I make the short walk from my own house to the wooden causeway swiftly and silently. Most have crossed the water to the crannog already, so that the solitary guard watches me warily as I pass. He is the only one on the narrow wooden crossing that links the island to the shore to witness my arrival. The sight of me makes him start, makes him stare, then quickly look away again. It is a common reaction to my appearance. At least I have no need to identify myself, and he steps aside wordlessly to let me pass. The smaller buildings are quiet—the smithy, the barn, and the house with its byre—all their occupants having gone into the hall to take their places. The prince’s horses are at rest in their stable; the long-horned bull slumbers, head low; tired working dogs are too weary to bark. I wait outside the hall and listen. Hywel Gruffydd, the prince’s stalwart captain, is up on his hind legs, barking gruff words of welcome at the gathering, reminding them of the greatness of their ruler, informing them of recent gains in territory or status for the prince, and bidding them salute his wise leadership and bravery. His words bring forth an easy cheer. Hywel falls quiet, and even from this side of the heavy oak door I can picture him setting his broad rump on the seat to his master’s right, shifting his weight to one side, as is his habit, to ease the pain in his fattening leg. He is not the warrior he once was, though it would be a foolish man who chose to remind him of the fact. And now people stand, in turn, those who have come with a question, a quarrel to be solved, a dispute over livestock, a broken promise, an accusation of theft, a plea for alms. They pick their words with care when addressing their prince, but the music of their voices is strained, their throats tightened with anger or heartache. If others interrupt to argue or shout down the complainant, they are swiftly silenced by Hywel, who will have them dragged from the hall if they do not conduct themselves as they should.
So Prince Brynach listens. I know he listens, though I still stand without. I close my eyes to see him more clearly, his strong body finely robed, his crown upon his head, his eyes thoughtful, his expression purposefully blank. He will guard his own thoughts, not letting them show on his handsome face. He is not afraid to let others see his passions or his cares, but he knows he must appear more than a mere man to his people. He is their prince, their protector, their provider, their wise man, their shelter and their sword. He must not reveal himself to be as they are.
Yet I see the truth. See the man who is flesh and blood, soul and heart. See the truth he veils from others.
I judge the moment right and make my entrance, flinging the door wide and striding into the hall. The guards draw their swords but stay their hands the instant they recognize me. All eyes turn toward me and I level my gaze at as many as will meet it. The quiet that greets me is a marrying of respect and fear with its mistress, hatred, though none would profess such a thing. Even Hywel will silence his blustering. I am permitted to walk to the center of the gathering and stand before my Prince. He inclines his head, a gesture of cool regard. I dip my staff and bow low, so that I am lower than my chief, though the farseeing eyes of my wolf-pelt headdress will remain level with his own. There is no other man living I would defer to in such a way. And this he knows.
‘Seren Arianaidd,’ he says, ‘you are welcome. We are honored that you grace us with your presence.’
I straighten and look about me. While the prince’s words are sincerely uttered, there are many here who would wish me as far away as their imaginations could send me. And the most ardent of my detractors sits in the finely carved seat to the left of our ruler. Princess Wenna. Unlike her husband, she wears her opinions plainly for all to see, so that now her beautiful, highborn face and her eyes, green as the leaves of young holly, are darkened with her loathing for me. By her side sits her toad of a brother, Rhodri, whose refined exterior hides a warty soul. He is a man I would not trust to mind a cooking pot, let alone a princedom, and yet Prince Brynach, out of loyalty to the princess, in truth, trusts him with the royal coffers. One day Rhodri brother-of-the-princess will let slip his mask.
‘Won’t you sit with us?’ The prince asks. He summons a page. ‘Fetch wine for Seren Arianaidd.’
The boy scurries to do his master’s bidding, but I shake my head.
‘I come not to drink, but to speak,’ I tell him.
There is an uneasy silence in the room now.
‘We are always ready to hear your words,’ the prince assures me with no more formal courtesy than is expected of him.
‘I bring a warning.’
At this, Hywel cannot stop himself asking what they are all wondering, ‘You have had a seeing?’
‘I have.’ The gasps and anxious mutterings that greet this news mean I must raise my voice to be heard. ‘A vision, clear and bright as a full moon.’
‘What did you see?’ Hywel demands, unable to wait for the prince to speak, his own nervousness making him forget his manners.
‘I saw the crannog desolate, empty! The houses long gone.’
‘And the people?’ comes a cry from the back of the hall.
‘Not a child remained. Neither beasts nor birds, for the place was barren and nothing grew in it or round it.’ Now a woman begins to weep and men set to questioning, clamoring, begging for my interpretation of the seeing. They need the truth, but they fear it. As well they might. ‘And in the dust and ashes of the palace there were broken eggshells.’
The prince leaned forward on hearing this. ‘What manner of bird did the eggs belong to? Was it an eagle? A falcon?’
‘Would that were so, my Prince. Alas, this was a nest not of birds, but of vipers.’
Now Princess Wenna speaks. ‘Then surely there is no cause for alarm,’ she says, letting her hand rest upon that of her husband. ‘In the old religion, does not an adder signify both wisdom and fertility? The very continuation of life. Is that not the case, Seren?’
I resist bridling at the familiar way in which she addresses me but it gives me pause, and in that space the priest leaps up to remind us all that there is a new faith to be followed now.
‘The serpent is to be feared,’ he insists. ‘We were thrown out from a state of grace, from the garden of Eden itself, when Eve fell prey to the viper’s slippery words. Man has learned to beware the serpent.’
Hywel Gruffydd grunts. ‘Man might have, but there are still a few women who can be charmed by a snake if it be of sufficient size!’
At this the tension in the room is broken and laughter erupts. As is often the case, people are keen to make fun of what scares them. To scoff, to laugh off the danger. I see Prince Brynach throw his aide a look, but even he struggles to keep a smile from his face. The priest shakes his head and frowns in my direction. He must realize he has unwittingly talked himself into agreement with me. Not a position either of us is comfortable with. The prince declares himself a Christian, and so those under his protection are happy to follow his faith of choice. There are fine churches hereabouts, and monks aplenty. But many still secretly hold to the old religion. To the ancient wisdom that has served us so well for centuries. Else why would I be tolerated? It cannot be avoided, then, that our different creeds should sometimes be at odds, sometimes in harmony.
‘Princess Wenna is right,’ I say into the heightened mood of the hall, ‘we have nothing to fear from the vipers who share their home with us, save the odd nip. And a snake in a vision can foretell a fertile time of plenty. But these were no earthbound serpents. Whatever hatched from the shells in my seeing were foul, evil creatures, bent on destruction.’
The merriment in the room disappears as quickly as it began. Even the priest stills his tongue.
‘Mark my words,’ I go on. ‘The seeing was a warning. The crannog is under threat.’
‘We know this,’ Prince Brynach waves his hand dismissively in an attempt to dampen any panic that might be kindling among the gathering. ‘There are ever those who want what we have and would take it from us. We live with war as our cousin and our neighbor, who may visit us without invitation. These are not peaceful
times.’
‘You may float your palace on the water,’ I say, ‘and you may build your barricades and man them with guards with swords of iron, and, yes, that will keep your enemies at bay.’ I take two strides forward with such urgency that a guard draws his sword, but the prince raises his hand in a signal for him to stay back. I lean toward my noble ruler until my face is but a hand’s breadth from his own. He meets my icy gaze. He is one of the few who is able to do so. I keep my voice low and level. ‘But nothing you can build will save you from the danger that comes from within.’
His eyes widen but he does not move nor look away. ‘You say I have an enemy … inside my camp?’
‘The vision was strong, the message clear. You are in a nest of vipers, my Prince, and they wish you dead!’
3
TILDA
Tilda feeds another log into the Rayburn in the kitchen and is yet again thankful for a solid fuel stove. Having spent a candlelit night at the cottage, she was surprised to find she did not miss the television, the radio, or even her music, but was content to read until the daylight and candle were insufficient for the print of her chosen novel. The memory of Mat attempting to convert her to an e-reader prompted a wry smile. Why not go to bed when the sun did? She was an early riser anyway, preferring to run with the dawn.
Early to bed, early to rise. Who needs watches to tell us when to do something, or lights to stop us going to sleep?
In addition, the quiet and gloom seemed to help her sleep, so that, for once, she has slumbered long past daybreak and done without her morning run. Since knowing the insomnia that so often keeps grief company, she cannot remember waking feeling so rested and refreshed. She knows, though, that an electricity-free house would quickly lose its charm were she not able to make a morning cup of tea. The kettle begins to sing softly. Tilda finds the low light of the kitchen strangely soothing, and realizes she has forgotten to put in her contact lenses. The less light there is, the less need she has of them, after all. But they have long been a part of her daily disguise, her defense against prejudice and fear. Her colorless hair and her pale skin don’t cause too much interest. Eyes that have only the tiniest hint of blue pigment, however, so that they appear pink, unnerve people. They are what make people stare, and look away, then look again. Tilda is accustomed to a range of reactions to her albinism. Perhaps alone on the hill she will have to deal with them less. She leans against the stove and regards the shaggy shape of Thistle, who remains curled upon the inadequate cushion, watching her new mistress’s every move.
‘You don’t look ready for a run yet,’ she says to the dog. ‘Still sore?’ She wonders briefly if she should have taken the animal to see a vet, but quickly dismisses the idea. The nearest veterinary practice would be in Brecon, ten miles away. How would she get her there without a car? She crouches down beside Thistle and ruffles her fur gently.
‘Not exactly on a bus route here, are we girl? You’ll be okay. How about some sardines, eh? Would you like that?’ Tilda gropes in the cupboard for the right shaped can, opens it, and kneels on the floor to empty the contents into what has become Thistle’s bowl. The dog gets stiffly to its feet and comes wagging over. ‘There you go. Better than dog food any day,’ she says, reasoning the animal must be on the mend if it has a good appetite. At that moment Thistle stops eating, lifts her face from the bowl, and stares hard into the half-light of the hallway. The whole dog tenses. The fur on the back of its neck stands up. Tilda is aware of her own heartbeat racing. Thistle does not move or bark, but begins to emit a low, menacing growl. It is such a raw, basic sound that it transforms the dog from domesticated pet to potential killer in an instant. Tilda listens and squints into the gloom of the hallway, but she can neither hear nor see anything.
‘What is it, girl? What’s wrong?’ she asks, her voice a whisper.
The loud knocking on the front door is so unexpected that Tilda lets out a small scream. Feeling foolish, she walks briskly down the hall. ‘Just a minute,’ she calls out as she wrestles with the aged key and the bolts, which have become sticky through lack of use. When at last she gets the door open, she finds a wiry-looking man in a cycling helmet standing on the doorstep. On seeing Tilda, surprise registers minutely on his face. She is accustomed to watching the reaction of strangers to her appearance. Used to seeing herself seen for the first time. Time and time again. Seeing the curiosity. The unasked questions. Sometimes even a little fear. She remembers that she is not wearing her lenses, and so is impressed that her caller does so well to mask his feelings. He even manages a smile.
‘Sorry,’ he says, unbuckling his chin strap, ‘I should have gone round the back. I’m Bob,’ he offers her his business card. ‘You called me about your fuses.’
‘Oh! The electrician. Of course. Somehow I didn’t expect you to arrive on a bike.’
‘I like to cycle when I can, if I’m going somewhere I can manage without my ladders.’ He shakes his head, gesturing back toward the track. ‘Mind you, it’s quite a climb you’ve got there. Think I’ll bring the van next time.’
Tilda lets him in and shows him to the fuse box. Thistle slinks in from the kitchen to inspect the visitor, decides he is not a threat, and returns to her cushion by the Rayburn. Tilda fetches Bob a cup of tea and hands it to him when he has finished checking the system.
‘Well? Is it hopeless?’ she asks. ‘It’s bound to be ancient, but we had a survey done when we bought the place, and I don’t remember reading that it would need replacing.’
Bob shakes his head. ‘It’s not in bad shape, really. Must have been rewired fairly recently. Someone did a pretty good job of it.’ To make his point he throws the main power switch and light is restored.
‘So why does it keep tripping out?’ Tilda finds herself blinking, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the new level of brightness.
Bob shrugs. ‘Must be something you’ve got plugged in. Something you’ve installed.’
‘There isn’t anything I can think of. Only my kiln, but I haven’t switched that on yet.’
‘Be careful when you do. Have you got it on the right circuit? Those things are pretty heavy on power.’
‘Yes, the manufacturer sent someone to set it up.’
They both stand in the hall, waiting. Tilda finds herself almost wanting the fuses to blow again, just so there is something for Bob to actually fix.
‘Now I feel stupid,’ she says. ‘Seems like I dragged you up here for nothing.’
‘No problem.’ Bob finishes his tea in a few gulps. ‘The ride down that hill will be worth it.’
‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing too terrible. I’ll pop an invoice in the post. Call me if you have any more trouble.’
She watches him descend the lane with increasing speed. It is still early, and there is a fluffy mist sitting over the lake today. The mountains beyond rise up through the froth of white, their peaks dark and sharp against the lightening sky. Thistle pads out to join her in the front garden. She wonders if the dog will be well enough for at least a walk in a couple of days.
‘Well, if either of us is going to be up to exercise, we are going to need some proper food. Come on, let’s see if I can’t magic up groceries on the Internet.’
Back in the kitchen Tilda switches on her laptop and starts to feel quite excited at the prospect of fresh fruit, meat, interesting salad, perhaps some sinful puddings, and a bottle of her favorite wine. The computer chirrups encouragingly, displaying the home page so brightly she is forced to dim the screen a little. She is just on the point of selecting a supermarket offering deliveries in the area when the screen goes blue, then gray, then, with a pathetic whirring sound, darkens completely and falls silent.
‘Damn.’ Tilda slumps back in her chair with a sigh. Before she has time to do more than shake her head there is a sharp bang and all the lights fail again. Seconds later she feels her leg being nudged and looks down to see Thistle, who has tiptoed over to stand beside her. The dog nuzzles her an
d wags its tail anxiously. That the animal should be so sensitive to her emotional state touches Tilda.
‘What a pair we are,’ she says, gently stroking the dog’s velvety ears. ‘You all lame and creaky, me unable to get on with the simplest things. And both of us living in a house that doesn’t seem to want to have electricity in it anymore.’ She takes a deep breath and snaps shut the lifeless laptop. ‘Okay, we can’t go on like this,’ she tells Thistle. ‘You stay here and … well, get better. I’m going for a late run that’ll take in the village shop. I promise I’ll return with food. We can have a proper meal, and then I’m going into the studio to do some work. That sound like a plan to you?’
Thistle answers by padding back to her bed and curling up, nose on paws, tail on nose, clearly settling for a nap.
Outside the air is fresh in the sunshine but drops several crucial degrees to become chilling once Tilda descends into the mist. Even though the hour is later than her usual run time, there are no other walkers out braving the damp and gloomy conditions along the lakeside footpath. Tilda falls into the rhythm of running, finding solace in the repetition of easy, fluid steps. Footfalls crunching on fallen beechnuts. Step, step breathe. Step, step breathe. Heart strong and steady, lungs working calmly.
No need to think. No need to feel. No need to remember. Just here and now. Just this. Only this. You are strong. You are strong. Tilda loves to run. Tilda needs to run.
She takes an unfamiliar route, but follows a clear path. To her left, set back among the marshy side of the lake, she can just make out a small, dilapidated building, so overgrown it is almost entirely hidden by ivy and brambles. The closer the path gets to the water, the denser the fog becomes, so that soon she is running as if within a narrow tunnel through the miasma. Sounds become muffled and distorted. A cawing crow, its voice flattened and stretched, flaps from a low branch, the movement of its wings disturbing the swirling milkiness around it. Some way off, a tractor rumbles across a field, one second sounding close, the next very distant. Tilda can make out the honking of geese upon the water, but visibility is limited to a few yards, so that she can only see the reedy shore and the shallows of the lake’s edge. As she runs on she notices that her eyes are struggling to make sense of the floating landscape around her. Low branches across the path seem to stretch out like so many arms reaching for something unseen. The gritty track beneath her feet appears to rise up and fall away as she strides over it. Among the sounds of birds and the tractor she can discern something new. A noise from the surface of the water, rhythmic and fluid. Splash, swoosh, splash, swoosh.
The Silver Witch Page 3