‘It’s incredible. Is it really over a thousand years old?’
‘Carbon dating says so, and science is rarely wrong in these matters. I think we can safely say that Mair here might have gone fishing on the lake in something very similar.’ He glances at his watch before holding the clipboard out in front of Tilda. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just signing this. We try to keep paperwork to a minimum, but still we need forms and signatures, no getting around it. Here, and here, thank you. Just to say you are who you are, and at the address you gave me over the phone. Then if the canoe goes missing we’ll know where to come, won’t we?’ He laughs merrily at his own joke and then hastens away, eager to unlock the door again in case another visitor should appear. ‘Come up when you’re ready,’ he calls over his shoulder, closing the heavy basement fire-door behind him.
Once he has gone, Tilda slips off her duffle coat, draping it over a nearby chair, and steps closer to the slender dugout boat. Its centuries in the water have darkened the wood to a rich, treacly brown, with what she sees more as a gleam than a shine. The grain of the wood is still detectable, the narrow-spaced lines forming flowing patterns along the length of the canoe. She knows at once that this is identical to the boat she saw on the lake. The boat in which she first saw Seren. It is about ten feet long and just wide enough to sit in. The information note beside it says it could carry three people, and that it would have sat very low in the water. Already she can hear the now-familiar distant ringing noise. She has the torc in her pocket, but does not dare take it out for fear of damaging any of the exhibits. Tentatively, she reaches out and lays her fingertips on the smooth edge of the boat. It feels warm, and hard as stone. There is a vibration running through it, as if someone has struck a tuning fork. Even this feels somehow distant, not in space, but in time, as if the thrumming of the wood is an echo of ancient days when the canoe was paddled across the lake. She can almost hear the sound of the silky water lapping and rippling as the boat cut through it. She begins to feel light-headed and quickly steps back, turning away from the dugout.
Stay focused, girl. You’re here for a reason.
Tempting as it is to spend her allotted time connecting with the wonderful relics and finds in the archive, she has only a few short hours, and a glance at the rows of books and files on the shelves tells her she has her work cut out for her. She begins scanning the titles, searching for data specific to the sacking of the crannog, and the prisoners being taken by Queen Aethelflaed’s men.
Who survived? Did Seren? Was there a child? And if there was, did he or she make it off the crannog, or did they perish too?
Tilda already knows from her conversations with the professor that the prince for whom the royal dwelling on the crannog was built is thought to have fallen in the battle. There is no record of him living beyond that date. What seems certain is that his wife, the princess, was among the prisoners.
But who else? Who else?
She pulls a box file of dusty documents from the shelf declaring themselves to be pertinent to the lake and baring the dates 900–920 AD. It seems as good a place to start as any. She finds a chair and pulls it up to one of the sturdier display cabinets which she uses as a desk, spreading out the papers and files, poring over them, her eyes straining for mentions of crannog dwellers, prisoners, and, ever hopeful, shamans and witches. A plain-faced clock on the far wall marks the passing of the first hour. And the next. Tilda works on, taking care to replace the documents in the order she finds them, making notes in her notebook of any details that seem relevant or helpful, though it is hard to find anything beyond what she and Professor Williams have already unearthed. The chair soon becomes cripplingly uncomfortable, and she wishes she had brought more than a bottle of water to sustain her. She repeatedly stumbles upon the reference made in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. She knows how many people were taken, and where they were taken to. But then the trail goes cold. She sighs, stretching her aching back.
Nothing. Not a single, solitary damn clue.
She turns to look again at the boat. There is something so beautiful about its simplicity of design coupled with the certain solemnity given it by its great age. Tilda cannot resist going back to touch it again.
‘Are you Seren’s boat?’ she wonders aloud, her voice startlingly loud in the hush of the basement. She is suddenly seized by the urge to climb into the canoe. Experiencing a flash of terror at being caught taking such a liberty with a priceless museum exhibit, she knows as soon as the idea comes to her that this is what she must do. She pulls off her shoes and carefully steps into the shallow hollow of the narrow boat, steadying herself on the side, and desperately hoping that the stands on which the thing is displayed are strong enough to support the extra weight. There is an alarming creaking sound, but once she is sitting still the canoe feels stable. Once again the boat starts to sing, and soon Tilda’s vision starts to blur and she begins to feel dizzy.
Just like with the torc. Should I put it on? Dare I?
It occurs to her that the combined effects of the torc and the boat together might prove overwhelming. The thought should terrify her, but it does not. In a moment of shining clarity she sees what it is she has to do. Sees how it is she will find the answers to her questions. Taking a long, slow breath, she removes the torc from her pocket and slips it onto her arm. She keeps her eyes open as long as she can, bracing herself against the swirling, lurching sensations and blurred sounds that assail her. Her mouth is horribly dry. Her brow is damp with perspiration. The lights of the basement room flicker and their artificial illumination is replaced by a brightness so white and so strong it makes her flinch. Her fingers begin to tingle, the sensation quickly increasing to an uncomfortable level.
Okay. I’m ready. Show me. Show me Seren’s child! Show me what happened!
Tilda closes her eyes.
There is a shocking sensory assault as images of indistinct faces, of malformed animals, of eerie sounds and distorted words engulf her. A fleeting sight of the terrifying face of the witch from the dig almost startles her into opening her eyes, and she fights the urge to cry out, but it passes quickly. One moment the specter is there and the next it is gone again. Tilda forces herself to keep her eyes shut tight. For she knows this is how she will see, will truly see. She struggles to make out definite shapes among the phantasmagoria that dances in her pulsating vision.
‘Where are you?’ she whispers. ‘Where are you?’
And as suddenly as the mayhem began, it subsides. Images recede, colors fade, until there is only a gently undulating blue light. And into this light comes a figure. Tall. Slender. Her hair braided with leather. Her eyes dark with kohl. Her skin patterned with bold tattoos.
‘Seren!’
Seren walks toward Tilda, her piercing eyes aglow, holding Tilda’s own bewitched gaze, demanding that she continue to look. Tilda gasps as she sees that Seren is holding a small child by the hand. The little girl walks calmly beside her mother, her own silvery hair loose and wild, a happy smile upon her lips. The pair stands for a moment until the picture begins to shake and to judder and there comes the sound of thundering hooves. Seren lets go of the child’s hand and clutches at her stomach. Appalled, Tilda watches as blood pours between her fingers, soaking her hands, flowing unstoppably, so that Seren staggers backward, growing fainter, melting into the darkening blue behind her. The child remains, continuing to stare at Tilda. All sounds cease. The vision becomes clear and still. For a blissful moment, Tilda looks into the eyes of Seren’s daughter and finds a connection of such sweetness it makes her cry.
And then it stops. Everything stops. Tilda opens her eyes, wiping her tears on her sleeve, blinking as her sight adjusts to the more ordinary light of the museum basement. The vision was so strong, so vivid, so loud, that she is amazed to find that it has not brought Mr. Reynolds running.
But he couldn’t hear it. Of course he couldn’t. Only me. I saw them. I saw them both.
* * *
On returning to the cottag
e, Tilda feels completely exhausted. She phones Dylan to put off his visit, claiming a light cold, and takes a long shower in an attempt to shake off the curious sense of dread that the vision has left her with. Her mind is a whirl of confusing thoughts. She should be so happy that she has seen the child, Seren’s child, but that happiness is tainted by the sight of Seren dying such a brutal and violent death. Tilda goes back into the studio and tries to work, but nothing will go right. She replays in her mind the scene she witnessed, over and over. She knows now, beyond any doubt, that Seren had a little girl. And the vision seemed to suggest that the child did not die with her mother.
But does that mean she survived the attack on the crannog or not? I still can’t be certain.
Later, she takes Thistle for a walk. She deliberately avoids the lake, mostly because it would be more than a little awkward if Dylan were to see her out and about, but also because, just for a while, she needs a bit of distance between herself and all that the lake signifies. Needs a break from the intensity of it all. She and the dog tramp up through the watery snow, following the sheep track behind the house. They climb for nearly an hour before resting on a crumbled bit of stone wall. The view of the valley is quite magnificent, even as the snow recedes and decays by the minute. The lake looks so much smaller from such a height, giving Tilda just the perspective she needs at this moment. From here the grave at the dig is hardly visible at all. As if it had never been found and disturbed. Or as if it had never been there in the first place. She wishes that were the case. She knows, deep down, that she will have to face whatever lies there. It will not leave her alone unless she does. It will have to be confronted.
But not today. Not now.
She sits and takes in the magical landscape for as long as her woolly layers keep out the cold, and then descends to the cottage to stoke the fires and make something to eat.
Come the night, despite being exhausted, Tilda’s mind is working too fast, trying to make too many connections, for her to be able to rest. An hour before dawn she gives up and gets out of bed. Thistle raises her head and wags her tail.
‘Don’t get up, girl,’ Tilda tells her. ‘It’s silly o’clock. I’m going to make tea.’ But the dog won’t be left behind and pads down the stairs after her. In the kitchen, Tilda puts the kettle on the heat and takes a poker to the Rayburn to ginger it up. The smoldering logs give out more smoke and then splutter into hungry tongues of flame. Staring at the play of orange against gray, Tilda contemplates her next step. She had left the museum disturbed, saddened, and yet encouraged. There was a child. That much is clear. What is equally obvious is that she will get no further tracing the little girl by digging around in the museum archives. She reached the end of that particular trail.
But where else do I search? I’ve tried the records and writing about the Mercian court, but the captives are never mentioned again. There’s a heap of stuff about the queen and what she does, but not a word about the people from the crannog.
A spitting log causes a spark to jump out of the open door. Tilda searches for it on the floor and is surprised not to be able to find it. It was a large, glowing lump of wood, and she is certain it landed by her feet, but it is nowhere to be seen. Following the smell of burning dog hair, she goes to Thistle’s cushion, and is surprised to discover the spark quietly setting fire to the fabric. She picks up the cushion and flicks the little ember back into the fire, musing at how far from the Rayburn it traveled. She rubs at the cloth with her thumb. There is a small hole and a scorch mark but no real damage. Suddenly, something in Tilda’s mind shifts.
Of course! I’m looking in the wrong place! The prisoners aren’t written about by people who documented the life of Queen Aethelflaed because they weren’t with Queen Aethelflaed.
She peers across the gloom of the kitchen. Her laptop is still sitting on the worktop where it has been for weeks.
Could I get that thing to work? I haven’t tried for a while. Could I keep it working? Of course I could. Just an hour or so. Piece of cake.
Before she has a chance to change her mind, Tilda snatches up the laptop, sets it down on the table, opens it and presses the ON button. There is a pause, then a hopeful whirring, and the computer begins to fire up. She backs away, making the tea quietly, as if the slightest sudden sound or movement on her part might shut the laptop down again. By the time she has stirred milk into her drink, the screen is cheerfully displaying her chosen wallpaper; a photograph of the sun setting over the frozen lake.
And now I need Wi-Fi. Which means I have to get the electricity running again.
She goes into the hallway and stands under the fuse box. She has grown accustomed to living in the house without power, and the main switch is still in the off position where she left it weeks ago. She bites her lip, willing herself to stay calm. Stay focused. Holding her breath, she takes hold of the lever and pulls it down. The lights come on. The long-forgotten fridge hums. Next to the telephone socket on the hall table, the Internet router blinks into life. And then there is a sharp snap, and everything goes dark once more.
Dammit!
She stands there in the darkness, quelling the urge to scream.
How can I be so useless? Why can’t I control this thing? The power stayed on at the professor’s house. And I stopped that floodlight falling. This should be easy.
The realization comes to her. She is not wearing the torc. She hurries into the kitchen and fetches it from her bedside table.
‘Right, Thistle,’ she says as she passes the dog on her way back to the hall, ‘hold on to yourself.’ With a determined step, she goes straight to the fuse box, clutching the torc tightly in one hand, and throws the switch a second time. The power is restored. She nods.
Good. That’s good. Okay.
Back at her computer she is uncertain as to how best to hold the piece of jewelry and type at the same time. She is reluctant to put it down, feeling the need for direct contact with it, but at the same time she doesn’t want to put it on again. She can’t imagine trying to search the Internet in the midst of the magic released by the torc. She settles for resting the thing in her lap as she works. Within minutes, she has found a plethora of historical Web sites dealing with early ninth-century Britain.
So much information! Getting through this lot could take forever.
With a sigh, she ploughs on, scrolling through document after document, frustrated by wrong turns and details that seem to duplicate themselves. She reads on, her eyes watering a little at the unfamiliar brightness of the screen. Half an hour passes. An hour. She makes a second cup of tea and works on, encouraged by the fact that the power has remained stable, but daunted by the size of the task she has undertaken. She returns to her seat and continues. She learns more and more about the people who lived around the lake in the early years of the tenth century. About how hard their lives were. About how they lived, and what dangers they faced from warring armies, harsh winters, and disease. She reads about how they dressed, what manner of music they made, and their beliefs. She has just reached a file containing information regarding the final attack on the prince’s dwelling on the little island when the lights flicker ominously.
No, not now! Not yet.
She reads on. She finds the extract from The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles that the professor had marked for her, telling of the prisoners taken from the crannog.
‘Thirty-four, plus the princess,’ she reads out to a slumbering Thistle. ‘Yes, I know, I know, but who were those prisoners? Were any of them children?’ She reads on, but can find nothing. The same dead end she came up against at the museum. Nothing more. She leans back in her chair, the hard wood beginning to make her back ache. Setting her mind to the problem, she pictures the small group of villagers as they were taken away from their homes. She knows they would have been a pathetic collection of people. People who had just lost everything. Many would have seen their loved ones slaughtered. Some might have been injured. Their lives were in chaos. They were being dragged away.
But how long did they spend at the court of the Mercian queen?
Basically, they were slaves, and slaves get sold. So where did they go next? Who was trading with Aethelflaed? Where would she have got a good price for them? I just need to look in the right place.
She tries a different search, using the words slave, Cymru, Aethelflaed and trading. Reams more of irrelevant data unscrolls in front of her. A page detailing the queen’s origins catches her eye. Aethelflaed was the daughter of Alfred the Great, and originated in the south of England. She lived there until she entered her arranged marriage into the Mercian dynasty.
Which means she would have had strong connections with the area. Probably relations still living down there too.
She shifts the region of her search to Wessex, the ancient collection of counties that included the city of Winchester, where Alfred came from. An essay on the family of the famous English king shed some light—there were certainly several cousins from the same generation as Aethelflaed, and they lived on in Wessex. A small, slightly clunky Web site run by a group of Alfred enthusiasts and reenactors snags her attention. There is an account of a household near the city, known to have royal connections, giving an insight into the everyday lives of the highborn of the time. Tucked away in all the data regarding births, marriages, wars and burials, there is a seemingly insignificant account of a party of visitors arriving from Mercia.
Bingo!
A small file, summarizing a change of ownership attached to four slaves, sent as a gift from the queen to her cousin in Wessex. In 918 AD, less than two years after the attack on the lake settlement, she sent a present of a handful of young slaves to Egberta of Wessex, who had a home midway between Winchester and London. Tilda squints at the screen, her eyes smarting now, blurring her vision slightly.
‘Here it is! “One young man, with red beard; one boy not yet fifteen, but strong…”’
The Silver Witch Page 28