‘Have you been trawling the shelves of the village shop again?’ she asks Dylan.
‘I’ll have you know I went to the farmer’s market for the turkey and veg, and the best baker’s in town for the pudding.’ He takes her coat and notices her glance at the grandfather clock.
‘It’s not working,’ she says, a note of panic in her voice.
The professor shakes his head. ‘Would you believe Dylan suddenly found himself unable to sleep through the chimes? They were practically the lullaby of his childhood, and yet now he can no longer tolerate the sound. The poor boy begged me to do something about it, so I’ve given the clock a week off over Christmas.’
Tilda silently mouths a thank-you to Dylan, who simply shrugs. She reminds herself that Dylan cannot possibly know how much has changed—how much she has changed—in a few short days. Not so long ago she would have been nervous about causing the power to fail at the Old School House, but not now. Now she knows she is in control. Knows that it is her choice whether or not to influence such things.
‘We’ve put up a tree,’ the professor explains as he leads the way into the sitting room. Thistle makes straight for the hearth rug where she stands and shakes, sending snow and ice from her fur hissing into the fire. There is, indeed, a Christmas tree squashed into a corner, finding a space where previously there was none. It sports an eclectic selection of decorations, some evidently family treasures, others, Tilda suspects, hastily bought additions. Some rather brash tinsel is draped over the lower branches, and the look is finished off with a glitter-encrusted gold star. The effect is wonderfully homely and unpretentious.
‘Not my forte, I fear,’ Professor Williams apologizes. ‘Greta was a whizz with such things, and I’m afraid I haven’t bothered much in recent years.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Tilda tells him. ‘I haven’t even put a sprig of holly up in the cottage. In fact, I think Christmas might have passed me by completely this year if I hadn’t been invited here.’
‘If you want something to eat,’ Dylan tells her, ‘I’m going to have to see to things in the kitchen. And, by the way,’ he adds as he reaches the door, ‘our cooker is an Aga—oil-fueled and gravity fed. Doesn’t need electricity to run. Thought you’d like to know.’
Tilda is touched by his thoughtfulness.
‘We shall manage without you,’ the professor insists, picking up a bottle of sherry from the sideboard. ‘Now then, what can I offer you to drink, and are you keen on games of any sort? I’m afraid I’m a little rusty, but I have been known to play a passable hand of Canasta. And I believe there is a box of Monopoly hiding somewhere in the house…?’ He stops, looking at her more closely, and noticing something more this time, something beyond the naked colorlessness of her eyes, making her wonder just how altered she appears.
Eager to smooth over the moment Tilda says, ‘That book you leant me … the one about the myths and legends of the lake…’
‘Ah yes, I thought you might like that one. We are not all about dates and battles, we historians, you know? My interest is in all aspects of the past. Greta being an anthropologist opened my eyes to so many things. History is primarily about people. And people are complicated beings, who lead wonderfully complex lives. A belief system, rituals, magic, things beyond rational explanation … these are as much a part of what has gone before us in this mysterious place as any victorious army or change of political allegiance. Dear me, I seem to be giving a lecture. I do apologize, it’s just so stimulating to be in the company of someone with a genuine interest. I am enjoying researching the lake anew.’
Tilda smiles. ‘Have you discovered something more about the woman in the grave? Or about the bracelet?’
‘Not yet, but now that you are here to help, I believe we will make progress.’
‘It would be really, really helpful if we could try to find some more answers about who is in that grave, and who the bracelet belonged to.’
‘Excellent!’ He snatches up his reading spectacles, fetches two schooners from the sideboard, and quickly pours two generous measures of treacly brown sherry. ‘Here we are, let this be our concession to the festive merriment. Your very good health!’ he declares, raising his glass.
Tilda gulps the sticky drink and follows Professor Williams to his desk. ‘I’ve brought this with me again.’ She takes the gold bracelet out of her pocket and puts it on the ever-present map. She is disconcerted to discover how much she hates being separated from it. ‘In case we want to check the design again,’ she tells the professor.
‘Splendid. Now, I did come across something the other day … where did I put it? Oh, and you might want to have a look at this.’ He hands her a book declaring itself to be The Anglo Saxon Chronicles. He talks on as he searches through a pile of papers and volumes stacked on the floor and reaching halfway up the overstuffed bookcase. ‘In there you’ll find one of the only mentions of the crannog as inhabited. I’ve marked the page … Ah, yes, and this might be useful…’
While he digs on, Tilda turns to the relevant entry. ‘This bit here? Yes, I see …“AD 917. This year was the innocent Abbot Egbert slain, before midsummer, on the sixteenth day before the calends of July. The same day was the feast of St. Ciricius the Martyr, with his companions. And within three nights sent Aethelflead an army into Wales, and stormed Breconmere; and there took the king’s wife with some four and thirty others.” Okay, Breconmere is one of the old names for Llangors Lake, Llyn Syfaddan being another…’
‘You’ve been doing your own research, I see. I am impressed.’
‘But can that next part be right? Did the Queen of Mercia really attack the crannog because of a murdered abbot?’
‘That is what is recorded. However, Queen Aethelflaed had been at odds with the Cymru, that’s the Welsh, of course, for many years. It may be she used the hapless priest’s killing as an excuse to cross the border.’
‘And thirty-four people, no, thirty-five, including the king’s wife…’
‘In reality more likely a princess,’ the professor puts in. ‘We know that the crannog was built for a Welsh prince, a gift from his father, who had a region of his own to the south to worry about. Eager to have his son settled somewhere, I should imagine. And married to someone politically helpful. In such unstable times any manner of alliance that could be formed was worth a try.’
‘So the princess and these few people from the actual crannog, they were taken prisoner. What happened to the others? To the rest of the villagers?’
‘We must assume they were killed in the attack. The settlement on the crannog was set alight, burnt down to the wooden piles and stone base that remain. I should imagine all the dwellings along the lakeside would have been put to the torch also. These raiding parties were not in the habit of leaving anything much aside from devastation in their wake.’
For a moment Tilda is assailed by images flashing through her mind of what such an attack must have been like. Women and children running. People taking to the fortified island for safety, only to find themselves trapped. So many people killed. In a few short minutes, everything gone. And what of the woman in the boat? What of this other version of herself? Had she been one of the survivors?
‘Professor, is there a list anywhere that tells us about those who were taken prisoner?’
‘Not that I have been able to find, though there are some new documents being archived at the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth even as we speak. The collection is being digitalized, so that at the click of a button one can be reading words written over a millennium ago. Astonishing. Truly astonishing.’
The professor pauses as the standard lamp beside him fizzes alarmingly.
No, not now. Steady. Let them work. All I have to do is let them work.
Tilda eyes the bracelet anxiously, wishing she could snatch it up and hold it close, but aware that to do so would look more than a little weird. The bulb in the lamp gives a fat popping sound and goes dark. The rest of the lights in the room, however,
brighten once more and remain steady.
‘Now, this might be of interest to you.’ Professor Williams lifts up a dusty, leather-bound book and angles it so that the light from the window falls upon the page. ‘I’d quite forgotten I had this until the other day. Written by a fellow called Humphries. Goes on a bit, he was an expert on Ogam text. Not much survives, but he busied himself translating whatever he found. All sorts of snippets. He places this as dating around 914 AD, although I have to say that’s probably an educated guess. Ah, here, an entry in the monastic records of that time, curiously not in Latin, for reasons we may never discover. The writer is unknown, but he mentions a feast held by Prince Brynach “… on the crannog of Breconmere, and in attendance was the entirety of the village, for all were made welcome to celebrate their good fortune, and the guest who was honoured for her part in protecting the crannog was the Seer, Seren Arianaidd.” There, you see?’
‘Do I?’
‘Your woman in the boat, I think. The one you mentioned you’d seen a picture of.’
Tilda remembers telling him this half-lie, and is at once ashamed of not trusting him with the truth, however bonkers it might have sounded at the time.
‘The way you described her to me,’ the professor continues, ‘suggests the garb of a shaman. One given to having and interpreting visions. A very important member of society at that time. Do you recall what color her hair was?’
Tilda hesitates. The woman in the boat had been wearing an animal skin headdress, so her hair was not visible. The vision Tilda had seen when she had put on her bracelet, that other version of herself, had, of course, had silver blond hair the same as her own. She cannot imagine trying to explain all this to the professor as he watches her over his reading glasses, waiting for her answer.
Were there two different women, or one? Who am I looking for, myself, or a ghost, or an ancestor?
‘I’m not sure,’ she says at last. ‘The first time I … I saw her, her hair was covered. After that … I’m not certain.’
‘I only ask because, well, there are clues here as to what she must have looked like, not least in her name.’
‘Really?’
‘“Seren” is still a common Welsh name. It means star. Rather lovely, don’t you think? “Arianaidd” on the other hand, is very unusual. I’ve never heard of anyone else being called that. It means “Silver.” So, she was known as Star of Silver. Which suggests she would have been very fair. Not unlike yourself.’
A chill wriggles down Tilda’s spine.
‘But we don’t know if she survived the attack on the crannog.’ She sighs, then a terrible thought occurs to her. ‘Lucas said something about the body in the grave at the dig. He said that sometimes people were buried with heavy stones on top of them if they were thought to have been witches. When the crannog was inhabited, would someone who had visions have been thought of as a witch?’
‘A difficult question to answer. The custom of foretelling the future is such an ancient one, and one that is found in so many diverse cultures. The early Celts certainly had their shamans, and they were important people, but seeing the future was not seen as magic. More a talent, or a gift.’ He gives a chuckle. ‘They might perhaps have been viewed more as our weather forecasters are today.’
‘So not witches, then?’
‘Ah, well, witches abound in Celtic literature and many other ancient Welsh stories. And there is nothing to say a Seer cannot also be a witch.’
Tilda feels suddenly weary. She drains her glass, letting the syrupy sherry pleasantly ease her tangled thoughts. ‘I’m beginning to think the more I find out, the less I understand.’
At this, the professor laughs more heartily. ‘My dear girl, welcome to the world of the historian!’
Dylan has returned to stand at Tilda’s elbow.
‘Is my uncle making your brain ache?’
‘He’s trying to help, but I can’t expect sensible answers if I can’t even form reasonable questions,’ she tells him, running a hand through her hair.
‘Perhaps another sherry would help?’ Professor Williams suggests.
‘Wow.’ Dylan is horrified. ‘No wonder you’re struggling. Sit yourself down. Lunch will be ages yet. I’ll open a decent bottle of wine, and between us surely we can work out what it is you need to know. Okay?’
Half an hour later, at Dylan’s insistence, Tilda has made a list. She is reluctant to read it out.
‘It looks even crazier written down.’
The professor smiles. ‘If I have learned anything from my years of study, it is that what at first appears incredible, often, when looked at from the correct angle, comes to seem entirely plausible.’
Tilda can’t help wondering if his credulity would stretch far enough to believe what happens to her when she wears the bracelet.
Dylan gently takes the list from her. ‘Let me,’ he says. ‘First up, who was the woman in the boat, and is she the same as the woman you saw the other day when you put on the bracelet?’
Tilda grimaces. ‘See, I told you.’ She glances at the professor.
Here goes nothing. If I want him to help me I’m going to have to tell him.
‘Professor, something strange happened when I was wearing it,’ she explains. ‘I saw … things. Saw a woman. And yes, I do think I’ve seen her before. That morning when I was down by the lake.’
‘The morning we met, I believe,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t know you then, of course, but it was clear to me something had shaken you.’
‘I wanted to tell you, but…’ She leaves the sentence unfinished as the professor nods his understanding.
Dylan reads on.
‘Next, who is the woman in the top half of the grave being dug up? Third, were they the same person? Why is the frightening ghost trying to attack you? What was she saying when she leapt at you in the studio? And last, but not least, who did the bracelet belong to?’ He waves the piece of paper. ‘Simple.’
‘Says you.’ Tilda swigs some more wine, ignoring the growling of her empty stomach. ‘Actually, I don’t believe the scary creature that keeps threatening me can be the same as the woman in the boat. She is terribly disfigured, her face all broken up, but no, now that I really compare the two, her body shape is all wrong. She is shorter. Fatter. And darker, I think.’
‘There you go,’ Dylan says. ‘One question answered already.’
‘So now I’m definitely dealing with two ghosts. Great. Oh, and there is something else. The scary ghost; I’ve been thinking about the words she spat at me in the studio. They were Welsh, I think, and very hard to make out. All I could get was something that sounded like “bewit”? Or “buwid” could it have been? I’ve looked, but I couldn’t find anything.’
‘Hmm,’ the Professor, without so much as questioning the fact that Tilda is talking about more visions, more ghostly women, closes his eyes, mumbling words over and over until he comes to one he thinks could fit. ‘How about bywyd? It means “life”.
Tilda nods. ‘Yes. That could be it. She … the ghost … she said it twice.’
Dylan looks at her. ‘A life for a life?’
There is an uncomfortable silence. At last, Professor Williams picks up the bracelet from the desk. He fetches a magnifying glass from the mantlepiece and sits in the armchair beside the fire to examine it again. ‘I do feel some of the answers you seek lie here,’ he says. ‘This is a very fine piece of jewelry and would have been of considerable value. It must have been owned by someone important.’
Dylan tops up Tilda’s glass. ‘Do you remember seeing it on any of the women in your visions?’
‘No. I’m sure I would have remembered if there had been anything like it.’
The professor holds it up to the light. ‘It occurs to me that it is rather large.’
‘It is.’ Tilda nods. ‘When I put it on, it was much too big for my wrist. I assumed it was meant as a band to wear on the upper arm.’
‘Possibly.’ He sits up, an idea striking him. ‘Of
course! It isn’t a bracelet at all.’
‘Not?’ Tilda is confused.
‘It’s a torc. Look. How dim of me not to see it before. Dylan, pass me that book on the end of my desk, would you? The one with the red binding. Thank you.’ He flicks through the tome until he finds what he is looking for. ‘Here, see? These are plain, I know, not beautifully decorated as yours is, but the shape is identical. A loop not completely closed, rounded edges, with slight thickening at the ends. It is a torc, meant to be worn around the neck. I’m certain of it.’
‘But, I’d never get that around my neck,’ Tilda points out.
The professor whips off his glasses with a smile. ‘That my dear, is because you are an adult. This marvelous object was made for a child.’
SEREN
Another winter has come and gone and life around the lake feels as settled and timeless as ever it was. It is hard to imagine we lived on the edge of fear for so long, anticipating disaster, awaiting danger. Is this a trick played on us all by fate? She can be a cruel mistress. Are we lulled to softness, our sword arms weakened, our vigilance dulled, only so that we may be easier prey at some future date? I am still assailed by visions of my prince’s descent into the water, but it has become impossible for him to believe the threat is real. And how can I argue otherwise? As the weeks turned into months, and the seasons swing full circle once more, and life continues undisturbed, my prophecies lose their weight. Other smaller seeings have come to pass, and I continue to work my minor magic as is required of me, but on this one matter my opinion no longer holds sway. I see Rhodri plumping himself up with each passing moon, never missing an opportunity to remind Prince Brynach that it was he who brokered the deal with the Mercian Queen, he who helped him bring about this time of peace. He is ever at the prince’s side, and with him Wenna, quick to parade the family bond. It is as well for her that her brother is seen as so successful, so useful, in the prince’s eyes, for that other vision of mine has proven true. She has given him no heir, nor will she.
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