The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  And now Friday is upon us and the dealers arrive from London. The red-faced, portly man who comes to buy the cattle does so with little preamble. It is clear to any who care to look that the herd is in excellent condition. Cai stands confidently among his beasts and swiftly conducts the business of arriving at a good price. The transaction is sealed with a spit and a handshake and the two disappear into the inn to exchange money and a bill of sale.

  The horse buyer is a different animal altogether. He gives the appearance of a gentleman, with his fine clothes and his airs, and yet there is something sly in his manner, something guarded in his expression, which I do not care for. I observe him closely as he inspects the ponies. This is not a man who loves horses. This is someone who sees them only as merchandise, to be bought and sold, to turn a profit, to pay for his finery. My blood boils at the thought of this man taking our precious ponies. Will he treat them well? Will he see that they are suited to their new owners? Cai senses my distrust and leads the dealer some distance away from me. He is wise to do so, for I am not certain I could contain my anger if I were forced to listen further to the man’s casual criticism of our beautiful colts, or his scathing assessment of the fine brood mares. The negotiations stall and stutter, with much head shaking and pursing of lips. Time drags, with hours passing, so that the soft light of evening lends an inappropriately sweet tinge of pink to the proceedings. At last the trading comes to a conclusion. Cai is slapped heartily on the back by the man who is of a sudden full of friendliness and good humor. They conduct the details of their transaction out of my sight, leaving me to bid farewell to the ponies. The smallest foal, his coat still fuzzy, his curly mane not yet long enough to flick away flies, ambles up to me and nuzzles my skirts, searching for tidbits. Where will you find yourself three months hence, little one? Will your new owner be kind? Will they appreciate your wild origins and dauntless spirit? Prince is standing in the shade of a gnarled oak tree, swishing his tail more from habit than necessity, dozing lazily. I cannot resist climbing onto his back one last time. He opens his eyes, but does not bother to move as I jump up and settle behind his snowy withers, letting my hands smooth the fine hair on his strong white neck. It pains me greatly to think we are to be parted forever. I feel ridiculous tears filling my eyes. How foolish. I know the way things are. For Cai’s sake, I must not give way to sentiment. I am flustered to see the two men, their business complete, approaching us. I wipe my face with my sleeve, no doubt depositing a layer of grime, and quickly slide from Prince’s back. Cai steps toward us with a rope halter which he slips onto Prince’s head, gently fitting it behind his ears and setting the little stallion’s forelock neatly over the headpiece. I can see by the set of his shoulders that this is hard for him, too. To my surprise he hands me the lead rope of the halter.

  “You have said enough farewells on this journey, Morgana. Prince is yours to keep,” he tells me, adding with a shrug, “Think of him as a bonus from a porthmon to his hardworking drover.”

  I can scarcely take in what he is saying, but when the words at last make sense in my head I leap forward, throwing my arms about his neck, covering his face with kisses. He laughs, holding me close.

  “Well, Duw,” says he, “if that’s the response I get ’tis a good thing I didn’t offer such a reward to Meredith!”

  16.

  The journey home with Morgana is one Cai will hold in his heart as a treasured time. He has decided against taking the stagecoach. Angel might keep up, but the carriage horses would be too swift for Prince. And, if he is honest with himself, he wants to prolong this time alone with Morgana, just a little longer. For four days they ride west, chasing the pale autumn sun through the hours of daylight, finding a place to camp each night. Though they could afford a room at an inn they both prefer the simplicity of sleeping out. Besides, he reasons, they appear less prosperous, and will garner less interest, keeping themselves to themselves and not being seen to have money to spend. He has no wish to suffer the same fate as Llewellyn. The evenings cool quickly, but Cai finds them a warm barn, or a clearing in a sheltered copse where they might light a campfire. They sit close, watching the flames, cooking a rabbit purchased from a local poacher, or fish hooked from a nearby stream, as the horses graze peacefully on their tethers. The cattle fetched a good price, as did the ponies. At last Cai can see a clear future for himself and Morgana at Ffynnon Las. At the first opportunity he will take her to Llanybydder horse fair and they will buy two new mares—the start of the rebuilding of the herd. The notion of a life together, of a shared purpose, fills him with hope and pride. She has just returned from bathing in the bracing waters of the narrow river and leans near the fire, working her fingers through her wet hair to let the smoky air dry it. She becomes aware of him watching her but is no longer overcome by shyness. Instead she smiles, an open, warm, heartfelt smile, and Cai feels his heart lift. He still thinks of Catrin, and knows that he always will. But the memory is not painful now, and his affection for Morgana not tainted with guilt. She shakes her head and droplets of water hiss as they shower the fire. Bracken barks nervously.

  Cai laughs. “Be quiet, m’n. What sort of a dog are you, afraid of what the flames have to say?” He rubs the corgi’s ears. The little hound has worked hard, his pads worn to bleeding by the end of the drove. He, too, has earned a leisurely journey home. And Cai is glad of his presence beyond the enjoyment of his companionship. He can sleep easier knowing Bracken will watch wakefully for strangers. It would be tragic indeed to have come so far, to have made such a success of the drove, only to be robbed of the proceeds now. For this reason he has chosen a little used route, and is circumspect in his conversations with those they meet along the way.

  Home. The idea of it is bittersweet to Cai. What will he find waiting for him back at Tregaron? Many will have attended Dai’s funeral. Edwyn will have had weeks to spread his version of events around the region. Will there be people who put the blame for Dai’s death on Morgana? Will he be able to convince them of her innocence? The drove was a success; that at least is beyond dispute. He can only hope that the relief of financial security for the farmers who entrusted him with their stock will work in his favor. Morgana is Mrs. Cai Jenkins, wife of the porthmon, mistress of Ffynnon Las. If they value him, they must accept her. If they trust him, they must surely accept his word when he tells them she is not at fault.

  The water in their little billycan begins to boil, and Cai tips spoonfuls of black tea leaves into it.

  “Come,” he calls to Morgana, “have a hot drink. I swear autumn gets earlier every year. You’ll catch your death sitting with that wet hair. Move closer to the fire. Closer to me. There, that’s better, see?” He puts an arm around her waist and pulls her toward him. She grins, pushing him away playfully. “Oh no, my wild one, I can’t let you go. Bit of a chore for me, but there we are. I have to hold you to keep you warm, else you’ll fall sick, and then where’d I be without my best drover?”

  Morgana swats him, not without force, before shoving him onto his back on the leafy ground and quickly straddling him. He laughs as she takes his hands and pins him down.

  “Well, you’ve got me now. What are you planning to do with me, cariad?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

  For a moment she narrows her eyes, considering, and then sets about tickling him mercilessly. Cai laughs until he has no breath left and is forced to topple her off him, pressing her to the floor beneath him, stilling her wriggling with a long, deep kiss. Slowly he feels her change. Her limbs relax, her mouth softens against his, and she returns his kiss with feeling. He pauses, drawing back a little, brushing her damp curls from her face.

  “I love you, Mrs. Ffynnon Las. You are aware of this fact, are you not?”

  She smiles and nods, and then, the smile fading, more seriously, she nods again, before reaching up to kiss him once more, drawing him down to her, letting him rest the length of his body against her own.

  The following morning they travel on slowly, paus
ing to visit Mair’s grave and inspect the headstone Cai had ordered be carved. Morgana plants flowers about it and leaves coins with old Mrs. Roberts to tend the grave. They arrive in Tregaron on the day of the harvest fair. The colors of the landscape have indeed altered markedly since there departure but a few weeks before. The oaks and birches have lost their gloss of green and instead sport leaves of a hundred shades of gold and ochre. Only the ash clings stubbornly to its summer garb. The grass in the high meadows surrounding the town has passed beyond the lushness of late summer and been cropped by hungry sheep eager to fatten themselves against the coming winter cold. In a final salute to the warmer months, and a celebration of the lifesaving bounty of the harvest, the people of Tregaron have gathered in their best clothes for a day of rest and of fun. Cai is conscious at once of what a ragtag and scruffy sight he and Morgana must present as they ride into the main square. Even Angel and Prince have lost the sheen of their summer coats and look homely with their sprouting winter hair, and weeks of mud in their manes. Bracken’s fur is matted in places and his paws no longer chalky white. Cai’s own duster coat has a ripped sleeve and a thick layer of grease from rubbing against the cattle for weeks on end, or being used as a ground sheet or makeshift cover when sleeping out. Morgana’s clothes have fared little better, and both their hats are battered and beaten out of shape. Morgana’s skin has been weathered as much as tanned, and Cai regrets not having taken the time to shave off his unruly beard before their return.

  They wend their way between stalls and fair-goers, the horses much too tired to gib at flapping bunting or the shrieks of playing children. People turn to stare at them, and a whisper travels around the square: the porthmon is returned. Although Cai knows better than to expect a fanfare, or any sort of hero’s welcome, he is still disconcerted by the reception they receive. Amid all the gaiety of the fair, news of their presence seems to spread an unfitting quietness. A seriousness. A wariness. He urges Angel through the crowd to the Talbot Hotel. Morgana keeps Prince close behind him. Bracken trots quietly at their side, tail low, sensitive to the mood around him. Cai had thought to stable the horses behind the inn and go inside for a celebratory drink, but he changes his mind. This curiously muted response to his arrival is unsettling. He acknowledges those who tip their caps at him. He will, he decides, not linger, but deliver what monies are owing to the cattle breeders and take Morgana home. They tie the horses to the hitching rail at the front of the hotel.

  “Come, Morgana.” He bids her follow him inside. He knows this is unusual, for it is a place ordinarily reserved for men, but he feels uneasy leaving her outside among such an unfriendly gathering. She hangs back, aware of the strangeness of his suggestion, clearly not wanting to cause trouble where it can be avoided.

  A voice from the crowd interrupts the moment.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Jenkins,” says Isolda, stepping forward. She nods at Morgana. “Mrs. Jenkins, you look every inch the drover.”

  The onlookers laugh at this. Cai bristles, but is determined to remain as moderate as possible in his reactions.

  “Mrs. Bowen.” He gives a small bow.

  “I am pleased to see you safely returned,” she assures him, but something in her manner has changed, Cai thinks. There is a distance, a coldness, a harshness about her he has not felt before.

  “Your horse proved an asset,” he says. “I am grateful for the loan of him. I will bring him home to you tomorrow when he is rested.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I will send a groom to collect him. You must be weary after your hard work. Both of you.”

  Something in the way she looks at Morgana makes him shiver. He is confused by such an alteration in a woman he had thought he knew better than most. Whilst Morgana has never made any secret of her dislike of Isolda, she herself has always been civil. Solicitous, even. Not anymore, it seems. Looking at his wife he notices her fists are clenched. Can it really be rivalry, some sort of jealousy, perhaps, that sets the women so at odds? Whatever it is, he could have wished for Isolda to choose a better moment to reveal her animosity. The expressions of those watching, their shut faces, their guarded, almost nervous glances at Morgana, are deeply disturbing.

  “If you’ll excuse us”—he takes Morgana’s arm and guides her toward the door—“we have business to attend to.”

  The situation does not improve when the first person Cai sees inside the Talbot is Llewellyn. The man has evidently been at the bar some time, and his skin is flushed with the effects of strong ale imbibed in quantities.

  “Well, well, here’s Jenkins Ffynnon Las come to spend his money. We are honored, porthmon,” he says with mock formality. “You succeeded in delivering the herd, then?”

  “Aye,” says Cai, “and turned good profits for all. We were fortunate.”

  “Oh? That’s not what I heard.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Fortunate for your farrier to be trampled to death, then, was it?”

  “No, of course not. No one regrets what happened to Dai more than I.”

  “His widow and orphaned sons might disagree with you there.”

  “I’ll see them right. They know that.”

  “And do they know the person responsible will be brought to task?”

  “I sacked Edwyn. Sent him home. If Cerys insists I will refer the matter to the magistrate.”

  Llewellyn drains his tankard and drags the back of his sleeve across his wet mouth. “There are those as says it was not Edwyn to blame. There are those as believes ’twas your wife was neglectful, and that you only accuse young Edwyn Nails to protect her.”

  “I was there. I saw what happened with my own eyes.”

  “Aye, well, maybe. And maybe a husband with a ripe new bride sees what he wants to see.”

  Cai can stand no more. He draws back his fist and hits Llewellyn a powerful blow on the jaw. The older man is knocked off his feet and falls backward, scattering drinkers and bar stools. He lies dazed, rubbing his face, spitting blood. “Well, Duw, Jenkins—touched on a sore spot, did I?”

  “Keep your poisonous thoughts to yourself, Llewellyn. There’s none wants to hear your drunken ramblings. I know the truth of what happened to Dai. So does Edwyn. If the man has a conscience he’ll not falsely blame Morgana again.” He turns to face the wary men in the bar. One or two take a step back. “Is there anyone else thinks justice has not been done in this matter? Well? Speak your minds now, or hold your tongues. I won’t have lies spread about my wife, see? I hear anyone talking out of turn on this matter … well, he’ll have me to answer to.”

  There is a shuffling of feet and a reluctance to meet Cai’s eye. Even Llewellyn chooses to stay silent as he hauls himself to his feet. There is a prickly silence until Cai, taking a deep breath and summoning, with some effort, a calmer tone, says, “Right you are. Now, for those of you who have business with me, I’ll take my place by the window. Present yourselves. I’ve brought back good returns for you all, but I’ll not tarry here longer than is necessary.”

  * * *

  It is as I feared—we are not believed. Edwyn has done his work in convincing people hereabouts of his version of the truth, and it may be we never succeed in undoing what he has done. I know now, at least, that Cai does not doubt me, and there is comfort in this. Also, I am surprised at how pleased I am to be back at Ffynnon Las. I had thought the magic of our time together returning from the drove might be crushed under the weight of public disapproval, and of Isolda’s hatred when we arrived back at the farm. But this is our home. How wonderful it is to me that I can think such a thing! Our home. It feels right to be here, with Cai, my husband. The drove was a success. We have a right to our own happiness in our own home.

  Mrs. Jones, at least, is pleased to see us.

  “Well, Duw, Duw, there’s a state you are in! Let’s have you inside. I’ll put water on for bathing. And your poor hair, Mrs. Jenkins!” She cannot resist taking a lock of my tangled curls in her hand and shaking her head. “Mr. J
enkins, you should be ashamed of yourself, using your pretty little wife so badly. Come along, merched. We’ll soon have you out of those dreadful clothes and looking as the mistress of Ffynnon Las should look.” She bustles me through the door and into the warm kitchen, pausing only to bark instructions to Cai. “Fetch the tin bath, if you please, Mr. Jenkins,” she calls. “And more coals for the copper, or there’ll not be sufficient hot water to get the lot of you clean.” She gives Bracken a stern look and I fear he, too, will not escape a good scrubbing before the day is done.

  The moment we are alone I set about trying to tell her what I have learnt of Isolda. I know Mrs. Jones has always disliked and distrusted the woman, and she has hinted that she detects a darkness in her. How clever the creature must be at disguising herself, at shielding her true nature from those who would find her out. For now that I understand it is she who is behind everything—Reverend Cadwaladr’s taking against me, the sudden thunderstorm that lost us the herd, Edwyn’s wickedness, and Dai’s death—now I know where the danger comes from. I must tell Mrs. Jones. I fear there must be a confrontation between myself and Isolda one day. Soon, perhaps. I know I am not ready. I am no match for her. I must warn Mrs. Jones and enlist her help.

  She has the bath ready for me but I do not undress. Instead I fetch paper, pen, and ink from the dresser. They are rarely used in this house. The ink is somewhat dry and flaky, and my hand feels clumsy as I struggle to form letters.

  “What are you about, cariad? Come to the bath while the water is hot,” says Mrs. Jones, desperate to rid me of my filthy, unbecoming garments. But I bite my lip, frowning in concentration at the unaccustomed action of dragging the nib across the rough paper. Why did not Mam insist Mr. Rees-Jones instruct me properly? I am but half trained. While I bless the gift of reading, how much better would I be able to communicate had I been instructed in the art of writing! Frustration causes me to make errors, so that I must try three times before I can form anything resembling the letters I am striving for. My efforts are not elegant or neat but they are, at last, legible. I pass the paper to Mrs. Jones. She steps to the lamp the better to read it and squints at the lettering, holding the page at arm’s length. She reads aloud.