The Silver Witch

by Paula Brackston

  One of the minstrels takes up a ram’s horn and blows a long, clear note. Prince Brynach and his party are come. A cheer, hearty and sincere, greets him as he enters the hall, the princess on his arm. They process toward the top table, followed by Rhodri and Siōn, his lickspittle son. His loyal swordsman, Hywel is here, of course, though he does not look at ease with such formality, forced as he is into an uncomfortably tight tabard. Following on, Nesta basks in her mistress’s position. How secure does she feel in that, I wonder? The prince pauses when he draws level with me.

  ‘Seren Arianaidd,’ he nods, and I bow low. He reaches out and takes my hand, bidding me rise. There is a sudden hush. Has he forgotten where he is? Who he is? A prince might take the hand of a highborn lady, perhaps, such as the wife of another prince, or a relative of his own wife, but not my hand! I am not only a woman of no rank, I am Prophet and Witch. To touch me is to connect with all those dangerous and magical things that I hold within me. Is this a deliberate crossing of a well-guarded boundary, or simply a mistake? I am unable to decide. ‘We are honored to have you as our guest,’ he declares, not only to me, but to the whole of the hall. It is clear he is making a point of underlining his allegiance to me. Of my importance to him. He turns to address the gathering, and still he holds my hand! Beside him the princess tenses but does not otherwise let her thoughts show. Nesta purses her lips. The prince raises his free hand for quiet, but this is not necessary. An astonished silence has already filled the great hall. ‘This day would not have come about were it not for the wisdom of our Seer. It was her vision that prompted me to take action. Her seeing told of the downfall of the realm, of the destruction of our crannog. I heeded her warning. I sought counsel with my advisors’—here he pauses to incline his head at Rhodri, who is already puffed up like a bullfrog—‘and we found a path to peace. Thanks to the skills of our Prophet we have arrived at this moment without bloodshed.’

  There is a spontaneous cheer, born not so much of joyous respect, but of relief for the explanation for the prince’s curious behavior toward me. He lets go my hand and moves on. The princess never for one second loses her composure, though still she manages to treat me to a glance colder than the winter’s day outside. Nesta glares at me as she passes, which makes me smile, much to her annoyance. As they take their seats, Rhodri whispers something in his sister’s ear, whilst not taking his eyes from my face. I swear if that man were sliced with a blade he would not bleed blood, but ooze bile.

  And so the drinking and feasting and dancing get under way. I am given a seat at the end of the high table, elevated, yet separate, so at least this convention is upheld. There is ale aplenty, and soon tongues, belts and minds alike are loosened, so that raucous laughter and loudly recounted tales compete with the singing of the minstrels and the determined playing of the musicians to fill the smoky space. The drums, whistles and pipes struggle to make themselves heard. The food is very fine, and I confess, despite my resistance to such organized jollity, I enjoy my expertly seasoned meat and light, crusty bread. I take some ale, but only a little. I have no wish to lose my wits in such company.

  After almost two hours of merriment, when some of the smaller children have fallen asleep with their full bellies, curled up on straw in the corner of the hall, the adults take to dancing. The maids are painfully aware of themselves, torn between their shyness and their desire to make an impact on a possible husband. The young men are equally awkward, but some bolder than others, forgetting how unmanly they might look trotting about to a tune if it means they can woo the girl of their choice. Wives and husbands make the most of a rare chance to enjoy each other without the worry of children or work. The prince dances with the princess, the pair a picture of restrained and courtly elegance. No one dares ask me to dance, and I am glad of that. Another hour passes in this manner. Some of the frailer adults join the infants in belching slumber. Gradually the order of the assembly crumbles so that all mix and talk and joke together, regardless of rank or age. Indeed, I’d wager some are so much in the thrall of the ale they do not know who it is they speak to. In the midst of this muddle, I become aware of a presence by my side and find Prince Brynach has come to stand beside me. A glance tells me Wenna is at the far end of the room, being given instruction on the playing of a lyre. Nesta remains in her seat, watching me.

  ‘Seren Arianaidd.’ He keeps his voice low in an effort to maintain some privacy, but in truth there is too much rowdiness, too much commotion all around us, for anyone to hear our conversation.

  ‘My Prince.’

  ‘You are enjoying the feast, I hope?’

  ‘The food was excellent. The musicians are tolerable. The dancing has provided me no small measure of amusement.’

  ‘Wait until Hywel takes to the floor.’ He smiles. ‘He dances like nothing on God’s earth.’

  ‘I cannot agree. I have seen him dance before. I was put in mind of a bear I once saw goaded into a jig at Brecon horse fair.’

  ‘And did this bear sing also?’

  ‘Great heavens, spare us Hywel Gruffydd in song.’

  ‘I do not have your gift of foresight, my Prophet, but I foretell Hywel in fine voice before the night is out.’ He falls silent, then asks, ‘Are you not pleased? I listened to your words, I acted upon them. I have seen to it the vipers of your vision will not prosper here.’

  ‘You let the vipers live.’

  ‘Their slaughter would have come at the price of many good men, and they are slippery creatures. I could not be certain I would slay them all. Better this way, I believe.’

  ‘The slipperiest creature here is a member of your wife’s family.’

  ‘Still you persist in attacking my wife!’

  ‘The pact with the Mercian Queen was her brother’s idea, was it not?’

  ‘An idea that has spared many men and secured the future of the crannog and the village.’

  ‘So you trust.’

  ‘I do. I gave my word, and I have that of the Queen of Mercia. Do you not trust me to govern? Do you not consider me capable of my princely duty?’

  ‘You I know. You I trust. Beyond that, I sleep with my blade at my hip.’

  He takes in my words and thinks on them for a moment before speaking. ‘That you trust me humbles me, Seren. For when I am in your presence I do not trust myself.’

  I look directly at him now and the fierceness of his gaze, the unmasked longing in it, quickens my blood. He lifts a hand as if to touch me again.

  ‘My Prince, you must not…’ I am aghast to feel a tightening in my chest at the thought of his touch.

  A roar from the farside of the room heralds the start of Hywel’s ale-fueled speech. He has clambered unsteadily onto one of the tables and stands, goblet held aloft, calling on the gathering to listen to him. His hair is even wilder than is normal for him, his bulky frame straining at its seams.

  ‘Prince Brynach, Princess Wenna,’ he bellows, swaying and teetering as he acknowledges them with a dangerously low bow, ‘my Lords,’ he inclines his head, ‘my Ladies…’ He closes his eyes and smiles as if in rapture. The assembled company laughs. His eyes spring open again, ‘And all you lowly beggars at the bottom of our fragrant heap…’ this is met with good-natured booing and hissing, ‘pray, take a moment from filling your bellies,’ there is a cheer, ‘slaking your thirst,’ this followed by a louder cheer, ‘or putting your hands on the nearest arse!’ A comment met with loud laughter and some chastising replies from the women in the room. ‘Take a moment, I beseech you,’

  ‘Get on with it!’ comes a shout from the throng.

  Hywel scowls, ‘Stop your noise, and stop debauching for one short minute, is all I ask, you lice-ridden, pox-marked scoundrels!’

  ‘What happened to “Lords and Ladies”?’ someone wants to know.

  ‘They left hours ago!’ shouts a soldier reclining on a bench.

  Another puts in, ‘They ran for the door when they saw Hywel get up to speak.’

  ‘Stop your cursed interr
uptions!’ Hywel roars. ‘Charge your goblets, tankards, beakers, whatever comes readily to hand’—here he pauses to reach out and cup the nearest bosom to make his point. The room fills with laughter again. ‘A toast!’ he declares, a little more seriously now. ‘A toast to the finest prince a man ever had fortune to serve. Who has delivered us from war. Who has provided this magnificent feast. Who will, one day, I am certain of it, be an even better swordsman than I am! Prince Brynach!’ He raises his goblet, wine spilling from it.

  ‘Prince Brynach! Prince Brynach!’ the crowd takes up the toast and drinks to their savior. And as they do so, all eyes turn to look upon him. And find him standing not with his princess, but with me.

  TILDA

  Tilda sleeps more soundly than she has done in weeks. Months. Thistle lies next to her on the bed, a furry bolster. Through the window the first light of dawn is beginning to lift the sky, bringing streaks of scarlet and vermillion as it does so. There is a curious stillness to the new day. Tilda gets up and peers through the frosted panes, gasping at what she sees. Snow. Inches deep, come secretly and silently in the night to transform the landscape.

  So beautiful. As if the world has been born again. I have to go out in that.

  She quickly dresses in her thermals and running gear, jamming her beanie on. The cottage has become so familiar to her now that she can move around inside with ease even when there is so little light. Despite the weirdness of what is happening to her, Ty Gwyn feels increasingly friendly. More and more like home. Thistle stretches, wags and follows her down the stairs. Tilda pauses to peep through the open door into the sitting room. Dylan is still sleeping on the sofa, all but hidden by the duvet and blankets she found him the night before. The fire in the hearth has gone out, but the little room is still warm. Tilda carefully closes the door, not wanting to disturb him, and heads out through the kitchen.

  The snow is the stuff of childhood dreams. Even in the low light it sparkles like sugar and sits fatly on every surface, every tree, every gate and fence post. Tilda can just make out the lake below as she finishes her warm-up exercises and sets off. It is teal blue, silky, dark against the lightening countryside around it. It is not cold enough for ice, and the snow affords a reasonable amount of grip. Even so, Tilda has to descend the hill cautiously, taking care to stick to the road and then to the footpath. Once on level ground she can increase her speed to a decent pace, enjoying once again the rhythm of running, feeling her muscles working, experiencing the glow and the lift that rewards such sustained exertion.

  Come on fleet feet. Running on a cushion of snow. Step, push, step, push. Tilda loves to run. Tilda needs to run. I have seriously missed this!

  Her footsteps thud and crunch through the virgin snow, each lift of a heel giving a short squeak. Thistle, like so many animals, is made frisky by the fluffy substance she finds herself bounding through. She abandons her customary loping to frolic and leap, breaking away from the path every now and then to run crazy loops across the water meadows. Tilda laughs at the dog’s skittish behavior. Such playfulness is catching, and she stoops to scoop up a handful of snow. Quickly forming it into a ball, she waits until the hound comes close again.

  ‘Here, girl! Catch!’ she calls out as she throws the snowball high into the air. Thistle leaps after it, snatching at the ball as it passes, shaking her head and pouncing at nothing as it crumbles to flakes in her mouth.

  Soon the gaps in Tilda’s running program begin to tell, and she is forced to slow to a walk. A sharp stitch has developed in her left side, so that she stops and bends over, panting, waiting for the spasm to pass. She wonders if Dylan will wake up while she is out. What will he think if he finds her gone?

  He knows I run. He’ll figure it out. Hopefully, he’ll relight the stoves.

  Tilda is aware of how much she has enjoyed Dylan’s company since he turned up to deliver her books. After her meltdown on the way home from Brecon she had felt so shaken, so defeated, somehow. Working together to build the kiln had been the perfect remedy. She had felt so alone for so long, she had almost forgotten her own need for companionship. For the simple pleasure of a shared objective worked toward with someone it was possible to connect with. When he had suggested staying the night her initial response had been panic, quickly followed by embarrassment at her own assumption.

  There was no expectation behind his offer. Nothing manipulative. Just a friend, being a friend.

  As promised, he had cooked a meal that consisted mostly of tinned tomatoes and potatoes, which they had eaten by the light of candle stubs and the log fire in the sitting room. It might have been uncomfortably, inappropriately romantic as a setting, but it was really just the most comfortable place to eat. The Rayburn stove in the kitchen was working better, now that she had learned how to get the best out of it, and it cooked food well enough, but the sitting room was cozier in the evenings. The studio became numbingly cold at night since the temperature outside had dropped so far. The sitting room was definitely the warmest part of the cottage. Dylan had once, tentatively, brought up the subject of the lack of electricity. She had found it surprisingly easy to tell him she preferred life in the cottage without a power supply. She realized, as she formed the words, that this was the truth. After her success at restoring the supply in the pub, she was fairly certain that she could do the same at home. But she didn’t want to. She had grown accustomed to living by the rhythm of the winter days—rising with the dawn, working in natural light, sleeping when candlelight became tiring to read by. Since she’d mastered the Rayburn, there was plenty of hot water for showers. And she was genuinely excited at the thought of what her work would look like fired in the wood-burning kiln. It all just seemed to fit, seemed so right, somehow.

  She leans into her run once more, allowing herself to go slowly, taking in the magical landscape around her. The sun is properly up now, the sky a sharp blue worthy of an alpine postcard, with the majestic mountains to the west offering very convincing snow-covered slopes. The water fowl glide serenely across the lake, apparently viewing the new surface of the shore with suspicion. After a short while, Tilda notices that Thistle is no longer with her.

  ‘Thistle?’ she sings out, her voice absorbed by the snow. She tries again, a little louder. ‘Thistle? Come here, girl!’ She slows to a walk, squinting back into the low sunshine to the east and then turning to scan the fields and the edge of the woodland. She spots her now, by the water’s edge, digging at the ground, sending up a shower of mud-speckled snow behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, jogging over to get a closer look. By the time she reaches Thistle, the dog has unearthed something, which it holds tightly in its mouth. ‘What have you got there? A stick? You want to play fetch?’ But Thistle bounds away, showing an impressive burst of speed, tearing round in a large loop, back legs powering, her hind paws hitting the ground impossibly far forward of her nose with every stride, tail down, ears flat, round and round she goes. Tilda stands, hands on hips in amazement. ‘Well, if you’d run like that after a hare you might have actually caught one. Daft creature. Come on, don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some breakfast.’

  As they approach Ty Gwyn, Tilda is cheered to see smoke rising from both chimneys. When she enters the kitchen it is to the sound of the kettle whistling and eggs being fried.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ says Dylan as she takes off her hat.

  ‘Perfect houseguest,’ she tells him. ‘Fires lit and breakfast cooked.’

  He turns to grin at her and then freezes, staring. For an instant Tilda wonders if he has seen the ghost, such is the look of shock on his face. But no, she realizes, it is not horror, but surprise. And he is looking directly at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, suddenly embarrassed, ‘I didn’t mean to … just wasn’t expecting … I’m really sorry I did that,’ he says, and busies himself with the cooking. ‘Stupid of me. Sit yourself down, eggs are nearly ready.’

  Puzzled, Tilda is about to do as he says when she remembers.
r />   My contact lenses! I forgot to put them in this morning.

  She closes her eyes, trying to imagine how she must look to Dylan. He has only ever seen her with her colored contact lenses, so her eyes have always appeared a light blue. Without them her irises are revealed in their true state, almost devoid of pigment, just the palest hint of blue tingeing their basic pinkness. With no color to block out the blood vessels in the eye, the irises appear pink in some lights, almost transparent in others. Either way, they are startlingly unusual. She has worn lenses since her teens, in order to appear less different. More normal. But today she went out without them. The light was still winter-daybreak soft so, that even with the snow, there had been no glare to remind her to use them. Only when the sun had properly risen had she begun to squint, yet even then she had not thought about her lenses. This strikes her as odd now. Whilst part of the point of wearing them is cosmetic, and another part to cut out the harshest of the sun’s rays, the lenses also have a prescription in them to help her weak eyesight.