Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
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Название: Daughters of Fire
Автор: Barbara Erskine
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007279449
isbn:
Descending at last from the fells onto the plains the track joined the wider road of one of the main trade routes which led from the south through the rich lands of the Brigantian tribes, north towards their capital, the sprawling settlement of Dinas Dwr, seat of the high king. From there they journeyed on following a well-used network of roads and tracks, ridgeways and carefully constructed and maintained causeways where the track led across low-lying and marshy ground. They were passing homesteads and farms, townships, villages and trading posts, communities of workshops and mining areas where lead and silver were extracted from the living heart of the land. In places they were travelling through forests and over open moors and in others along the cliffs which to Carta’s great delight, bordered the great Northern Ocean.
They were expected. Lookouts had alerted their hosts as their party forded the broad river which separated the territories of the Brigantes from those of the Votadini. Their escorts were waiting on its far bank. Carta eyed their warriors critically. The men rode sturdy horses and they rode them well. The war chariots of the warriors were well made and elegantly decorated, drawn by fine ponies.
The leader of the band jumped from his chariot and came forward to greet them. To greet her. Ignoring everyone else he came towards her, a girl of some twelve summers only, his hands outstretched to clasp hers. ‘Greetings, cousin! I am Riach. I trust your journey has not been too long and arduous?’ He was young too. Not as young as she was but still unbearded. His smile was huge, infectious in a broad-browed, tanned face, his eyes a piercing blue, the swirling tattoos decorating his forehead and temples expertly executed. From the golden ornaments at his neck and on his arms she guessed he must be a son or foster son of the royal house and she was suddenly very conscious of her own shabbiness. She was covered in splashes of mud from the journey. Her hair was uncombed and matted. The overnight stays they had made at farms and forts along the way and the two nights camping on the moors had not provided ideal conditions for primping and preening. She had not unpacked clothes or combs or her mirror, although doubtless her mother’s slaves had put them in her bundles, and never before had she bothered about what the small animated face which looked out from beneath her frowsty hair looked like. Or cared about jewellery beyond the simple silver bracelet on her wrist and the string of protective amber beads about her neck. She frowned. A queen would care. A woman who was going to be a queen should care.
The young man into whose eyes she stared for two whole heartbeats before turning away, embarrassed, would care.
Snatching her hands from him, her face scarlet, she ran to climb back on the wagon she shared with the other women when too tired to ride another mile. Not a queenly mode of transport. Not at all. Under her breath she made a vow that day. Never again would she travel with slaves. She would demand her own light-cart, a war chariot of her own, and her own two matched horses to pull it and they would one day be the best in the whole of the Pretannic Isles.
Watching her, the boy laughed. He could see her discomfort and her shame, sense her pride; in fact he suspected he could read her very thoughts. But nothing about her displeased him. On the contrary. He admired her already for her courage and for her looks which under all the dirt were striking and would one day be spectacular. Which was just as well as his father had informed him that this child, as soon as she reached womanhood, would be his wife.
II
Viv started out of her reverie, shocked, her heart thudding as she stared round disorientated. She could still feel the heat and the cold. Sense the mud and the dirt, smell the sharp tang of the pine needles beneath the horses’ feet, the earthy mist which hung low and cold over the bogs as the ox-carts and wagons rattled through the dales between the ranges of windswept fells, across the causeways and for a moment she was aware, just as the child Carta became aware, of the dirt beneath her fingernails and the strong smell of horse on her skin.
The detail. She must not forget the detail. Overwhelmed with excitement she pulled open a drawer in her desk with shaking hands and she extricated a pack of microcassettes. Slamming one into her little recorder she plugged in the mike, then as an afterthought she reached for a scribbling pad and ballpoint pen. She had to go back again. At once.
A bolt of fear hit her. She took a deep breath. There would be no danger now, surely. Now Carta knew she was listening.
‘OK, lady. I’m ready this time.’ She sat down at her desk and reaching forward she pressed the record button and picked up her pen.
Carta gazed at the hill fort in front of them in open-mouthed amazement as it rose out of the trees in the distance. Even from here she could see it was at least twice the size of Dun Righ, her home. They were travelling through rich farmland here, passing homesteads much like those they had passed continuously on their journey, but this fort was like nothing she had seen before: buildings clustered all over the top of the steep hillside of what had once been a volcanic crag, and as they moved closer she saw how truly enormous the fort was with its triple ramparts topped by a sharp, pointed palisade and huge gateways. The young man was riding beside the wagon now. ‘Dun Pelder.’ He grinned as he waved towards the settlement. ‘Fortress of Spears. We’re nearly there.’
The track led in between two gatehouses in the encircling walls, then climbed steeply, winding up the terraced sides of the hill between huge round houses, some built out onto the terraces themselves, with other buildings clustered near them. The Brigantian visitors were led to the guest house beside the largest round house of all, clearly that of the king himself. Noisy crowds were gathering about them already and she could smell woodsmoke and cooking as, suddenly shy, she edged closer to her companions.
Riach leaped from his chariot and came to the side of the wagon. With a bow he reached up to help Carta down. ‘You will be anxious to rest and change your clothes,’ he said, solemnly looking down at her. ‘Later my father will greet you and we will all eat together this evening. A huge feast is being prepared to welcome the lady of the Brigantes and her brother.’ He grinned at Bran, who had reined in his pony beside them and beckoned him closer. Bran and his companions would lodge in the house of the warriors, where the unmarried aristocratic young men of the tribe and leaders of visiting war bands slept.
The guest house was larger than her father’s feasting hall. She stared round in awe. The hearth was piled high with logs and crackled merrily and the interior of the building was lit with dozens of lamps. The central area was well provided with benches and sumptuous cushions and behind them the small sleeping chambers around the walls were furnished with bed boxes piled high with heather mattresses, woollen blankets and soft silky furs. Carta continued to stare open-mouthed as slaves carried in her belongings before moving the wagon-load of gifts sent by her father further up the hill to the king’s house.
‘Look, Carta.’ Mellia was standing in front of the table in the largest of the small chambers, much more cheerful now the long journey was over. ‘This must be where you are to sleep. Look at the things they have put here for you.’ Her voice was full of awe. There was a delicately worked bronze wash basin, exquisitely carved bone combs, a bronze mirror inlaid with coloured enamels. Already slaves were bringing jugs of hot water for her СКАЧАТЬ