“We give thanks!” chimes the congregation with laudable enthusiasm.
It is at this moment I begin to feel severely dizzy. I grip the front of the pew to steady myself. Reverend Cadwaladr continues in his entreaties and the assembled company responds eagerly, but it is not the noise, nor the spiritual frenzy, which is affecting me. I glance across and find that Isolda Bowen is still sitting in her place, straight-backed and steady, watching the preacher with what appears to be rapt attention. Then, of a sudden, a terrible smell, no, a stench, a sour reeking fills my nostrils. It is like nothing I can place. Though it provokes some long buried memory I cannot identify it. Where is it coming from? I feel nauseous. My stomach churns, and I taste bile in my mouth. The voices of the preacher and the faithful seem to twist out of shape also, becoming a roar of noise, the words indecipherable. My mind loosens. I try to close my eyes, to let my lids fall, to let myself drift off to another place, my special escape. But I cannot. My gaze is drawn to the preacher. His shiny red face, puffed-out cheeks, and ceaseless noise make him ridiculous rather than frightening, and yet it is he who appears to be affecting me so adversely. This makes no sense to me, but I cannot deny that the source of my malady, and in fact the source of the evil stench that so disturbs my stomach, must be the Reverend Cadwaladr. Of a sudden he looks directly at me, and I am startled by the force of his gaze. No, more than force, there is a fierce hatred there.
Cai has become aware that I am not well and I hear him say my name, concerned. But I cannot look at him. The sickness within me builds and builds until I can fight it no more. At last, just as the congregation falls silent, I loudly, copiously, and abundantly vomit, emptying the contents of my stomach into my lap, obliterating the poor forget-me-nots with vivid splashes of half-digested breakfast.
5.
Cai stands at the foot of the stairs, his hand on the newel post, hesitating. The events of the morning have left him uncertain of how to treat Morgana. Unsure of how best to behave with her. The girl was badly shaken after her humiliation at chapel. People had been kind, however repulsed. Many had offered assistance. But Morgana had been inconsolable, had fled the chapel, rushing to kneel in the brook, scrubbing at her dress with a handful of wet moss. Catrin’s dress. No, he must not think it so. After all, it did suit Morgana surprisingly well. And now it was ruined, and the girl was mortified. Indeed, when Isolda had offered to take her home in her covered carriage, affording her greater speed and privacy, his wife had reacted with what could only be described as rudeness. She had scowled at Isolda, turned her back on her, scrambled into their own trap, picked up the reins, and all but set off without Cai, who had been forced to jump into the moving cart as Prince lunged forward.
Since arriving home he has not seen Morgana, who has remained shut in her room. He cannot leave her to brood upon what happened. Some fresh air. A little time on the hills. He is confident these will restore her to good humor. Resolutely he mounts the stairs. He clears his throat and knocks on the door.
“Morgana? Morgana, are you feeling better?” There is no reply. He puts his ear against the wood but can detect no sound from within. Perhaps she is sleeping. Or sulking. He tries again. “Would you like a cup of tea? I was about to make some…” Still silence. One more try. “I thought I might go up and see the ponies. I want to bring the mares with foals down to the second meadow. Would you like to come and help?” He waits, knowing he has played his strongest card. And yet there is still no response. With a sigh he turns and walks away. He has not got more than halfway down the stairs when the bedroom door is pulled open and Morgana emerges. She is wearing her old brown dress and her hair is loose again. She looks pale and subdued, but at least she is willing to go with him.
He nods at her. “Good, then,” he says, and together they go outside.
Cai fetches Prince from the stable, leading him with an old rope halter. “The mares will follow him down,” he explains. The corgis scamper ahead as they make their way up the steep incline toward the high meadow. The day is properly hot now. Cai wonders if the weather can hold. Only three weeks to the drove, and they have had such a long dry spell. If there is rain too close to the day of departure they will have to contend with mud, which will slow their progress considerably. There is still much to be done. He has been taken up with having Morgana come to live at Ffynnon Las and he has not been giving the business of the drove sufficient attention. This will not do. He will go into Tregaron next market day and confirm agreements with the remaining farmers who wish their cattle to be taken to London. He must also arrange for Dai the Forge and Edwyn Nails to visit.
As they reach the top of the hill Prince becomes lively, fidgeting and jogging, despite the climb. Cai laughs at him. “Steady, bachgen. You’ll see your ladies soon enough.” Morgana reaches out and strokes his warm flank, but the pony swishes his tail. Cai shakes his head. “He has no time for us now, not with the scent of the herd in his nostrils.” As if to underline the point the stallion raises his head and lets out a blasting whinny, calling to his mares. From some way distant comes an answering call. Prince snorts and pulls at the rope. Cai quickens his pace. Morgana shields her eyes against the sun, peering toward the horizon for the first glimpse of the ponies. And suddenly they are there, cantering toward them. At first only the front-runners are visible, three grey mares, all with foals running at foot. Then a handful of yearlings catch up, playing and biting at one another as they run. Now the whole herd, more than twenty-five ponies in all, come dancing over the springy turf on nimble hooves. Prince tosses his head, whinnying again, eyes bright, pulling at the rope that Cai holds tightly. Soon they are surrounded by the skittish, snorting ponies. There are several greys, most of them almost pure white. Cai spots his favorite bay mare, easily picked out by her smart white blaze and four long white socks.
“That’s Wenna,” he tells Morgana, pointing proudly. “Aye, she’s a fine little mare. Getting a bit long in the tooth, but still throws the best foals, mind. See? See that one with her? That’s one of Prince’s colts. Look at him. Lovely straight legs, and that smart head—big bold eyes, dished face. You’ll have to travel a long way to find better.”
Morgana is clearly delighted by the animals. She moves easily among them, and Cai notices they are instantly comfortable with her, and not in the least bit nervous. He watches her for a moment, as she reaches out to touch the nose of one of the youngsters, ruffle the curly mane of a foal, and pat the neck of an old chestnut mare. Her face has regained its color, and she looks herself once more. He is pleased to find that she can so simply be returned to good humor and health. What does it matter, after all, if she cannot cook, has no interest in the house, and prefers not to be in the company of neighbors? How much better that she share his love of the land, and of the stock. Perhaps it will be the hills and the ponies that allow him to reach her. He finds himself smiling. She looks up and catches him watching her. He expects her to cast her eyes down, to turn away, to exhibit some sign of inhibition or discomfort. But she does not. Standing there, the little horses milling about her, the summer breeze moving her long black hair, and the love of life shining out of her face, she bestows upon him a truly beautiful, heartfelt smile. He can feel her joy, and it moves him. He is embarrassed by his own response to her, and fears she will be able to detect his sentiment in his expression. To cover his shyness he begins telling her about the herd. He explains how it was his grandfather who bought the first stallion at Llanybydder horse fair and brought him to Ffynnon Las, and how that bloodline still runs through the ponies now. He tells her how his father built up the numbers with almost ruthless care, selling off anything that did not come up to the mark, keeping only the very best stock for breeding. He recounts the winter when they nearly lost the lot to a bout of strangles, and how he remembers sitting up with the sick colts, night after night, and watching them die of the cruel disease one after the other, until his father took the only five ponies he could be sure were free of infection and walked them to borrowe
d pasture ten miles away. The remaining ponies all died. But his father was undaunted, and rebuilt the herd, buying in a new stallion, Prince’s grandsire.
Prince has no patience for hearing his history, however, and roars at the mares, sensing more than one of them is in season.
“Hush now!” Cai scolds him. “All in good time, bachgen.” He tugs on the animal’s halter as it whirls round him in tight circles. “Ffynnon Las ponies are known throughout Wales now,” he says, “and even beyond. I’ve to take three with me on the drove for a man in London. He’d buy the lot, old mares, straggly yearlings, every last pony, if I let him.” He smiles, shaking his head. “But money’s not everything, is it?”
Morgana emphatically shakes her head before leaning down to hug one of the plumper foals. Cai remembers he is trying to bring his attentions to the coming drove and all that must be done.
“I’ll be going to market in Tregaron on Tuesday,” he tells her. “I’ve some farmers to meet up with. I’m going to take some of their stock with me on the drove. We’ve yet to agree a price, mind. I could just take them, see, just be responsible for getting them to the buyers in London. I’d take a piece of whatever price they made. There’s less risk that way—should any stock be lost I won’t have paid for them, but I’ll do better if I buy them here. That way I can pocket whatever I make at the end of the drove. More risk yields more profit. At least, that’s what I’ll be looking for. Should be a fair size herd this year. My first as head drover, so got to make a good job of it, see? I reckon two hundred of my own beasts, plus ooh, maybe fifty from Evans Blaenmelyn, and maybe eighty from Dai Cwmtydu. Watson’ll want to bring his ewes himself. More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me, but they’ll be his responsibility.” He trails off, distracted by watching one of the foals nibble at Morgana’s sleeve. He tries to collect his thoughts once more. “So, you can come along. Mrs. Jones does the shopping at the market—she’ll show you what’s what, and if there’s anything you need … well, there we are, then.” She looks at him briefly, registering the information, but does not seem in the smallest way taken by the idea of anything Tregaron market might have to offer. He is a little surprised that she is not more enthusiastic—the opportunity for a diversion, a day out, market stalls, and so on. But then he remembers the events of the morning and grants that the idea of being out in public so soon might not hold great appeal.
“You look … much better, Morgana,” he says. “I’m sorry you were distressed about what happened at chapel. Perhaps it was the rabbit pie?”
She blushes, turning away from him.
Cai feels a little worn down by how difficult it is to talk to her. One moment he thinks he is making some headway, that she is letting down her guard. The next he feels as shut out as on that first day when he brought her home to Ffynnon Las. Would it be so hard for her to meet him halfway?
“You should let others help you. People have your best interests at heart, see? There was no need to be quite so sharp with Isolda…”
She swings round to glare at him with a look of such ferocity it silences him instantly. To his amazement, she spits vehemently on the ground beside his feet. Even the ponies draw back. Cai is aware his hold on his own temper is not as secure as his hold on the pony’s lead rope.
“All right, you don’t like her. You’ve made your feelings plain enough. I don’t understand what she’s ever done to make you take against her like this, but there it is. A person should be allowed to choose their own friends, I suppose,” he concedes. “Come on, then. Let’s get these ponies sorted. We need to take the mares and foals with us, and leave the yearlings and the barren mares up here. They’ll all follow us down to the top gate. We can split them there.”
He leads a now prancing Prince ahead, whistling at the dogs, who obediently fall in behind the herd, nipping every now and again at the heel of a straggler. Morgana walks beside him, letting the ponies trot along with her. Soon they have descended to the limit of the high pasture. Cai begins the job of separating out the ones he wants to move from the ones he wants to leave. It is not a simple task. The corgis are surprisingly fleet of foot and do as they are told, but the ponies are fast and dislike being herded and barked at. Prince becomes ever more agitated, rearing up in an attempt to break free from Cai.
“Behave yourself, m’n! That’ll do, Bracken! Meg! Come by, Meg! Duw, look at those stupid creatures.” He points in the direction of two young mares charging away from the gate, their foals alarmed, galloping beside them. “Bracken, for pity’s sake, dog, come by!” In frustration he pulls his hat from his head and throws it to the ground. The two mares are heading for the far horizon, spooked and uncooperative and almost out of sight. The rest of the herd, sensing drama and some hidden threat, start to turn, as one, and follow. Cai knows in a moment he will lose the lot. He whistles loudly, as much at the ponies as the dogs, who are doing their best to keep the stock together. But it is a losing battle. Cai is about to give up when Morgana snatches the rope from his hand.
“What are you doing?” Cai is taken by surprise and before he can stop her she is running with the little stallion. In a single, fluid movement, she jumps, swinging her leg across Prince’s back, landing lightly. Still holding the rope she takes a handful of mane and then urges him on with her heels. Cai can only watch, openmouthed, as she and the pony charge after the mares. She has no saddle, no bridle to allow proper control of her mount, and yet the two move as one. She never, at any time, looks as if she might fall off, and Prince does not fight her, but runs where she guides him, turning and circling until, amazingly, they have gathered the entire herd. She even succeeds in slowing down the agitated animals, so that by the time she returns to the gate and to Cai they are all trotting calmly. Prince is lathered in sweat, and Morgana herself looks wilder and more disheveled than ever. She also appears completely relaxed, as if rounding up a galloping herd of half-wild ponies on a fiery stallion is the easiest thing in the world to her. Cai recalls her mother telling him Morgana was a confident rider, which now seems to be selling her daughter rather short. There is not time to comment, however, as she signals to him to open the gate. He does so, and the mares and foals meekly follow Prince into the field. He shuts it firmly against the yearlings, who whinny and complain by cantering up and down the fence for a while. Soon the heat tires them, though, and they fall to grazing instead.
Morgana brings Prince to an obedient halt as she slides from his back and hands the rope to Cai.
“Well, then, my wild one,” he says, grinning, “looks like you’ll be putting the dogs out of a job at this rate.”
Morgana shrugs, turns, and begins the walk back down the hill. He watches her go, wondering what other secret talents his wife possesses.
The next day is again fine and dry and Cai and Morgana spend it working with the foals. The better handled they are, the better price they will fetch if he chooses to sell them, or the better brood mares they will turn out to be should he keep them. Morgana is so at ease with the ponies, so gentle with them. He is struck by how quickly she earns the trust of even the flightiest youngster or wariest mare. So engrossed are they in their work that it is twilight by the time Mrs. Jones calls to them from the house, berating them for having gone so long without pausing to eat.
They stroll down across the fields in companionable silence, the dogs wagging ahead, suddenly reminded of their own hunger. Inside they are greeted by mouthwatering aromas and savory steam as Mrs. Jones ladles cawl into bowls. There are chunks of warm bread to dip into the tasty stew, and a pitcher of ginger cordial. Cai watches Morgana as she eats her food with such relish, mopping up every last drop of gravy with her bread, saving only the smallest crust to drop to the waiting corgis. The meal is quickly devoured, and the three settle into chairs to watch the fire for a while. Mrs. Jones has her feet up on a milking stool the better to rest her painfully plump legs.
“I did see another frog in the well today,” she tells Cai, who fails to detect anything significan
t in this.
“What else could you expect to find there? I see them myself most days this time of year.”
“Toads, Mr. Jenkins. You do see toads, not frogs.”
“Oh,” he affects mock humility, “forgive my pitiful ignorance!”
Mrs. Jones purses her lips. “You may laugh, bachgen, but ’tis not usual to find a frog in such deep water with no bank. They prefer ponds with shallow edges.”
Cai laughs softly. “And what, then, should we read into having such an esteemed visitor in our well?” He turns to Morgana and explains, “Mrs. Jones would have us believe the well has magical properties. You see how it is? A lost frog cannot come hopping by without her reading something meaningful into it. Other than that it was looking for water and found it, see?”
Mrs. Jones frowns. “There is none so quick to dismiss what they don’t understand as those who are afraid of it. And maybe with reason.”
Morgana hears a story behind her words and goes to kneel at the woman’s feet, her head cocked on one side, inviting more details.
“That, merched, is no ordinary well.”
“Now, Mrs. Jones, don’t you go filling Morgana’s head with old wives’ tales.”
“Old wives know a thing or two, and you’d do well to remember it, bach.” She peers down at Morgana, lowering her voice to a serious whisper. “You know that the house was named after the well, but I’ll wager you don’t know why.”
Cai puts in, “The water looks blue. Blue well—Ffynnon Las. No mystery in that.”
“Aye, the color is pretty, and it is unusual. But so are the meadows green and the pond white in winter—no one thought to name the farm after those, did they?”
“Go on then,” says Cai, shaking his head, “I might as well save my breath as try to stop you telling your tale.”
The Winter Witch Page 8
