The winter sun is weakening fast as it dips toward the jagged horizon of the Brecon Beacons. Tilda and Thistle make their slow and steady way back up the hill to Ty Gwyn.
9
SEREN
I wait inside my house. The fire is lit but I keep it burning low to avoid too much smoke in the small space. Today I have fed the short flames with rosemary stalks to aid my memory of the vision, and to lift my dulled senses. I am always weary after a quest. The causes of this lie in some measure with the poisonous nature of the fairy toadstool. Its effects linger in the body a day or more sometimes. But there are other origins to my low spirits and lethargy. Journeying in my other guise tires me upon my return, for my limbs and sinews have been used in unfamiliar and unpracticed ways, so that now my body aches. More, I am downcast by the clear meaning of the vision. Wenna will not bear a child. That much is plain. I do not care for the woman, but I pity her. As a princess her position is now all but untenable in these politically unstable times. As a woman, she will face a barren future, and I would not wish that upon anyone. There is more at stake here, however, than Wenna’s happiness, for the vision foretold the possible death of Prince Brynach. To those uninitiated in the ways of reading a seeing, it might appear that all is lost. A hundred or more charging horses bearing soldiers sharp with weapons seen driving him into the lake … that must surely foretell nothing less than his enemies’ triumph, his own defeat, his very death. But it need not be so. Had he fallen to a sword, or an arrow, or an axe, then yes, I would have read the vision no other way. But he went into the water. He was taken by the lake. In this way he entered that liminal realm where two worlds meet, and from which it is possible to return. So, I pray the seeing shows not his ultimate demise, but a battle lost from which he may, may, recover.
I have sent a shepherd boy with a message for Nesta. If the princess wishes to hear my words herself she can choose to come, but I think she will not. It is important for her to keep her fears and her desires to herself, and whilst a visit from Nesta would go unremarked, anyone seeing Princess Wenna calling upon me would be suspicious of her motives. And when people are suspicious they want to find the truth, even if it means gouging out someone else’s secrets. Or perhaps, making up truths of their own. Either way, Wenna will not want tongues wagging on account of her business. Nesta will come to me as one wise woman to another, under guise of exchanging remedies, perhaps. She will listen to what I have to say and if her mistress trusts her to repeat my words faithfully, then so must I.
Soon I feel her heavy footsteps thudding through the ground, and moments later she knocks on my door. I bid her enter and she comes to settle herself close to the fire. She is a little out of breath, her short legs having worked hard to carry her stout body over the frostbitten ground at some speed, it seems. I give her a moment to arrange her skirts and remove the hood of her gray woolen cloak. I notice she is wearing a silver broach, pinning her kirtle. It is a pretty thing, a ring of oak leaves and acorns finely worked. A present from the princess I should imagine, and worn today to remind me of the esteem Nesta is held in. Of her position on the crannog. I need no such reminder. I know which one of us is trusted to wash Princess Wenna’s small clothes and which one of us is trusted with seeing her future.
‘You are well, Seren Arianaidd?’ Nesta asks. The sound of my formal name spoken in her voice is unfamiliar to us both. It amuses me. I imagine it pains her.
I merely nod, not wishing to encourage an unnecessary exchange of pleasantries. My head is too sore, my belly too hot, my limbs too cramped, to be bothered with such things. Nesta should know this, if she calls herself healer and follower of the old religion. She should understand. But, in truth, she is an altogether different manner of witch from me. It is true, her remedies have helped those with small ailments and base longings. She does not, however, tread the path of true magic, nor would she dare to seek a vision. There are better hedge witches a day’s ride from here, I’d wager. She does the name no service, for though her skills are passable, her heart is greedy. This is not the way of a true witch. Her lack of talent has driven her to follow a dangerous path, a road where dark magic is used for personal gain, each successful spell a stain upon her own soul and that of whoever it is pays for her services. She is seen as a vain and silly woman, I think, but people do not fear her. Their judgment is off. She is more dangerous than they could imagine.
At least she has no more patience for formalities than I, so that her next question takes us to business.
‘You sent for me; have you done what Princess Wenna asked of you?’
‘I sought a vision on her behalf, yes.’
She leans forward, her deep-set eyes brightened by the firelight. ‘What did you see?’
‘I can speak plainly to you, Nesta Meredith?’
‘I would prefer it.’
‘The vision was clear, there was nothing slant or double in it. The princess will never bear a child.’
Nesta takes a wheezing in-breath of shock. ‘You are certain?’
‘I would not state what I do not know to be the truth.’
‘No child? Ever?’
‘Not by Prince Brynach, nor any other man.’
‘Any other? She would not wish to know of such a thing! You were not instructed…’
‘Indeed I was not instructed! Your mistress asked for my help and it was freely given. I sought an answer to her question—would she ever bear a child? The answer came back no, not for any man, not ever.’
‘I recall her also asking for your assistance in conceiving a child!’
‘As she has asked you, so many times.’
‘You are quick to dismiss my cures…’
‘And what do they cure, tell me?’
‘… but I see you offer no hope. No help. No remedy.’
‘I will not give false hope. I will not offer a remedy where there is none. Unlike some…’
‘My only desire is to aid the princess. To ease her suffering!’
‘And to prolong her wish for the impossible, to keep alive a longing that is the bedfellow only of pain and disappointment. Does this ease her suffering?’
‘I act only out of love for my mistress.’
To my astonishment, I see tears glinting upon her cheeks. She quickly brushes them away, and makes her voice level and firm once more.
‘I cannot return to Princess Wenna with such news. We must think of a way to … to soften the blow, else I fear it could kill her.’
‘Can a person die of disappointment?’
‘You know full well what is at stake here, and not just for the princess. Her wish to be a mother is not for herself alone. It is for the prince, of course, but also for the future of her people. The future of the prince’s domain.’
‘All the more reason she should know the truth.’
Nesta shakes her head. ‘You are a heartless creature, Seren. People say you do not feel as others, that your soul thrives only in the dark hours. How can you know what my mistress endures? How can you understand?’
‘If it were within my gift to change the way things are, do you not think I would do it? My magic has its limits. I was not shown a way to put a babe in the arms of the princess.’ I cast my gaze into the fire as I speak, my own heart heavy with the burden of such sorrow. ‘She must learn to accept that which cannot be changed. As must we all.’
‘Ha!’ Nesta is angry now, fearful, no doubt, of her mistress’s reaction. ‘That is all very well for you to say, sitting here in your lair, distant from the life of the crannog. You will not be the one looking into Princess Wenna’s eyes when she learns her future. You will not be the one to sit up nights with her as her heart breaks. You will not be the one to watch Prince Brynach turn from her.’ She pauses, narrowing her eyes and jutting her chin at me. ‘Or it might be that you will. For when he turns from her, we all know who it is he looks to in her stead!’
‘Have care how you speak to me.’
‘Oh? Would you have the truth buttered l
ike parsnips for you now?’
‘I am my prince’s Seer, nothing more.’
‘Your prince!’ Nesta sneers. ‘That’s what you want, you cannot deny it. You would send me back to the princess to throttle the life from her dreams with your vision, when all you have seen is the future you desire, and my lady’s happiness is not a part of it.’
‘You damn me with every word that comes out of your mouth!’ I leap to my feet, causing dust to kick up into the fire, which spits and sparks. As do I. ‘You call me a cheat and a liar! You question my loyalty to Prince Brynach—and his wife—and more than this, you accuse me of falsifying a vision! You cannot believe I would do such a thing. That I would forsake the sacred trust given me!’
Nesta clambers to her feet. ‘People are wrong about you, after all is said and done. You are a woman like any other, and you will abuse your position to get what you want. To get who you want!’
‘Take yourself from my sight! Do not set one fat foot in my home again. I have told you what I saw, and all that is required of you is that you be messenger. Deliver the truth to Princess Wenna. She, at least, will know it when she hears it, even if you do not.’
But after she has gone I wonder. Will the princess believe me? Or will she, too, see some selfish purpose behind my interpretation? The news I send is the worst she could expect, and carries a harsh future for her. Might she not seek to shine a different light on the scene depicted? Might she not be all too willing to listen to Nesta’s poison words, words that themselves serve another’s purpose? For many is the tale of a messenger bringing bad tidings who does not live long enough to see them come to pass. If Nesta is fervent in her manner and persuasive in her argument, and Wenna wants only to hear a happier version of her life, why then might she not choose to blame me? She knows where her husband’s affection lies. How can she not?
I stamp down the flames of my fire, snatch my cape from its hook by the door, and stride out into the gathering dark. I cannot feel this way, my heart heavy, my head disquieted so, and be confined. I will walk by the shores of the lake and take up some of the tranquility of the waters.
TILDA
The December morning is taking its time waking up, so that even at eight o’clock it is still barely light enough for a run. Though Tilda prefers to go out in the soft focus of dawn or dusk, she still has to be sensible. It would be so easy to twist an ankle or have a fall if the gloom were too heavy. There is another frost today, so that as the darkness begins to lift, the landscape is awash with a curious silver glow. She stands in the garden, mug of tea in hand, watching the world below slowly reveal itself. The lake is not quite frozen, but there is a flatness to the surface that suggests if the temperature were to drop another degree or so it would quickly glaze over again. Into this quiet scene comes the flicker of car headlights through the hedge along the lane, and the sound of an engine laboring up the hill. She watches, and an aged Landrover growls into view. As it makes its noisy progress up the narrow stretch of tarmac that twists in a hairpin bend to climb to the cottage, she can make out Dylan at the wheel. She goes to greet him at the gate. Up close the vehicle is even more dilapidated and battered than she had first thought. Its bodywork is dented in several places, its paintwork dull and scratched, and an alarming amount of smoke trails from its exhaust. Dylan parks up and gets out, cheerful as ever, apparently unbothered by the car’s condition.
‘Post!’ he calls, waving a brown cardboard package. ‘Your books have come,’ he explains as she lets him into the garden.
‘I didn’t expect a personal delivery service, but thanks. ‘She takes them from him. ‘Come inside, the kettle’s hot.’
She leads him not into the kitchen, but to the studio, where the wood burner is still going from the night before, a cast-iron kettle singing softly on top of it. What daylight exists is backed up by a storm lantern. Tilda is aware how odd it must look. Thistle stands up when they enter the room but does not come to greet Dylan.
‘She’s still a bit shy,’ she tells him. ‘Even without her pink collar.’
‘This place is great,’ he says as he wanders around, taking in her half-made pots, piles of sketch books, pots of glazes and general potter’s paraphernalia. If the lack of lighting strikes him as strange, he does not mention it. ‘You’ve been busy, by the look of it.’
‘Things are stacking up. I’ve gone as far as I can go without a kiln. I’m really pleased to see these books.’
Dylan is now standing in front of what is obviously the large, modern, electric kiln. He looks at it, and then at Tilda. ‘This one not working then?’
She hesitates, turning away from him to add milk to his drink. ‘I want to try something different. Something … older. More in keeping with where the pots have been made, and what inspired them.’
‘Cool.’ He nods, easily accepting her explanation.
She hands him the mug, letting him help himself to the somewhat damp sugar from the bowl. He seems very at ease, and she envies him his ability to relax with someone he scarcely knows, in a place he has never been before, with a less-than-friendly dog watching his every move. She takes the biscuit tin from the workbench and offers one to Thistle in the hope she might thaw a little, but she won’t even take it. Dylan takes two, munching as he talks.
‘So, what’s the plan? Are you going to build the thing in here?’
‘Oh, no. It has to be outside. I think I’m going to use bricks. I’d like to seal it with mud, but the weather’s not exactly conducive to trying to dig at the moment, so I may have to use mortar.’ She unwraps the books and flicks through the first one until she finds an illustration to show him. ‘Here, see? It’s a simple system, but you can get fantastic results if you manage the temperature carefully.’
‘Can’t be easy. I mean, you light a fire under the thing and it burns. Hardly comes with a dial, does it?’
‘It’s all about controlling the airflow and letting the kiln cool down slowly, which can take days.’
‘Days!’ He laughs. ‘We’re going to need more biscuits.’
‘We?’
‘Thought I’d lend a hand. Can’t dive until things warm up a bit out there. The dig’s on hold because of the freeze too.’
‘Well, I hadn’t planned … that is, I don’t know…’
‘If you’re going to make that thing out of bricks,’ he says, tapping the picture on the page, ‘you’ll have to go to the builder’s merchants in Brecon.’ He shrugs and smiles. ‘I’ve got the Landrover, all fueled up and ready to go.’
‘Really? I mean, will it get as far as Brecon?’
He clutches dramatically at his chest. ‘I’m wounded. Wounded! That’s my fabulous Linny the Lanny—she’s been with me years.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘They won’t deliver, not all the way up here. And I can easily get what you need in the back of Linny.’ He glances at his watch. ‘They’ll be open by now.’ He slurps his tea and looks at her, head tilted slightly to one side, waiting.
And what do I tell him? That I’m terrified of going anywhere in a car? That if he goes over forty miles per hour I’ll have a panic attack?
She knows she cannot. No bricks: no kiln. No kiln: no pots. She needs those bricks, and there doesn’t seem to be another way of getting them. She drains her mug.
‘Okay,’ she says, nodding a little too much. ‘Yes, thanks. That’d be great. I’ll … get my coat.’
As they leave, she expects Thistle to follow but the dog hangs back. She pats her gently. ‘Okay, funny old thing. You stay here and guard the valuables. That’s pretty much the kettle right now.’
She climbs into the passenger seat of the Landrover and immediately feels her stomach knot.
Steady girl. Not exactly a speed machine. Only ten miles or so, you’ll be fine.
‘Right,’ Dylan slams his door, sending a shudder through the whole vehicle. ‘Here we go.’ He turns the key, and nothing happens. He tries again. Nothing. Not even a stutter or a faint whir
of battery attempting to fire internal combustion engine. He turns the key a third time. Again, nothing. He frowns. ‘Odd,’ he says.
‘Oh well, never mind…’ Tilda finds herself ridiculously relieved.
‘She’s such a good starter. Reliable as the day is long, is my lovely Linny.’
‘Well, she doesn’t seem to want to start today,’ Tilda points out.
Dylan hesitates, turning to look at her, then says gently, ‘Or perhaps you don’t want her to.’
Tilda feels herself blush. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she blurts out, more crossly than she intended.
‘Look, I’m just saying…’
‘It’s your car.’
‘And it usually starts,’ he says. ‘Just like my boat usually starts. And my uncle’s clock usually works. Usually.’
Oh God.
For a full minute neither of them speaks. They simply sit there, the huge unspoken meaning behind his words squashed between them. Tilda wants to jump out of the car, run back to the house, and shut herself inside. She doesn’t want to go anywhere in any car. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable to this … man. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain it to herself.
But if I run now, if I hide now, if I give up now, then what?
She knows things have to change. She knows she has to do something. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to find a kernel of courage.
I do want this bloody car to start. I do!
She steadies her breathing, waiting for the sense that something has changed. And it comes. A subtle shift in how she feels. In how she … is. She opens her eyes and stares out through the windscreen, not trusting herself to meet Dylan’s eyes.
The Silver Witch Page 13
