Hywel bangs his tankard on the table. ‘Page! My vessel is empty, and the prophet has been offered neither seat nor refreshment. See to it!’
There is a deal of scurrying as a chair is brought and a boy hastens to fetch victuals for me. I shake my head.
‘I have no need of rest or food.’
The Prince is watching me closely. ‘We are, as ever, honored by your presence, Seer, but I wonder what it is that has brought you here?’ he asks, the formal way he is bound to receive me clearly causing him discomfort.
Rhodri gives a bark of laughter. ‘’ Tis not for the pleasure of our company then?’
The women find this remark amusing. Siōn, evidently still too green to hold his ale well, is emboldened by his parent’s lack of respect for me.
‘Oh, father, I know! She has come to dance for us! A merry jig and a cheery song to brighten our day!’ He laughs at his own cleverness, hiccupping as he does so.
I refuse to be baited like a bear. With one flowing movement, I throw my cape back over my shoulder to reveal Tanwen. I lift her high, holding her up and turning slowly so that all in the room may see her. There is a collective gasp. Though her birth was not a secret, this is the first time my child has been seen by any besides myself and her father. She has known no more than two moons, and has still the purity of the newborn about her. I have dressed her in a simple muslin shift, so that her plump, pink arms and legs wriggle free, her paleness—my paleness—clear. Young as she is, she has a head of hair soft as thistledown and white as cotton-grass. Already her stout heart and singing soul are evident, for she is not afraid, but gazes about her with interest, happy and curious. There is a tension in the room now. All eyes are upon this tiny likeness of myself.
‘Bear witness to the coming of a new Prophet of Llyn Syfaddan! Behold Tanwen! Destined to one day hold the position of Shaman, Seer, Prophet. Born in the magical waters of the lake, carrying the ancient magic in her blood. Descendent of the revered witches of Llyn Syfaddan. Blessed by the Afanc herself. Daughter of our noble ruler, Prince Brynach!’
There is a louder gasp now. For all the rumors and tittle-tattle regarding my child’s parentage, to hear Brynach so boldly named as her father shocks them. Wenna’s expression tightens. Rhodri scowls, not so much as attempting to mask his displeasure. There are murmurings all around, and people shift and shuffle, the better to see this strange and wonderful child. I lower her and step forward until I am standing directly opposite the prince. We are separated by the worn wooden table, and by centuries of tradition that dictates a noble man must take a noble wife. I offer Tanwen to him.
‘Will you hold your child, my Prince?’
The murmuring and fidgeting behind me stops instantly. The room is filled with such a silence as might be found in an empty tomb. I would swear an oath that Wenna is holding her breath. I can clearly see Rhodri mouthing soundless curses at me. For this is a moment heavy with meaning, and all present know it. Tanwen can never be a titled child in the royal household, but in the absence of a legitimate heir she does have a position, an unassailable place, as the only offspring of the prince. To acknowledge her now would be to underline this, would bestow a measure of status upon this little one that could never be taken from her. Were Brynach to spurn her, however, were he to lose his nerve, to falter in his deep love for her, to be swayed by the vitriol and ambition of his wife and her family, then Tanwen would never know true respect. Would never be able to claim her rightful place. Would be banished to the shadows and margins not only by her physical heritage, but by the bastardy of her birth.
He hesitates. The pause stretches too long and too wide. And I become aware of something else. Of another level of influence at play. At the far edge of my thoughts, where my mind melts into my ancient soul, I hear whispering. Whispered words that are urgent. No, vehement. I pay heed to them, straining to catch their meaning and to discern their origin. And now I have it! A hex! Clear as a full moon in a summer night’s sky. Dark magic, sent to turn my prince from the path of truth, to bend his will and plant black-hearted notions in his mind. Nesta! This is her wicked work!
I put my eyes on her. My eyes and my own sharp-edged will. She does her best to look away, to evade me, but she cannot. Her wavering gaze is locked into mine, and I send to her—into her—such a shock of magic, lake born and nourished, fierce with the ancient enchantments I have been blessed with, that she cannot continue with her loathsome efforts. The whispers cease.
Prince Brynach blinks away his confusion. He smiles. He reaches across the table and takes Tanwen in his arms and the two exchange the sweetest of glances. He bends over her and kisses her tenderly.
‘Hurrah for Tanwen!’ The cheer goes up and others join in the cry. More ale is called for, as Hywel demands a toast to the new babe, and the room is filled with good wishes and merriment. Amid it all Wenna remains still as a standing stone. I pity her. I admire her quiet dignity. Nesta’s face blackens with fury. Rhodri gets to his feet, muttering his refusal to be a part of such outrage. But Brynach notices none of this, for he has eyes only for his beautiful baby daughter.
17
TILDA
For Tilda, the garden feels like the best place to try out the bracelet again. Being outdoors makes sense, feels curiously safer. As if the energy the thing unleashes is too much to manage when confined. Better not to have heavy stone walls boxing her, and it, in. She has kept it with her, in her pocket, or sitting on the worktop in the studio while she works, but has resisted putting it on again. Until now. She feels as if she has been holding back from indulging in a delicious treat, but at the same time she is more than a little apprehensive. Her memory of the strange visions and sensations wearing the bracelet caused is a powerful one; her belief in her own ability to control such a force and stay safe has dwindled somewhat. The recollection of the first time she wore it, of the fire, of Dylan being flung against the wall, of the giddying chaos, lingers in her mind still.
I’m alone up here. If something went wrong … But then, at least I won’t be putting anyone else in danger. Not risking someone I care about. Better this way.
Tilda has also been surprised that there have been no further scary visitations from the ghost from the grave at the dig. At first she thought it might be because the stone had been firmly put back in place, but then she remembered the earlier apparitions happened before it had been moved. Thinking about it, she feels certain now that the bracelet has something to do with it. Or rather, what happens when she puts the bracelet on. And if that is the case, then she needs to learn how to withstand the disturbing force it unleashes. Needs to see if there is some way she can harness it to protect herself and Dylan.
The snow still lies thick and frozen. Everything in the little garden, from the low stone wall, the wooden gate, the flagstoned path, the small lawn and the slumbering flower beds, to the frozen birdbath, is coated in a crisp layer of icing white. The valley below, and even the lake itself, sit snugly beneath their sparkling new coat of frosting. The distant mountains appear almost Alpine. Tilda tugs her beanie lower on her head, does up the toggles of her duffle coat, and moves to stand in the center of the lawn with her back to the house. Thistle watches her quizzically. Under the holly bush, a robin searches for something to eat. In the meadow farther down the hill, sheep bleat as they follow the farmer on his quad bike, eager for the sugar beets he is doling out of sacks into long dark lines on the snow. All is as lovely and as normal and as typical a scene of the countryside in winter as could be. All except for the shiver that travels down Tilda’s spine as she takes the bracelet from her pocket. A shiver not brought about by the cold, but by a thrilling blend of anticipation, excitement, wonder and fear.
She wriggles the bracelet over her hand, her fingertips showing blue-tinged cold out of her fingerless gloves. With awkwardness, she pushes the gold band up under the sleeve of her duffle coat, beneath her fleece and thermal T-shirt, until she feels the metal’s now-familiar warmth against her flesh. The transf
ormation is immediate. Straightaway, the bracelet’s charge, its energy, courses through her body, banishing the chill of the December day, filling her with a warm strength. Where the gold sits against her bare skin she feels as if she is being burned, feels certain that this time there will be a mark, a scarring from such heat. And yet she has no wish to stop it, to remove the bracelet. The pain is a price she is more than willing to pay.
She starts to hear whispering voices and to see the flitting figures and shapes once more, always moving, always on the very periphery of her vision. Beside her, Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda is aware of her dog’s anxiety. She wants to say something to comfort her, to reassure her, but no words will come. Her whole being is overwhelmed by the tumultuous experience wearing the bracelet triggers. Once more, she becomes aware of a change in the quality of the light around her. Even here, outside, in the brightness of the day. There is a phosphorescence to the air that surrounds her. More movement disturbs her vision, and again the lurching giddiness threatens to take control of her stomach.
Tilda closes her eyes tightly and the shapes become instantly clearer, sharper, bolder. She sees the hares again, running, ears flat, twisting this way and that. And the hound, silent and swift. And birds again, cawing crows this time, and a buzzard casting a broad dream of a shadow with its majestic wings. Tilda searches for faces. And for the Afanc. She longs to find the magnificent creature. Wants to experience again its ancient, magical presence. But today it is absent, and the dancing animals move ever faster, increasing her dizziness. The ringing in her ears is building, too, quickly reaching a painful level.
It’s too much. I can’t control it!
Instinctively, she opens her eyes. The supernatural brightness is shocking, making her blink and gasp, her sensitive eyes smarting, her vision blurring. For a moment she fears she will fail; that all she can do is snatch off the bracelet to make it all stop. She has her hand on the gold loop, ready to wrench it from her arm, and yet she pauses.
It’s not the bracelet … it’s me. This is in me, somehow. And if that’s true, then I must be able to handle it. I must!
Slowly she takes her hand away, holding her arms out to balance herself. No shapes appear in the blinding whiteness that reflects, dazzling, off the snow. No diamond-eyed woman. No mythical water-horse. Just glare and noise, both painful and overwhelming. Tilda can feel her heart thudding, the beat of it pounding against her eardrums, blood surging, the sensation of plummeting threatening to make her pass out.
No! Dammit, no!
She flings her arms wide and her head back.
‘Stop!’ she shouts, the word echoing around the valley, rebounding off the hills again and again, repeating and insisting. Stop! Stop! Stop!
And it does. Or at least, the unmanageable parts of it do. The deafening ringing noise ceases at once. The strobing whiteness fades to a softer glow. The swirling sensations and the bewildering giddiness abate, so that she stands steady now, stable, strong. She is aware of a powerful tingling in her hands and feet, and when she looks closer she sees that her fingertips are fizzing. Tiny blue flashes crackle from them, like the arcing of circuits shorting out. Tilda steps over to the snow-covered stone birdbath on the wall and reaches out to touch it. As her fingers get close the snow recedes, melting as quickly as if she had touched it with fire. Cautiously she brings her fingertips to her cheek. There is a zinging vibration, but no pain, no burning. She looks around the garden. Thistle stands close by, her eyes never leaving her mistress. If she is frightened she does not show it.
‘What is it?’ she asks herself as much as the dog. ‘What am I supposed to do with … this?’ She flicks her right hand outward as she speaks and a burst of something invisible yet tangible flies from it, a pulsating wobble through the bright air. It connects with the holly bush, causing every flake of snow on it to explode into a million white crystals before they melt into nothing. The little plant stands out oddly, its prickly leaves glossy and green amid the whiteness. Tilda tries again. This time she carefully waves her hand at the garden bench. Although she stands three long strides from it, it is as if she is sweeping it clear of snow with a heated broom. In seconds the worn wood is exposed, and the snow at its base recedes to reveal the yellow-green grass of the lawn.
Tilda laughs, self-consciously at first, and then joyfully; a wild, visceral sound. Thistle reacts to the break in the tension and bounds about the garden, chasing the clumps of snow Tilda now flicks off the cottage roof, leaping at the showers of ice she causes to rain down from the branches of the apple tree, biting at the dozens of snowballs she hurls through the air without moving a single step from where she stands. Using nothing but the magic that fills her to the brim. Reveling in the warmth and the joy of it. Laughing through it all, happier and more complete than she has been in a very, very long time.
* * *
Christmas morning sees a cheerful sun lifting over the hill behind the cottage, its rays bouncing off the crisp layer of snow that still coats the landscape. Tilda can no longer put off leaving. She picks up the bracelet and slips it into her fleece pocket, zipping it in securely, enjoying the thrill of having it close again. Since the success of wearing it in the garden she has put it on twice more, both times outside, each time gaining a little more control, becoming a little braver, discovering more ways to use the wonderful, inexplicable changes it brings in her. She cannot bear the thought of going anywhere without it, but she knows she is not ready to tell anyone of how it changes her. Not even Dylan. More than ever she wants to know, needs to know who it belonged to. Where it came from. Why she has it. Why it releases what it does from somewhere deep inside her that she never knew existed.
In her bedroom, she stands for a moment in front of the mirror. She realizes she has not exactly dressed up for the occasion, and the thought comes to her that Dylan has only ever seen her in running gear or working clothes. Or naked. She smiles at the thought. On impulse, she undoes her hair from its plait and shakes it loose about her shoulders. It looks fine, but she knows it will be a mess by the time she reaches the Old School House. She turns to her bedside locker and slides open the drawer in it, taking out a small velvet pouch. She hesitates only a moment before shaking the contents onto her hand. The silver hairpin feels cool in her palm. It consists of delicate strands of silver worked into a beautiful Celtic knot. A present from Mat. The last thing he ever gave her. A talisman for their new life in their new home. She has not had the courage to so much as look at it since he died, but now she can. Now feels like the right time to wear it. Deftly, she twists her hair up, threading it loosely through itself, and then securing the updo with the pin at the nape of her neck.
You look okay, Tilda Fordwells. You look okay.
She has already shut down the stoves in the house and studio, so that they will still be going when she returns. She collects Thistle and a tightly wrapped package from the kitchen, locks the back door, and sets off down the hill. Thistle bounds happily at her side. The energetic pace the dog enjoys reminds Tilda how long it is since she has been for a run.
I miss it. But I’d be risking a broken leg in these conditions.
‘A brisk walk will have to do us today, girl,’ she tells Thistle, smiling at the animal’s antics as she frisks about in the snow.
The Old School House is picture-postcard pretty, its low roof and deep-set windows thick with fluffy snow, and every plant in the garden similarly frosted and sparkling. Tilda feels a pang of guilt at having put her parents off coming. They had been disappointed, but had accepted that the roads were still bad and the weather unsettled. At least she had been able to reassure them that she was spending the day with lovely neighbors, successfully painting a picture of rural friendliness and community spirit to comfort her father so that he wouldn’t worry about her. She takes a breath before knocking on the arched front door.
It is Dylan who opens it. He grins at her and steps back to let her into the hallway.
‘Wow,’ he says, staring at
her. ‘You look … incredible.’
Tilda shrugs. ‘It’s my very best duffle coat,’ she tells him as she pulls down her hood, though she knows he is not commenting on what she is wearing. Knows that she appears altered in some indefinable but unmissable way.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, pointing at the mistletoe suspended from the ceiling above them. He takes her in his arms, gently pulling her close for a warm, unhurried kiss. It feels good to be enfolded in such easy intimacy. To be held again. To be wanted.
‘Your hair is different today,’ he says, touching the pin that holds it. ‘This is pretty. It suits you.’
She feels no awkwardness at the blurring of the lines: a gift from Mat, a kiss from Dylan. She mattered to both men, and they both matter to her. She is relieved at how natural that progression feels now. She returns his kiss, the two of them only jumping apart at the sound of Professor Williams’s voice.
‘Ah! Our guest has arrived. Splendid. A very happy Christmas to you, my dear,’ he says, extending a hand and then smiling broadly when Tilda steps up and gives him a peck on his whiskery cheek. When he draws back and looks at her again she sees surprise on his face and remembers her uncovered irises.
‘Happy Christmas, Professor,’ she says, taking off her coat. She hands him the parcel.
‘A present! My dear, we agreed not to. Dylan told me…’
‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘But I wanted to. It’s just a small thing, really.’
The professor looks at Dylan, who gives him an I-knew-nothing-about-it shrug. He takes off the brown wrapping and finds one of Tilda’s earlier works, a little pinch-pot, smooth yet irregular, the finished article still bearing the potter’s thumbprints, glazed in a deep burnt umber, rich and textured.
‘Well! What a truly delightful thing,’ he says, beamimg. ‘Thank you so much. It will take pride of place on my desk. Now do come through to the sitting room, it is warmer in there,’ he tells her. ‘It is so very good for we men to have company today, else we might have let the occasion slip by unmarked. As it is, my brave nephew has risen to the challenge of preparing the feast.’
The Silver Witch Page 24