The Silver Witch (27 page)

‘My lane is definitely blocked.'

‘Even your mother can walk a short distance if she's well motivated.'

‘The power's unreliable right now too.'

‘Again? I thought you were getting that fixed.'

‘Must be the snow.'

‘How are you managing?'

She pauses, unsure whether telling him about Dylan will make him worry less or more.

‘I built a wood-fired kiln,' she tells him.

He laughs. ‘That's my girl. Pots first, domesticity sometime never.'

‘Pots first,' she agrees.

‘Are you pleased with them?'

‘Haven't opened the door yet.'

‘Ah,' he says, sufficiently well-versed in the expectation that hangs on that moment to understand something of Tilda's nervousness about it.

They agree to watch the weather and leave things undecided beyond that. The idea of a visit is not as scotched as Tilda would like it to be but, as always, her father's gentle concern fills her with warmth and guilt simultaneously.

When she goes back outside she is struck by how clear the air is, how sharp the colors, how pure the sound of the birdsong. It is a bright day, and the landscape is looking its most beguiling. The lake appears sapphire blue set off by the whiteness around it. Even Thistle's mood seems to have lightened, and she is allowing Dylan to throw snowballs for her to chase.

‘You're winning her over,' she tells him.

‘She's not keen to share you, but every dog has its price.'

‘A few snowballs? Some might call that cheap. My father would probably woo her with mince pies.'

‘Are your family coming for Christmas?' It is a perfectly natural question, but it makes Tilda uncomfortable.

‘The roads are blocked.'

‘Only the lanes. The snow's not that bad.'

‘We might have more.'

He looks at her curiously. ‘We might not.'

‘But, we might.'

‘Okay.' He thinks for a moment and then says, ‘Of course, if the roads
are
blocked, if your parents
don't
make it up here, well, you'd be welcome to spend Christmas at the Old School House with us.'

This is an entirely different prospect. The coziness of the professor's home, his unquestioning acceptance of her, Dylan's company and support, all sound so much more appealing than her parents' well-meant fussing. She doesn't have to hide what is happening from Dylan. Having him know, having him understand, means so much to Tilda. And the opportunity to spend time searching though Professor William's extensive library is an added attraction. The more she delves into the past of the lake, the more likely she is to find out the identity of the body in the grave, and to start making sense of what is happening to her.

‘Won't your uncle mind?'

‘He'll be thrilled skinny. Why don't we go down and tell him now?'

‘Oh, actually, I'd like to spend a bit of time here. You go.'

‘Want rid of me already, huh?'

‘No, of course not, it's just that…' She can't find the words to explain that she is used to being on her own. That now, more than ever, she needs a little solitude. ‘You know, girl stuff. Might crank up the Rayburn, get some hot water together for a bath, wash my hair, shave my legs…'

‘Okay, I get it!' He raises his hands, smiling. ‘Linny will manage the snow no problem with her chunky tires. I'll come back later with something edible from the village shop.'

‘Tomorrow?'

‘Morning?'

‘Let's make it afternoon, shall we?' Seeing the poorly masked hurt on his face, she adds quickly, ‘I'd really like you to be here when I open the kiln.' It isn't true, but she knows it will matter to him.

He pulls her to him and kisses her lightly. ‘Brilliant idea,' he says, holding her close.

SEREN

We lie in a tangle of limbs, my prince's lean and muscular, my own lithe and pale. We are twisted as ivy through oak. Brynach has added a fine fur to my bed; a fur from a far-off land, the pelt of an animal I have never seen and will never know. I am grateful for the comfort it affords me now. It is noon, near enough, and the door to my little home is propped open to allow in the soft summer breeze with its scent of meadow hay, and the familiar voices of the waterbirds. Of late, I have submitted to a slowness that at first was frustrating and bewildering. I have come to see that nature has her own notion of what is best for me now, and I am in no position to argue.

‘Are you thirsty?' Prince Brynach asks me, leaning over to smile down, studying my face, now my throat, now the curve of my shoulder.

‘I am not. I wish only to stay here and watch the sun fall behind the mountains.'

‘Are you hungry?' he asks, running his hand over the impossibly full curve of my belly, stooping to kiss the taught skin, following the now-distorted lines of the drawings on my flesh with his mouth.

‘I am not, though I know you would feed me six times a day like a farrowing sow if you had your way.'

He smiles at this. ‘The sow is sensible. She knows she cannot grow her young without sufficient fodder.'

I laugh. ‘One look at the bulbous thing I am become will tell you I have allowed neither myself nor my unborn to go without.'

‘Young princes grow large in the womb. It is often said.'

‘And young witches too. Though this is not often spoken of.'

He tilts his head. ‘Will our child be a boy prince or a girl witch?' he asks. ‘Tell me, Prophet, what do you see?'

‘I see that my baby likes to keep secrets. Though one thing is certain, I will give you no prince.'

His face clouds, but I speak only the truth. Whilst he has been as good as his word and made our love known to all, he remains married to Wenna. I am not his wife. Our child will be a bastard, and never a legitimate heir to his realm. And my vision remains true: the princess continues to be childless. How she must despise me now. Where I might have been tolerated as an amusement for her husband, now I am a threat to her position, her marriage, everything. There have been no further attempts on my life. It was many weeks before Hywel was freed from being my protector, and only then because the prince had issued a declaration condemning my attackers, swearing vengeance should anything more happen to me, and letting it be known that I would always be guarded. I have found it irksome, these past months, to forever have a shadow, however they tried to keep a respectful distance. I begged Brynach to take away whichever trusted soldier he sent, but he would not hear of it. If he feared for my safety before, he has become even more determined to have me protected every minute of every night and day since I told him that I am carrying his child.

I attempt to sit up, my movements clumsy and awkward. Brynach offers me his arm but I wave him away, turning onto my knees to right myself with much puffing and little dignity. ‘I can manage,' I tell him sternly. ‘Though I shall be glad of the day when I no longer lumber and lurch. I cannot so much as gather wild garlic or pick mushrooms in this condition.'

‘How can you tolerate such restrictions?'

‘Do not mock me, my prince. They may seem trifles to you,' I say, pulling my kirtle over my head, dusting myself down and slipping my swollen feet into my deerskin boots, ‘but I am unaccustomed to being so…'

‘Fat?' He pretends seriousness but only succeeds in doing so with difficulty.

I scowl. ‘I am able to throw things still,' I warn him. ‘My aim remains good.' I move to lean against the door frame, my eyes shaded against the sunshine, taking in the prettiness of the day outside. The lake shimmers. A lanky heron stalks fish in the shallows. A family of young grebes swims past, heads nodding in their distinctive, comical manner. Brynach appears at my side. He starts to speak, but the sound of approaching horses stops him. Two riders draw near. We recognize both at once: Rhodri and his green son, Si
ō
n. They are dressed in their habitual finery, even though there is no one who cares here to see it.

‘Good day to you, Prince Brynach,' the princess's brother hails his master cordially, bowing elaborately in his saddle, yet treats me as if I were not visible. He succeeds in deferring to his prince whilst wordlessly insulting me. Such subtle talents demonstrate skill born of a lifetime of diplomacy. ‘And what a very fine day it is.'

‘A fine day for a ride out,' Brynach agrees, pointedly slipping his arm around my waist. The action is not lost on his brother-on-law, but he masters his displeasure and conceals it well.

‘Indeed,' he agrees, ‘Si
ō
n has a new horse and we wished to test his stamina. We took him atop Mynydd Moel and let him have his head.' Here he pauses to beam proudly at his pimply offspring.

‘It is a well-formed animal,' says Brynach.

‘It must have cost you dear,' I point out.

Rhodri would prefer to ignore my comment, but his son's vanity will not be easily controlled.

‘Quite so,' he agrees brightly, ‘Father gave more gold for him than for any other horse he owns.' Si
ō
n crows, not seeing the flash of irritation on Rhodri's face.

His father is forced to laugh in an offhand manner. ‘It is the way of parents, to indulge their sons,' he says.

Brynach smiles and nods. ‘I look forward to spoiling my own child similarly very soon,' he declares.

There is a crackling quality to the air around us. This is as close to a challenge on the subject of my baby's place in the world as the prince has yet laid down. Rhodri, of all people, knows the importance Brynach will place on the child if it is a boy. Regardless of its illegitimacy, if this is the only son the prince is ever to sire, it may never become noble, but it will be his heir. Rhodri's tactic is to continue to ignore my very existence.

‘Si
ō
n,' he gestures toward his son's horse, ‘your mount is cooling and must be tended to.' He turns a slippery smile in Brynach's direction. ‘We will take our leave, my prince,' he says with another bow, expertly making his horse back away as he speaks.

We watch them go. I feel Brynach's arm tighten around me. I know he would protect me with his last breath. I pray it never comes to that.

 

15

TILDA

The night after the firing, Tilda finds it hard to sleep. The upstairs of the cottage is so cold she and Thistle opt for the sofa in the warm sitting room, keeping the fire well fed with logs. The woodshed is worryingly low, and Tilda knows she will have to restock it soon if she is to rely almost entirely on wood for her heating. She is aware that she could most likely restore the power supply, if only patchily, but finds herself reluctant to do so. She has become accustomed to working to the rhythm of the short winter days, functioning in the low light of candles and lamps, reading by the narrow beam of her battery headlamp and doing without the computer.

Am I hiding, being like this? Am I putting off reconnecting with the world? Am I building up reasons not to have my parents here? Do I want to hide from the world?

She has to admit to herself this is a possibility. After all, it would be useful to search the Internet for information about the body in the grave, about the crannog, about the people who lived around the lake centuries ago. And yet, she is resistant.

What don't I want to see? What am I afraid of finding out?

She snuggles deeper under the duvet. Thistle gets up from her place in front of the somewhat blackened fireplace and climbs carefully onto the sofa.

‘Really? You think there's room for both of us up here?' Tilda protests mildly, secretly glad of the comforting company of the dog. Her emotions are in turmoil after her night with Dylan. If anyone had asked her, she would have said she wasn't ready for another relationship; that her heart had not yet healed after losing Mat. And yet, being with Dylan had felt right. Had felt special. Had made her feel so much better. As if she had taken some crucial step. She knows that it is a step away from Mat, and that thought brings sadness with it, but in her heart she also knows such distance is inevitable. By clinging to the memory of Mat she is holding on to her grief. A twist of guilt knots her stomach.

Am I being disloyal? Is it too soon?

With a sigh she reaches out and strokes Thistle's ears. ‘What d'you reckon, girl? Make any sense to you?' In the uneven light from the fire she fancies she can make out the dog's patient expression. ‘No need to be jealous, daft pooch. You should like him; he was the one who got you out of that pink collar.'

She closes her eyes again and lets herself replay the events of the previous night in her mind. She remembers slipping the bracelet onto her arm. She can clearly feel the cool metal against her skin. And then so many conflicting thoughts and sensations come flooding back to her it is hard to make sense of them. The blinding white light. The feeling of being lifted off her feet. Dylan being thrown against the wall. The ringing noise. The swirling spinning that almost made her pass out. The fire, growing and leaping from the hearth, threatening to set the whole room, the whole house alight. And the vision. This … version of herself, standing so tall and serene and strong.

Could that really have been me? Do I even believe in reincarnation?

Beyond this, any of this, there was something else. Something that both thrilled and frightened her. It was the overwhelming, intoxicating, mind-blowing sense of power that had surged through her. She had never experienced anything like it. The fact that it was out of her control was what made it terrifying. But the energy, the force, whatever it was, that itself was glorious. And though Tilda hardly dares acknowledge the fact, even to herself, she knows that she wants to feel that power again. That she has to. That something about her, something in her, has connected with an amazing force, the like of which she cannot understand but which she cannot turn her back on.