Oars. Someone is rowing. In this? Why would they do that? Can’t be for the view. Fishing? Are they fishing?
The sounds grow a little louder. Stronger. Closer. Tilda stops and peers through the murk toward the body of the lake. Slowly a shape begins to form, as much of the mist as out of it. She squints and tries to refocus her unreliable eyes. At last, she can make out a small boat containing three shadowy figures. The vessel is wooden, low in the water, and of a curiously rustic construction. Two of the people in it are rowing, sitting with their backs to Tilda, pulling toward the shore. The shape and clothing of the third person are indistinct still, yet suggest a woman. Tilda blinks away the droplets of mist clinging to her eyelashes and wipes her face with her hand. Into her watery vision, as she stares harder, come the striking features of the passenger in the boat. Now Tilda can see that this is a young, beautiful woman, her hair concealed beneath twists of leather and some sort of animal skin headdress. Her skin is pale, but the light is too poor, the air too disturbed with mist, for Tilda to make out her eyes or her expression. What becomes clear is that all three in the boat seem to be dressed in some manner of costume, as if decked out for a historical reenactment, or a scene from a movie.
But why on earth would they do that now? Here? On their own?
They are so close now Tilda could call out to them easily. She raises her hand to wave, but something stops her. Something causes her scalp to tingle and the breath to catch in her throat. She can hear drums now, coming from farther around the lake. Suddenly the mist parts, clearing in seconds, so that she can see the expanse of water before her and even the far shore. But things are not as they should be. Instead of the low roof of the visitor’s cafe on the north side of the lake, she can see huts, clustered together, and smoke rising from small fires. And horses. And cattle. And strange figures moving about. There are no cars. No motorboats. No trailers loaded with canoes. Nothing is as she knows it to be.
Tilda’s heart starts to pound, although she is already beginning to feel cold from standing. Her mind is spinning.
Am I dreaming? How low must my blood sugar be? I must be dizzy from running and it’s making me see things?
The sound of oars being raised from the water and shipped snatches her attention back to the oarsmen. The boat has reached the shallows and the reeds, and the men are allowing it to coast as far in toward the shore as it will go. Every instinct in Tilda is telling her to turn and run, but she finds she cannot move. She is transfixed by what she is witnessing. By the impossibility of what her eyes would have her believe. And, most of all, by the strange figure now standing in the prow of the boat. The woman is tall and her movements graceful. There is such a quiet strength about her. As she waits for the boat to come to a halt she turns her head, slowly, scanning the shore as the mist melts away before her steady gaze. Tilda holds her breath, sensing the inevitability of what will happen next. She wants to move, to flee, but she can no more run than fly as the phantom woman continues to turn, until at last, unmistakably, her gaze falls on Tilda.
There is an instant of connection. A moment where all else seems not to exist, nothing but that moment of seeing and of being seen. It is both wonderful and terrifying. Something inside Tilda snaps and fear galvanizes her. As she spins on her heel and sprints away she hears shouts. Clear, loud, urgent shouts, as those in the boat alert each other to the presence of a stranger. There is a short silence, quickly followed by several splashes.
They’re getting out of the boat! They are coming after me!
Now Tilda runs. She finds a speed and power she did not know she possessed and pounds along the path. She can hear heavy footsteps behind her. She can feel the shuddering of the earth as the runners begin to close the gap. Frightened beyond reason, she increases her speed still more, even as the trail twists away from the lake, even as the mist returns to swallow up the fields to her right, to shorten her view to a few yards once more. Still she runs, blindly, wildly, though she can no longer hear her pursuers. And as she rounds a narrow corner she all but barrels into a tall, solitary figure standing firmly in the center of the path.
SEREN
Two days have passed since I delivered my words of warning at the gathering. The weather continues gentle, the lake is tranquil, but I can feel the discord and alarm on the crannog. People are afraid, and with good reason. The vision was strong, its meaning plain. They harried me for more detail, pestering me with who? and when? and why? Of course I cannot tell them, though as the danger grows stronger there will be more signs. Of that I am certain. As to the who … many of them would not believe me if I told them my thoughts, for that is all I have to give; the wisdom of my mind. They will all listen when I bring them a seeing, but some still doubt my own word. As if their prophet is nothing more than a cypher!
But then, I must allow that I am a mystery to them. I cannot expect them to understand all that I do, all that I am. I have followed my mother’s calling as a shaman, and it was she who showed me the path of the seeker of visions. She who taught me how to read what I saw. Our strangeness marked us out, and we have always been respected as different, as having a connection to the old religion, to useful talents and gifts. The title of witch they accept less readily. There are too many tales of wickedness attached to my kind, and the combination of seer and witch is rare. My mother knew the day I was born that I carried magic within me. That I had been doubly blessed. But my skills were not enough to keep her in this life. When the sickness took hold of her, she could not shake free of it, and I was too young, too green, my gifts too undeveloped to save her.
The moon is high, sacred darkness claiming the land. There are few clouds, so that a silvery light descends upon the surface of the lake. The water slips and slides in small undulations beneath it, moving in the wake of a scurrying water vole, or the sleepy paddling of slumbering birds that rest upon it for safety. The air smells fresh, cool, yet with the warmth of decay as reeds and rushes begin to die back for another year. From the woods, I can hear my sister owls, cutting the night air with their sharp screeches, or wooing one another with their breathy calls. And now there is something else. My eyes work better without the harsh sun to hurt them, so that I am able to see the darkening shadows forming on the lake, near the center. I steady my own thudding heart and wait. The silky water does not stir, but I sense a presence. My skin tingles, my pulse grows stronger, louder. I feel a coolness cloak me. She is near. I feel the immense weight of her beneath the surface and my soul dances to know that I am in her company again!
‘Seren?’
The voice behind me is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. Even as I wheel around I know that the connection is broken. I hear a low rumble from deep within the lake, fading as it swiftly moves away, and I know that she is gone. I frown at my visitor. He may have donned a monk’s robe to disguise himself, but his height and regal bearing give him away to any with the wit to look at him properly. I dip my head, irritation at this interruption preventing me from showing further deference.
‘My Prince,’ I say, and then, ‘You are welcome,’ even though he is not. Not at this moment.
‘I cannot fool you, can I Seren?’ He smiles, pushing back the hood of his habit.
‘I would not be worthy of the name ‘seer’ if I could be so easily blinded to the truth.’
‘Indeed.’ He steps forward. He stands close now. When he speaks again I can feel his breath upon my cheek. ‘I wished to come sooner, but, well … I have been much occupied.…’ He waves a hand, vague and apologetic.
‘It is the business of a prince to calm his subjects when they are agitated.’
‘They ask me questions for which I have no answer.’
‘You know the Mercian army stand ready to threaten us at any time. You were quick to tell me this is not news.’
‘Queen Aethelflaed will bide her time yet.’ He shakes his head. ‘She herself is much occupied.’
‘Making trysts with Vikings?’
‘Trysts. War. One or
the other. Both at once. Her plans change direction at the lightest breeze it seems, but that is to our favor. We are not, for the moment, her main concern.’
‘You see how at times it is best, after all, not to be the center of all things?’
Prince Brynach gasps, and then laughs, louder than he meant to. Louder than he should. A nearby coot is startled from its reedy bed and splashes out onto the safety of the open lake. ‘Why, Seren, my revered prophet, I believe you are chiding me for vanity!’
‘If the crown fits…’
He laughs again, more softly this time, and reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder. It is a gesture of friendship, casual, the reflex of a soldier, or one man to another. But I am not a man. And the instant his palm alights on my shoulder I feel the tension in him. He lifts his hand, hesitant, unsure, before moving to touch my hair. I am not in my ceremonial garb now, but wear my workaday woolen tunic. My hair, unbraided and loose, reflects the moon’s beams. My arms are bare and the prince’s hand is cool against my flesh. His touch is restrained, but there is no mistaking the catch in his breath, nor the widening of his eyes.
‘I trust Princess Wenna is in good health,’ I say.
At the sound of his wife’s name Prince Brynach drops his hand. His manner alters. He becomes brusque. The friendliness is gone. He is a Prince once more, and I his advisor, nothing more.
‘At the gathering,’ he says, staring out over the lake as he speaks, ‘when you told of your vision, you said there were others who threaten us. Others besides the Queen of Mercia.’
‘That is what was shown to me in the vision, yes.’
‘How? How was it shown?’
I shrug, shaking my head, as if I must explain the obvious to a child. Again. ‘There was more than one egg,’ I tell him.
‘And that signifies multiple enemies? You can be certain?’
‘Visions would be of little value were they to mislead, to shroud their meaning in mystery,’ I point out.
‘Yes. Yes, I see. But how can you know from where these other adversaries will come?’
‘The nest within your own fortress clearly suggests your enemy is close to you.’
‘But Queen Aethelflaed is not. She is not of my court. She resides a hundred miles from here.’
‘Then there is a connection. Something, or someone, links you with a chain of ambition to the Mercian queen and her army. Someone you trust.’
‘Someone close to me will betray me?’
‘There is more than one manner of closeness, my Prince, as you are aware. A person might live within the same region or cantref. Or the same crannog, perhaps. Or that person may enjoy your trust. Your friendship. Your love, even.’
Anger flashes across Prince Brynach’s face. ‘You would accuse my wife? Tread with care, Prophet.’
‘I accuse no one. I recount my vision. I interpret its meaning for those not able to read the message themselves.’
‘But there is nothing—nothing—that speaks of the Princess!’
‘There are the facts! Your wife’s family makes no secret of their dislike of you.’
‘Ours was an arranged marriage! They chose to betroth their daughter to me.’
‘In the same way a farmer with a failing farm and one shabby mare puts her to a sturdy stallion from a fine stable.’
‘Now you go too far!’
‘The alliance of your two families benefited Princess Wenna’s kin far more than it did your own! Your father agreed to the match to avoid a possible uprising. Four years ago there were still men who supported her clan. Your father acted to ensure peace. But times changed, allegiances shifted, and Wenna’s family lost their own power. It was she who had the better end of the bargain in the end. And her brother, Rhodri! That creature is more buzzard than man, the way he watches you, waiting for any sign of weakness. He’s not bold enough, or foolish enough, to challenge you directly, and he knows there is no necessity. He will bide his time, and the day will come when you are under attack and he will sit on his sword hand sooner than come to your aid. He will do nothing, nothing but watch and gloat and then take pleasure in picking over your bones!’
‘And you think Wenna would allow this?’
‘What say has she in the matter?’
‘She is my Princess!’
‘And what is a princess for if not to provide her lord with an heir?’
Silence. He has nothing to say to this. For what can he say? I am right. But being right does not make my words any less poison to his ears. He struggles to hold his temper.
‘My wife has my trust. Her family is allied to mine. I will honor that alliance unless or until I am given a reason to doubt it.’
‘Have I not just given you such a reason? Did not the vision open your eyes to the truth?’
‘Some might say the interpretation is … unreliable.’
‘You would prefer to doubt the word of your shaman than hear harsh truths about you wife?’
‘Who is to say they are true? Some people might say that the interpreter has forgotten her art, her gift, her place, and has shown herself to be nothing more than a jealous woman!’
Now it is my turn to have to master my anger. I speak calmly, though I do not feel calm. ‘And anyone who listens to such people, to such talk, is a fool.’
The prince opens his mouth to respond, but I do not wait to hear his argument. I turn on my heel and stride out, away from my camp, away from the light of my fire, away from him. Unaccustomed to being dismissed, but wary of sending his raised voice after me for fear of giving away his whereabouts, Prince Brynach stomps with furious footsteps in the other direction, back to the crannog. Back to his princess.
4
TILDA
Gasping, Tilda steps back from the figure—who is most definitely solid, as her bruised wrist and ribs assure her—and tries to shake the chaos from her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she splutters, focusing on the elderly man she has just collided with. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
The man smiles at her calmly, a steadying hand still on her arm. He is tall and wiry, with bushy white hair that is partially covered by a tweedy hat. He sports an equally abundant beard and a pair of luxuriant eyebrows. His coat has evidently been chosen for reasons of practicality rather than style. He carries a walking stick with a bone handle carved to resemble a swan, and around his neck hang expensive-looking binoculars.
‘This mist can be confusing,’ he says, his accent lilting and softly Welsh, taking the hard edges off his words and giving the slightest hiss to each ‘s.’ ‘And you were running very quickly.’
‘I run most days,’ she tells him.
‘At such a speed? My goodness. How wonderful to be so strong and nimble. My own running days are over, I fear,’ he adds, and then, with a broadening grin, ‘unless I was being chased by something, of course. I like to think fear could still lend wings to my heels.’
Tilda tries to read the expression of this stranger.
What did he see? Did he see those … people, too? Does he know I was running away from them?
She cannot decide whether this notion makes her more anxious than the idea that the trio in the boat was the conjuring of her own imagination alone.
‘I…’ She hesitates; she cannot discuss what she has seen, what she thinks she has seen, with this apparently sensible, normal person. He will think her mad.
Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am losing my mind.
The man’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
‘Are you quite all right?’ he asks. ‘Forgive my saying so, but you look a little upset.’
Tilda shakes her head and tries to pull herself together. This is her new home, where she will have to live with her neighbors. She does not want them writing her off as the loon on the hill just yet.
‘I’m fine, thank you. I think I overdid it a bit, that’s all. Made me a little … light-headed.’
‘Strong, sweet tea. That’s what my late wife would have recommended.’ He
raises his walking stick, pointing into the mist along the path behind him. ‘We are very close to my house; won’t you come in for a moment? I’m a poor cook, but I am quite capable of brewing a reasonable pot of Darjeeling.’
‘Oh no, thank you, I couldn’t possibly…’
‘Of course you couldn’t, what was I thinking? I haven’t even introduced myself.’ He offers her his hand. ‘Professor Illtyd Williams, local historian and keen bird-watcher, resident of the Old School House these past thirty years. Delighted to meet you.’
Tilda manages a weak smile. ‘Tilda Fordwells, ceramic artist, resident of Ty Gwyn cottage about five weeks.’ She takes his hand and shakes it in what she hopes is a firm and sensible way.
‘Well, there we are, then,’ says Professor Williams. ‘Now that we are acquainted it seems only good manners that we take tea together.’ So saying, he turns and begins to stride out with surprising vigor.
Tilda hesitates, hearing her father muttering about not taking sweets from strangers, but then reasons that this gentleman must be eighty years old at least, and is, after all, a neighbor, not a stranger. And besides, she is still unsteady, shaking a little, and there is something so very comforting in the thought of tea with this real and sensible person. On top of which, the idea of returning to the cottage, of more time alone, does not appeal to her. Not yet. Ordinarily, she welcomes solitude but this morning has not been ordinary. Tea, no doubt out of china cups and accompanied by light conversation, is possibly exactly what she needs.
The Silver Witch Page 4
