‘You have come here, to my home, to tell me I should give up my child? Give her up to Wenna?!’
‘Think of it. Do not let your heart rule you, but only think of it. Your daughter has royal blood in her veins. She is of Brynach’s line. You and I both know Princess Wenna will never give him an heir. He adores the child. She is his princess. And my mistress is not as cold as you would have her be. Her longing for a child is only in part to secure her position. She is a woman, and she craves a babe to hold in her arms, to mother. She would take her husband’s child into her home, she would raise her as her own, even as she is…’
‘Even as she is!’ I can contain myself no longer and leap to my feet. ‘In one breath you bid me part with my very heart, and in the next you pierce it with your barbed observations! How could Wenna love a child that is the reflection of the woman who has her husband’s desire, his passion, his love? How could I give up my own blood into that nest of vipers, none of whom would truly accept her as their own, but always see her as something fearsome? Something from another realm altogether. I would not condemn her to such an existence for all the gold and furs and fine silks such privilege could bring. You talk of her birthright, well it is here. With me! She is a born witch, she has the gift of magic in her, even you can see that. And I will raise her as a shaman, which is what she is destined to be!’
Nesta’s face sets hard. Her mouth closes in a firm, thin line. Her eyes are like currents in dough. She looks away. Her shoulders slump. She is defeated.
‘I see your mind is fixed,’ she says quietly. ‘You are not to be persuaded, not even for the sake of the child.’
‘It is for the sake of the child that I refuse such a proposition.’
She nods, slowly. ‘I had hoped to return to my mistress with my task a success.’ She smiles almost wistfully. ‘Imagine how such news as I would take her would gladden her poor heart! She has been a good mistress to me all these years, never belittled me, always treated me with kindness. Affection, even. I had so hoped to bring her joy, to see her happy again.’
‘We are each mistresses of our own happiness. We ought not to look to others to supply it.’
Nesta gets stiffly to her feet. ‘I see that you will not consider the merits of my plan, and it is clear you refuse me not from malice or spite, but for love of your child. I believe you are wrong, and that she would fare better in life were she to take her place with the prince, but I cannot deny your intentions are true. You act as your own conscience bids you.’
‘I do,’ I say, instinctively stepping between Nesta and Tanwen.
The woman picks up her basket and holds it to me. It is made of plaited wicker, with a curved handle, the top narrower than the base, and has a cloth tucked over the contents.
‘At least take this token from me, to know that there is no ill will left after my … disappointment. You may refuse me the status of your equal, my seer, but you will surely not deny we are women both, at the mercy of those we love, working only to protect and care for them. Here, some beer and honeyed bread for yourself and the babe.’
I want nothing from her, but nor do I wish to inflame her dislike of me further. I reach out my hand toward the basket. As I do so, Tanwen stops playing and looks up at me. Her bright eyes are wide and fierce, and as she stares at me I experience a sudden wild seeing. There flashes before my eyes a vision of startling clarity, fleeting, but powerful. I see a scarlet sky, the red of pain, with black tendrils of a monstrous ivy twisting and tightening, robbing the air from the night, bringing death with them. I gasp, and stay my hand.
‘What manner of gift is this? There is agony and death in that basket, wise-woman!’
Her face darkens and she opens her mouth to speak, but her words are silenced by the thundering of hooves as Hywel and a fellow soldier come riding to my door. He springs down from the saddle, surprisingly nimble for one so large. I no longer have a guard watching over me day and night, but still Hywel takes it upon himself to see for himself that I am safe whenever he can.
‘What strange alliance is this?’ he asks. He knows well that I do not trust Nesta, and she has never made any secret of her hatred for me. I wonder if word had reached him of her making her way to my house.
Nesta backs away. ‘I came to visit Seren Arianaidd, bringing my mistress’s good wishes.’
‘Ha!’ Hywel barks, ‘that is not a thing I find easy to believe!’
‘Liar!’ I spit at her. ‘You claimed the princess knew nothing of your intention to put your cruel plan to me. And when I would not listen you sought to do me harm.’
‘That is not true!’ she protests. ‘I came in good faith. I brought a little bread I baked myself…’
‘And what poison did you add to the mix?’ I demand.
‘None! See here…’ She pulls off the cloth cover and breaks off a piece of the honeyed bread, stuffing it into her mouth before she can be stopped. She chews noisily, and swallows. We watch, waiting for some dire effect to take place, but nothing happens. ‘See?’ she sneers at us. ‘You accuse me falsely! The princess will hear of this. Your treatment of me will not go unnoticed.’ She makes to push past us, but Hywel blocks her way.
‘Why the sudden haste to leave, if your calling on our prophet was such a friendly event? Here, let me try that.’ He reaches into the basket and helps himself to a mouthful of bread. Nesta does not attempt to stop him, but I see her eyes widen.
‘Hywel,’ I say, ‘do not…’
But he is already chewing thoughtfully. He shrugs. ‘In truth it is good. Try . . ’ He takes the basket from Nesta and plunges his hand into it once more to fetch a piece of bread for me. But this time he cries out, frowning, snatching back his hand. ‘What is this?!’ he roars.
And then I see what it is. I see the two tiny wounds upon his flesh, neat and deep, where the fangs of a viper have pierced his skin. Chaos enfolds us. Hywel curses, clutching at his hand and letting go the basket. The soldier leaps from his horse, but knows not what he should do. The snake wriggles from beneath the discarded basket, sliding toward Tanwen.
Nesta cries out, ‘The babe!’
But I have no fear. My daughter watches the adder slither over her bare feet but she neither screams nor cries. She knows instinctively that this creature should be shown respect, but that it will not hurt her if she does nothing to scare it. The soldier has no such understanding and raises his sword. I would save the poor thing, but he is too swift and in a second has cut it in two. Hywel writhes on the floor, trying to take his knife from his belt to cut out the poison, but his agony is too great.
‘That is no ordinary snake!’ he bellows. ‘No viper ever gave such a bite! That witch has hexed the thing.’
I drop to my knees beside him, taking my own blade from my hip and slicing into the already purple flesh around the wound. But Hywel is right in what he says. This is no common poison. Nesta has done something to make the snake more powerful, has worked some wicked magic, dark and strong. The matter makes sense to me now, for the snake was intended for my hand, was meant to sink its fangs into my flesh, and she knew she would need something more deadly than a lowly adder to take my life. Behind me I hear her lumbering through the tall grasses as she tries to flee. Let her try. The soldier will soon have hold of her, and she will be dragged back to the crannog for justice. My concern is for Hywel.
‘Lie still,’ I tell him, as he tries to rise.
‘I never in my life fought a battle lying down!’ he argues.
‘This once you must!’ I push him firmly back onto the grass. ‘Cease struggling, Hywel. The poison must not be made to flow more quickly through your body.’ I steady my mind. I need to summon my witch’s strength, to cast my own spell to counter that of Nesta, but there is no time. No time to prepare a potion to help him. No time to call upon the old gods to assist me. No time to undo what has been done. Even now an evil stench begins to pour forth from Hywel’s hand, and his skin is turning blackish-brown down the length of his arm.
&n
bsp; ‘The crone has done for me!’ he yells through teeth clenched tight.
‘No! Only give me time…’
‘There is none.’ He clutches at my arm. ‘Seren Arianaidd, this death was meant for you! The woman brought that cursed creature to send you from this world. Argh!’ He breaks off, his face twisted in pain. I start to recite an ancient prayer of protection, tripping over the words I know so well in my haste to help him, to do something to ease his suffering. ‘Beware!’ he growls. ‘She will not have come without her mistress sent her. The princess wants you dead, girl. Be ever on your guard.’
‘I will have you to protect me awhile yet, Hywel,’ I tell him, placing my hands over his heart, calling on the magic of the lake and the gentle presence of the Afanc herself to come to my aid and rid this poor, dear man of the vile substance that seeks to silence him.
He shakes his head, wildly thrashing from side to side, foam flecking his beard, his eyes, burning, raging against death’s approach. He has been a warrior all his life, and knows nothing but to fight until his last breath. ‘God’s truth! Let that witch be put to death so she may do no more harm. Yet even then you must not turn your back on Wenna for an instant, for she will be ever waiting, dagger raised. The prince needs you. He needs the child. You cannot let down your guard. You must not. Give me your word!’
‘But Hywel…’
‘Your word!’
‘You have it!’
He beats his fist upon the ground, roaring, defying death to the very end. And at the last he does not seek comfort, does not search for pity, but raises his one good hand in a salute and bellows into the fading summer day, ‘Prince Brynach! My Prince! Prince Brynach!’ And even as light of life leaves his eyes his battle cry continues to echo, on and on, around the shores of the lake.
19
TILDA
The day after Boxing Day Tilda stands shivering at the bus stop in Llangors, her stomach turning over as she waits for the bus that will take her to Brecon. She thought of asking Dylan to take her. Thought of asking the professor. Even contemplated seeking out Lucas in case he could help. In the end though, this is something she needs to do on her own. For many reasons, not the least of them being her need to prove to herself that she can.
Don’t need my hand held anymore. A short bus ride, slow and safe, most likely lots of other people on board. Got to be independent. I can do this. I managed in the Landrover.
In fact, when the bus arrives, the only other passengers are two holiday-bored, stir-crazy teenagers no doubt desperate to escape the slow pace of life in the village for a few hours. Tilda buys her ticket and sits at the front, near the driver, silently chiding herself for feeling as nervous as she does, but noticing that she is less anxious than she expected to be. It could be the sedate speed the bus moves. Or the fact that, ghostly apparitions aside, the journey to Brecon with Dylan was manageable. And yet, she knows that in fact it is something else. There is another change. A fading. A lessening. The sharply painful memory of Mat’s death is receding into the past. Her grief for him has become more distant. For a moment this makes her feel sad, as if she is losing the last of him, but the panic passes. It is as it should be. It is time.
The countryside that moves slowly past her window is still snowy, but has lost much of its festive charm. There is a sense of the thick layers over fields and hills shrinking and shriveling, rather than melting softly away. The result is a muddy mess in gateways and on tracks, and gray slush alongside the gritted tarmac of the roads. On the broad oaks, branches poke their elbows through worn, snowy sleeves.
Her second reason for wanting to make this trip alone has to do with her purpose in going to town. The curator of the museum had been surprised to get her phone call on the dot of nine o’clock, pointing out that they had very few visitors or enquiries at this time of year. It had taken some persuading to agree to allow Tilda access to the archives. Most members of staff were on holiday, he had explained, and as this was the quiet season many of the exhibits were being restored or cleaned. Tilda had pleaded her case, telling him of her ceramic art, of an upcoming exhibition, of her urgent need for details and references as far back as possible connected to the crannog. In the end her sincere interest in the subject and her fervent desire to discover hidden facts had appealed to the archivist in him, and he had agreed to her request.
I told him it would be just me. I know if I’d told the professor what I’m doing he would have wanted to come, and I can’t risk the curator changing his mind.
She feels bad about being secretive. Both Professor Williams and Dylan have been so supportive, so understanding. But that is the other point; the other reason she needs to go alone. If the bracelet (or the torc, as she must now think of it) can cause such mind-blowing reactions in her, what if there is something in the museum collection, some seemingly simple object, that connects with her in a similar way? She needs to allow that link to be made, to pick up on whatever is there. More important, she needs to be able to stay in control of whatever happens. She knows she will be better able to do that if she is on her own.
The journey takes only twenty minutes, but still Tilda is relieved when the bus swings into the line of bays near the main car park that constitutes the bus station. As she steps out through the automatic door she finds her palms are damp with sweat and her knuckles white from being clenched. The short, chilly walk to the museum helps to calm her a little. There is scarcely anyone about, the streets all but empty save for the occasional dog-walker or bleary-eyed holiday maker clutching top-up supplies of bread and milk from the ever-open supermarket. Tilda is only vaguely aware of the curious glances thrown in her direction. Her hair is mostly covered by her warm hat, and her duffle coat and scarf hide her further. Only a person passing close by on the pavement would be able to see the strange paleness of her skin and the startling transparency of her eyes. She is, as she had anticipated, the only visitor to the museum. Mr. Reynolds looks up from behind the reception desk, sees her, reacts minutely, recovers himself and musters a practiced smile.
‘Good morning,’ he says in a tuneful, youthful voice, despite clearly being near retirement age. He is tall, angular, with a lifetime of careful reading etched into his lean face. ‘Miss Fordwells, is it?’
‘Please, call me Tilda.’ She offers her hand and he shakes it briefly, falling into distracted chatter, as many people do to cover their unease on first seeing her.
‘As I mentioned on the telephone, we seldom have visitors so close to Christmas Day. I only open up because, you know, I have things to do, and if I’m here we may as well be available to the public. Now, if I can just ask for £3.50 for your admission ticket…?’
‘Of course.’ She fumbles for the money with cold fingers. ‘It’s good of you to give me access to the archive. I really do appreciate it.’
‘We are here to assist in any way we can, and my goodness, if we can’t help a local artist draw inspiration from our heritage then we wouldn’t be doing our job at all well, would we? You say your particular area of interest is Llangors Lake?’
‘That’s right, and the crannog. I’m really keen to find out about the people who lived there right at the end. Just before it was attacked by the army from Mercia.’
‘Ah, Aethelflaed struck a cruel blow. It was never inhabited again after that, you know?’
‘I understand the buildings were destroyed. Everything was burned, wasn’t it?’
‘They could have been rebuilt. And the crannog itself remained intact. As I’m sure you will have seen. No, I think it was the thought of that terrible day. So many slaughtered. There simply wasn’t the desire to live there anymore. Now, I’ll just drop the latch on the door for five minutes while I take you downstairs.’ He picks up a large ring of keys and a clipboard with papers and pen attached. ‘Follow me, please.’
He leads the way briskly through the main exhibition area of the museum. Tilda has to almost trot to keep up. They pass back through history with each exhibit, the Victori
an schoolroom, the agricultural implements, the historical mountaineering, the shepherds and the drovers, all a blur of telescoped time as they descend to the basement.
‘Ordinarily,’ Mr Reynolds explains, ‘the artifacts and objects from our early medieval lake exhibit are kept in the blue room, on the second floor, but that is currently being refurbished. We have brought everything down here for safekeeping for the time being. And we’re taking the opportunity to give some items a bit of a once-over.’ He comes to a halt and gestures at a dowdy-looking mannequin dressed in a rough woolen kirtle and cape. ‘Poor old Mair could do with a bit of TLC. I don’t think the real inhabitants of the crannog would have been as troubled by the moth as we are!’
‘No?’
He shakes his head. ‘Much too cold, and their homes far too draughty and damp. Well, here we are.’ He throws numerous switches and now Tilda can see large boards showing artists’ impressions of how the dwellings might have looked on the crannog in the tenth century. There are three other models, all similarly dressed to Mair, sitting or standing in disconcertingly lifelike poses, as if they are patiently waiting to be spruced up and put back on display. There are boxed up, labeled parts of the collection stacked at the end of the room, and several small display cabinets containing fragments of pottery or jewelry or weapons.
‘These might be of special interest to you, I believe,’ the curator tells her, removing a pile of leaflets from the glass lid of one of the displays. ‘Some rather fine examples of Celtic knot-work here. And the fabulous remnant of gold-threaded cloth that was found on the crannog itself. Quite remarkable.’
Tilda is doing her best to listen, and to appear attentive, but in truth she cannot take her eyes off the main exhibit, which currently stands along the right-hand wall of the basement room.
‘Ah, I see you like our canoe.’ There is unmistakable pride in Mr. Reynolds’ voice. ‘So marvelously preserved. Hardened and brought to such a shine by its centuries in the water.’
The Silver Witch Page 27