The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  She smiles broadly, her face dimpling.

  “Da iawn, cariad,” says she with some satisfaction. “Well done indeed.”

  Two days later and the morning of the shoeing arrives, and with it another spell of testingly hot weather. There is still moisture in the air, making it sultry and uncomfortable. As I kneel beside Meg’s grave, leaning forward to plant a sprig of honeysuckle, I can feel perspiration tickling the back of my neck as it runs. Cai has found a piece of slate to act as a headstone and cut Meg’s name onto it. He seemed pleased with his work, but to my eye it is too somber for such a cheerful spirit. The honeysuckle will soon cover it. Very soon. I will make certain of it, just as I have brought about the speedy proliferation of the poppies. At my side Bracken pricks up his ears. He has heard something I have not. I stand and shade my eyes with my hand, squinting down the road. Now I hear the sound of an approaching wagon, and soon a sturdy covered cart comes into view, drawn by a piebald cob possessed of a lazy trot and a walleye. Two men sit in the conveyance, and, as they come nearer, I cannot hide a smile at the comical sight they present. For the driver is a mountain of a man, with shoulders broad as a butcher’s block, his great chest straining at the buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his arms, hairy and brown in the sunshine, muscles bulging like wool sacks. He favors a cloth cap, which is noticeably too small for him and is jammed onto the back of his close-cropped head providing neither shelter nor shade. His companion is a slender youth sporting a mass of dark curls that bush out from beneath his felt hat, which is of a size more suited to the driver. He is as slight as the other man is substantial, and as tall as he is broad.

  Cai has heard them, too, and appears from the yard, where he has been making preparations. The cattle, what few we are to take with us, are already in place, milling about the cobbles, disconsolate at the lack of grass. The ponies we gathered yesterday and are waiting now in the paddock behind the barn. I have not yet reconciled myself to their being sold. When Cai explained to me that this is the only option left to him if he is to turn a profit on the drove I understood his words, his reasoning, but I could not believe he meant to do it. All of them, save for Wenna and one other aged mare, neither of whom are strong enough to make the journey. But the rest of the herd must go. The herd which his father and his grandfather spent their lives nurturing and expanding. I cannot bear the thought of all these wonderful, wild creatures being wrenched from their home, from all that they know, to be taken to a far-off place, tamed, broken, and used as driving or riding ponies among the fearful noise and clamor of London. I know it pulls at Cai’s heart, too. Just as I know that had the cattle not died the ponies would not have to be sold. Once again the sour taste of guilt flavors the memory of that awful day. To his credit, my husband has done his utmost to assure me that he directs no blame toward me for the loss of his herd. That the past cannot be undone. That we must work together toward a secure future. And that I am to accompany him on the drove. This decision he delivered as matter-of-factly as if it were a passing thought of no consequence. But, oh, it is of great consequence to me! I, who have never been farther than an overnight journey from my home, to be traveling across counties into the heart of England, guiding and caring for the ponies. If go they must, I would rather it be me taking them, seeing to it that the drove is as safe and gentle an experience for them as it is possible to be. Cai says I am to have Prince to ride, and I shall treasure the hours I get to spend with him before we must part forever, for even he is to be sold. Cai will have to make do with Honey, which is a matter of some concern, he tells me. She is, in truth, too old and too slow for such work, and will not make the testing task of porthmon any easier, but he cannot afford to purchase another. She, too, is to be sold at the end of the drove, and we are to return home by stagecoach.

  The hefty piebald reaches the house and comes to a clumsy halt, regarding me warily with its startling light-blue eye. The men greet each other as old friends, and there is much back slapping and good humor. At last the giant man, who is, if it were possible, even more imposing once he has climbed down from the cart which creaks under his shifting weight, spies me. I stand up, awkward beneath so many eyes, still clutching a handful of honeysuckle.

  “Well, Duw,” says the man mountain, “who is this vision of loveliness? Queen of the May, is it?”

  The younger, slighter man says nothing but steps forward and puts me under such intense scrutiny that I blush horribly.

  Cai smiles, pleased, it seems, at their interest in me. Will he never tire of me being a curiosity? Perhaps it will be worse now, in our newfound life together which includes all that I am able to do. All that I am.

  “This is my wife, Morgana.” Cai is enjoying making the introductions. “Morgana, this is Dai the Forge, and Edwyn Nails,” says he.

  Dai snatches his cap from his head. “Well, Jenkins, m’n, you didn’t tell me as you had taken an angel for a wife! ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  Cai explains, this time without awkwardness I fancy, “Morgana does not speak.”

  “Well, Duw, you are a lucky man, Ffynnon Las. A beautiful bride who chooses to be silent. There’s doubly blessed you are!” says he, before letting out a bellow of laughter. He jams his cap in place and gives Edwyn Nails a slap on the back that sends him teetering. “Come on with you, m’n. Stop staring like a stoat at a hen. There’s work to be done.”

  Edwyn contents himself with nodding in my direction and joins Dai in fetching what they will need from the wagon.

  Dai sets up his portable forge, pumping at the bellows until the coals glow first red, then orange, and ultimately white. The fumes of the burning coal oil fill my nose and sting the back of my throat. The cattle cluster nervously on the far side of the yard, but they need not concern themselves, for they will be cold shod. The ponies, however, must have iron shoes heated and beaten to fit their neat little hooves. Prince and Honey will have a full set. The foals, young stock, and most of the mares will go without, the breed having naturally dense and durable hooves. Only some of the older mares whose feet are given to mud cracks or splitting will also need to be fitted with shoes. Edwyn assists Dai in stoking the forge and placing anvil and tools so that they can be easily reached. The three men exchange easy banter and teasing, and the mood is light, filled with a sense of purpose and the pleasure of shared work. All the while, however, I am aware of Edwyn’s eyes upon me. No matter that he is occupied with the task in hand, he finds time for furtive glances and even outright stares. Cai seems not to notice, or if he does he makes no comment. I soon become uneasy beneath such unceasing interest, however, and find his behavior bothersome. If it were not for this attention I should be enjoying the day, for here I feel useful, included, valued as a part of Ffynnon Las, given that Cai trusts me with the ponies. When they are gone, I wonder, will he find me useful still?

  The first to be shod are the old mares, who stand quietly enough. After these come Honey and Prince. Both tolerate the rasp and paring knife without complaint, standing calmly whilst Dai folds himself almost double to trim and file their hooves. Prince provides a particular challenge, being so small, so that Dai is at one point reduced to kneeling. Once he has shaped the feet he selects a set of shoes nearest to the required size and throws them into the furnace. Edwyn works the bellows, and the thick iron curves slowly change color. When they are ready, Dai uses a pair of heavy pincers to pluck them from the coals. He lifts up Prince’s off hind, pulling it through his legs so that it comes through the split in his tough leather apron to rest on his knee. With the utmost care, he positions the shoe onto the hoof, which sends up a plume of pungent smoke as the heat burns into the insensitive layer. When he lifts up the shoe the black print that remains shows him how close he is to the desired shape. Dropping Prince’s leg he carries the shoe to the anvil where he beats it with a bouncing one-two-three, one-two-three rhythm, wielding the heavy hammer as if it were no weight at all. He repeats the procedure twice more until he is satisfi
ed and then plunges the shoe into a pail of water, which bubbles and steams as it cools the iron. Edwyn steps forward now, nails gripped between his teeth. He takes the warm shoe from him, lifts Prince’s leg, and tap, tap, taps the iron slipper into place. The work is slow and necessitates care, for a badly shaped or ill-fitting shoe will lame a horse within a mile.

  I stroke Prince’s snowy neck, sending the pony into a doze despite the attention his feet are receiving. Looking across the yard I catch Cai watching me. He smiles, and I feel my heart speed a little. The memory of the way that he held me, with such sincerity, with such, could it be, passion? He has not kissed me since, but then our days have been filled with the business of preparing for the drove. I wondered if he might come to my room and found myself unable to sleep, but it seems I am still not to be “disturbed.” As if I were not already! I find his affection heartening. Soothing. Reassuring. If only we can make a success of the drove, then it may be that I shall know happiness with this curious husband of mine.

  “Right, that’ll do him,” declares Dai, waking Prince up abruptly with a slap on the rump. “You can take him away, Mrs. Ffynnon Las. Let’s get to those cattle.”

  I put Prince in the low stone stable with Honey while the men dampen the forge, more steam rising as Edwyn empties the water bucket over it. Where shoeing the ponies was a pleasantly sedate business, fitting cues to the Welsh Blacks is another matter entirely. Cai, Dai, and Edwyn select a beast, corner it, with the unasked for assistance of a barking Bracken, and rope it. It is now that I see why Dai’s size so perfectly equips him for his chosen trade. The bullock (for such this one is) must be turned. This involves Dai leaning shoulder to shoulder with the anxious, leaping beast, picking up a front leg, and pushing the whole of his considerable weight into it, his own strength and bulk pitted against that of the muscular animal until it is unbalanced, tipped over and falls to the ground. Cai sits on its neck, holding its head by the short, sharp horns, whilst Edwyn ropes its feet. Now Dai deftly places the thin shoes over the cloven hooves so that Edwyn can nail them in place. He must work fast, as the longer he is held the more the bullock will struggle and its captors tire. Within minutes it is done, the ropes untied, and the beast springs to its feet and rejoins the herd. I marvel at the thought that, come the drove, this process must be repeated with perhaps two hundred head of cattle. We have scarcely more than two dozen remaining, but even this seems an exhausting task. In order to be of use I employ Bracken to help me select those already shod and let them slip through the yard gate into the rear meadow. They buck and leap as they reach the turf, testing out their new footwear.

  It is midday before we are finished. The moment the final steer joins its fellows Mrs. Jones appears in the yard with welcome refreshments.

  “Here we are, bechgyn,” she calls to us, as if we were children played too long in the sun. “Duw, there’s dusty you are!” This is directed at me, and I notice now that my bare arms, and indeed my face and neck, are coated with a fine layer of grime kicked up by the cattle, stirred through the air by the heat of the furnace and the sunshine, and stuck to me by my own clamminess.

  While the others help themselves to ale, bread, and cheese, I step over to the well and dip my hands into the pool of glossy water. The shade has kept it cool and I feel goose bumps rising on my skin as I scoop up the water and splash it over my arms and neck. I hear laughter behind me.

  “Half measures are no good,” Dai tells me, still chortling. “Best to go the whole hog and climb right in.”

  Mrs. Jones feigns shock at the idea. “Mrs. Jenkins will do no such thing.” She flaps her teacloth at the farrier. “Bathing in front of you ruffians indeed! It would not be proper.”

  I smile at her, but the thought is tempting. To climb over the mossy stones and lower myself into the dark pool until I am completely submerged and could come out refreshed and rid of this grit and filth … it is an enticing notion, audience or no.

  Cai drains his tankard and shakes his head.

  “Mrs. Jones is right,” says he. “Besides, we don’t want you contaminating the spring now, do we? Cattle might not drink from that trough again if they see a woman swimming in it.” He is struggling to keep a straight face as he speaks, but the others are less certain than I that he is joking, and their breaths are held. I put on my most charming smile and crook my finger at him, beckoning.

  “Oh, look out,” Dai cautions, wiping foam from his top lip. “I reckon your wife thinks a wash would improve you, too, Ffynnon Las.”

  “Oh a wash, is it?” Cai puts down his drink and walks toward me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle black,” says he.

  As soon as he has ventured close enough I scoop an armful of water out and fling it at him. And then another, and another. The men laugh at the sight of him dripping and splashed, water making clean tracks through the grime on his skin. He dashes forward, shoveling handfuls of water at me until my hair hangs wet about my shoulders. Dai the Forge laughs fit to bust, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the stables. Even Mrs. Jones cannot contain her mirth. Faster and more furiously we splash one another until he catches hold of my arms to stop me. But I continue to wriggle, and as I attempt to escape he grabs me around the waist.

  “You’ll not get away from me so easy, my wild one!”

  In one swift movement he has lifted me off the ground and makes to drop me in the pool, but I clutch at his soaked shirt and pull hard, putting him off his balance. There is a second’s pause, I hear him shout, and then we both tip over the wall and into the pool. Even as I fight the urge to gasp at the coldness of the water I am aware that he does not let go of me, but makes sure I come quickly and safely to the surface. We emerge to raucous guffaws from Dai and Edwyn, and shrieks from Mrs. Jones. I find I do not care how ridiculous I must appear to them, or how indecent. I care only that we are standing here together, wet to the skin, laughing, close, happy. It is as intimate a moment as I have experienced in my life.

  * * *

  The cool of the early evening finds Cai and Morgana sitting at the kitchen table. Mrs. Jones lowers her bulk into the chair by the stove. The fire in the hearth has served its purpose for the day and is being allowed to fade.

  “Well, Duw,” says Mrs. Jones. “’Tis nice to have peace and quiet once more now those boys have gone.”

  Cai smiles. “Dai’s the best farrier for miles around, mind. They are a good team.”

  “Good and rowdy.” She makes a poor show of hiding her affection for them, and for the fun of the day. “Encouraging Mrs. Jenkins to climb in the well,” she tutts, “and you no better, Mr. Jenkins,” she says, wagging a finger at him.

  Morgana grins. Her hair has dried, and she has changed into clean clothes, but she still looks like a person who has recently taken a dip, her curls flowing unchecked about her shoulders, and her feet bare.

  Cai finds himself gazing at her. “We were all in need of a bath,” he says.

  “Maybe you were.” Mrs. Jones stretches out her legs stiffly. “But the well is not a place for horseplay and nonsense. Not that well.”

  A look passes between her and Morgana that Cai cannot quite make sense of. It seems the two women have some shared secret, and one that he is clearly not to be told about. Part of him is pleased that they are becoming such good friends—it matters to him that Morgana not be lonely. And part of him, he is surprised to find, is just a little bit jealous of that closeness.

  “Well, Mrs. Jones,” he says lightly, “who knows what wonders that magic water might do to a person who bathes in it.”

  The old woman tutts and purses her lips before closing her eyes and settling deeper into her chair. “Make fun if you must, Mr. Jenkins. One day you might be forced to admit the truth of that well. One day.”

  She falls silent briefly before setting up a deep, rumbling snore.

  Cai smiles at Morgana and shrugs, beckoning her to the table.

  “Come,” he says, “I’ve someth
ing to show you.”

  He stands up and takes from a small pile on a high shelf one of the maps he inherited from his father. He unfolds it and spreads it out on the table before them. He leans over the faded charts, pointing out the route the drove will take.

  “We will set off from Tregaron early and head directly west,” he tells her. “I want to make it through the Abergwesyn Pass and up to the Epynt on the first day. Won’t be easy, mind. Takes a while for the herd to settle. They’re unnerved by leaving their farms and being put together with new stock. Not to mention the muddle the sheep and ponies are bound to get into for a few days.” He looks up from the map for a moment. Morgana is intent on learning everything, he can see that. The way she frowns trying to make sense of the lines and squiggles in front of her. The way she is uncharacteristically still. As she bends forward her loose hair swings down, revealing her neck. Cai has to fight the urge to plant a kiss on that tender part of the nape which he finds so alluring. He recalls how beautiful she had looked with her hair wet and her clothes clinging to her as he held her in the well pool. If they had not had an audience he would have kissed her again. Even now the memory of their first kiss stirs him. He clears his throat and returns to his explanations.

  “The warm weather will have dried the ground again, so the going should be good. We’ll pass through Brecon and follow the main road toward Abergavenny. It will mean paying tolls. I’ll avoid them where I can, of course, but I have to find a balance, see? Too many turnpikes and we’ll be broke before ever we reach the fattening fields. Too many mountain routes or rocky paths over difficult ground and our progress will be awful slow, and the animals will lose condition.” He puts his finger under the name of a small town. “We can spend the night here,” he tells her. “Do you recognize the place?”

  Morgana shakes her head.