild bee honey to the goddess.
As she looked up, her eyes were looking straight at Viv’s. She was in the room, yet not in the room. Together, they were in some dark place that smelled of cold stone. Viv could hear the lap of water and somewhere in the distance the thin delicate sound of a flute. She held her breath, trying to concentrate, afraid to blink in case the young woman disappeared.
But nothing she could do would hold her. Carta was fading, dissolving. In seconds she had gone.
Viv shivered violently. The wind in Dun Pelder had been cold, in spite of the spring sunshine; the trickling water bringing memories of winter ice from deep beneath the ground. Going back to the window, she focussed on her neighbour’s geraniums as she felt warmth seep back slowly into her body. She could feel the tears wet on her own cheeks, the misery tight inside her. Carta’s misery. Her absolute desolation. Leaning with her elbows on the sill, Viv breathed in the comforting warm smell of stone. Far below she could hear the early morning traffic rattling down the Lawnmarket. In the distance someone gave a sharp indignant hoot. From one of the open windows across the wynd she heard the wail of a child. Far above, a gull gave a long drawn out raucous peel of laughter. The sound was drowned out as someone turned on the radio and pop music echoed round the close.
With a sigh she turned back into the room.
Seating herself on the rocking chair, Pat leaned back and crossed her legs. She scanned Viv’s face. ‘Are you OK after last night?’
Viv nodded. ‘Did Tash or Pete say anything else about what happened?’
Pat shook her head. ‘They didn’t say anything about it to me. I don’t think Tasha was making it up.’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence. It was Pat who spoke first. ‘I dreamed about Medb again last night,’ she said at last.
Viv paled. ‘But how could you? You don’t know anything about Medb,’ she whispered.
‘Apparently, I do.’ Pat leaned over towards her bag, groped for her cigarettes, then changed her mind. ‘So, where does she fit in?’
‘She doesn’t.’ Viv stood up. ‘I told you. She has no part in the play at all.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pat frowned. ‘Who the hell is she, then?’
‘She’s –’ Viv broke off with a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. Maybe I’ve dreamed about her as well, but whoever, whatever she is, Pat, she is not in the play. She has no part in history. This is a drama documentary with the emphasis on documentary. We can guess some bits –’ she paused with a wry inner smile, ‘– but most of it is fact. Not fiction. There is no room for extraneous characters and sub-plots. Maddie made that clear. You said so yourself.’
‘Fair enough.’ Pat didn’t sound convinced but she let it ride. ‘So, let’s make a start.’ She reached into her bag for her notepad.
Medb.
The name seemed to hang in the air between them.
‘Your first scene is good, as I said.’ Pat said thoughtfully. ‘But I think we need more narrative to introduce the subject before we launch into too much action. To anchor the scene.’
Vivienne
Viv tensed. The voice was in the room.
Vivienne. Tell me what to do.
Pat was flipping through the first few pages of the manuscript. She gave no sign that she had heard anything out of the ordinary. ‘Here. From this point we want the voice of the narrator.’ She marked the page and held it out. Viv didn’t move.
‘Viv?’ Pat stared at her.
‘Did you hear it?’
‘What?’ Pat put the pile of manuscript down on her knee.
‘The voice.’ Viv closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, of course you didn’t. It was in my head. I’m sorry.’
Pat studied her face. ‘What sort of voice?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t describe it. A woman. No. No, it was nothing. Probably a gull. You hear them a lot up here.’
‘Then it wasn’t in your head.’
Viv returned her gaze steadily. ‘No.’ It wasn’t Medb. She wanted to shout the words out loud.
It wasn’t. It was Carta. She needs me.
She gave a watery grin. ‘Sorry. Last night. Whatever it was, it spooked me a bit. I didn’t sleep very