The Silver Witch (33 page)

‘Do I?'

‘Your woman in the boat, I think. The one you mentioned you'd seen a picture of.'

Tilda remembers telling him this half-lie, and is at once ashamed of not trusting him with the truth, however bonkers it might have sounded at the time.

‘The way you described her to me,' the professor continues, ‘suggests the garb of a shaman. One given to having and interpreting visions. A very important member of society at that time. Do you recall what color her hair was?'

Tilda hesitates. The woman in the boat had been wearing an animal skin headdress, so her hair was not visible. The vision Tilda had seen when she had put on her bracelet, that other version of herself, had, of course, had silver blond hair the same as her own. She cannot imagine trying to explain all this to the professor as he watches her over his reading glasses, waiting for her answer.

Were there two different women, or one? Who am I looking for, myself, or a ghost, or an ancestor?

‘I'm not sure,' she says at last. ‘The first time I … I saw her, her hair was covered. After that … I'm not certain.'

‘I only ask because, well, there are clues here as to what she must have looked like, not least in her name.'

‘Really?'

‘“Seren” is still a common Welsh name. It means star. Rather lovely, don't you think? “Arianaidd” on the other hand, is very unusual. I've never heard of anyone else being called that. It means “Silver.” So, she was known as Star of Silver. Which suggests she would have been very fair. Not unlike yourself.'

A chill wriggles down Tilda's spine.

‘But we don't know if she survived the attack on the crannog.' She sighs, then a terrible thought occurs to her. ‘Lucas said something about the body in the grave at the dig. He said that sometimes people were buried with heavy stones on top of them if they were thought to have been witches. When the crannog was inhabited, would someone who had visions have been thought of as a witch?'

‘A difficult question to answer. The custom of foretelling the future is such an ancient one, and one that is found in so many diverse cultures. The early Celts certainly had their shamans, and they were important people, but seeing the future was not seen as magic. More a talent, or a gift.' He gives a chuckle. ‘They might perhaps have been viewed more as our weather forecasters are today.'

‘So not witches, then?'

‘Ah, well, witches abound in Celtic literature and many other ancient Welsh stories. And there is nothing to say a Seer cannot also be a witch.'

Tilda feels suddenly weary. She drains her glass, letting the syrupy sherry pleasantly ease her tangled thoughts. ‘I'm beginning to think the more I find out, the less I understand.'

At this, the professor laughs more heartily. ‘My dear girl, welcome to the world of the historian!'

Dylan has returned to stand at Tilda's elbow.

‘Is my uncle making your brain ache?'

‘He's trying to help, but I can't expect sensible answers if I can't even form reasonable questions,' she tells him, running a hand through her hair.

‘Perhaps another sherry would help?' Professor Williams suggests.

‘Wow.' Dylan is horrified. ‘No wonder you're struggling. Sit yourself down. Lunch will be ages yet. I'll open a decent bottle of wine, and between us surely we can work out what it is you need to know. Okay?'

Half an hour later, at Dylan's insistence, Tilda has made a list. She is reluctant to read it out.

‘It looks even crazier written down.'

The professor smiles. ‘If I have learned anything from my years of study, it is that what at first appears incredible, often, when looked at from the correct angle, comes to seem entirely plausible.'

Tilda can't help wondering if his credulity would stretch far enough to believe what happens to her when she wears the bracelet.

Dylan gently takes the list from her. ‘Let me,' he says. ‘First up, who was the woman in the boat, and is she the same as the woman you saw the other day when you put on the bracelet?'

Tilda grimaces. ‘See, I told you.' She glances at the professor.

Here goes nothing. If I want him to help me I'm going to have to tell him.

‘Professor, something strange happened when I was wearing it,' she explains. ‘I saw … things. Saw a woman. And yes, I do think I've seen her before. That morning when I was down by the lake.'

‘The morning we met, I believe,' he replies. ‘I didn't know you then, of course, but it was clear to me something had shaken you.'

‘I wanted to tell you, but…' She leaves the sentence unfinished as the professor nods his understanding.

Dylan reads on.

‘Next, who is the woman in the top half of the grave being dug up? Third, were they the same person? Why is the frightening ghost trying to attack you? What was she saying when she leapt at you in the studio? And last, but not least, who did the bracelet belong to?' He waves the piece of paper. ‘Simple.'

‘Says you.' Tilda swigs some more wine, ignoring the growling of her empty stomach. ‘Actually, I don't believe the scary creature that keeps threatening me can be the same as the woman in the boat. She is terribly disfigured, her face all broken up, but no, now that I really compare the two, her body shape is all wrong. She is shorter. Fatter. And darker, I think.'

‘There you go,' Dylan says. ‘One question answered already.'

‘So now I'm definitely dealing with two ghosts. Great. Oh, and there is something else. The scary ghost; I've been thinking about the words she spat at me in the studio. They were Welsh, I think, and very hard to make out. All I could get was something that sounded like “bewit”? Or “buwid” could it have been? I've looked, but I couldn't find anything.'

‘Hmm,' the Professor, without so much as questioning the fact that Tilda is talking about more visions, more ghostly women, closes his eyes, mumbling words over and over until he comes to one he thinks could fit. ‘How about
bywyd
? It means “life”.

Tilda nods. ‘Yes. That could be it. She … the ghost … she said it twice.'

Dylan looks at her. ‘A life for a life?'

There is an uncomfortable silence. At last, Professor Williams picks up the bracelet from the desk. He fetches a magnifying glass from the mantlepiece and sits in the armchair beside the fire to examine it again. ‘I do feel some of the answers you seek lie here,' he says. ‘This is a very fine piece of jewelry and would have been of considerable value. It must have been owned by someone important.'

Dylan tops up Tilda's glass. ‘Do you remember seeing it on any of the women in your visions?'

‘No. I'm sure I would have remembered if there had been anything like it.'

The professor holds it up to the light. ‘It occurs to me that it is rather large.'

‘It is.' Tilda nods. ‘When I put it on, it was much too big for my wrist. I assumed it was meant as a band to wear on the upper arm.'

‘Possibly.' He sits up, an idea striking him. ‘Of course! It isn't a bracelet at all.'

‘Not?' Tilda is confused.

‘It's a torc. Look. How dim of me not to see it before. Dylan, pass me that book on the end of my desk, would you? The one with the red binding. Thank you.' He flicks through the tome until he finds what he is looking for. ‘Here, see? These are plain, I know, not beautifully decorated as yours is, but the shape is identical. A loop not completely closed, rounded edges, with slight thickening at the ends. It is a torc, meant to be worn around the neck. I'm certain of it.'

‘But, I'd never get that around my neck,' Tilda points out.

The professor whips off his glasses with a smile. ‘That my dear, is because you are an adult. This marvelous object was made for a child.'

SEREN

Another winter has come and gone and life around the lake feels as settled and timeless as ever it was. It is hard to imagine we lived on the edge of fear for so long, anticipating disaster, awaiting danger. Is this a trick played on us all by fate? She can be a cruel mistress. Are we lulled to softness, our sword arms weakened, our vigilance dulled, only so that we may be easier prey at some future date? I am still assailed by visions of my prince's descent into the water, but it has become impossible for him to believe the threat is real. And how can I argue otherwise? As the weeks turned into months, and the seasons swing full circle once more, and life continues undisturbed, my prophecies lose their weight. Other smaller seeings have come to pass, and I continue to work my minor magic as is required of me, but on this one matter my opinion no longer holds sway. I see Rhodri plumping himself up with each passing moon, never missing an opportunity to remind Prince Brynach that it was he who brokered the deal with the Mercian Queen, he who helped him bring about this time of peace. He is ever at the prince's side, and with him Wenna, quick to parade the family bond. It is as well for her that her brother is seen as so successful, so useful, in the prince's eyes, for that other vision of mine has proven true. She has given him no heir, nor will she.

And yet, of course, her husband has a child.

Our child.

Today I have taken my daughter out fishing on the lake. She is nearly a year now, well-grown, with a head of spun-silver hair, eyes bright as diamonds, and already teetering on her feet. In the canoe she enjoys the feeling of swift movement as we paddle through the water, and later she will be rocked to sleep curled up in the bottom of the boat. She is at home near, on, or in the lake, and that is as it should be. This is our favored hour, with the sun dropped behind the mountains, the cool of the early evening, the softened light, the day grown lazy and yawning into twilight. Only the fish are busy now, nipping at buzzing flies that hover above the surface of the water.

‘Not too far, Tanwen,' I tell her as she leans over the side of our little boat to dip her fingertips in the water. She smiles up at me, and I see her father in that smile. I named her White Fire, for it suits both her appearance and her nature. A tug on the line I hold in my hand alerts me to a catch. I wait until I am sure the fish has taken the bait, and then quickly pull in the line, hand over hand, holding it high at the end so that the fine young perch dangles and flips in the air. Tanwen laughs and claps as the dappled fish showers her with droplets of water. I lower it to my feet and strike its head one clean blow with the handle of my knife. It lies still. Tanwen is not distressed by this. She has witnessed the transformation from life to death, creature to food, so many times. She understands the order of things, and she is fast learning her own place within it.

A movement on the shore takes my attention. Brynach has come to find us. He stands tall, a strong, dark figure in a woodland lake of bluebells.

‘Look, little one, there is your father,' I tell my daughter as I pick up the paddle and steer the boat across the lake. Tanwen gurgles happily as we draw closer to where he stands. He has tied his horse to a tree and waits for us, watching us closely. Or rather, watching Tanwen. Was ever a father more adoring of his child? When the boat reaches the shallows he can wait to longer, and wades into the water to greet us.

‘Here come my fisher-women! What have you caught for your supper, daughter?' he asks her, grasping the prow of the canoe and scooping Tanwen from her seat with one strong arm.

I lift up the shining fish. ‘Enough for three,' I tell him. The invitation to supper is as much a challenge as an offer of hospitality. I do not fight for his company only for myself now. I know that Wenna and Rhodri do their best to find ways to keep him from us.

He steadies the boat while I climb out. ‘If it can be served without a helping of rancor I will join you,' he says. When I do not answer, he regrets his words and leans close as I tie the boat to its stake. He nuzzles my neck. ‘Time spent with you is ever more memorable than time spent elsewhere.'

I push him away, more playful than sulking. ‘Is my cooking so exceptional?'

‘It is not,' he concedes. ‘So it is a mystery why I cannot stay from you without feeling hungry.' He grabs me again and nips at my ear, jiggling Tanwen as she sits in the crook of his arm, making us both smile.

He picks a bluebell for her, handing her the pretty flower before he sits our child in his saddle, and we walk side by side as he leads the horse slowly back to my house. When I have rekindled the fire and set the fish to cook, he takes something from his saddlebag and offers it to me. It is a small object, wrapped in a piece of cloth. The wrapping itself is so carefully stitched, worked in patterns of animals with thread of gold and red and blue, that I am content to admire it without giving in to my curiosity over what it conceals.

‘This is beautiful indeed, my prince. There is silk here, is there not?'

He smiles. ‘The cloth is for you, my seer. A token of my love. A keepsake. Its contents are for Tanwen.'

I unfold the silky needlework and take out a smooth, heavy piece of gold, the glint of which causes me to gasp. It is a torc, fashioned with such care and artistry, I have not seen its like in my life. It bears carvings showing two running hares and a hound. Their legs, tails and heads are entwined and twisted, so that they continue on and on, with no beginning or end.

‘Oh.' I find my voice at last, turning the torc over in my hand, marveling at it. ‘My prince, such a gift…'

‘It pleases you?'

I look up at him and his face is that of a young boy, desperate for praise, so eager to please, his expression moves me more than I dare tell him. I smile and nod, and he leans over me, pointing.

‘Here, this hare, that is you, see the lithe limbs and the look of courage greater than on the face of any warrior? This smaller one, that is our little witch, springing forward into life.'

‘And the hound who would have us for his dinner?'