The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  Their conversation is temporarily interrupted by the arrival of a fine game soup. The servants attend the diners with smooth efficiency. Mrs. Cadwaladr slurps noisily and declares the soup the finest she has ever put to her lips. Isolda tells them the pheasants and partridge were a gift from Mr. Evans the banker, who keeps a well-stocked shoot. Cai listens to the harmless dinner table chatter, but his eyes are on Morgana. She dips her spoon into the bowl in front of her, but does not raise it to her mouth. Instead she closes her eyes, putting her hand to her brow. Cai is horrified to see her turning pale as he watches. Has she been taken ill again? Is there to be a humiliating repeat of what occurred the very first occasion he took her out in society, when they attended chapel for the first time? Will he only ever be able to be off his guard with her when they are at home? Is he never to take her from the farm without this attendant disquiet?

  Isolda has also noticed Morgana’s pallor.

  “Why, Mrs. Jenkins, are you feeling unwell? Here, sip some water.”

  “What is the matter with her?” asks Mrs. Cadwaladr, not allowing her concern to for one second keep her from her soup.

  “Morgana?” Cai leans across the table, but cannot reach her through the array of silver and flowers. “Morgana?”

  She opens her eyes, panic showing in them. She drops her spoon and snatches up her napkin, pressing it to her mouth, swaying slightly in her chair. Cai springs to his feet and hurries round the table.

  “My wife is feeling faint. Is there somewhere she could lie down for a short while, perhaps?”

  Isolda gets up, snapping her fingers at her servants. “Of course. Poor thing. It is a little warm in here. I ought not to have had the fire lit. I will have Anwen take her to the chaise in the morning room.”

  “I will go with her,” Cai says, but even as he does so, Morgana all but pushes him away.

  “There is no need.” Isolda puts an arm around Morgana as she hastens from the room, passing her into the care of her maid who has arrived at the door. “Anwen will take excellent care of your wife. I am certain she would not want you to disturb your meal. Stay with us. A woman needs time to compose herself in these circumstances and does not require a man fussing about her while she does so. Is that not the case, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  Before Cai can protest further Morgana is led from the room, the door shut behind her, and he is ushered back to his seat. He takes a long gulp of wine, and as he does so he catches sight of a somehow significant look passing between Isolda and the reverend. Puzzled, he tries to rekindle his appetite, reasoning that the sooner the meal is eaten, the sooner the tortuous evening will be at an end.

  Mrs. Cadwaladr finishes her soup before anyone else and falls to regaling Isolda with account of her daughters, a subject upon which, it seems, she could enthuse all night. Cai feels a hand on his sleeve and turns to see Reverend Cadwaladr regarding him earnestly. For once, he speaks quietly, so that their conversation does not disturb that of the women present.

  “Mr. Jenkins, I feel compelled to raise a delicate matter with you.”

  Cai drains his glass and waits.

  “It is difficult indeed to talk to you on such a sensitive subject … please be assured, I have only your very best interests at heart.” The reverend pauses, but if he hopes for encouragement, Cai can find none to give. He goes on, “It has been brought to my attention that, well, there are details concerning your wife of which you may not be aware.”

  “Details?” Cai watches the servant refill his glass and resists the temptation to drink deeply.

  “As I say, it is a delicate matter…”

  “Then please speak plainly, Reverend.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, you are a good man, of that there can be no doubt. I knew your father well, and have always had the greatest respect for your family.”

  “But?”

  “Let me come to the point…”

  “I do wish you would, Reverend.”

  “How much do you know of your wife’s background?”

  “I met her mother several times. I am aware she comes from humble beginnings. Her father … is no longer with us.”

  “And in the parish where she lived, where she grew up, did people speak well of her?”

  “I prefer to form my own opinions.”

  “Quite so, and yet, it is often among the community that we find out best how a person is regarded.”

  “No one spoke ill of her.”

  “But did they speak well of her?”

  Cai fidgets, half wishing Mrs. Cadwaladr would see fit to include him in her conversation. He knows, deep down, what it is the reverend is fishing for. But he will not bite. This is dangerous ground to tread. He knows Morgana’s gifts, her singular qualities, would, at best, sit badly with a man of the church. At worst, well, however modern the times might be, he cannot imagine a minister tolerating the notion of magic.

  Reverend Cadwaladr reads Cai’s silence as some sort of agreement and is emboldened to continue.

  “I have heard that her father was a Gypsy of sorts, and that he disappeared into the night leaving his own wife to rear the child. A child who was not quite the same as other children in the parish. Oh, you are a young man, Mr. Jenkins, and your wife is undeniably pretty, with all the charms of youth, but I must urge caution. Watch her carefully. Do not let prettiness and guile blind you to her true nature. And know that the church does not abandon those who seek help.”

  A coldness, despite the heat of the fire and the warmth of the summer evening, spreads through Cai’s body. What can he have heard? When Cai gently questioned those who knew Morgana he learned so little. Who has he been talking to, and why? What might have made him suspicious in the first place? Morgana’s behavior in public might have been unruly and lacking social graces, but what could he have seen to make him suggest something more? Something … unnatural? Cai recalls Morgana’s very first meeting with Mrs. Cadwaladr, and remembers the poor woman’s sudden fit of sneezing that had resulted in her upended teacup emptying its contents down her dress front. Had she thought that was Morgana’s doing? Had she scuttled home to her husband and whispered magic? Surely not. It was too slight a thing, too easily explained away. It is with some relief that Cai hears Isolda questioning him on the route he is to take on the drove, so that the conversation moves on, and he is not required to discuss his wife further.

  * * *

  I am taken to a small sitting room where Anwen, Isolda’s lady’s maid, bustles about settling me upon a chaise. I am too occupied with managing the sickness in my stomach to protest. I fear I may begin retching, but, mercifully, the sensation begins to lessen as soon as I am removed from the dining room. I lie down, my head spinning, and close my eyes, as much to shut out Anwen’s whittering attentions as to rest. My thoughts are in turmoil. How could Cai have accepted a loan from Isolda and then lied to me about it? ’Tis true, he did not actually tell me where he had obtained the money for the new cattle, but he let me think it came from the bank. There can be as much of a lie in silence as in words. I, of all people, should know this.

  But it is not this slight, this unwelcome news, this deceit, I might call it, that has made me feel unwell. No, once again, the proximity of Reverend Cadwaladr has made me sick. The whiff of serpents filled my nostril as soon as I was seated opposite him. And the way he looked at me, on the brief occasion where he could bring himself to do so … it is clear his loathing of me remains unabated. I have been fooling myself to think he might have forgotten about me, might have decided against bothering with me. He wants rid of me still. And I am yet here. What will he do next? What might he be saying to Cai even now, as I lie here, weakened and excluded?

  I risk a glance at my carer. She is putting a match to the neatly laid fire, but her attention is only momentarily diverted from me. I know she will not let me leave this room without alerting her mistress. Fortunately, I have more than one method of absenting myself. I quickly close my eyes again and steady my breathing, striving to give the impression I
am sleeping. Only when I am content that Anwen believes this do I let my mind drift, my limbs become weightless, and my soul step lightly from my body. There is such a freedom in witchwalking. Gone is the revolting sickness that beset me. Gone is the churning of my stomach and the pounding in my head. Painlessly, noiselessly, effortlessly, I leave the room.

  My intention is to return to the dining table and secretly observe and listen. It is said eavesdroppers do not hear good of themselves, but I will chance being offended. At least I will know what poison is being spat into my husband’s ear. As I make my way across the broad, imposing hall, I glimpse a door I had not noticed earlier. It is unremarkable, plain, and tucked away in a corner, but there is something about it that alerts my interest. From beneath it there is a curious glow, unlike either natural light or the illumination candles might throw. I hear a distant sound, too. With my senses heightened as I witchwalk, I am certain I can hear … what? A susurration of some sort. Could it be whispering? I glide closer, and as I do I am once again struck by the now familiar reptilian stench. Whilst I am out of my body it cannot make me feel ill, but it is unmistakable, and stronger the closer I come to the door. This makes no sense to me. If the smell emanates from Reverend Cadwaladr, why is it also coming from whatever lies beyond that door?

  I am on the point of investigating further when Isolda and the reverend suddenly emerge from the dining room.

  “Forgive my interrupting your meal, Reverend,” says she to him. “I would have had Mr. Evans witness the documents himself, but I left the bank without doing so. A trifling matter concerning some of my smaller investments, but I would be so grateful if you could stand as witness. I dislike leaving matters unfinished.”

  “A pause in our feasting will sharpen my appreciation of courses to come, Mrs. Bowen, rest assured.”

  Isolda calls back through the doorway. “We will be but a moment.”

  Together they go to the drawing room. I am torn. The strangeness of the unexplained door and whatever it might reveal must wait. If the reverend is intent on stirring up ill feeling against me, he may well wish to put his case privately to Isolda. I must know what is said in that room. I quickly travel to stand beside the brocade-draped window next to the drawing room hearth, so that I am able to both watch and hear. I do my best to ignore the intensified odor which lingers about the place now, thick enough to taste.

  Isolda dismisses her servant, and the second the door closes her demeanor undergoes a dramatic alteration. As does that of Reverend Cadwaladr. She rounds on him, all but hissing in her fury.

  “You pathetic wretch!”

  “Forgive me!” pleads the reverend.

  “What use are you? I issued you with one simple task, and you have failed utterly.” Isolda strides about the room as she castigates the preacher, who is now weeping pitifully. She passes so close to me I feel the disturbance of the air as she moves. I have to fight my instinct to flee, determined to hold my place, reminding myself that she cannot see me.

  “You are the minister of this parish, a preacher of note and standing—you should command respect. Obedience. I told you to warn the girl off. To rid me of her. What manner of man are you? What manner of preacher, that you let that slip of a witch-girl better you? She should be long gone from here.”

  “I tried, mistress, believe me. I sought her out. I made my case plainly…”

  “Not plainly enough, evidently.”

  “She is not easily frightened. She has a strength about her beyond her years.”

  “Strength! She is a child, who has no knowledge of her own capabilities. She is newly arrived, married to a man whose good sense has flown at the sight of her dark eyes and smooth skin. You have allowed her to remain.”

  “I warned her. I told her to leave. I explained what would happen if she did not.” The minister slumps onto a chair, taking a handkerchief from his pocket with which to mop his brow.

  I am stunned by what is being revealed. The fearsome Reverend Cadwaladr under the rule of this terrible woman? What hold can she have over him to reduce him to the sniveling, broken man I see now?

  Isolda looms above him.

  “You warned her, but you did not follow through your threat, did you? I told you then that you needed to act, to press home your case, as forcefully as necessary. Yet you did nothing.”

  “I was waiting, hoping she would leave, I…”

  “She has no intention of leaving! All this time that has passed, time that you have seen fit to grant her, has merely allowed her to grow more secure in her husband’s affections. Why did you not act? Last time we spoke of this I expressly told you to do more, to move against her in a way she would be powerless to resist.”

  “But, mistress, to publicly denounce the girl as a witch when she has done nothing wrong…” wails the reverend.

  At this Isolda loses whatever hold she had upon her temper. She raises an arm as if to snatch something invisible from the air. There is a loud crack and the smell of singeing as some tufts of the cowering minister’s hair catch light. He yelps, slapping at his head until the flames are extinguished, clutching at a patch of burned scalp behind his left ear.

  “I am the one who decides what is right and what is wrong. It is not for you to make judgments in this matter.” She pauses, collecting herself, and stands straight, composing herself once more, her expression now one of revulsion rather than fury. “I told you what would happen if you did not assist me in this. You were warned.”

  “Oh, please … I beg of you, don’t…”

  “Stop your whining. I have not the time nor the inclination to make your simpering girls suffer for my displeasure. Not on this occasion, at least.”

  Upon hearing this the reverend falls from the chair to his knees in front of Isolda, hands clasped together, as if in prayer. I cannot help but wonder what his congregation would make of it if they could see him thus.

  “Oh, thank you! Let … let me try again. I’m sure this time I can persuade her to go.”

  “It is too late for that, they are on the point of departing on the drove. She won’t be separated from him now. No, it is obvious I must deal with her myself.”

  “What is it that you plan to do?” asks the reverend, his voice betraying the fear she fills him with.

  Isolda opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates.

  “Get up,” says she. “Compose yourself, man. We must return to my guests and not give them reason to suppose anything … untoward has occurred. As I say, I will handle the matter myself.”

  He scrambles to his feet and hurries out of the room ahead of her. At the door Isolda pauses. Pauses, and turns, and looks directly toward the place where I am standing. For one dreadful, bone-chilling moment I feel that she sees me. But she does not speak, nor react to my presence, but steps across the threshold, firmly closing the door behind her.

  My head is swimming, my mind racing to make sense of what I have learned. Isolda has been forcing the reverend to do her bidding. It was she who was behind his telling me to leave. And he is clearly terrified of her. Who could have imagined such a transformation in the man? What terrible threat toward his daughters can she have made? I can only imagine. But I know that he would have believed her capable of fearful deeds. Witch-girl, she called me. She has seen the magic that lies inside me. She knows what I am. Just as surely as I can see what crouches inside her, and oh, it is a dark and terrible thing! The power that set fire to the reverend came from somewhere unspeakably wicked. Now I understand the reptilian stench. It was the stink of an evil enchantment, attached to someone, forcing them against their will, and though it clung to Reverend Cadwaladr’s being, it had its origins in Isolda.

  Things are clearer to me now. Whilst I am wary of all men of the cloth, this evil woman is the person I have true cause to fear. It is not Cai that she wants, but Ffynnon Las. And she wants Ffynnon Las because of the cursing well and the power it would give her. Oh! Can she know of the existence of the Grimoire? She must. Yes, that would expla
in her determination. It is plain to me that she is determined to get what she wants, and she will trample any who stand in her way. But I have glimpsed the power of the Grimoire of the Blue Well. What terrible havoc could Isolda Bowen wreak were she to possess it? Whatever happens, whatever I have to do, I must see to it that she is never allowed to have it.

  11.

  At last the moment is come. We were up before dawn mustering the stock and arrived here in Tregaron with the brightening of the day. The ponies were excitable, in particular the youngsters, but I kept them close by me and they proved biddable enough. At the very last minute Cai had a change of heart and decided he would keep two of the older brood mares. With luck they are both carrying foals for next year, so that, his reasoning went, we will have some core stock with which to rebuild the herd. If the drove goes well and we have money to do so.

  It pains me to acknowledge that this decision is in part due to the loan he accepted from Isolda. That creature! Had he known what I now know, he would never have taken money from her, however desperate the hour. It hurts me that he kept the arrangement secret, and learning of it at that dreadful dinner, amidst such company … I thought I was beginning to understand him. I thought he was beginning to trust me. And yet he did not think to share this important decision about the future of the farm—about our future—with me.

  Had not other events overtaken the matter in both importance and urgency I would no doubt have dwelled upon it. As it is, such a small slight has paled beside the awful truth of what Isolda Bowen is, and of what terrible actions she is responsible for. For as I have had time to think, to examine the events of recent weeks, I have recognized some terrible facts. Not only did she compel, by threat and by cursed magic, Reverend Cadwaladr to further her aims, but I am convinced she was behind the thunderstorm that killed Cai’s cattle. The weather was too extreme, too swiftly changing, to be natural. And I sensed a presence on the mountain that day, an evil presence. I now know whose it was. No doubt she thought to ruin Cai by robbing him of his herd. Then, when she saw he would not be so easily cast down, she lent him money to tie him to her. She is playing with him. She has no interest in him, I see that now. It is the farm she wants, for the well. And the Grimoire. My main concern now must be what she may do next. I believe we are all of us in peril on the drove now, for how much easier it will be for her to cause mayhem amid the melee of the herds, away from the watchful people of Tregaron. I must be ever on my guard.