There are six of them. Two, those of the hottest blood and lowest belief in themselves, urge their horses on and approach me at the gallop. The first is easy to dispatch, for his horse is a knot of fear and fatigue. I catch its eye and send it a sudden vision of slavering wolves that causes it to swerve at such speed that it falls, landing heavily upon its rider, who does not move again. The second soldier presses on. I wait until he is close, his broad iron sword raised, murder glinting from behind the face piece of his helm. I fight my instinct to move and instead hold my place, only ducking at the last second, using my blade to slice through the cinch of his saddle as I slide beneath his horse’s hooves. The animal’s first thought is to save itself from a fall, so although its ironclad feet flash about me, none strikes me. As the rider leans on the reins to turn his mount and shifts his weight, the girth gives way under the cut I made and his saddle swings around, throwing the soldier into the reed bed, where he lies yelling, clutching his shoulder. He is no threat to me now. I turn back to the others. Three more come at me, though with more caution and guile than their fallen brethren. There are shouts of ‘Take the witch alive! Rope her!’ and ‘She will make a fine gift for Our Lady!’ They have made a dangerous decision to try to capture me. If they truly knew me, they would be content to try to kill me only. They circle, then charge, seeking to knock me down. But I am more nimble than any they have encountered before, stepping this way and that, evading their charges. Enraged, one of my attackers swings his sword, aiming at my knife hand. He is rewarded with my blade in his thigh and retreats screaming, his life blood gushing from him, his hopes of home going with it.
On seeing their fellows so stricken the others change their minds.
‘Kill the evil creature!’ one yells, and the rest roar in agreement.
I am ready for their charge, but I can do nothing to evade the arrow that is loosed by the archer who sits still and quiet upon his horse whilst the others bluster and thrash about. The arrow that cuts through the moist morning air silent save for its whining song of death. The arrow that, as I leap from the path of the black warhorse, finds the end to its journey deep in my belly. I fall to my knees, dropping my knife to grasp the shaft of the arrow with both hands. I know it has struck a mortal blow, but I will not cross to the Otherworld with the instrument of my enemy’s victory in me still. I wrench it from my body and pain sweeps through me like a wave of fire. I am aware of the men coming to claim my corpse, but I will not let them! Summoning my spellcraft, I compel my own fading limbs to raise me up, so that I might stagger into the sacred waters of the lake.
I know she is near. She could not save me this time, for with so many foes near to show herself would have meant disaster for her, but I know she has come to take me with her. The hour has arrived when I shall go to her secret home in the depths, and she and I will dwell there together. As I fall forward into the water the shouts of those earthbound become more distant and blurred. I can feel her beneath me know, gently lifting me, bearing me away from the cruelty of men and the suffering of this life. I move so that I can see the little blackthorn tree. Wenna is still hidden there, my babe in her arms, and I send her a vision and with it my words, speaking directly to her mind, letting her know my dying wish.
‘Tanwen is Brynach’s child.’ I remind her. ‘She carries his royal blood. She is his heir. Love her as such. For his sake, love her!’
And now the cold of the water numbs my pain, and the soft swimming of the Afanc carries me across the lake. No more shall I walk these shores. My prince has gone, and I pray that I will find him in the Otherworld. My babe will live on, and I pray that one day she will return to the sacred lake to find me.
22
TILDA
Wet through, Tilda clambers to her feet. She begins to shiver uncontrollably.
Must get back to the cottage. To Dylan. So cold!
She knows her body is in danger of going into shock, but this is something she can deal with. What she must do now is force warmth into her trembling limbs, and the perfect way to do that is to run.
Come on feet, one in front of the other. Footsure. Step, breathe, step, breathe. I can do this. Run, girl, run!
She is soon racing along the rough path, the rain still falling heavily, streaming down her face, making the colors of the day weaken and merge. Suddenly, through this murkiness, she sees something on the track ahead of her. Sitting small and still in the center of the path is a large brown hare, its fur surprisingly dry, its eyes bright and watchful. It does not run away. Instead it appears to block her route, carefully moving from side to side so that she has to go off the track to try to get round it.
‘Let me by, bunny,’ she says breathlessly.
But the hare won’t get out of her way. Tilda stops and stares at it. Before she has time to question what she is watching the animal starts to grow, and to pulsate, and to writhe and wriggle. Tilda steps back, wondering if near-drowning has starved her brain of oxygen and has sent her mad.
First the Afanc, now this! Am I dreaming?
In seconds the hare has gone, transformed into a strong, striking woman who stands as solid and real as anything else in the landscape.
‘Seren!’ Tilda’s heart races. She is transfixed, but she is not afraid. Rather, she feels emotion threaten to overwhelm her. Now that she knows she is looking at her ancestor, and after all she has just been through, the connection she feels with the person who stands before her is so powerful it is beyond anything she has experienced before. ‘You came’ she sobs at last.
When Seren speaks, her voice is not some ethereal whisper, it is clear and firm, a tone not to be argued with.
‘You must return to the grave,’ she says.
‘What?’ Despite the doom-laden nature of the statement, Tilda understands this is not a threat. She knows Seren is speaking of the grave at the dig site. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I have to get to the cottage. Dylan is in terrible danger. You must know that.’
‘You cannot defeat Nesta without what is in the grave. Take what protection Hywel holds. Go now!’
And she vanishes. As if she never was. And Tilda is alone again. She gasps, trying to make sense of Seren’s words.
Does she mean the torc? It’s true, I was useless against the witch … she called her Nesta … without the torc maybe I won’t be able to help Dylan. Oh, I’m going to be too late!
She sets off running again, faster this time, pushing harder, gulping air as she forges on, turning toward the dig site, all the time fearing that it will all take too long. That Dylan will die.
As she approaches the trench, she looks for Thistle and spies her bedraggled body in the muddy area beside the dig. Hurrying over to the limp dog, she falls to her knees beside her.
‘Oh, Thistle! You poor little thing. You were so brave.’ She puts her hand on the soggy fur on the hound’s head. The blow from the ax did not penetrate the rib cage, but dug deep into her stomach. The earth beneath her is sticky with cooling blood.
But not that much blood. Why isn’t there more?
She realizes that the cold must have slowed the flow. Quickly, she puts her ear to the dog’s chest, searching for a heartbeat, praying that there might be something, even the faintest fluttering.
‘Nothing. Dammit! I let you die too!’
And then it comes to her. An idea so crazy that even in a day of craziness it seems beyond sense.
But why not? Why the hell not?
‘Okay, Thistle, listen to me. Your heart is a pump, right? Just a pump. A working part, like in an engine, or a bit of clockwork. And I can make things stop, and I can make them start again, okay? The torc! Where is it?’
She scrabbles in the mud, precious seconds ticking by, clawing at the gritty soil with her hands, trying to recall exactly where it was the gold band slipped from her arm.
‘I have to find it. For Thistle and for Dylan!’ She is nearing despair when she catches the glint of precious metal amid the grime. ‘There! Yes!’
&n
bsp; She drags off her sodden fleece and flings it aside. Now she is only in her vest, but bare flesh is warmer than having a wet jacket clinging to her. And besides, she wants to feel the torc against her skin. Needs that connection. She jams it onto her arm, fixing it firmly above her elbow, determined it will not fall off this time. Immediately she experiences a surge of power and warmth flowing through her body.
‘Okay,’ she says, as much to herself as to the horridly lifeless dog in front of her, ‘I can do this. I can! Just letting something work again.’
She forces herself to calm down, to focus, to be quiet and still, to open her mind to the possibility of what it is she needs to do. Already her body is glowing from the magic of the torc. All she must do now is let her own ability work with it. She places both hands over Thistle’s heart and closes her eyes. Images flash before her mind’s eye. Hounds running. Fire. Water. The darkness of the lake. Seren. Nesta in all her fury. The warmth in her body intensifies, so that for a moment she is afraid it will prove too much for her, that it might burn her up.
Mustn’t stop. Must not stop.
She holds her nerve, clutching at the soft fur of the dog under her palms, willing her tender heart to beat again.
‘Come on, Thistle,’ she pleads. ‘You have to come back. You have to want to.’
There is a loud crack, as if lightning has struck only paces away from where she kneels. A searing pain shoots through Tilda’s hands. She hears a yelp, and the dog leaps to its feet, growling and sneezing at the same time, before recognizing its mistress and bouncing all over her.
‘It worked!’ Tilda is laughing, knocked onto her back by the exuberant hound. ‘Good girl!’ She gets up. ‘Come on, Dylan needs us.’ She makes herself go over to the grave and peer in. Half of her does not want to disturb it further; is fearful of doing so. She has the torc now. She has just done something miraculous.
Do I need anything else?
As much as she would rather hurry back to Dylan, she can hear Seren’s voice telling her that she cannot defeat Nesta without whatever it is the man in the grave has with him. Tilda grabs a nearby spade and drops into the pit. The moment she starts to dig, Thistle joins in, so that it takes them less than a minute to scrape though the thin layers of stone and earth to the lid of the coffin itself. Rubbing away the dirt from the wooden planks she finds there are only holes where the nails were driven in to hold the top down, the metal having rusted away to nothing after so many years in the particularly wet ground. Whilst water weakens iron over time, it has hardened the wood of the coffin lid, so that she cannot break through it with the spade, but has to pry it up. Tilda is surprised at how light it feels, and at how easily she is able to remove it from the grave and cast it aside. It is only now that she notices the torc is doing more than gleaming, it is actually glowing, pulsing with its own light.
Is it making me work better, or is it the other way around?
Having removed the lid she nervously turns back to look into the grave itself. The sight that meets her eyes is so poignant she finds herself sobbing. There is a complete skeleton, bones all appearing to be strong and unbroken and laid out as the deceased must have been over a thousand years before, with arms crossed over his chest. The skull is encased in a finely worked helmet, and even in the rain and the dimly lit day, Tilda can make out an intricate brooch pinning the remnants of a cloak around his shoulders. Beside him is the handle of a dagger, and a sword, rusted, but complete. There are plates and dishes, too, and a goblet, all lovingly placed next to the dead man, furnishing him with wealth and plenty in the next life.
Thistle jumps into the grave and for an instant Tilda fears she might pull at the bones, but she does not. Instead she sniffs at the skeleton’s left hand, her tail wagging furiously. Tilda thinks back to what Seren told her.
Take what protection Hywel holds.
‘And you must be Hywel. What have you got there?’ With great care she unfurls the finger bones and discovers a small, stoppered clay jar. It is intact, amazingly well preserved, but then Tilda is familiar with the enduring properties of ceramics. She gently removes the jar, the earthenware rough in her palm. She looks at Hywel. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells him, ‘but someone I love needs this more than you do now.’
The run back up the hill to Ty Gwyn is the hardest she has ever run. Thistle, too, struggles, though seems remarkably sound and strong, considering her injury. For Tilda, each step feels leaden and slow, as if she is running in a dream.
Will I be too late? Oh, please don’t let me be too late.
At last she reaches her own garden gate, a sharp stitch in her side causing her to double over as she releases the latch. She can already sense the witch’s presence. It is as if dark dread emanates from the little cottage. She hurries toward the kitchen door at the back of the house but stops when she hears noises coming from the studio. Sounds of crashing, of things breaking, mixed with Dylan shouting.
He’s alive!
‘Stay back, Thistle!’ she tells the dog sternly. ‘She could hurt you again. You stay out here!’ Tilda reaches the patio doors of the studio in time to see Nesta causing one of her best pots to rise up into the air. She sees Dylan, blood gushing from a cut in his cheek, dive behind the workbench. Tilda screams through the glass of the door. ‘Leave him alone, you bitch!’
Slowly, with a low gurgle from deep in her broken chest, Nesta turns. When she sees Tilda, she hisses and lets forth a stream of Welsh too fast, too ancient and too distorted for any words to be made out. But her meaning is clear. In a heartbeat, the large ceramic piece—one Tilda had spent so much time and care creating—stops its journey toward Dylan and instead comes hurtling at Tilda. She has no time to do anything other than fling herself to the ground as the pot smashes through the glass, shattering the panes into a thousand slivers. She scrambles to her feet, unable to avoid cutting her hands on some of the shards as she does so.
‘Tilda! Run!’ Dylan calls to her. ‘You have to get away.’
‘No, it’s you she’s after.’
‘What? I heard noises in here. I came looking for you…’ Dylan breaks off as he is forced to crawl under the workbench and emerge on the other side of it to evade a collection of metal tools Nesta has flung in his direction. There is a series of thuds as the blades and sharp edges scythe into the wood of the bench. In another second, she has caused the heavy workbench to slide across the floor, so that it traps Dylan against the wall. He groans as the weight of it presses against him.
Tilda tries to get past Nesta to help him, but the witch hurls a chair at her. She fends it off with her arm and feels a sickening crunch as the bones in her fingers meet with the unyielding wood. The pain is such that for a moment she can scarcely breathe, much less move, and crouches on the floor trying to catch her breath. Nesta turns her attention back to Dylan. While Tilda watches in horror, the witch raises herself up, arms held wide, and slowly makes all the broken glass from the patio doors lift into the air. The pieces move upward as if on hundreds of invisible strings operated by an unseen, sadistic puppeteer. Within seconds, they are all poised and pointing directly at Dylan. He struggles against the workbench, but there is no chance of him freeing himself. Nesta begins to rave, shouting unintelligible words as she clearly believes her moment of vengeance has come. Tilda struggles to her feet with a scream, stumbling across the studio floor, putting herself between the deadly slivers and Dylan, spinning around to face them at the exact moment that Nesta, with a terrifying shriek, sends them slicing through the air.
When Tilda acts she does so out of instinct, as she has not time to consider what she is doing or whether it will work. She lifts her arm so that the glowing torc is held high. She closes her eyes and pictures as clearly and as vividly as she can what it is she wants to happen. What it is she prays will happen. There is silence. She opens her eyes. The glass has stopped. Every single, deadly sharp slice has halted in its lethal trajectory, so that hundreds of cruel spikes quiver in the air, only inches from her, po
inting at her face, her eyes, her throat, her heart. She trembles at the thought that it is her own will alone that is keeping them there.
Enraged, Nesta swoops to the floor where she spins, spitting more spells and curses as she turns. The glass begins to move again, to twitch and vibrate, as if gathering power to surge forward once more.
‘Tilda, get out of here. For God’s sake, run!’ Dylan shouts.
She cannot answer him. Dares not so much as shake her head. It is taking such an effort of will and concentration to hold off Nesta’s magic that she fears any second she will lose the battle. Already she can feel her strength ebbing. Can see the shards starting to move.
She’s too strong for me!
Just as she thinks she will fail and that both she and Dylan will die at the ghostly, mangled hand of this demented witch, Tilda thinks of the Afanc. On the floor, still wrapped in damp muslin, is the piece she has been working on ever since the time she wore the torc and the water-horse appeared to her. She risks closing her eyes again. Images loom and fade in her dark vision, but she ignores then, in the same way she ignores the cacophony of ringing and screaming that comes from inside her own head as well as from the fiend who would see her dead. She calls the Afanc. She wills it to come, to help her again.
I am a child of Seren Arianaidd, please help me once more!
She opens her eyes. The glass spikes quiver and twitch. Nesta is still ranting, still raving, still exerting her formidable power, full of hatred and rage. To her left, Tilda’s creation starts to move beneath its dusty wrapping. Astonished, she risks shifting part of her focus, part of her will, onto it. The cloth undulates and shifts, as what was until seconds ago merely a quantity of clay shaped into a form, a piece of art, nothing more, writhes and stretches as it is filled with magic and brought to life. A second later it bursts from its covering, taking to the air.
The Silver Witch Page 32