‘A body? Shouldn’t the police be here?’
Dylan smiles at her line of thinking. ‘I don’t think they work on cases over a thousand years old.’ He points toward the huddle of students, archeologists, and hangers-on. ‘They reckon the burial took place somewhere between the ninth and eleventh centuries. They’ll know much more once they can start testing the bones.’
‘Isn’t it strange to have a single grave like that? Why wasn’t the body buried by the church?’
‘Aside from the fact that it wouldn’t have been there then, you mean?’
Tilda shoots him a look, not enjoying having made herself sound dim.
‘Sorry,’ he goes on. ‘It’s a fair point. Saint Cynog’s might not have been built until the twelfth century, but there was a monastery here before that. So yes, you’re right, it is strange the poor person was planted out here on the boggy side of the lake all on their own.’
‘I remember the site of an old monastery being marked on your uncle’s map,’ Tilda says, pleased to be able to offer some intelligent comment. They stand and watch the diggers for a little longer. ‘Nothing seems to be happening,’ she points out at last.
‘The ground may be too frozen. They could damage the skeleton if they force it from the icy earth. There was some talk of warm water but that just opened up a whole debate about what evidence might or might not be corrupted. Academics, eh?’ he adds with a shrug, and then nods in the direction of the grave where Tilda can now see Professor Williams. He notices her and hurries over.
‘What a moment you have chosen to arrive! Such an exciting find. The skeleton appears complete. When Dylan told me what was planned for today I had to come and witness it for myself.’ The old man pushes his hat a little farther back on his head. His eyes are bright, his cheeks and nose flushed in reaction to both the cold and the excitement.
Dylan smiles at him. ‘Only you could get so worked up over a few bones in the mud,’ he teases.
‘A few bones in the…!’ The professor is aghast. ‘This is the most momentous discovery since the crannog itself. The body has lain for centuries in an unmarked grave. We can only begin to imagine what insights might be revealed upon examination of the remains,’ he explains, waving his walking stick to emphasize his point. He beams at them, shaking his head. ‘Can’t you feel the coming together of past and present in a moment like this? Another mystery of the lake about to reveal itself to us. Fascinating!’
Tilda experiences a sudden moment of dizziness. She closes her eyes for a second.
Steady. Should have found something to eat before I left the cottage.
She takes a breath and forces her attention to what the professor is gabbling on about. Somewhere in the flood of information and theories he is putting forward could lie the answers she has been seeking.
‘But why has it taken this long for anyone to find the grave?’ she asks. ‘I mean, people have known about the crannog and the settlements here for ages. How did this body stay hidden for so long? And why has it been found now?’
‘Well, there was no marker, no indication at all that there was anything here,’ Professor Williams says, clearly pleased by her interest. ‘All previous digs have been close to the crannog, or the monastery. This area is very boggy, and often underwater, not really suitable for a grave. Particularly if any grieving relatives would want to visit.’
‘Not someone with much of a family, then,’ says Dylan. He reaches out to pat Thistle, but the dog moves fractionally away from him, pressing against Tilda. He lets his hand drop.
‘That’s one possible explanation,’ the professor agrees. ‘Someone alone, with no one to contribute to the upkeep of a grave in the grounds of the monastery, perhaps. And yet it does seem a singularly odd choice of plot. Almost as if the person being buried was being pointedly kept at a distance from the inhabitants of the crannog. And from the monks and priests.’
‘So what made anyone decide to dig here now?’ Tilda steadies herself through another wave of giddiness.
‘Aah, well, you see, a very rare thing happened this year.’ He chuckles. ‘We had an exceptionally dry summer. There was a severe drought. The shoreline of the lake on this side receded by … oh, thirty yards or more. This phenomenon coincided with a field trip for students from Lancaster University—they were visiting the crannog—and one eagle-eyed young man noticed something unusual about the newly exposed area of land. Exceptionally bright student. He’s leading the dig now. That’s him over there … Lucas Freyn.’ The professor employs his stick as a pointer this time.
Tilda sees a tall, wiry young man, dressed against the cold, talking in an animated manner with his colleagues.
‘If there’s anything more you want to know about the find,’ says the professor, ‘he’s your man. I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you.’
As they watch, the group turns away from their precious excavation and begins to move back toward the tent. The professor hails them.
‘Lucas! Molly! There is someone here who would very much like to meet you.’
When Lucas lets his gaze fall on Tilda as he shakes her hand, she has the distinct impression she is being studied rather than stared at, as if she, too, were an unexpected find. Introductions are made, during which Tilda learns that the pair are both working on their doctorates at the university, that Molly is married and has left her two small children at home with her husband in order to be part of the dig, and that Lucas is every bit as passionate about the find as the professor. She does her best to take in everything she is being told, but she is feeling increasingly unwell. She is aware of Professor Williams explaining, somewhat sketchily, her interest in the history of the lake, but his voice is growing distant, and her legs feel in danger of buckling beneath her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m not feeling very well. I … I think I probably just need something to eat.’
‘Excellent idea,’ says the professor.
Dylan nods. ‘The Red Lion does the best steak and kidney pudding in Wales. Have you tried it yet?’
‘No, I…’ The idea of a cozy pub, a proper hot meal, and a chance to sit and talk in company is hugely appealing.
Lucas steps in. ‘Well, we’ve had to shut things down here for the day. Temperature is just too low. Can’t risk moving anything while the ground is this frozen. We might try to get some heat into it tomorrow, if there isn’t a thaw. Meantime, lunch sounds like a plan. Happy to fill you in on what we think we’ve found. If you’re interested,’ he tells Tilda.
‘Yes, I am. That’d be great. Oh, can I bring Thistle?’
Lucas regards the dog as if he has only just noticed her. ‘Well, I don’t know if she’ll be allowed in,’ he says.
‘I know the landlord. Mike’ll be cool about it. If I ask him,’ Dylan assures them. The point made, he leads them all in the direction of the village pub, Lucas falling into step behind him, the professor picking up the subject of the skeleton as they make their way along the muddy path.
SEREN
The moment has come. The moon is full, its beams pure and strong, touching the surface of the lake with silver. The night is at its deepest now, and all on the crannog, save the bored watchmen, are sleeping; the cattleman curled around his plump little wife; the blacksmith warm in his forge; young brothers and sisters heaped together like puppies, snuffling and squeaking as they chase sleep; the new mother dozing with her babe at her breast; even the horses slumber, eyelids drooping, resting a hind hoof, heads low, minds slowed and numbed to the world. And my prince, he will be snug beneath his fine cloths, his princess at his side, the two of them private behind the drapery of their princely bed. She will dream of a future filled with children. Their children. Each one a promise of loyalty, of protection, of respect, of continued privilege and position, as they scamper about the great hall carrying his likeness and his blood into the next and future generations.
And will my prince dream? Does he dare to? So great are his responsibilities. So many ha
ve put their lives, and their families’ lives, into his strong hands. Dare he let his secret thoughts run free in the haven of his nighttime imaginings? Will he allow himself there, and then, to be a man before he is a prince? To be young? To follow his heart? Or would to do so weaken the prince in his waking hours? Would he yearn for that other, fleeting happiness? Might he risk diminishing himself so?
I know that I must not.
And this night I am engaged in work that serves to remind me well of my place. Of my purpose. I seek a vision for the princess. I search for a seeing. For an answer to her question. For a way for her to have what it is she desires more than any silver trinket or jeweled necklace or gold-threaded gown. This night I am her prophet and her servant. Though she does not truly love Prince Brynach, nor he her. Though he would choose another if he were free to do so. Though I do not trust her intentions. I do not believe her to be loyal. Despite all this, I will do what I can for her. I will do what I must.
I have kept my fire well stoked, and even now the logs burn bright on a bed of scarlet embers. My outdoor fire pit is three strides from my front door, and five from the lake. Earlier I gathered and prepared everything necessary for my vision quest. I have spread my finest deerskin upon the gritty ground, so that I might lie in comfort as my spirit travels, and so that I will be accompanied by the spirit of the departed deer. The night is cold enough to freeze a shallow puddle, but not so bitter as to bother me while I lie still beneath the stars. I am close enough to the fire to benefit from its heat, and over my tunic I wear my fine woolen cape, its hood pulled up to keep my head warm. I might have chosen my wolf skin, but its own music would be at odds with that of the deer whose assistance I am hoping for. This is to be a gentle quest, not a hunt. Besides, the cape was a present from the prince. It is fitting that something of him should accompany me on my journey.
I have assembled what tools and ingredients I require. My drum is placed within reach on the deerskin. In a jar to one side is an infusion of mosses and mint, which I will take to revive and soothe me upon my return. The plants and herbs within it, strengthened by a spell given for healing, will go some way to easing my pain after the vision, and to restoring my body and mind as it readjusts to the weight of the common world. In my black cooking pot, suspended over the fire, the concoction simmers. I have used mare’s milk this time, as it is sweeter than cow’s, and gentler. Into this I have crumbled the dried fairy toadstool I collected a few days ago under the glare of the full sun. The bright red of the caps has softened and turned the mixture to pink. It smells of the forest floor, of the earth, of something strange and dangerous. As indeed it is. Too little, and there will not be sufficient to aid my vision. Too much, and it will send me into a dark place of pain and fear from which I will not return. I have judged the measure with great care. I am of no use to my prince dead.
Before beginning, I stand firm and tall in front of the fire and raise my arms to the heavens. I offer up ancient words taught to me in secret, and held in my memory for safekeeping, to be used only with a good heart, for the benefit of those in need, without hope of gain for myself, my assistance freely given. The words have magic in them. Magic of the Celtic elders, who have studied the ways of man for centuries alongside the ways of the underworld. Magic of the shamans, who have traveled this path before me seeking answers and wisdom. Magic of the witches, who are born with the light of spell-casting in their bones. And as I speak I feel my own spirit stir, my own essence shift and change and tremble in anticipation of what is to come.
Next I pull the pot from the fire and place it on the ground. I take my cow’s horn cup and dip it deep, scooping a helping of the precious liquid as full of the bewitching toadstools as can be. Pungent steam rises from the cup as the cold night air cools it. I take my place, cross legged, upon the deerskin. I ask my spirit guides to join me, I offer thanks to the woodland that has given up its bounty for me to use, I form my question, clear and plain, speaking it aloud into the dancing flames of the fire.
‘I seek Wenna’s progeny. Show them to me, or show them not to be, but bring me to the truth of it. If there be a way to coax such offspring into this world, let me know the manner of it.’
So saying, I raise up the cup, close my eyes and then down the foul liquid in three hungry gulps, closing my mouth and throat swiftly afterward, lest my stomach rebel against the poison I am inflicting upon it.
All is good. It is begun.
I sit at my drum and pick up a steady beat while I await the effects of the draught. I let my palms strike the drum skin, flat and slow to start, feeling the sound and its vibration enter my body. As the minutes pass, the fairy toadstool enters further, deeper, wider into me, into my mind, my soul, so that I increase the pace of my drumming. Faster now. Faster! I feel a darkness grip me. The lake and the crannog, the woodlands and the meadows, all have faded to nothing. I am removed from them, and they from me. I exist only inside my head, until the magic will release me on my journey. Pain twists in my belly and scratches at my throat. My breath burns through me. There is a noise, a fearsome roaring of a storm, building, building, building until I must surely burst with it! Burst or die! It is so strong. As if my body cannot withstand what I have forced it to endure. Shall I be smothered, pushed into eternal darkness?
But no! There! I am released. My journey is under way.
Of a sudden, I am leaping through the summer hay meadow, the flowering grasses high above my head as I crouch, tickling my belly as I spring and bound. I am not being chased. I run for joy, for the wonder of the day, for the blessing of the ripening harvest, for the warmth of the sun. As I am, my eyes are not stung by the light. As I am, my skin does not burn nor blister in the golden heat. What freedom! No longer forced to dwell in the shadows, no longer a creature of the darkness, I can run with the singing birds, dart past the grazing cattle, twist through the fragrant flowers and herbs that release their sweetness in the daytime.
I pause, sniffing the air, my keen ears alert, listening, my bold eyes watchful. A movement against the sunlight horizon. A deer, fine-legged and with a gleaming coat. My fellow traveler. It regards me for a moment, and then raises its head, ears twitching. There is something. A sound. A woman crying. I move silently toward it, keeping cover in the tall grasses, taking care not to give myself away. I come upon a figure, bent away from me, kneeling on the ground at the edge of the lake. I cannot see the woman’s face, but she is weeping pitifully, and in front of her is a baby’s crib. It rocks on wooden rockers, but there is no sound or movement from within it, for it is empty. As I creep closer, wanting to see who it is who sobs so for what is not there, another sound stops me. A shuddering of the earth. A galloping. Many horses, and approaching at speed! The deer, too, has felt their thundering through the ground and turns, leaping, running fast away. Now the horses charge into view. Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred? Too many to count. I lay flat on the ground, still as a stone, forced to trust that the charging horses will not set their great iron-clad hooves upon me. The soldiers on their backs shout and roar and wield their heavy swords as they charge, and in front of them, a lone figure. A young man, alone, upon a red horse, its neck wet with sweat, its mouth foaming. The man wears no armor, carries no shield, nor any sword. He is defenseless. I fight for breath as I see it is Prince Brynach! The soldiers close upon him. The woman lifts her head. She sees, but she does not call out to him. She does nothing. Nothing. And the attackers race on, so that the prince must turn his horse into the water. Deeper and deeper into the lake he rides until the horse must swim, and then, when it can swim no more, it sinks beneath him. And he with it. So that the waters close over his head, and the lake swallows him up.
8
TILDA
The Red Lion sits in the center of the village of Llangors, a sturdy, whitewashed building with black-painted window frames and doors, and three smoking chimneys. It appears unchanged by time, so that Tilda can easily imagine weary travelers or thirsty farmers, knocking the mud off their boots
, and dipping their heads to enter through its low front door one, two, or even three hundred years ago. The only concessions to the modern age are the wide car park to one side—though this still boasts a hitching rail for horses, as the inn is a popular lunchtime halt for local treks—and, inside, the availability of free Wi-Fi. Dylan finds some tables in the low-ceilinged black-beamed lounge bar, where a fire burns cheerfully in the hearth, its flames glinting off the many brass fire irons and ornaments that surround it. There is much peeling off of outdoor gear as people move to the bar to place their orders, or take their seats on tapestry-cushioned chairs, or the high-backed wooden settle that runs along the wall from the fireplace to the small window. Tilda stands at the bar, her eyes devouring the list of food on offer. Over the bar hang two blackboards listing the day’s menu, promising hearty, home-cooked food. There is a friendly murmur and a gentle buzz about the place, with local residents leaning against the bar enjoying a lunchtime pint, or visitors tucking hungrily into their lunches after a morning’s activity in the winter cold.
Everything is so utterly normal, and welcoming, and safe, that Tilda finds herself suddenly close to tears as she reads the menu.
You are ridiculous, Tilda Fordwells. You’ve been spending too much time on your own and eating too much rubbish, if the idea of pub grub can reduce you to sniveling.
Without warning, the lights dim and flicker.
Oh no! Not here, not now.
They flicker again, and then fail completely. There is a collective groan from the pub-goers. The barmaid busies herself trying switches but nothing seems to be working. Someone goes into the cellar to check the fuse box. Tilda fights the urge to turn and run. She knows she has to do something. Has to at least try. She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing.
Focus. Still your mind. You can do this. You can.
While people around her mutter about sandwiches, stoke up the log fire, or find candles, Tilda stands without moving, keeping herself separate. Making herself picture a spark of energy, of power.
The Silver Witch Page 11
