“She’s evil!” he shrieks. “I tell you she’s put a curse on the drove! Everywhere she goes bad things happen.”
Cai lets go of the horse and turns to stand tall beside me.
“Morgana did not leave that gate open,” says he, his voice level and full of contained rage. “When I vaulted it to help Meredith with the cattle in the paddock it was tied shut. It must have been, else it would have swung open under my weight, see?”
“I’m telling you,” coughs Edwyn, “she left it open.”
“The only person anywhere near that gate before the cattle went through it was you, Edwyn,” says Cai. Suddenly his expression changes, realization and understanding enraging him anew. “It was you! You untied it.”
“Why would I do such a thing?” Edwyn scrambles to his feet, shaking his head all the while.
Meredith puts in his halfpenn’th. “Thought the world of Dai, he did.”
Cai’s fists are clenched. “Dai was not your target. It was Morgana you wished to harm.”
“You’re bending the truth to protect her. You don’t see her for what she really is—wicked. There’s bad blood in her. You don’t know her.”
“I know her. I know she wouldn’t leave a gate untied when it mattered. Just as I know her to be a true and faithful wife.” He shakes his head. “Oh aye, you made me doubt her. I’m ashamed to admit it. But judging her wrongly is my fault, not hers. She has done nothing to be ashamed of. But you! She spurned you and you wanted revenge for your bruised pride.”
Edwyn appeals to the others. “He’s lying, making things up to protect her. Everyone can see she’s bad luck. He lost his herd because of her. And his dog. Now Dai’s dead and it’s her fault.”
Cai takes two strides forward and for a moment I think he will beat Edwyn, unleash his anger without restraint. But he does not.
“Get your things and go,” says he. “Get out of my sight before I show you how I’d like to deal with the sort of man who would force himself upon another man’s wife!”
The tension crackles in the air between the two men. Edwyn is young and tall and defending his reputation; Cai is stronger and powered by hatred for the youth who stands before him. Nobody moves. All of a sudden Edwyn pushes past, shoving his way through the watching group, stomping toward the barn where his few possessions remain.
Cai regards Meredith, Watson, and the two women.
“Anyone else thinks Morgana should not be working this drove can leave now.”
Watson shrugs. Sara shakes her head.
“What say you, Meredith? I mean to complete this drove, with all the stock, and I mean to do it with my wife in charge of the ponies. I’ll not succeed otherwise. So if you’ve a problem with that you’d best follow Nails and get yourself home.”
Meredith’s face is grim but it is clear where his loyalty lies.
“I signed up for the whole drove. A drover doesn’t go back on his word.”
Cai nods, satisfied, but still he adds, “Not a word more against my wife, mind. From any of you.” He waits for his words to be considered and then picks up his hat from the ground, dusting it off against his leg. “Right, we are two men down, and we’ll have to find a forge along the way. We’ve a job to do.”
Watson voices everyone’s surprise.
“You mean us to continue today?” he asks.
“I do. This minute. Now we’ve no wagon we have need of packhorses. Morgana, get Sara to help you sort two of the quieter mares. We leave on the hour.”
And so we do. And a sorry and sadly depleted parade we are. Dai’s absence is like a piece cut out of the sky, or a sliver from the heart of each of us. I even miss the sight of his ugly cob and tatty cart. I do not miss the overbearing presence of Edwyn. I wonder what Cai will do, when we return, regarding the sly creature’s part in Dai’s death. Will he talk to the magistrate? Who will people believe? By the time we are in Tregaron again many will have attended Dai’s funeral, and Edwyn will have had weeks to spread his story; to blacken my name; to chisel away at Cai’s credibility.
We trudge through the grey afternoon. Each mile feels twice its natural length. Gone is the usual chatter and laughter. Even the beasts sense the somber mood and plod meekly along the tracks. The day dwindles into evening, and I begin to wonder if Cai plans to make us trek through the night. By the time we find an inn with a suitable enclosure for the livestock, bats flit about our heads, swooping and flapping at insects we humans can no longer see in the fading light.
I find I am so tired, so drained by the events of the day and the long journey, that when I dismount, my legs give way beneath me and I stagger. Cai is suddenly at my side, an arm around my waist to steady me.
“Come, Morgana. Enough for one day.” He slips the tack off Prince and lets him wander off to join the herd. Despite his injured arm, he shoulders both saddles as if they were no weight at all and bids me follow him. We go into the inn where he instructs the landlord to supply the others with a place to sleep, a hot meal, and as much ale as they require. He also asks for a needle, thread, and scissors. We are taken up to a room at the back of the redbrick building. It has high ceilings and long windows, and the furnishings are quite fine, but I am in no condition to appreciate such things. I stand in a daze until I become aware of how awkwardly Cai is moving. His arm must be paining him dreadfully. How taken up I have been with myself! I hurry to him, leading him to sit in a chair by the window, but there is no light left in the day. I light a candle while he takes off his shirt. Kneeling before him I cautiously unwind my scarf from his arm. It is so caked with dirt and dried blood it is beyond saving. When I pull the final remnants of it from his wound he gasps. The sight of the gaping slice in his flesh makes my stomach boil. Cai peers down at it, though it is not easy to discern detail in the gloom of the room.
“No real harm done,” says he. “The bleeding has stopped.” He nods at the washbowl on the stand. “It must be cleaned. Can you do that for me, Morgana?”
I nod and fetch the bowl, setting it at his feet. I pour water into it and tear a strip from a washcloth. He flinches as I bathe the fissure, and I know it must be difficult for him to remain quiet and still. I am as gentle as I can be, but the dirt of the journey has worked its way into the exposed meat of his arm, and I must be persistent if it is all to be removed. At last the gash is cleaned. Cai points at the table now.
“Pass the needle through the flame of the candle before you thread it,” he tells me.
I stare at him. He means me to sew up his arm! My mouth dries. For a moment I think I cannot do it, but I look into his eyes and know that I must not fail him. The injury is a lucky one—no bones need setting, and the bleeding has stopped—but if it is left so open it will not heal. It may even go putrid, and he could lose his arm. Or his life.
“Can you do it, Morgana?”
I take a steadying breath and pick up the needle. Once I have cauterized the point and coaxed the thread through the eye I move the candle to the table so that as much light as possible falls on Cai’s arm. The wound looks dauntingly long now. How many stitches will be required? How many times must I force the point of steel through my husband’s flesh and tug it out again? How will he endure such a lengthy, painful process? He sees me hesitate.
“Courage, cariad. It must be done.” I feel him struggle to sit up straighter. “Would you have me ask another?”
I shake my head firmly, placing my hand on his to still him. He nods, satisfied that I am up to the task.
I choose an area of skin that looks firm and in good health. I have no wish to go deeper or farther from the opening of the wound that is absolutely necessary, but if I am too timid, if I select flesh that is damaged or thin, it will not be strong enough to hold, and the thread will tear through it, reopening the cut. The horn of a bullock is a blunt, brutal instrument when applied to a man’s arm, and the injury is not neat or regular but jagged and ripped at the edges. The needle enters the flesh easily enough. Cai remains motionless, his breath hel
d against the anticipated pain. Now I must push the needle hard to work it through. Fresh blood emerges in its path. I grit my teeth, compelling myself to keep to my task. But it is hard! To so slowly and deliberately inflict pain on one who matters to me so. As I tug at the needle to draw the thread through I hear Cai curse, feel him turn his face away from me. To extract the needle fully from his flesh I have to pull with some strength, as it is gripped by the wetness that lies beneath his skin. I am too timorous in my movements, so that it is only on the third attempt that the needle frees itself. It does so with such sudden speed that I stab my left hand with the point. I raise my palm to my mouth to stop the flow, but not before a drop of my own blood has fallen into Cai’s gaping wound. And now I recall Catrin’s china. Now I think of how I mended so many cracks and breakages. Could I do that now, for Cai? I am no healer. I have not talent to make the sick well or banish their pain. But I can move things. I can stir their composition. I can shift and alter the arrangement of things. My lessons with Mrs. Jones must surely have increased my ability and my control where my magic is concerned. But what if I were to produce a bad result with my unruly skills? How badly might Cai fare were I to mismatch and confuse as I worked? I have never attempted such a thing before. Never sought to produce a mending upon a living person.
“Morgana?” Cai’s voice is tight with effort and pain. “Are you able to go on, cariad?”
I give him a gentle smile. I sense his confusion as I take the scissors and snip the thread, before putting down the needle. He watches me closely, as if he is somehow aware of what I am about to do. Does he now recall my mending skills, I wonder.
I hold my palm above his cut and let three more drops of my blood fall into it. Then I place my hands over the vivid pinkness of his wound. I close my eyes. I put all my attention, all my will, all my heart, into the challenge I have set myself. Very soon I have the sensation I am falling backward. I feel a lightness in my head, and hear a noise in my ears like the flapping of the wings of a giant bird of prey. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, they beat. My body begins to heat up. The temperature rises, starting with my feet and hands, working inward toward my heart in no way that follows any sensible pattern. Soon I am almost overcome with the intensity of the heat, and fear I may be burnt up from the inside. But still I do not move, I do not release my grip on Cai’s arm. I will not stop! Now I find I cannot open my eyes. There is a blackness swamping me, as if I am interred in some deep, underground place, from which I may never escape. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow. Will I lose myself in this endeavor? Will I be able to find my way back?
And now, far in the distance, I hear someone softly calling my name. Slowly it becomes louder. At last I recognize Cai’s voice.
“Morgana? Morgana?”
Of a sudden I am able to see again. I blink away blurriness from my eyes and look down at Cai’s arm, which I still grip with both my hands. Cautiously, I remove them, to reveal his wound sealed shut! The join is not pretty, and the flesh looks angry and inflamed, but it appears strongly melded, and I know it will hold. Cai touches my cheek.
“You did well, my wild one. You did very well, see?”
I find I am almost too weak to stand. I try to get to my feet, but fall. Cai catches me and sits me on the edge of the bed. I am shaking, my whole body gripped by tremors. Cai kneels in front of me, his hands on my shoulders.
“’Tis the shock,” he tells me, settling to the task of unlacing my boots. “Here you are looking after me, but you yourself have been through an ordeal. Had you not been able to cut the rope on the far gate and jump behind the wall…”
He leaves the words unspoken, but we both know what it is he is trying to say. It could have been me lying trampled and broken in that yard. Indeed, it most likely would have been, if it weren’t for the brave actions of a generous-hearted man, a man who now lay cramped in a coffin on his final journey home. In truth I do not know what troubles me the most—my brush with death, my overwhelming feeling of guilt that Dai died saving me; my loathing of Edwyn; or my fear that no one but Cai will ever believe the truth of what happened.
Cai takes off my boots and helps me out of my outer garments. The stump of candle flickers and dies, so that the room is lit only by the dull twilight through the windowpanes. He empties the washbowl out the window and refills it. There are clean cloths on the tiled stand, and he selects one, dipping it in the water and then wringing it out. He kneels before me once more and gently bathes first my face, and then my hands. I feel as a child, soothed by a loving parent, and yet there is something else his tender touch ignites within me. Something sweet and sharp at the same time. Something powerful which has lain dormant.
“My poor wild one,” says he, washing my fingertips. “You need rest, see? You’ll feel stronger in the morning.”
At last the trembling subsides, though I feel flimsy as a newborn lamb. I let him lift my feet and settle me on the blissfully soft mattress. He walks to the far side of the bed and I hear his boots drop, one, two onto the floor and then his clothes.
He climbs into the bed and moves to lie close behind me. His body curves around mine but the contact is oh so very slight. Yet I feel the heat of him; his bare chest against my back, his smell of spice and earth, his breath warm and half-held against my neck. His heartbeat echoes in its cage of ribs, the beat strong enough to interrupt that of my own, faster and more nervous. I feel at once terrified and exquisitely alive. I realize it is not him I fear, but the unpredictable nature of my own response to him. To his nearness. To his restrained strength. To his desire.
He touches my brow, gently moving a stray lock from my forehead, settling to stroke my hair softly.
“Sleep now, cariad. Fret no more today. Only sleep. I am here. Sleep.”
But now I am far from sleep! My senses are astir and ablaze. How is it possible to feel such things and to sleep? If we are always to share a bed I may die for the lack of it. His presence is so powerful. It disturbs me to acknowledge how he agitates me. He is so vital, so astonishingly full of life. There is something comforting in the extreme, certainly, to know such protection, for I am confident nothing would induce him to use his strength against me, only in my defense. The thought allows a kernel of hope to form inside me, set to grow with a spark of … what? Affection? Love, even? No, I cannot conceive of allowing myself to love, not now, not when I am raw from the loss of it. What, then? What is it that stirs my blood, that hastens my heartbeat, that causes my breath to catch in my throat and my mind to float at his touch? Is it desire, then? Is that what this is? Desire for him? Desire for him.
“Shh, cariad,” he soothes, all too aware of my restlessness. “Shh,” he whispers, and, despite the heavy weight of all that has happened this day, I smile. For never in my life before has a person had cause to urge me to be quiet!
15.
By the following morning the temperature has dropped and there is a feel of autumn in the wind that accompanies the drove as they progress ever eastward. Cai directs the young cattleman he has engaged to work the rest of the way to follow the cattle on foot, and to be ready to help Watson or Morgana if they have need of him. His name is John, and what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm. Indeed, his energy and cheerfulness are at odds with the rest of the company, but then he has not recently lost a friend. He does not notice the absence of Dai and his family. He does not struggle, as the others do, to shut out the heartbreaking image of Cerys and her boys weeping over Dai’s shattered body. Still, Cai reasons, it is as well to have at least one person on the drove whose every action is not colored by grief. Cai’s own heart is leaden in his chest. When he thinks of Dai the memory is tainted by the rage he feels toward Edwyn. The matter is not yet at an end, he knows it. Knows that upon his return to Tregaron he must visit Cerys, must make sure she understands the truth, must see that justice is done for Dai.
At least he has something else to fill his mind with; something that gives him hope for the future instead of regret for t
he past. The exquisite closeness he enjoyed with Morgana is still fresh in his mind. She allowed him to care for her, allowed him to step closer. He closes his eyes to savor the recollection of that closeness. The hours he spent with her sleeping in his arms were the most wonderful he has passed in many long, lonely years. How could he ever have doubted her? How could he have thought that she would let Edwyn…? Not for the first time he feels ashamed at how quickly and how harshly he has judged her.
They journey another taxing day, the cold rain forcing everyone into their long coats, collars turned up, hats pulled low. Even Bracken’s fur is sodden to a dull brown. Neither song nor banter speeds the passing of the miles, only the knowledge that each footfall made, each hour ridden, moves them nearer to their goal and the completion of their task. And ultimately, nearer to returning home. For there is no delight among the drovers now. They must all draw upon their reserves of will and strength, driven on by a common cause, and by the need to succeed if they are to avoid poverty in the coming winter months. Finding no inn come six o’clock Cai settles for a farm with ample grazing. The farmer, sensing an opportunity to turn a speedy profit, charges over the odds per head of livestock. Were Cai not so weary he would have haggled further, driving down the price, but he is tired in his bones, and can think only of rest. Sara cooks up a thin stew for supper and a small quantity of ale is found. The mood is dark, and John’s chatter is jarringly bright. When someone halfheartedly suggests Watson give them a song the shepherd merely shakes his head and sucks hard on his clay pipe.
The Winter Witch Page 24