The Silver Witch (15 page)

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.

Come on. Work, dammit. Work!

Suddenly there is a fizzing noise, a flashing, the lights flicker again, and then stay on.

Yes!

A cheer rings out through the pub. Tilda joins in, smiling at the thought that no one else can have any idea how happy she is to see those lights working.

‘What do you want to drink?' Dylan appears at her elbow. He has an easy smile, with bright white teeth and eyes that have a mischievous sparkle to them. He rubs his hands together and nods at the array of taps on the bar. ‘Mike's a real ale man. One or two stunning little beers here. The Mountain Goat's a bit strong, but you might like Hiker's Heaven. Or Sheep Dip, that's popular around here.'

‘Sounds like you're a bit of an expert,' Tilda says.

‘Oh, I do my best to support local businesses,' he tells her.

‘Well, I need to eat something before I have a drink or I'll fall over. I've got to try the steak and kidney pudding.'

‘With chips?' asks the barmaid, tapping the order into the till.

‘Definitely with chips.' Tilda finds her mouth actually watering at the thought of the food. ‘And half a shandy while I'm waiting, please.'

‘Lightweight,' Dylan teases, ordering himself a pint of the famous Black Sheep ale.

When she sits on the settle, close to the fire, Dylan slides along to sit beside her, and Lucas takes the chair opposite. Thistle stretches out in front of the hearth, her earlier nervousness appearing to have lessened. The room is wonderfully warm, so that Tilda has to remove her hat, scarf and coat. She can feel a dozen pairs of surreptitious eyes upon her now, her striking hair revealed, her face no longer partially obscured by all her winter clothing, her eyes exposed as she takes off her sunglasses. She senses that Dylan is going out of his way not to stare, not to notice, whereas Lucas is still looking at her as if she were a rare specimen that he might label and exhibit in a museum, given half a chance. She is amused to find that she cares less about them noticing her albinism than she does about the fact that she hasn't washed her hair for an age.

Better odd-looking than scuzzy. Pure vanity, silly woman.

‘Professor Williams tells me you are a ceramic artist, so you've an interest in Celtic art, am I right?' Lucas asks.

‘Yes, for my own designs. But … well, apart from that, I want to learn more about the history of the place. You know, being new here, I'd like to find out … stuff.' She is aware how badly she is explaining herself, and knows it is because of what she is not saying.

Ghosts and murders: discuss. Not an easy conversation opener over lunch.

Dylan takes a couple of gulps of his pint and then leans close to Tilda.

‘My uncle is pretty much the expert on local history around here, you know. I've never heard anyone ask him a question he couldn't answer.'

‘Yes,' she says, nodding and sipping cautiously at her shandy, ‘and he's been really helpful already. It's just that, well … I'm curious about the dig.' She turns to look at Dylan, just quickly enough to catch him gazing at her hair. He meets her eye and then looks away, mumbling an apology into his beer. Standard embarrassed reaction. But then he raises his eyes again and regards her steadily, his face serious. He sighs, seemingly about to speak, but then does not. There are a few seconds, a fleeting moment, where he is awkward, having been found out, and his guard has dropped. The grin is gone. So is his habit of making light of everything, keeping things upbeat. Safe. She likes this version of him better. Out of habit, she continues talking to smooth over his discomfort, but, really, there is no need. An unspoken apology has been given and accepted. She understands that his interest is not voyeuristic, nor is it morbid curiosity, but it is something genuine. Sincere. ‘I'd like to know about the grave.' She turns back to Lucas, who has missed what passed between her and Dylan entirely as he was busy texting. ‘Who do you think you've found?' she asks him.

As he speaks, Lucas looks at her without faltering, yet his gaze does not connect. Rather his eyes move to take in all her features, all her strangeness, as if filing it away. ‘It would be easy to jump to conclusions, given the pointers we've found … Point is, I've learnt from the many digs I've been involved in, things are rarely as obvious as they seem. Human lives are complicated … and people sometimes, well, they go out of their way to hide things. Or at least, to make them less simple to discover.'

‘Perhaps the dead don't want us digging up their secrets,' Dylan suggests, wiping beer foam from his top lip.

Lucas gives him a hard stare. ‘Some people have a problem with disturbing a grave, however well-meant the investigation. If you are one of those, why did you agree to dive for us?'

Dylan shrugs. ‘Every man has his price. Isn't that what they say?'

Tilda is unconvinced.

Lucas leans forward, elbows on the worn and polished wood of the table, concentrating on Tilda now, keen to share his theories regarding his discovery with her. ‘What we know for certain at this stage is that this is a double grave. There are two people buried here, both interred at the same time.'

‘Members of the same family?' Tilda asks.

‘It's possible, but … well, there are signs that suggest something rather different. You see, the bodies are lying not side by side, but one on top of the other. And only the lower one has a coffin. Which is unusual. As is the fact that there don't appear to be any grave goods accompanying the upper body.' Lucas waves his hands expressively as he talks, needing no prompting to explain further. ‘Given the date we believe the grave to have been dug, this is strange. Grave goods were things people put in with a deceased person that they believed they might need with them in the next life. Weapons, plates, jewels, things that would mark out their status, signs of wealth or standing in society as well.'

‘And your grave…' Tilda corrects herself. ‘Sorry, the one you've found … there are none of these things in it?'

‘There may be some in the coffin below, we don't know yet. But the body nearer the surface appears to have been buried without any possessions whatsoever.'

‘Perhaps they were very poor,' Tilda suggests. ‘Maybe they didn't have anything to take with them.'

‘It is possible, but unlikely. Most people would have had
something.
Or if they didn't, relatives or community members would have provided at least the most basic items. It is odd to find a body with nothing at all. Unless…'

‘Ah, food!' Dylan alerts them to the arrival of the meals. Tilda is torn between her desire to tuck into the first decent plate of food she has seen in a very long time, and her wish to know what it is that Lucas is hinting at. Muttering thanks to the young waiter, who blushes when she finds him gawking at her, she presses Lucas to finish his thought.

‘Unless?'

‘Unless the person we've found was executed. If the killing was a punishment, the carrying out of a sentence for some sort of crime, then the culprit would not have been allowed any grave goods. It would have been part of the punishment. An important part, as it condemned the executed person to struggle and hardship in the next life too.'

‘I don't want to rain on anyone's parade,' Dylan says, liberally sprinkling salt on his chips, ‘but there could be a much simpler explanation.'

‘Such as?' The irritation is plain in Lucas's voice.

‘The person in the coffin took all the stuff with him or her. The second person, the one on top, wasn't buried at the same time, but a little while later. That person had nothing left, couldn't afford a coffin or a decent burial, but wanted to be in the same place as their loved one. Still happens today, after all, people being buried in extra-deep graves so that their spouse can be laid to rest in the same spot when they eventually die.'

Lucas gives him a weary look and adopts the voice of a tired parent addressing a bothersome child. ‘In the first place, we know roughly when the grave was dug—somewhere between 850 and 950 AD—and at that time couples were always buried side by side, no matter how many years after the first one died the second one joined them. Stacking bodies was a tactic employed because of a lack of space. By the Victorian era, for example, there simply wasn't room to put people next to each other, particularly in urban areas. Hundreds of years before that, out in the countryside, when the population was a fraction of what it is now, space wasn't an issue. In fact'—he pauses to enjoy a mouthful of shepherd's pie before going on—‘it would have been much easier to dig two shallow graves side by side than one deeper one. Anyway, there is a more compelling reason to suppose this was a punishment killing.'

Tilda hurriedly snatches at some chips while she waits for Lucas to go on. He has paused again, in part to eat some of his food, but more, she suspects, for dramatic effect. And possibly to annoy Dylan.